Secondhand Horses Read online

  © 2013 by Lauraine Snelling & Kathleen Damp Wright

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-569-4

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62416-008-0

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62416-007-3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration: Jamey Christoph / lindgrensmith.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Dickinson Press, Inc., Grand Rapids, MI 49512; February 2013; D10003732

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Authors

  Dedication

  Kathleen—

  to Jane Owen, delightful writer, for the seed of The Chicago Manual of Style and even more for our friendship that knows no bounds.

  Lauraine—

  to my father, Laurel Clauson, who gave me my first pony,

  an obstinate Shetland named Polly, when I was five.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to those who were willing to share great pictures, laughs, and adventures researching this book. Thanks to the horse experts: Kitty, Bonnie, Debbie, Liz, Ellie, and Stuart. The miniature horse people: Becky, Debbie, and Clint. Thanks to Laurie for medical questions; the Jacksons for the right house for the ranch; Facebook friends and fellow adventurers Sue, Ambria, and Brooklyn.

  Much love to Fred for living with a working writer. ~ Kathleen

  Always, always to Jesus for making all of us different and loving every one of us the best.

  Chapter 1

  Deep Trouble

  Sunneeeee!” her mother called from the house.

  “Bounce, bounce, drop, slap, clap! Bounce, bounce, drop, slap, clap!” In rhythm with her chant, eleven-year-old Sunny slapped her bare feet on the trampoline, seat dropped, hit the trampoline deck with her fists, and, while airborne, clapped her hands over her head. “Yayness! Next time, faster!” She pushed off, her breath coming in gasps. “Then—faster—then faster—”

  Fridays were the best because they meant no school for the weekend. And this weekend would not be normal. It would be rocko-socko wonderful.

  Tomorrow night the S.A.V.E. Squad—Sunny, Aneta, Vee, and Esther—would explore the last night of a traveling carnival in Oakton—alone. A first for all four eleven-year-olds. Sunny’s Uncle Dave would drive them and had promised to go off and amuse himself. Vee had the Anti-Trouble Phone—the ATP. Afterward they’d stay at Sunny’s uncle’s ranch—complete with horses—hours of yayness. Could it get any better?

  Oh yes. This was a major yayness weekend.

  “Dinner!” Her dad never called them in for dinner.

  Startled by the deep voice, Sunny lost her tucked position, landing on her side with her legs flipping over her head. Ouch. Her neck kinked into the deck. Two smaller flopping bounces and Sunny scooted off the padded edge, heart beating wildly. Not because she’d been bouncing, slapping her hands, and pushing off for nearly half an hour.

  Because she’d just remembered about dinner.

  Pounding in from the side yard and up the back deck steps, she burst through the Dutch door into the large, airy kitchen. Four pairs of eyes turned toward her. Only her youngest brother, seven-year-old Peter, smiled, and his wobbled. Mom, with springy red hair like Sunny’s, sat in her regular seat in the ladder-back chair at one end, and tall, skinny Dad at the other end. Her two blond brothers sat side by side with an empty seat across from them.

  Deep trouble.

  Ugh.

  “Hello, Sunny,” Dad said calmly, as though his face weren’t flushing red like hers did when anger grabbed hold of her. While she slid into her seat, she watched a cord in her father’s neck pulse in and out. To her lifetime recollection of getting into trouble, she’d not seen her father’s neck do that before. Creepy cool.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she burst out, grabbing her napkin and spreading it onto her lap.

  James—the older of the two boys at nine years old—had his napkin up to his mouth, fake coughing so their father wouldn’t see him laugh. Laughing when Dad was mad was not a good idea, and James knew it. Tenderhearted Peter looked ready to cry.

  “I’m sorry. I started it.…” Sunny’s voice trailed off. That’s when she smelled it, although it was so pungent she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t smelled it out on the tramp. It was icky-strong, the way spaghetti smells when you go out to the tramp just for a minute and get distracted by the rhyme of bounce—seat drop—slap—clap. Pasta burned. Stuck to the pan. As in, not useful for dinner. The huge unopened jar of marinara stood guard on the sink next to the soaking pan.

  Dad gestured toward the stove. “Yes, you started it. That’s fine. However, finishing is the other half, Sunny Lyn.” Dad usually had laugh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, only this time the lines were set for trouble.

  He’d used her middle name.

  “I’m hungry,” James said, tipping his head toward the fridge and wiggling his eyebrows at his sister.

  “Still waiting,” her mother said.

  Another ugh. She’d been so lost in the potential consequences of forgetting to follow through again, she’d forgotten that it was still her night to do dinner. She had to fix something—a family rule. Leaping to her feet, she sent the chair crashing behind her.

