Читать книгу Storm and the Silver Bridle - Stacy Gregg - Страница 9

Tom Avery wasn’t the sort of riding instructor who liked to raise his voice. He never shouted at his pupils; instead he spoke to them with measured, calm authority. It was this very same tone that he used now as he addressed Francoise D’arth.

“Isadora is right, Francoise,” Avery said. “The colt is not for sale. I’m sorry you wasted your time on this trip, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to go back to El Caballo and explain that Nightstorm can’t be bought—at any price.”

Francoise nodded solemnly. “If that is your decision I will accept it. But you do not understand everything yet—there is so much more I need to tell you both. We must talk further. May I come and see you again at the farm tomorrow?”

“There’s no point in trying to change our minds,” Avery said, “but you are our friend, Francoise, and you’re welcome any time at Winterflood Farm.”

Francoise smiled at this. “Thank you. I shall come over in the morning then, yes? At about nine?”

She glanced again at Nightstorm. The colt had begun to sense that something was going on. His nostrils were flared and he was pawing at the ground anxiously. As Issie reached for his halter to calm him, Nightstorm pulled back and let out a shrill whinny, his head held high and proud.

“Easy, Storm,” Issie soothed, stroking his muzzle as the colt trembled with excitement beneath her hands.

“He is restless,” Francoise said softly. “It is time for him to go home, yes?” She looked pointedly at Avery as she said this.

He nodded in agreement. “Yes, Francoise. You’re right. Maybe it is.”

That afternoon back at Winterflood Farm, Issie spent longer than usual grooming and feeding Storm. When she turned him out in his paddock she realised she didn’t want to let the colt go. She gave him a long, snuggly hug,scratching him on the rump the way he liked, and stroking his velvet muzzle for ages before she finally slipped the halter off his head and set him loose.

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” Avery said when Issie finally came back to the stables.

“Yes,” Issie said. “Aren’t you?”

“I know it must be hard,” Avery said gently, “after what happened the last time Francoise was here, and everything you went through with Blaze…But Issie, this isn’t the same thing at all. Francoise has no claim over this colt. It doesn’t matter what she says, Storm’s your horse and nothing will change that.” Avery reached over and ruffled her hair. “Now go home,” he smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mrs Brown took one look at Issie’s face when she came through the front door and knew instantly that something was very wrong.

“I get the feeling it didn’t go well at the pony club?” Mrs Brown asked.

Issie shook her head. “No, Mum, it went fine…but Francoise was there. She’s in town. She’s come to see Nightstorm.”

Mrs Brown was surprised at this. “Francoise’s in town? But I thought you hadn’t even heard from her? What does she want?”

“She wants Nightstorm,” Issie said. “She’s offered to buy him. She’s coming to the farm tomorrow morning to meet with me and Tom. We told her that Nightstorm wasn’t for sale, but she said she had things to tell us…”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Issie said, “but whatever it is, it can’t be good.”

Mrs Brown dropped the pile of laundry she had been sorting. “What on earth is Francoise playing at? First of all she doesn’t even answer your letters and then she just turns up and demands that you sell her your horse? What time is she coming tomorrow? I can’t wait to tell her myself that Storm isn’t for sale and give her a piece of my mind!”

Issie shook her head. “It’s OK, Mum. I can handle it. It isn’t like that…” Issie couldn’t believe she was defending Francoise, but in spite of everything she was still convinced that the Frenchwoman was her friend. “Tom has already told her Storm isn’t for sale, we’re just going to talk about stuff.”

“Are you sure?” Mrs Brown arched a sceptical eyebrow.

“You don’t need me to come too? You can always call me on my mobile if you like and I can—”

“Mum, really. I’ll be OK,” Issie managed a smile. “Tom will be there to back me up.”

Mrs Brown didn’t look convinced, but she let the matter drop and didn’t bring it up again that evening.

Issie went to bed that night feeling utterly drained after everything that had happened. Once she was actually in bed, though, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about Francoise’s strange comment. What did she mean when she said that she had so much more to tell them? Why was Nightstorm so important to El Caballo Danza Magnifico?

Despite her worries, she eventually dozed off, but she’d only been asleep a little while when her subconscious took over and the nightmare began. In her sleep, she tossed and turned, and vivid images flashed through her head as she relived that fateful day at the pony club. The day that Mystic died.

Mystic had been Issie’s very first horse. With his swayed back and a dapple-grey coat that had faded with age, he was hardly the best-looking horse in the paddock at Chevalier Point. That didn’t matter to Issie, though. She adored Mystic and thought he was the most beautiful horse ever. To her, Mystic would always be the horse that she had loved first, the one who had changed everything.

