Shelby's face. Shelby shut her eyes and the
loose wire whipped her cheek. Shelby put her hand to
it. It stung so much that she was sure it had slashed her
face open, but when she looked down, there was
nothing on her palm but perspiration.
Brat lifted her tail and fled at a gallop down to the
other end of the paddock. Shelby watched as she
approached the sliprail.
She's not stopping. She's going to sail right over
the top of it and onto the street.
Shelby started to run. Maybe she could stop her.
But how?
Brat galloped closer and closer and then tucked her
back legs underneath her.
She's going to jump.
Less than a metre before the sliprail, Brat skidded
to a stop, her hooves churning up the soil into four
long channels. She stood still, snorted, and then
limped over to the feed bin, where she buried her face
in the chaff.
Shelby bent over, leaning her hands on her knees,
and exhaled. She stayed that way until her heartbeat,
hammering against her ribs, slowed down to normal.
Shelby put her hand to her stinging face and felt a
long line of raised flesh, like Braille, on her cheek.
That was close , she thought. The paddock had
been fine for Blue, who had never shown any desire to
escape, but the wobbly pickets and loose strands
would not hold Brat if she was bent on breaking out.
The fences had always been ugly, but now they were
dangerous too.
Shelby watched as Brat picked up her injured leg
and put it down again. As she walked over to where
the pony was standing, Brat skipped away, snorting,
and Shelby's heart started beating again.
'It's OK,' Shelby said, holding out her hand.
'I won't hurt you.'
Brat sidled away from her and then nosed at the
feed bin from the opposite side, eyeing Shelby.
'It's not my fault you hurt yourself,' she said.
'I was only trying to help.'
She edged closer and squatted down to have a
closer look at Brat's leg. It wasn't marked at all. The
hair was scruffy around the top of her hoof, but there
was no blood.
If it had been Blue she would have left him at home
and gone to the Pony Club to learn what she could
from the sidelines, but since it really was her last
chance to ride a horse with a three-barrelled name,
even if it was only a pretend one, and especially to be
instructed by the Calvin Protheroe, Shelby decided to
go anyway. Brat would have ample chance to rest
when she got home. After today Shelby was never
going to ride her again. After today Shelby would
report her to the police.
Shelby saddled the pony and they set off across the
gully. Brat was the most subdued she had ever been
and Shelby enjoyed it, relaxing into the saddle and
letting the reins loosen.
On the way Shelby amused herself with a little
daydream. Everyone at Pony Club would ride around
in circles and Calvin Protheroe would call her into the
centre. He would reveal to her that his real purpose
for coming was to scout out very special riders who
had the talent to make it to the top.
'Have you considered going professional?' he
would ask her. Shelby would smile self-consciously.
'Not really.' All the parents would be watching at the
fence, hearing what he was saying. The committee
would be embarrassed that they'd made her stay in
the beginner's group for so long – especially Mrs
Hockings, the Club President, who was the most
snobby of them all. 'I think you've got what it takes,'
Calvin Protheroe would say.
She would have to give up school and travel
around in a big convoy of trucks from city to city
doing demonstrations. The other special young riders
would become her best friends, and they would all
train together, laughing, joking and cheering each
other on. One of the young riders would be a boy who
would secretly fall in love with her from the moment
they met.
Companies would sponsor her, and she would
have so many riding outfits that she could give most
of them away to young girls who couldn't afford their
own. She could start 'The Shelby Shaw Foundation'
and one day win a humanitarian award for
loose wire whipped her cheek. Shelby put her hand to
it. It stung so much that she was sure it had slashed her
face open, but when she looked down, there was
nothing on her palm but perspiration.
Brat lifted her tail and fled at a gallop down to the
other end of the paddock. Shelby watched as she
approached the sliprail.
She's not stopping. She's going to sail right over
the top of it and onto the street.
Shelby started to run. Maybe she could stop her.
But how?
Brat galloped closer and closer and then tucked her
back legs underneath her.
She's going to jump.
Less than a metre before the sliprail, Brat skidded
to a stop, her hooves churning up the soil into four
long channels. She stood still, snorted, and then
limped over to the feed bin, where she buried her face
in the chaff.
Shelby bent over, leaning her hands on her knees,
and exhaled. She stayed that way until her heartbeat,
hammering against her ribs, slowed down to normal.
Shelby put her hand to her stinging face and felt a
long line of raised flesh, like Braille, on her cheek.
That was close , she thought. The paddock had
been fine for Blue, who had never shown any desire to
escape, but the wobbly pickets and loose strands
would not hold Brat if she was bent on breaking out.
The fences had always been ugly, but now they were
dangerous too.
Shelby watched as Brat picked up her injured leg
and put it down again. As she walked over to where
the pony was standing, Brat skipped away, snorting,
and Shelby's heart started beating again.
'It's OK,' Shelby said, holding out her hand.
'I won't hurt you.'
Brat sidled away from her and then nosed at the
feed bin from the opposite side, eyeing Shelby.
'It's not my fault you hurt yourself,' she said.
'I was only trying to help.'
She edged closer and squatted down to have a
closer look at Brat's leg. It wasn't marked at all. The
hair was scruffy around the top of her hoof, but there
was no blood.
If it had been Blue she would have left him at home
and gone to the Pony Club to learn what she could
from the sidelines, but since it really was her last
chance to ride a horse with a three-barrelled name,
even if it was only a pretend one, and especially to be
instructed by the Calvin Protheroe, Shelby decided to
go anyway. Brat would have ample chance to rest
when she got home. After today Shelby was never
going to ride her again. After today Shelby would
report her to the police.
Shelby saddled the pony and they set off across the
gully. Brat was the most subdued she had ever been
and Shelby enjoyed it, relaxing into the saddle and
letting the reins loosen.
On the way Shelby amused herself with a little
daydream. Everyone at Pony Club would ride around
in circles and Calvin Protheroe would call her into the
centre. He would reveal to her that his real purpose
for coming was to scout out very special riders who
had the talent to make it to the top.
'Have you considered going professional?' he
would ask her. Shelby would smile self-consciously.
'Not really.' All the parents would be watching at the
fence, hearing what he was saying. The committee
would be embarrassed that they'd made her stay in
the beginner's group for so long – especially Mrs
Hockings, the Club President, who was the most
snobby of them all. 'I think you've got what it takes,'
Calvin Protheroe would say.
She would have to give up school and travel
around in a big convoy of trucks from city to city
doing demonstrations. The other special young riders
would become her best friends, and they would all
train together, laughing, joking and cheering each
other on. One of the young riders would be a boy who
would secretly fall in love with her from the moment
they met.
Companies would sponsor her, and she would
have so many riding outfits that she could give most
of them away to young girls who couldn't afford their
own. She could start 'The Shelby Shaw Foundation'
and one day win a humanitarian award for
Similar Books
