Crown Prince Read online

  First published in 2012 by

  Trafalgar Square Books

  North Pomfret, Vermont 05053

  Printed in the United States of America

  Copyright © 2012 Linda Snow McLoon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, by any means, without written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer quoting brief excerpts for a review in a magazine, newspaper, or website.

  Disclaimer of Liability

  The author and publisher shall have neither liability nor responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book. While the book is as accurate as the author can make it, there may be errors, omissions, and inaccuracies.

  Trafalgar Square Books encourages the use of approved safety helmets in all equestrian sports.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McLoon, Linda Snow.

  Crown Prince / Linda Snow McLoon.

  p. cm. -- (Brookmeade young riders series)

  Summary: Sara Wagner’s dream of having her own horse comes true when, after she keeps a runaway school horse from hurting himself and others, the owners of Brookmeade Farm give her the racetrack rogue, Crown Prince, for her own.

  ISBN 978-1-57076-546-9 (pbk.) [1. Horsemanship--Fiction. 2. Race horses--Fiction. 3. Horses--Training--Fiction. 4. Interpersonal relations--Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M478725Cro 2012

  [Fic]--dc23

  2012024425

  Book design by Lauryl Eddlemon

  Front cover design by Jennifer Brandon

  Cover artwork and points-of-the-horse illustration by Jennifer Brandon (www.jachestudio.com). Copyright and all reproductive rights to the artwork, inclusive of complete ownership of the physical artworks themselves, are the property of and reserved to the artist. Typeface: Palatino

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedication

  To Jeanne Moriarty and Arla Cohen, who read every word and cheered me along the way.

  Contents

  1 The Farm

  2 The Lesson

  3 The Friends

  4 The Proposition

  5 The Tack Shop

  6 The Racetrack

  7 The Choice

  8 The Homecoming

  9 The Visitors

  10 The Vet Exam

  11 The Sales Receipt

  12 The Deal

  13 The Decision

  14 The Surgery

  15 The Troublemaker

  16 The Conflict

  17 The Tragedy

  18 The Confrontation

  19 The Test

  Glossary

  Points of the Horse

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  The Farm

  THE SILVER SUV SLOWED ABRUPTLY, its tires crunching on the gravel roadway as it turned off the highway at the sign for Brookmeade Farm. Sarah Wagner hurriedly twisted her dark hair into a ponytail before reaching into her tote bag and feeling for her black riding helmet, riding gloves, and spurs. Along with the carrots she’d grabbed at the last minute, everything was there. She checked her watch. It was going to be tight, getting her horse groomed and tacked up before the lesson started. Even if she got to the class before her instructor did, there wouldn’t be much time to warm up.

  “Can we go faster, Mom? I’ll never be ready in time!”

  “Not on this bumpy road. With all the money Chandler DeWitt has, I don’t understand why he doesn’t get it fixed,” her mother complained, slowing to steer around the ruts. “This road is like a washboard, and I’ll bet it’s almost a mile long.”

  Sarah said nothing, but silently willed the SUV to go faster. They topped a rise where a panorama of gently rolling pastures divided by split rail fencing unfolded. Mares and foals grazed in the fields, some in the shade of the giant oak trees that lined the road, their long limbs reaching into the pastures. As the car approached, a leggy bay colt exploring near the fence bolted back to his mother’s side, his short black tail streaming behind. The mare continued to graze on the lush grass, seeming not to notice the car as it passed.

  Sarah’s gaze shifted to an unfenced field on their right, which on their last visit had been tall with timothy and orchard grass. Now it was an emerald carpet of closely mowed grass, the June afternoon sun casting far-reaching shadows on the smooth surface.

  Just then a horse and rider burst out of the woods and splashed through the broad brook at the far edge of the field. Sarah recognized her riding instructor’s wife, Kathleen O’Brien, riding Wichita. The splotches of black on the Pinto’s mostly white body glistened like polished ebony as he sailed over a chicken coop jump near the brook. Kathleen, trim and athletic, reached down to pat Wichita’s neck for his good effort. She rode easily in the saddle as they cantered across the field.