In her nightmare, Issie was back at the pony club, and it was the day of the accident. It was all happening again, in heart-wrenching slow motion. She saw Goldrush, Toby and Coco break loose, then panic and bolt for the pony-club gates. And then, before she could think it through, she was following on Mystic, galloping after them, trying to head them off before they reached the deadly main highway.

As they struck the road she heard the clean chime of Mystic’s horseshoes on the tarmac. The ponies were ahead of them—at any moment they might be hit by a speeding car! She rode Mystic forward, circling the three horses and driving them back up the gravel driveway to the club grounds, getting them clear of the traffic and out of harm’s way. Then suddenly Toby, Goldrush and Coco were gone and it was just Issie and Mystic all alone on the road. Issie could hear the low rumble of the truck, smell the diesel and hear the squeal of tyres as the massive vehicle tried to brake. Mystic turned to face the truck, like a stallion squaring up to his opponent, ready to fight. As he did so, he threw Issie back and out of the saddle. Issie felt herself falling. She knew what would happen next because she had been there before. She would be thrown clear of the truck, but Mystic, poor, brave Mystic, would face it head on. And he would die!

“Mystic, no! NO!” Issie screamed. She was still falling, but the ground seemed a long way away. Falling, falling and then—she woke up. Issie sat bolt upright in bed, her heart racing and her sheets soaked with sweat. She found herself gasping, trying to catch her breath, trying to fight back the tears, then giving up and crying again just like she had done that day when she’d woken up in the hospital bed and her mother told her that her pony was dead.

Issie’s mum and everyone had tried to help her get over it, but how do you ever recover from losing your best friend? And so she’d sworn she would never ride again. The idea of loving another horse had just seemed impossible.

Then Tom Avery had turned up with Blaze. He told Issie about how the International League for the Protection of Horses had found the mare half-starved and maltreated. Issie knew then that she had no choice but to take the mare on. She poured her heart into helping Blaze and, as the mare got better, Issie’s spirit recovered too.

Still, Issie never let go of her love for Mystic. And it turned out that the grey pony never let go of her either.

Issie had always known that her pony was special—but Mystic was much more special than anyone could have realised. He was like a guardian angel for Issie—and for Blaze. After the accident at the pony club, the grey gelding came back to Issie. He returned whenever she really needed him. Not as a ghost, but a real horse.

Mystic had a sixth sense for danger. He had saved Issie’s life so many times now she had lost count.

She had dreamt about Mystic before. Her dreams were often a portent of what was to come. As she sat there in bed, Issie became aware of just what the dream meant. There was big danger afoot—she could feel it. A dream like that? It meant Mystic must be here.

Issie jumped out of her bed and raced to press her face up against the window. She peered out into the inky night, trying to see down to the garden below her room. It was raining outside, and large rivulets of water snaked down the pane of glass, blurring her view. There! Something was moving down on the lawn. It was hard to make the shape out clearly in the dark, but it was something big—Issie could see the shadow moving back and forth. Was it Mystic?

Pulling on a sweatshirt over her pyjamas, Issie raced down the stairs and out of the back door into the garden.

The rain was getting heavier now and the grass was squelchy and sodden under her feet.

“Mystic!” she hissed under her breath as she peered into the darkness. “Mystic!” It was so frustrating having to be quiet, but she didn’t want to wake her mum.

Issie stood still for a moment, listening carefully. At first, all she could hear was her own heart beating. She began to doubt herself. Perhaps she had simply been having a nightmare. Maybe it didn’t mean anything after all? She held her breath now and listened again.

There! She heard it. A soft nicker, the sound of a horse, coming from the far end of the garden. “Mystic!” Issie called again, her voice strained with emotion. This time she heard the whinny quite clearly, and then came the muffled sound of hoofbeats trotting towards her across the well-mown lawn. Out of the darkness, a dapple-grey horse stepped forward to meet her.

“Mystic!”

The bad dream had left Issie so shaken-up that the sight of her pony actually standing right there in front of her made her instantly burst into tears once more. She wiped her cheeks roughly with her sweatshirt sleeve. She had to pull herself together.

“Hey boy,” she murmured. She put out her hand to touch her beloved pony and for a brief moment she wondered if Mystic would disappear again, nothing more than a misty shadow in the rain. Then she felt her fingers close around the coarse, ropey strands of Mystic’s long, silver mane, and her hands touched the soft warmth of his dappled coat.

“Hey, Mystic, did you miss me?” Issie smiled. She was so desperately pleased to see her pony, yet his presence sent a chill through her heart. Issie realised immediately that if Mystic was here, then something was wrong. Very wrong.

The grey gelding seemed tense and anxious. He turned away from the house and began to trot back down the lawn towards the far end of the garden. Issie had seen him do this before and she knew exactly what he wanted her to do. Pulling on her boots, she followed him in the darkness, heading for the gate at the end that led to the street. Issie swung the gate open, taking hold of the pony by his mane so that he stood parallel to it. Then she climbed the wooden gate to the third rung and, without a second thought about what she was doing, leapt on to the grey pony’s back.

