Читать книгу Sundancer - Shelley Peterson - Страница 4

PROLOGUE

July had been lazy and hot, and August started out the same. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against a gate. On it, a big grey horse jumped over the words “Saddle Creek Farm.” The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken.

Suddenly, the stillness of that Friday afternoon was shattered by the distant roar of a big engine. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. Then, the sharp, unmistakable sound of steel against steel. Thump, crash, thump, crash. Relentless, powerful, steady. The rhythmical beat continued, ever louder as the big rig neared.

A large navy-blue horse trailer turned into the Saddle Creek driveway in a cloud of dust. “Owens Enterprises” was boldly painted in gold lettering along the shiny new aluminum sides.

The furious pounding increased as the truck stopped in front of the century red-brick farmhouse with green door and shutters. Two scowling men stepped out of the vehicle and strode around to the back of the van. One carried a long whip, the other a sturdy broom.

The man with the broom dropped the ramp while the one with the whip prepared to enter the van. Without warning, a magnificent, lathered chestnut horse shot backward off the trailer and shoved both men aside. A broken leather lead shank dangled from his torn halter.

Now the muscular, haughty creature stood braced and prepared to fight, like a heavyweight champion in the middle of the ring. With nostrils flared he snorted loudly. His sleek, sweat-drenched body vibrated with energy. His delicate ears were pricked to catch all sounds. His intelligent dark eyes were intense, his classic head alert to any threat.

The men circled him menacingly. Loudly, they cursed their bad luck at being assigned to deliver this dangerous and ornery horse. Swearing at the recalcitrant animal, the men moved in closer. They cornered him, using a sturdy oak rail fence and the horse trailer as barriers. The horse tossed his fiery mane. He shook his head wildly, which sent remnants of leather flying. Vigorously he pawed the gravel driveway, then sniffed the air with suspicion. Neck arched and tail high, he spun to face every direction in turn, looking for a way out.

To humble him, the one man snapped his long whip hard across the horse’s flank, leaving a bleeding welt. As the trapped creature spun to face his attacker, the other smacked him across the head with the broom, following through with such a whack that for a moment the animal was stunned. He staggered, dazed. The whip came down again, whoosh, landing across his back and tearing the flesh over his kidneys. The broom was raised to strike his face.

As the man with the whip prepared to throw a rope over his head, the mighty chestnut got his bearings. He bucked, twisted, and shot out a double-barrelled kick, missing his targets by inches.

I have nowhere to go, nothing to lose.

The men hollered their outrage. The horse assessed his options and made his decision. He would not be caught. From a standstill, he rocked back on his haunches and effortlessly sprang over the solid four-rail fence into the front paddock.

With cat-like agility, he spun as he landed then defiantly stared at the men. He raised his head high and whinnied with ear-piercing intensity. Then, he turned his back, kicked out dismissively, and ran off to stake out his chosen territory. Bucking and rearing and prancing and diving, the fearsome chestnut raced around his new domain. He leaped and dove and kicked the sky. The earth trembled as he pounded the inside perimeter of the paddock.

The engine of the big rig roared to life. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived. As the noise receeded into the distance, the dust settled, and a little wren resumed his song.

Nothing at Saddle Creek Farm would ever be the same.