Meg Traherne has a summer of competing in shows on her horse to look forward to, but in a heart-stopping moment that changes. Left adrift, she falls back on her good friend Slate. Slate however will have to sell her horse when she goes to university, and she's tired of weariness, sweat and dirt, of broken fingernails and hat hair. Maybe it's time they both did something different.
APPALOOSA SUMMER is set in Ottawa, where Meg now self- reliantly accepts a B&B job on an island off the town of Kingston as she can stay alone in her family's holiday cottage. She's sixteen and looking forward to earning her own money. Nobody notices when she dares to drive a few blocks by herself - there's no permanent police on the island - and she observes that the rugged, tractor-driving country lads up here are fine viewing. Jared, in particular. Then she helps Jared with cattle on her day off, and her pay turns out to be a mare someone's tired of keeping. Meg can't believe people give away horses. On the other hand, Salem is an Appaloosa, and she knows judges don't like spotted horses in the show ring.
Salem turns out to have quite a few tricks up her sleeve, and the little black mare with the spotted blanket on her rump impresses even the unwilling Meg. Now what can they get up to together? With summer storms, plenty of hard work and friendship, and helping other people instead of moping about her own life, Meg becomes a different person by the end of the APPALOOSA SUMMER. Tudor Robins has planned two more books to make up the Island Trilogy and if they are anything like as good, with as much attention to detail as the horse training and riding detail in this first story, they're books I definitely want to read. Young adults who like horses are in for an absolute treat.
Sixteen-year-old Meg Traherne has never known loss. Until
the beautiful, talented horse she trained herself, drops
dead underneath her in the show ring.
Jared Strickland has been living with loss ever since his
father died in a tragic farming accident.
Meg escapes from her grief by changing everything about her
life; moving away from home to spend her summer living on an
island in the St. Lawrence River, scrubbing toilets and
waiting on guests at a B&B.
Once there, she meets Jared; doing his best to keep anything
else in his life from changing.
When Jared offers Meg a scruffy appaloosa mare out of a
friend's back field, it's the beginning of a journey that
will change both of them by summer's end.
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Iโm staring down a line of jumps that should scare my brand-
new show
breeches right off me.
But it doesnโt. Major and I know our jobs here. His is to
read the
combination, determine the perfect take-off spot, and adjust
his
stride accordingly. Mine is to stay out of his way, and let
him
jump.
We hit the first jump just right. He clears it with an
effortless
arc, and all I have to do is go through my mental checklist.
Heels
down. Back straight. Follow his mouth.
โGood boy, Major.โ One ear flicks halfway back to
acknowledge my
comment, but not enough to make him lose focus. A strong,
easy
stride to jump two, and heโs up, working for both of us,
holding me
perfectly balanced as we fly through the air.
He lands with extra momentum; normal at the end of a long,
straight
line. He self-corrects, shifting his weight back over his
hocks.
Next will come the surge from his muscled hind end; powering
us both
up, and over, the final tall vertical.
It doesnโt come, though. How can it not? โCome on!โ I cluck,
scuff
my heels along his side. No response from my rock solid
jumper.
The rails are right in front of us, but I have no horsepower
โ
nothing โ under me. By the time I think of going for my
stick, itโs
too late. We slam into several closely spaced rails topping
a solid
gate. Oh God. Oh no. Be ready, be ready, be ready. But how?
Thereโs
no good way. There are poles everywhere, and leather
tangling, and
dirt. In my eyes, in my nose, in my mouth.
Thereโs no sound from my horse. Is he as winded as me? I
canโt
speak, or yell, or scream. Major? Is that him on my leg? Is
that why
itโs numb? People come, kneel around me. I canโt see past
them. I
canโt sit up. My ears rush and my head spins. Iโm going to
throw up.
โIโm going to โฆโ
I flush the toilet. Swish out my mouth. Avoid looking in the
mirror.
Light hurts, my reflection hurts, everything hurts at this
point in
the afternoon, when the headache builds to its peak.
Why me?
Iโve never lost anybody close to me. My grandpa died before
I was
born, and my widowed grandmaโs still going strong at ninety-
four.
She has an eighty-nine-year-old boyfriend. They go to the
racetrack;
play the slots.
If I had to predict who would die first in my life, I would
never,
in a million years, have guessed it would be my fit, strong,
seven-
year-old thoroughbred.
Never.
But he did.
Thinking about it just sharpens the headache, so I press a
towel
against my face, blink into the soft fluffiness.
โAre you OK?โ Slateโs voice comes through the door. With my
mom and
dad at work, Slateโs been the one to spend the last three
days
distracting me when Iโm awake, and waking me up whenever I
get into
a sound sleep. Or thatโs what it feels like.
โFine.โ I push the bathroom door open.
