Stagestruck Read online

  Copyright © 2002 Shelley Peterson

  Illustrations © 2002 Marybeth Drake

  First ePub edition © 2011 Dancing Cat Books,

  an imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.

  No part of this publication may be printed, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free 1.800.893.5777.

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Peterson, Shelley, 1952-

  Stagestruck/Shelley Peterson

  ISBN 978-1-77086-075-9

  I. Title.

  PS8581.E8417S73 2010 jC813’.54 c2010-901893-1

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.

  Dancing Cat Books

  An imprint of Cormorant Books Inc.

  215 SPADINA AVENUE, STUDIO 230, TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA M5T 2C7

  www.dancingcatbooks.com • www.cormorantbooks.com

  To my mother, Joyce Drake Matthews,

  who imparted to me her great love of literature

  and inspired the character of Joy Featherstone.

  To my deceased grandmother, Mary Snodgrass Drake,

  who had a dramatic heart and encouraged

  my every step upon the stage.

  DAUPHIN:

  . . . When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he

  trots the air; the earth sings when he touches it; the

  basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the

  pipe of Hermes. . . .his neigh is like the bidding of a

  monarch, and his countenance enforces homage.

  —Henry V, Act III, Scene vii

  If you stand high on the cliffs behind Saddle Creek Farm, the shape of the river below forms the outline of a saddle. The water twists and winds its way through the rocky, dramatic landscape of the Niagara Escarpment in Caledon, connecting all who cross its well-worn path.

  Wild animals—deer, raccoons, squirrels, porcupines, coyotes, and fox—come to drink. Hawks and owls compete for field mice, and songbirds trill in the treetops. Beavers dam off sections to build their homes, and fish are plentiful in the cold, deep pools.

  If you were to paddle a canoe down the creek from the Grange to King Road, you’d pass Owen Enterprises, Merry Fields, the Malones, Hogscroft, Bradley Stables, and, of course, Saddle Creek Farm. It is a tightly knit community—a place where people care deeply for one another, and for the land around them. It is also a community that is passionate about its horses.

  And what horses! Those in the area are famed for their talent and strength: the legendary Dancer; Sundancer; Moonlight Sonata. All were foaled within walking distance of Saddle Creek, and all have carried themselves and their riders to victory—both in the ring, and beyond. Some wonder what secret the area holds, to bring forth such amazing creatures. Some say it’s in the water.

  PROLOGUE

  DANCER

  DANCER WANTED ACTION. He paced back and forth along the fence in the field behind Hogscroft. There was sweet spring grass, a new blue salt lick, and a full water trough, but the once-mighty chestnut stallion was restless. Dancer filled his lungs with moist air, then snorted aloud. Tossing his magnificent head proudly, he swept his tangled mane over his arched neck. He bucked and bucked again, kicking high and punching out his back legs savagely. Pawing the ground with his front right hoof, he shook his head in frustration.

  Dancer yearned for something more than these peaceful surroundings. He remembered the days when his mistress exercised him daily, practised challenging courses of jumps, and hacked him for miles down the roads to keep him fit.

  She didn’t come to ride him anymore.

  Up Dancer reared, thrusting and jabbing with his front legs, hopping on his powerful rear legs. Angry and agitated, he let out a deep and resonant bellow that echoed through the Caledon hills. Down he dropped with a heavy thud. He tore off at full speed, tail high and head down, bucking like a rodeo bronco.

  Christine James watched anxiously from the barn, where she’d been cleaning tack. The leather on the saddles and bridles was turning green from disuse. The slim, attractive, fifty-year-old woman held her breath as Dancer raced toward the highest part of the stone wall that separated the fields. It measured almost five feet tall and he was going far too fast on rocky ground. Christine could hardly watch. She was sure that she was about to witness the last action of her daughter’s charismatic jumping star, and there was nothing she could do.

  On Dancer sped, raging and reckless. At the last possible second, he lifted, legs tucked, neck stretched, muddy chestnut coat dull in the pale April sun. He soared high over the wall and landed lightly in a patch of weeds, rocks, and thistles.

  Christine let out her breath in a rush and unclenched her hands. She ran her fingers through her dark, chin-length hair. What a daredevil, she thought. Christine spoke aloud. “This can’t go on. I must call Mousie.”

  1

  THE OLD THEATRE

  ABBY MALONE RODE her elegant bay mare, Moonlight Sonata, to the top of the ridge. She looked down at Saddle Creek, and observed that the grey water, as it rushed over the rocks, mirrored the turbulence of the darkening skies.

  At sixteen years of age, Abby was pretty and long-legged. Her silky blond hair was pulled into a low ponytail under her old black riding cap, and her cheeks were ruddy with health and energy. Her shape was fast becoming that of a woman, but her attitude remained unabashedly tomboyish.

  Moonlight Sonata lowered her head to nibble the tender spring grass under the winter-coarsened weeds. Abby patted her sleek dark neck and studied the wild beauty of the scene below. The wind was coming up. Treetops swayed and tall reeds waved. She inhaled deeply and savoured the smells of water, earth, and pine. The air around her tingled with edgy energy, signalling the onset of an electrical storm.