  A larger horse ridden by Jack O’Brien, Sarah’s instructor, followed behind them. The horse was Hedgerow, one of the two Thoroughbreds that had come to Brookmeade Farm directly from the racetrack a few months ago to be retrained as sport horses. If all went well, they’d eventually be put on the market as potential show hunters or event horses, each with a hefty price tag. Sarah would give anything to have one of them.

  Slowing as he approached the brook, the bright bay with a wide blaze pricked his ears as he lowered his head to focus on the moving water. This was something new, and he wasn’t sure he wanted any part of it, even after seeing Wichita bound through the brook. Sensing his hesitation, Jack reached back with his crop and smacked the horse’s side. Startled, Hedgerow sprang into the brook, dashed through the water, and easily jumped the coop on the other side. Jack only laughed when the horse tried to put his head down to throw in a buck as they cantered across the field after Wichita. Hedgerow’s coat gleamed in the afternoon sun, showing off the powerful muscles that rippled beneath.

  Sarah watched as both riders came down to trot, smiling as they turned their horses back in the direction of the brook to repeat the exercise. Jack and Kathleen were having a good time, doing what they loved most. The horses carried them briskly across the field, their heads high and their ears pricked forward. They liked the mowed surface and arched their necks like circus horses, pulling against the reins to go faster.

  “Kathleen’s horse is pretty, both black and white,” Sarah’s mother said, as she steered sharply around another pothole. “I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

  “That’s Wichita. Jack picked him up last winter to use as a school horse. They’re using him to show Hedgerow it’s okay to go through water.”

  “You know a lot about this horse training business these days,” her mother said. “Is that from reading horse books and your Practical Horseman magazines? Or have you learned more from your lessons with Jack?”

  “I’ve learned tons from Jack,” Sarah replied without hesitation, “and not just about riding. He’s always telling us how to take care of horses, what the different breeds are, stuff like that.”

  “You’re pretty lucky, you know. How many stables have an instructor from Ireland who once rode in the Olympics?”

  Mrs. Wagner’s eyes left the road for a moment to glance at her daughter. With Sarah’s high forehead, dark eyes, and olive complexion, she looked so much like her father. She also had his slender build and serious manner. If only she wouldn’t worry so much about every little thing. She’d always been a hard worker in school and brought home excellent grades to show for it, but
Sarah’s mom thought it would be nice if her daughter would relax and laugh more.

  Looking at her watch again, Sarah frowned. She remembered the day both Paige Vargas and she had been late to their class. Jack wasn’t pleased. “‘Tis not fair to riders who are on time when someone else holds us up,” he’d said. She felt a knot tightening in her stomach.

  “I’m going to be late again. The other kids are probably warming up right now. Even Kayla and Rita, and they had to truck their horses here.” Sarah paused. “Like everyone else in the class except me, they have their own horses.” Her voice trailed off. As soon as she spoke she regretted it. Complaining wouldn’t change anything.

  Sarah knew her mother’s afternoon physical therapy sessions sometimes ran late, and they were important. Therapy had played a big role in her recovery after the accident. It seemed longer than just a year ago that Alison Wagner had nearly died—she’d been driving alone when she swerved to avoid hitting a cat. Her car sheared off three guard rails when it went off the road and crashed into a tree, leaving her with internal injuries, a badly shattered left leg, and several broken ribs.

  The night of the accident, Sarah and her sister Abby had huddled on the hospital waiting room sofa with their dad, Martin Wagner, while their mother underwent surgery. Few words were spoken, but the girls had known their mother was in bad shape. It was a miracle she had survived the accident that left her car a mangled piece of metal and broken glass. Finally a doctor in blue-green scrubs came to tell them the operation was over.

