Crown Prince
Authors: Linda Snow McLoon
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.
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. “âTis 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 diedâshe'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.