  “There’s quite a storm coming, Moonie,” she said to her trusted companion.

  Suddenly, a two-year-old filly raced up the rise at full speed.

  “Whoa there, Leggy!” Abby yelled authoritatively. The filly stopped inches from the edge of the ridge, reared up, then stamped her front hoof impatiently.

  “You little brat,” seethed Abby. “You scared me!”

  Abby reached for the rope that dangled from the filly’s halter and grabbed it firmly. “That’s the last time I’m taking you with us, no matter how much of a fuss you make.” As an act of kindness, Abby had decided to bring the anxious Leggy along for the ride, but no sooner were they off the road than she’d bolted in search of her own excitement. Now the scheming look in the young horse’s eyes made Abby glare back at her in exasperation.

  Moonie had given birth to this beautiful creature two years earlier, and Abby had proudly named her Moon Dancer. The youngster was already taller than her mother and still growing rapidly. The exceptional length of her legs had g
iven her the stable name of “Leggy,” and it had stuck. Her glossy chestnut coat was the exact shade of her father’s, and her spirit was rebellious. “You’re your father’s daughter, all right,” Abby observed aloud.

  Leggy’s sire was Dancer, the local legend. He and his owner, Hilary “Mousie” James, had won countless jumping competitions. They’d been an unbeatable team until the cruel and savage attack five years earlier by Samuel Owens. Owens had quickly been judged legally insane and sent to the mental hospital at Penetang. That Dancer had survived at all was remarkable, but he had never competed again. He was now retired at Hogscroft, the James’ farm.

  Abby sniffed the air; they were minutes away from a downpour. “Okay, ladies, gotta get back.” The light was fading fast. Trying to radiate calmness for the horses’ sakes, she gently pulled Moonie’s head up from the grass and turned her around. Leggy followed on the lead line but hopped around nervously, afraid of the changing weather. Just then, something dark and furry darted out from the trees.

  “Hey, Cody!” A small grey coyote looked up at Abby adoringly, eyes shining. This girl was his best friend.

  Abby returned his gaze. She’d found him when he was only a few days old and dying of starvation. She’d fed him a special mother’s milk substitution every few hours until he could eat on his own. Cody survived and grew into a small but healthy adult. Abby constantly marvelled at his intelligence and ingenuity. He was completely devoted to her; her shadow.

  Abby, Moonie, Leggy, and Cody headed toward home. Old trees groaned and strained against the wind as the little group trotted down the path through the woods. Overhead, branches blocked what little remained of the light, leaving them to ride in near darkness. As they came out of the woods into a hay field, a strong gust of wind hit them. Angry-looking clouds were rapidly closing in, and the sky was turning black.

  The rain started suddenly. Stinging, cold, driving rain. The wind howled, and Leggy lurched away in fear. “Leggy, honey, don’t you worry, we’ll be home soon.”

  A long serpent’s tongue of lightning shot from the heavens in front of them, followed by a deafening, horrifying crack. Abby counted five seconds between lightning and thunder, which meant that the lightning had struck approximately one mile away, very close to home.

  They were now galloping across the Wick property. It had been for sale for over two years, and the place was neglected and overgrown. The house had long been empty and there were “No Trespassing” signs posted on trees. The barn was said to be haunted, and a shiver went down Abby’s spine at the sight of its dark looming shape.

  Cody, nose down and tail flat, turned sharply and made a beeline toward the barn. Abby called after him, but the coyote didn’t look back.

  A streak of electricity lit up the sky and thunder crashed simultaneously. Moonie reared in fright, and Leggy squealed a high-pitched alarm. The rain was coming down hard, pelting them mercilessly. Abby made a quick decision. She turned Moonie and Leggy toward the barn, following Cody’s lead.

  The barn was a huge weather-beaten structure, about a hundred and fifty years old. The main floor was fieldstone, and faded grey barn boards housed the hayloft. Through the curtain of rain, Abby noticed a more solid shed, which stood on the other side of the farm lane. Dutch doors opened to a small paddock, and Abby thought that it must once have been shelter for horses. Since it was accessible and looked far safer than the barn, Abby headed for the shed.

  Young trees were now bending with the force of the gale, and the rain came down in sheets. Abby’s face stung, and her hands were red and cold. Carefully, the group made its way through soggy, rotten debris and tangled vines. At the paddock gate Abby dismounted and threw the reins over Moonie’s neck. She led the two mares through the rusted gate and hurried to open the Dutch doors.

  A hinge had come loose from one of the top doors, and it hung askew. Abby pulled it open and reached over the bottom door to feel for a latch. The horses were restless, eager for shelter. “Quiet, you two, I’m trying my hardest.” Abby found a hook and released it. She pushed. The door was stuck.

  Cody, who’d been patiently waiting at her side, leapt over the bottom door into the shed and began digging. Looking over, Abby saw that manure and old straw were blocking the door.

