High Hurdles (13 page)

“Oh, there you are, darlin’.” Gran drew DJ into one of her special hugs and whispered in her ear, “Thank you for looking so lovely and for being my maid of honor. I’m so proud of you.”

DJ couldn’t disguise a sniff this time. “I miss you already.”

“But I’ll be back soon. Joe has something to ask you. He was going to wait till later, but he’s as bad as I am when it comes to keeping secrets.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue and tucked another into DJ’s hand.

DJ turned to the man standing behind her. She reached out to shake his hand, but instead put her arms up for a hug. She could hear both her mother and grandmother sniffing now. At the rate they were going, they’d all be in tears soon. Including her.

“Thank you, my dear. You’ve made your grandmother very happy today.” He kept an arm around her shoulders and eased her over closer to the wall. “I have kind of a suggestion, or a . . . a . . .”

DJ looked at him with a question. Surely a police captain wasn’t having a hard time saying something? “A . . . ?” She tried to help him.

“Well, you heard me talk about Major?”

DJ nodded. “Your horse on the mounted patrol.”

“He’s going to retire with me, but he has a lot of good years ahead of him, good working years. I just thought maybe he’d be a good horse for you—if you’re willing, that is.”

“W-willing? Major would be mine?”

Joe nodded. “Melanie says you’d have to pay for him. Something about learning responsibility.”

“I only have four hundred dollars.”

“That’s right about what I thought would be good.”

“Major would be mine.”

“As soon as I retire, in another month.”

“I will have a horse of my own.” If she said the words often enough, maybe she would begin to believe them. Hilary had been right. Something good
was
coming her way. She not only had a grandfather and a whole new family, but a horse of her own. A horse named Major. Get ready, Olympics. DJ Randall was on her way!

Acknowledgments

My thanks to Joanie Jagoda for her expert horsewoman’s critique and suggestions.

To my mentor and friend

Colleen Reece,

who’s given me tools

to make writing easier and

encouragement to keep

growing on.

Chapter
•
1

Being grounded was the pits. Even though it
was
her own fault for almost running away, she
had
come back. They hadn’t had to call the police or anything. Darla Jean Randall, DJ to anyone who wanted to remain on her good side, stared at the telephone and tried to forget the dumb things she’d done. She couldn’t even call her best friend, Amy Yamamoto, since the phone was off limits, too. Amy could be dying from chicken pox for all DJ knew—as if her mother cared.

Now . . . if someone called her, would it be okay to talk? DJ shook her head, her wavy, golden ponytail slapping from side to side. She’d never been grounded like this before. And the few times she had been, Gran, her mother’s mother, had been there to clarify the rules. Or bend them.

The thought of Gran turned the ache into a pain, one that seemed to surround her heart and squeeze. Last Saturday—three days and twelve hours ago—Gran had married soon-to-be-retired Police Captain Joe Crowder. Right now they were somewhere off the coast of Mexico, living it up on a honeymoon cruise.

DJ pushed herself out of Gran’s winged recliner and scuffed her bare feet all the way up the stairs to her bedroom. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over her head. Maybe it was a good thing school was starting pretty soon after all.

Pedaling her bike past Amy’s house in the early morning brought on another pang of loneliness, as if the again empty house she’d left behind weren’t enough.
Is this what latchkey kids feel like? Am I a latchkey kid?
She fingered the key she wore on a chain around her neck. She snorted and pedaled harder. At fourteen she was pretty grown-up to be called a kid of any kind.

Amy had to get over the chicken pox in the next couple days. Then at least they could talk on the way back and forth to the Academy where they both worked. Maybe if she could shoot the breeze with Amy, she wouldn’t miss Gran so much.

The horses nickering down the aisle brought the first smile of the morning to her mouth. She put two fingers between her lips and blew, the whistle echoing off the rafters of the low red barn. The nickers turned to whinnies, and where the stalls’ upper doors had been opened, her equine friends nodded to her.