  “It was close,” the doctor had admitted, “but I’m pretty sure she’s going to make it. It’s a good thing the car’s airbags inflated and she was wearing a seatbelt.” Sarah remembered how she, Abby, and their dad hugged each other, tears streamed down the girls’ faces.

  The road to recovery had not been easy for Alison Wagner, with more than one surgery needed to set all her broken bones in place. But a year later she was capable of driving Sarah to her weekly riding lessons. Mrs. Wagner could get around using a cane, although slowly and with care. She hadn’t yet been able to return to her fourth-grade classroom, but the part-time job she had keeping the books for a gift shop at the beach in Yardley helped pay some of the medical expenses insurance didn’t cover.

  Sarah had realized for some time that having her own horse was not in the cards. With high medical bills to pay, her parents weren’t in any position to buy her one, not now and probably not ever. They did their best to help with her riding lessons, which she mostly paid for with money she earned at the ice cream shop her father managed in the summer when he wasn’t teaching.

  “Do you expect everyone will be here today for the lesson?” Sarah’s mother asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m not sure about Paige. Quarry was a little lame last week, and Paige had to ride a school horse. Tim would never miss a jumping school for Rhodes if he could possibly help it. I know Kayla will be here with Fanny, and of course Rita will show up with her big-bucks horse in her fancy van driven by her groom.” Sarah emphasized the last word. “Maybe today they’ll bring the maid to serve her lemonade when we have a break.”

  Sarah’s mother looked at her sharply. “That wasn’t very kind, Sarah. Rita’s father does give her a whole lot of support, but in many ways she doesn’t have the greatest life. Richard Snyder is all the family she has, and I hear he’s away on business a lot. I don’t like it when you knock someone just because she has more than you do. So you don’t have your own horse. But you do have a lesson with your friends every week, and some kids who love horses don’t get to ride at all.”

  Sarah stiffened. Why did her mother make her feel guilty? Rita was doing well enough without having Sarah’s mother on her side. It doesn’t seem fair, Sarah thought. Rita’s father will buy her anything in the world she wants, but I’ll never have my own horse, the one thing I want most.

  They rode in silence as the car dipped into a hollow before rumbling over the wooden bridge that crossed the brook at its narrowest point. Water, which a few months before in early spring had roared under the bridge, now moved serenely along the banks. A slight hill brought them to the quaint bungalow where Jack and Kathleen O’Brien lived, the only house on the entry road.

  “I’m afraid I won’t see you ride today,” Sarah’s mother said. “I’m going to watch Abby’s softball game, so I’m not sure what time we’ll be back to pick you up. It’s the last game of the season.”

  “No problem. I don’t mind hanging out at the barn. Maybe Jack will let us take the horses for a walk on the woods trails after the lesson to cool them out. Sometimes we go up to the old orchard on the ridge.”

  At the crest in the road by the bungalow and its attached carriage shed, a large double-aisled gray barn came into view. An indoor riding arena was attached to the westerly side of the barn, and just beyond it horses grazed in a series of white-fenced paddocks. Even from this distance they could see a bulging hay wagon hitched to the farm’s John Deere tractor parked close to the barn. A crew was at work grabbing bales of hay from the wagon and tossing them onto a moving conveyer belt that whisked them up to the loft.

  The SUV coasted down the hill toward the barn office, approaching the area where Rita Snyder’s late model horse van with the green Pyramid Farm lettering on its side was parked. The Snyder’s ruddy faced and balding hired man, Judson, was sweeping the van’s ramp, but there was no sign of Rita. She must already be warming up Chancellor in the indoor arena, Sarah thought.

  A pickup truck attached to a silver horse trailer was parked near the van. Sarah’s best friend, Kayla Romano, had tied her Quarter Horse to the trailer and was tacking up for the lesson. She lifted her saddle onto her mare’s back as they passed. Kayla’s curly, auburn hair so closely matched her horse’s coat color that Paige got a lot of laughs when she referred to them as “the twins.” The mare’s registered name was Fanfare, but the red chestnut with a white diamond on her forehead was better known as Fanny. Her high white markings on all four legs made her a flashy head-turner. “Lots of chrome,” Kayla liked to say.