Issie took a moment to get her balance, then tapped the pony lightly with her heels. He responded instantly, moving off at a brisk trot. As soon as they reached the grass verge of the road, Issie urged Mystic on from a trot into a loping canter. She had no saddle and the canter was less bouncy and easier to ride bareback. Issie had no reins either, but it didn’t matter. She could have guided Mystic with her legs, but she knew better than to try and steer the pony. After all, Mystic had come to her with a warning and that meant he knew exactly where he was going. All Issie needed to do was wrap her hands into his long mane and hang on.

She gripped his mane tightly and bent down low over his neck as the rain began to fall harder. She realised she had been stupid to race out in weather like this, without changing into her jodhpurs and raincoat. Already she was chilled to the bone as the wind whipped her icy skin and the rain soaked her pyjamas. It was too late to worry about that now, though. Beneath her, Mystic’s canter was almost hypnotic, rhythmic and steady, as his hooves pounded a tempo on the grass verge. There was no turning back.

Issie still had no idea where they were going. It wasn’t until they had been riding for almost ten minutes when she saw tall rows of poplar trees rising up in front of them and realised they had reached the banks of the river. As Mystic turned along the esplanade she guessed they were heading towards Winterflood Farm. She felt a chill up her spine. Nightstorm was at Winterflood Farm. This couldn’t be a coincidence—the arrival of Francoise D’arth and now Mystic? No. It was clear that all of this had something to do with the bay colt.

Beneath her, Mystic’s strides lengthened as he reached the wide grass strip that ran along the banks of the river. They had ridden this path once before in the dark and Issie had trusted Mystic then to get her there, just as she did now. Instead of trying to slow the grey pony down, she leant down low over Mystic’s neck and let him gallop. If Nightstorm really was in danger then they had to move fast. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

Minutes later, the clatter of Mystic’s hooves on the gravel driveway announced their arrival at Winterflood Farm. As Mystic slowed to a trot, Issie vaulted off his back and hit the ground running. She sprinted around the side of Avery’s house, taking the short cut past the tack room and out the back of the house. She had put Nightstorm in the magnolia paddock when they came back from pony club. Her eyes flitted across the paddock now. She couldn’t see the colt anywhere.

“Storm?” Issie’s voice was trembling as she called out to the colt. “Storm?”

She fought her rising panic, took a deep breath, pursed her lips and blew. Once, and then a second time. Storm always came when she whistled.

Issie strained her eyes in the darkness, looking for the colt. She couldn’t see a thing. She tried shouting out his name again.

This time, the lights in the house went on and a few moments later Tom Avery emerged from the back door.

“Issie? I thought I heard you…” Avery was half asleep on the back porch of the cottage, tying his dressing gown and rubbing his eyes. “What on earth are you doing? It’s the middle of the night!”

“Tom?” Issie said. “Where’s Nightstorm? He’s not in his paddock.”

Avery shook his head.

“The weather report was for thunderstorms so I moved him inside. He’s in the stables…”

Before Avery had finished speaking Issie was already moving, running hard towards the stables. Avery shouted something else after her, but she couldn’t make out what he said. All she could hear was the rush of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears.

When she reached the stables, she realised that Avery must have gone back inside to switch on the mains for the stable lights because they suddenly flickered to life above her head. There were three loose boxes in Avery’s stables. The two at the far end were open and empty, but the one closest to the entrance was bolted shut. This was the stall that Avery usually kept Storm in, and Issie raced towards it now. With trembling fingers, she tried to open the door and was driven into a frenzy of frustration when she found that her hands were so numb from the cold it was impossible to work the bolt loose.

“Here!” A voice said. “It gets stuck sometimes. Better let me do it.” Avery was standing behind her. He was dressed in his boots and an oilskin, which he must have stopped to pull on before following her, and Issie suddenly realised how mad she must look in comparison, standing here in her soaking-wet pyjamas and sweatshirt in the middle of the night. She stood aside and let Avery step forward to work the bolt loose and swing the stall door open.

When Avery opened the door Issie felt stunned disbelief. She had been expecting to find her colt injured or sick, but instead she was staring at an empty stall.

“I don’t understand!” Avery said. “I locked him in myself!”

Maybe I’m still asleep, Issie thought, maybe this isn’t real It’s all part of the dream. She wished it were true, but the prickle of the goosebumps on her freezing skin told her otherwise. She was wide awake and she understood now why Mystic had come to her tonight. She had dreamt that she was losing her horse, the most precious thing in the world. Now, in a sickening rush, she realised the nightmare was real. Once again, she had lost the thing that was most precious to her. She was too late. Nightstorm was gone.