โPuke?โ
I nod. Stupid move. It hurts. Whisper instead. โYes.โ
โWell, thatโs a big improvement. Just the once today.โ
She follows me back to my room. Sheโs not a pillow-plumper
or quilt-
smoother โ I have to struggle into my rumpled bed โ but itโs
nice to
have her around. โIโm glad youโre here, Slatey.โ I sniffle,
and
taste salt in the back of my throat.
Iโm close to tears all the time these days. โNormal,โ the
doctor
said. Apparently tears arenโt unreasonable after suffering a
knock
to the head hard enough to split my helmet in two, with my
horse
dropping stone cold dead underneath me in the show ring. Iโm
still
sick of crying, though. And puking, too.
โDonโt be stupid, Meg; being here is heaven. My mom and
Agate are
going completely over the top organizing Aggieโs sweet
sixteen.
There are party planning boards everywhere, and her dance
friends
are always over giggling about it too.โ
โJust as long as itโs not about me. I donโt want to owe
you.โ
โโCourse not; youโre not that great of a best friend.โ
The way I know Iโve fallen asleep again, is that Slate is
shaking me
awake. Again.
โHuh?โ I open one eye. Squinting. The sunlight doesnโt hurt.
In
fact, it feels kind of nice. I open both eyes.
โCraigโs here.โ
I struggle to get my elbows under me, and the shot of pain
to my
head tells me Iโve moved too fast.
โCraig?โ
Sheโs nodding, eyes wide.
โLike our Craig?โ
โUh-huh.โ
First my mom canceled her business trip scheduled for the
day after
the accident; now our eighty-dollar-an-hour, Level Three
riding
coach is at my house. โAre you sure Iโm not dying, and you
just
havenโt told me?โ
โI was wondering the same thing.โ
โWhat am I wearing?โ I blink at cropped yoga pants and a t-
shirt I
got in a 10K race pack. It doesnโt really matter โ Iโve
never seen
Craig when Iโm not wearing breeches and boots; never seen,
or even
imagined him in the city โ changing clothes is hardly going
to make
a difference.
Slate leads the way down the stairs, through the hallway and
into
the kitchen, where Craigโs shifting from foot to foot,
reading the
calendar on the fridge. He must be bored if he wants the
details of
my dadโs Open Houses, my momโs travel itinerary.
โSmoking,โ Slate whispers just before Craig turns to me.
And,
technically, sheโs right. His eyes are just the right shade
of
emerald, surrounded by lashes long enough to be appealing,
while
stopping short of girly. His cheekbones are high and
pronounced,
just like his jawbone. And his broad, tan shoulders, and the
narrow
hips holding up his broken-in jeans are the natural
trademarks of
somebody who works hard โ mostly outside โ for a living.
But heโs our riding coach. Craig, and our fifty-five year
old obese
vice-principal (with halitosis), are the two men in the
world Slate
wonโt flirt with. I donโt flirt with him, mostly because
Iโve never
met a guy I like more than my horse. Major โฆ
โHey Meg.โ Craigโs quiet voice is a first. The gentle hug.
He steps
back, eyes searching my head. โDo you have a bump?โ
I take a deep breath and throw my shoulders back. โNope.โ
Knock my
knuckles on my temple. โAll the damage is internal.โ
Craigโs brow furrows. โMeg, you can tell me how you really
feel.โ No
I canโt. Of course I canโt. Even if I could explain the
emptiness of
losing my three-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week companion, the
guilt at
โsavingโ him from the racetrack only to kill him in the
jumper ring,
and the take-it-or-leave-it feeling I have about showing
again, none
of that is conversation for a sunny springtime afternoon.
Still, I can offer a bit of show and tell. โI have tonnes of
bruises. And Iโve puked every day so far. And, this is weird
but,
look.โ I use my index finger to push my earlobe forward. โMy
earring
caught on something and tore right through.โ
The colour drains from Craigโs face, and now I think he
might puke.
โMeg!โ Slate pokes me in the back. โSit down with Craig and
Iโll
make tea.โ
Craig pulls something out of his pocket, places it on the
table. A
brass plate reading โMajorโ. The one from his stall door.
โWe have
the rest of his things in the tack room. We put them all
together
for you.โ
Yeah, because you wanted to rent out the stall. I canโt
blame him.
Thereโs a massive waiting list to train with Craig. And my
horse had
the consideration to die right at the beginning of the show
season.
Some new boarder had her summer dream come true.
I reach out; turn the plaque around to face me. Craigโs
trained me
too well โ tears in one of his lessons result in a dismissal
from
the ring โ so now, even with a concussion, I canโt cry in
front of
him. Deep breath. I rub my thumb over the engraved letters
M-A-J-O-
R. โThere was nothing that horse couldnโt do.โ
Craig sighs. โYouโre right. He was one in a million. Have
you
thought about replacing him?โ
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