  Sarah waved as they passed. She and Kayla had known each other as long as Sarah could remember. They were finishing up their freshman year at Yardley High where they were in the same Spanish and math classes. Since they lived only a few miles apart on Ridge Road, they also rode on the same bus. It was their love of horses that had first brought them together, but now they could talk to each other about anything.

  When the SUV came to a stop by the main entrance, Sarah grabbed her tote bag and sprinted for the stable’s office to check the ride board. She bounded up the cement steps, pushed through the entry door, and turned from the foyer into the office. Lindsay, one of the farm’s assistant instructors, was seated at a large oak desk doing paperwork while she waited for her class of beginners to arrive. Before Sarah could check the board, Lindsay greeted her.

  “Hi, Sarah. You’ll be riding Gray Fox today. Don’t forget he goes in a standing martingale. Not everyone can do as nice a job with him as you do.”

  Sarah’s heart sank. The wily old school horse that had been at Brookmeade Farm from the beginning was the last horse she would have chosen. Everyone said Gray Fox could size up riders the minute he felt their weight in the saddle. He was easygoing with small children and beginners, traveling slowly and taking his cues from the instructor’s verbal commands, but with experienced riders he had a whole bag of tricks. You had to be on your guard with him. If he wasn’t guided straight to a fence, at the last minute he might run out to the side. Sometimes he would “quit dirty,” putting on the brakes right in front of a jump, a move that had pitched more than one unlucky rider over his head. He also tended to be slow and lazy, which was fine for beginners, but not for the more demanding work Jack O’Brien expected of the students in his classes.

  Sarah had felt badly for Paige in their class the week before. With Quarry a little off, Paige was forced to ride Gray Fox, and he’d been especially difficult, repeatedly breaking from c
anter back to trot. This was a switch for Paige, because her own horse, Quarry, was a Thoroughbred, sensitive and quick. The farm owners, Mr. and Mrs. DeWitt, had been watching the lesson that day, too. Paige had been embarrassed when Jack had to repeatedly remind her to insist Gray Fox be more forward.

  “Thanks, Lindsay,” Sarah replied, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I only hope he won’t be as stubborn as he was last week. He was a real jerk for Paige.”

  “Paige is riding Quarry today. But you’d better scurry along. I expect Jack will be back from his schooling session soon.”

  Sarah rushed to the tack room to pick up a saddle and the bridle with the martingale strap Gray Fox always wore to keep him from throwing his head in the air. Stepping inside, she was immediately aware of the strong aroma of saddle soap and leather as she scanned the bridles hanging on the pine paneled wall. On the bottom row she spotted Gray Fox’s bridle with the fat snaffle bit and the martingale attached to the noseband. Grabbing it off the hook, she turned to the racks on the opposite wall and picked up the all-purpose saddle and pad she’d used on Gray Fox before. It was good for both flatwork and jumping, and fit him well.

  Sarah started for the door with the tack over her arm, but hesitated by the wall cabinet. Jack’s words came back to her: Better to have a crop and not need it, than to need it and not have it. She pulled a sturdy black crop off the rack, stuck it in her tote bag, and hurried out the door. Sarah was glad she had brought her spurs—with Gray Fox, they’d probably be needed. She quickened her pace down the aisle. After riding at Brookmeade almost two years, she knew where every horse’s stall was located in the big barn, and she headed for the back side where most of the school horses were stabled. She noticed the barn was unusually quiet, which meant Tim and Paige were already warming up in the ring. She hurried even faster.

  The place seemed deserted except for the DeWitts’ two Jack Russell terriers, Taco and Spin, who came running to meet her. There was no sign of Mrs. DeWitt near her mare’s stall, but if the terriers were around, she couldn’t be far away. The brown-and-white dogs were excited to see Sarah and wanted to play, their short tails whipping furiously.