“Hey, you about broke my eardrums.” Hilary Jones, one of the older riders whom DJ looked up to, strode out of the tack room, English saddle over her arm.

“Sorry.” The grin DJ shot her made the apology an out-and-out fib.

“Sure you are. And so are all your friends. You riding today?”

DJ shook her head.

“Sorry.”

DJ dug in the sack of carrots she kept in the stable refrigerator. “That’s okay. At least I won’t be grounded for the rest of my life.”

“Just seems like it?”

“Yep.” DJ picked up a bucket of brushes and combs. “I gotta get to work. With Amy home sick, I never get a break.”

“I’ll help you after I finish practicing. We’re still having trouble with the square oxer. Prince keeps dropping his back feet before the second bar, so either he doesn’t get it or I come down on him midfence.” As Hilary headed for her horse’s stall, she called over her shoulder, “Hang in there.”

“Right.” DJ hoisted her bucket to check to see if it contained a hoof-pick. If only Diablo were here. But the fiery chestnut gelding she’d been training and showing for the Ortegas had moved with them to Texas. There had been too many changes in her life lately.

She started down the line. Each horse got a carrot snack, a heavy dose of loving, and a thorough grooming. DJ clipped them on the hot walker while she shoveled out the dirty shavings.

“Easy, fella,” she cautioned a rambunctious school horse. “You’ll get your workout in a bit.” She snapped him to the crossties since he had a habit of sneaking in a nip or two. “You just think you own the world, that’s all.” She tapped his foot with the pick. The horse stood there. She ran her hand down the back of his foreleg and pulled at his fetlock. He snorted.

DJ stood upright and clamped her hands on her hips. “You would pick today to be difficult.” He turned to gaze at her. She could swear she saw an imp dancing in his eye. He nosed her back pocket. “No way. Bad horses don’t get second treats. Now give me that foot.”

This time, the horse let her raise the hoof and rest it on her bent knee so she could pick out the compacted manure and shavings. She could feel his breath on her rear. “You bite me, and you’ll be dog food for sure.”

She moved to the rear hoof. It took three tries before he let her pick it up. “What’s the matter with you, get up on the wrong side of the stall or something?” She glanced up to check his ears. Sure enough, they were laid back. “All right, knock it off.” She felt him relax. Only now he leaned his weight on her. By the time she finished, she could feel sweat trickling down between her shoulder blades. She trotted the problem horse out to the hot walker and, after snapping him in place, gave him a slap on the rump. “Work off some of that orneriness before your riders come.”

“You want to ride Gray Bar?” James, the former academy terror who’d only recently become DJ’s friend, stopped her dog trot to the next stall.

“I wish.” DJ wiped a hand across her damp forehead.

“Still grounded?”

“Right. You okay?”

James shrugged. “ ’Bout the same. I’ve been accepted at West Virginia Military Academy. Great, huh?” The look on his face said it was anything but.

“When do you leave?”

“I’m not sure. Too soon—or not soon enough if my mom and dad have anything to say about it.” He turned and continued brushing his gray Arab filly.

DJ stroked the filly’s broad cheeks and dished face. “She is so beautiful.” Gray Bar nosed DJ’s pocket. “Sorry, girl. I’m all out of treats.”

James brushed his way to the filly’s rump. “If you wanted to ride her, I wouldn’t tell.”

DJ could get away with it. Bridget Sommersby, owner of the Academy, wasn’t here; she had a meeting somewhere this morning. And none of the other student workers would rat on her. DJ wanted to ride Gray Bar so bad she could feel it like a toothache.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Thanks, James. But I gave my word. Not riding for a couple weeks never killed anyone.” She could hear Gran’s voice in her ear.
A real lady always keeps her word
. While being a true southern gentlewoman like Gran was not at the top of DJ’s priorities, she knew keeping her word was a mark of a Christian, too. And that
was
important.

