Читать книгу Stagestruck - Shelley Peterson - Страница 9

PROLOGUE

DANCER

DANCER WANTED ACTION. He paced back and forth along the fence in the field behind Hogscroft. There was sweet spring grass, a new blue salt lick, and a full water trough, but the once-mighty chestnut stallion was restless. Dancer filled his lungs with moist air, then snorted aloud. Tossing his magnificent head proudly, he swept his tangled mane over his arched neck. He bucked and bucked again, kicking high and punching out his back legs savagely. Pawing the ground with his front right hoof, he shook his head in frustration.

Dancer yearned for something more than these peaceful surroundings. He remembered the days when his mistress exercised him daily, practised challenging courses of jumps, and hacked him for miles down the roads to keep him fit.

She didn’t come to ride him anymore.

Up Dancer reared, thrusting and jabbing with his front legs, hopping on his powerful rear legs. Angry and agitated, he let out a deep and resonant bellow that echoed through the Caledon hills. Down he dropped with a heavy thud. He tore off at full speed, tail high and head down, bucking like a rodeo bronco.

Christine James watched anxiously from the barn, where she’d been cleaning tack. The leather on the saddles and bridles was turning green from disuse. The slim, attractive, fifty-year-old woman held her breath as Dancer raced toward the highest part of the stone wall that separated the fields. It measured almost five feet tall and he was going far too fast on rocky ground. Christine could hardly watch. She was sure that she was about to witness the last action of her daughter’s charismatic jumping star, and there was nothing she could do.

On Dancer sped, raging and reckless. At the last possible second, he lifted, legs tucked, neck stretched, muddy chestnut coat dull in the pale April sun. He soared high over the wall and landed lightly in a patch of weeds, rocks, and thistles.

Christine let out her breath in a rush and unclenched her hands. She ran her fingers through her dark, chin-length hair. What a daredevil, she thought. Christine spoke aloud. “This can’t go on. I must call Mousie.”