  Abby went back and closed the paddock gate, then ran up Moonie’s stirrups and tucked her reins under a stirrup leather so she wouldn’t become tangled if she dropped her head to graze. She removed the dangling lead shank from Leggy’s halter and, satisfied that her horses were temporarily accident-proof, climbed over the half-door. “Don’t you move, ladies,” she ordered the nervous mares.

  In the gloom she spotted an old pitchfork leaning against the far wall. It was rusty, but the handle was firmly attached and it had all its tines. She quickly went to work, aware that another bolt of lightning would set off Leggy. If she jumped the fence and made a run for it . . . Abby didn’t even want to speculate on the kinds of trouble the young mare could get herself into. She kept digging.

  “Okay, girls, I think we’re in business,” Abby said to the mares, who had their heads over the door watching her work. She pulled at the door, scraping it open enough for a horse to enter. Moonie, followed closely by Leggy, burst into the dry shed and away from the storm. Leggy immediately shook herself off and lay down for a roll. She scratched her back happily on the bedding, then stood and shook again, sending old straw and dust everywhere. Abby chuckled, delighted to have everyone safely under cover.

  She untacked Moonie, propping her saddle against a post and hanging the bridle over a nail on the wall. She draped the saddle pad over an old barrel to let it dry. The leather would be a mess to clean, she thought, and her riding hat was soaked. In fact, all her clothes were soaked, and she was feeling the chill. She took off her riding hat and hung it on another nail. She shook the rain off her windbreaker and hung it over the handle of the upright pitchfork. Hopping up and down and rubbing her arms didn’t help much. “What I need is a blanket,” Abby said to Cody, as if he’d understand. He stared at her earnestly, intent on deciphering her meaning.

  Moonie lay down on her side and rubbed her coat in the dusty straw. She rolled back and forth until all the water had been absorbed. She stood and shook, just like her daughter. “You’re so smart, using dirt as a towel,” said Abby, shivering. “Do you think it would work for me?”

  The horses were settled nicely, and the next great flash of lightning didn’t bother them at all. They felt protected and safe, and were drying off quickly, but they didn’t have food or water. Abby hoped that they wouldn’t have to wait long for the storm to pass.

  “In case we’re here for a while, it wouldn’t hurt to see what I can find.” There had to be a bucket in the barn, and if there wasn’t running water, a moment under the eaves would fill it up. Also, she was cold. Maybe there were empty burlap grain sacks stored somewhere or, better yet, horse blankets. They’d be musty and filthy for sure, but they’d help retain her body heat. Abby patted Moonie and Leggy on their noses and set off to the barn with Cody.

  The light was dim as they ran into the rain and dashed for the barn door. Wind whistled through an empty, broken window. The barn, standing starkly in front of them, seemed sinister. “This place is spooky,” Abby said, feeling only slightly reassured by Cody’s presence.

  There were two huge doors that opened in the middle for tractors and haywagons. Cut into the one on the right was a smaller, human-size door with a latch. Abby took hold of the handle and pressed down firmly with her thumb. It opened.

  Abby pushed the door wide and peered in. “Cody?” she called quietly. Immediately she felt him nuzzle her hand. “Stay with me, boy. I’m scared.” Cody had no intention of leaving her side. He knew when Abby needed him.

  Abby took one tentative step inside. The door swung shut behind her with a great slam.

  “Cody!” she whispered, urgently. Cody nudged her with his nose. “Holy. I can’t take this.” Her heart pounded. She didn’t dare move. She
couldn’t see a thing, and she didn’t know where to step. Abby held Cody’s coarse ruff tightly in her left hand. “Let’s get back to the horses. I don’t need a blanket.”

  Teeth chattering with cold and nerves, Abby backed up, feeling for the door behind her. Her left shoulder bumped the wall. Suddenly, yellow radiance replaced the gloom. Momentarily blinded, she covered her eyes with her hands. Glancing at the wall she realized that she’d accidentally backed into the light switch. When she looked around, she gasped in wonder at what she saw. Abby could not believe her eyes.

  In front of her was a theatre. A wooden stage with a small orchestra pit in front. Curving rows of seats covered with worn and faded burgundy velvet. A real theatre with a real proscenium arch over the stage and ragged burgundy velvet curtains hanging from it.

  “Hold on,” muttered Abby aloud. “This is a barn. In the country. On a wrecked-up old farm. What’s a theatre doing here?”

  Fiona Malone was worried about her daughter. Abby had been gone for hours, the storm was building, and the temperature was dropping. Spring storms were unpredictable, Fiona fussed as she nervously pushed back her grey-blond hair. She turned the radio to the weather station. “Exactly three years ago, a spring storm with less intensity than today’s became a funnel-ling tornado, causing damage in the hundred thousands of dollars and claiming the lives of . . .” Great, she thought. I really need to hear that. This could drive a person to drink. It was one thing for Abby to be out on Moonie, a sensible mare, but to have to cope with Leggy, too . . .

  The phone rang, startling Fiona out of her bleak thoughts.

  “Hello?”