“See ya, I gotta get back to work.” By the time she’d finished, the sun blazed well past the sky’s zenith. She could hear Bridget, back from her meeting, giving instructions to a class in the jumping ring—a class DJ would be part of if she hadn’t been grounded. Megs, Bridget’s mare, now retired from the show and jumping ring, needed a good workout. But jumping classes, like nearly everything else that could be called fun, were forbidden while DJ was grounded. Why, oh why, had she panicked and run like that?

DJ swung aboard her bike and pedaled toward home—and an empty house. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to escape it that morning, she could have packed a lunch. There was always tack to clean. But the rumblings from her midsection nearly drowned out the singing of her tires on the pavement.

How come an empty house even smelled lonely? She checked the machine for messages—none. After tossing a pound of frozen hamburger in the sink to thaw for tonight’s tacos, she stuck her nose in the refrigerator. Baloney sandwich? Nah. Tuna? Yuck. Grilled cheese? She pulled the block of cheddar from the door and cut off a chunk. The groan and then hum of the fridge made her jump.

When she ambled back into the kitchen again, evening had fallen. Chores, drawing, and making dinner had used up most of her time. DJ glared at the silent telephone hanging on the wall.
Ring, you stupid machine
. She paced into Gran’s studio, which replaced what would have been the family room in most homes. Another silent phone took up part of a lamp table. Silent like the entire house. A house that, until now, had always rung with Gran’s chuckles and her hymns on the stereo. Always smelled good from something baking or cooking, and always wrapped comforting arms around those who lived there. Always. Except now. At least the tacos DJ had made for dinner canceled the empty smell. Her mother did like tacos if she hadn’t already eaten.

DJ glanced up at the clock. Her mother should be home from class pretty soon. Lindy Randall was on her way to a Master’s degree, earned after her day job selling guns, flak vests, and other supplies to police departments. Most of Lindy’s life was spent working, traveling for work, studying, and dressing in knockout clothes. She claimed her expensive wardrobe helped her make a better living for her family—or at least that was her excuse for spending so much money on the latest styles.

DJ looked down at her grungy jeans. The horses at the Academy where she worked and rode didn’t care if her jeans had a hole in one knee and smelled like a stable. In fact, they liked it. One shoulder of her navy blue T-shirt sported horse slobber to prove it. She glanced in the sink. She needed to put stuff in the dishwasher and wipe down the counters.

“The sprinklers. Gotta get that done first.” Even her voice sounded loud in the empty house. Bare feet slapped across the cedar deck to the backyard, where she turned on the sprinklers and stood watching to make sure the lawn and flower beds were getting their needed soaking. Now that evening had come to the Pleasant Hill, California, community, less water would be wasted in the heat. Gran and DJ had spent hours together learning how they could best help the environment.

How come everything pointed back to Gran?

Think of Major!
A month after Joe and Gran came back, Joe would retire from the mounted patrol. His horse, Major, would retire with him. But Major wouldn’t be put out to pasture. He would belong to DJ. Joe said the $380 she’d saved from the pony parties and all her other money-raising schemes would be enough to pay for him.

DJ hurried back into the house and up the stairs to her horse-decorated bedroom. A picture of Joe on Major, both in uniform, perched in the middle of her desk. DJ flicked on the lamp. The white blaze down the blood bay’s face and his two white socks gleamed in the light. Joe said Major was the best horse and friend anyone could have. And he liked to jump.

DJ raised her eyes to the poster on the wall. The five entwined Olympic gold rings shone above the horse and rider jumping a triple. She repeated her daily affirmation. “One day I, DJ, will jump in the Olympics.” Grabbing her sketch pad, she flopped down on the bed. Within a heartbeat the drawing she’d been working on that afternoon absorbed her concentration.

“Darla Jean Randall!”

DJ’s gaze flew first to the clock—it was after nine—and then to the window. It was nearly dark. Where had the time gone? She leaped off her bed and down the stairs. The kitchen! She’d left the kitchen a mess.

“Hi, Mom.”

Lindy Randall stood at the oak dining room table, sorting the mail with one hand and rubbing her forehead with the other.

Uh-oh, that meant a headache. DJ closed her eyes. Not a good night to have left a mess.