  “Sorry! Sorry!” She made a face, picking up the chair to set it back in place. Dad looked at Mom. Mom made her “no, wait” face. Sunny headed for the pantry, grabbed three cans of tuna fish, opened and drained them, then added mayonnaise and sweet pickle relish. She carried a loaf of Mom’s homemade bread to the table on a cutting board before racing back for the bowl of tuna fish. After thanking God for their food, James’s lip curled—he didn’t like tuna fish sandwiches. Everyone sliced off two slices of wheat bread and passed the tuna fish bowl.

  “That’s it?” James was enjoying this way too much. Sunny narrowed her eyes at him. Don’t push it, bro. I know you’re afraid of what’s under the bed.

  “James,” Mom said. “You won’t starve.”

  While everyone munched on their sandwiches—Dad and Peter made a second one—Peter told Dad stories about what his best buddy had done while they’d been doing science over at his house. She knew he was trying to make Dad use those laugh lines, but while Dad listened and nodded to Peter, his gaze never left Sunny.

  She felt lower than the rug on the kitchen floor. Her sandwich tas
ted like something in a really old bag lunch from a field trip to the Middle Ages; she left most of it on the plate.

  After a miserable dinner, the boys and Mom cleaned up while Dad disappeared, cell phone to his ear. Sunny, sent upstairs to her room, gulped back tears. Minutes ticked by. The longer her parents had to think, the worse it would be for her.

  All the things she’d left unfinished stomped through her mind. The English composition on friendship. Half done. Math problems half done for two days. A history test on the Middle Ages Monday, and she hadn’t finished the activities for it yet. She groaned and threw herself back on the bed, smushing the clean clothes her mom had left that afternoon for her to put away. Who knew what her parents would think of if they remembered all that?

  She bolted upright.

  The carnival.

  The sleepover weekend at Uncle Dave’s after.

  The S.A.V.E. Squad.

  Dad and Mom would ground her from everything.

  During the summer, the four Squaders had been thrown together as Junior Event Planners. Although they hadn’t had anything in common but their differences, they’d had one adventure and then another and found that being different didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. Sunny liked that. She also liked that the Squad’s name was formed from the first letters of each girl’s name. She especially liked that the letter S was first.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she ordered herself to come up with a Great Idea. She had bazillions of Great Ideas. Now she only needed one. Right. Now. Of course, the idea to go jump on the tramp while cooking spaghetti hadn’t turned out to be so great, but—

  “Sunny,” Dad called from the bottom of the stairs.

  Ugh. Ugh. Ughness.

  Sunny descended the stairs, one slow step at a time, thinking in beat to the weight of each foot. One. Great. Idea. Now.

  Anything to hang on to this weekend.

  Moments later, her dad speared her with a look and said in his Consequences Voice, “What would you do if you were me and your mom and had a kid whose forgetfulness impacted other people?”

  Mom, Dad, and Sunny were sitting on the floor around the Quinlan Tribe Table, a low, round coffee table where the Quinlans decided “tribe” vacations, how to spend giving and fun money, resolve brother and sister issues, or negotiate consequences. Sunny had been at that table many times for the latter.

  Taking a deep breath, Sunny recited the Great Idea that had plopped into her mind on the second-to-bottom step. “I’d send her to her beloved uncle Dave’s ranch for two weeks to do school and be a ranch hand and learn to finish fun stuff at the ranch.” It came out in a rush. Hmmm. She wished she hadn’t added the word fun. Consequences were never supposed to be fun.

  She waited for the verdict.

  Chapter 2

  A Brand-New Sunny Starts NOW!

  The largest backpack the Quinlans owned, stuffed with all of Sunny’s school materials and a laptop, leaned against a small dresser in the large bedroom. Next to it sat her mom’s suitcase. Flinging out her arms, Sunny spun again and again. This Great Idea had worked faster than she could spell feudalism backward. Two hours earlier she’d been in Deep Trouble. Now she was a ranch hand at her uncle’s ranch. Here she would finish everything—and on time.

  For a moment, she stood in front of the open window across from the door. Other Novembers had meant early winter and rain, but not this year. Sunny was still wearing her capris and T-shirt. The weather-beaten wooden rails of the corral that broke up the wide, long meadow behind Uncle Dave’s Oregon ranch house looked like a stiff wind would blow them down. She couldn’t wait to get started learning how to take care of Shirley and Mondo, her uncle’s secondhand horses.

  Oh.

  And homework catch-up. Of course. She would dazzle her parents with how much she would finish here. She gave another quick spin and skipped out of the room. Starting now.

  “You’re the coolest of the rocko-socko uncles on the planet,” Sunny said, winding her way through the packing boxes. She finished her skip into the kitchen with a big hug around her much taller uncle’s waist. “I’m still in shock my parents went for my Great Idea.”

  Uncle Dave stood scratching his head. Boxes, stacked to his shoulders, ran across the common entryway and into the living room opposite.

  “You never know with parents, Sunny girl.” Her uncle returned the hug. “Sometimes they know more than you think they do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So many boxes, so little interest.” Her uncle had returned his attention to the boxes. After a moment, he blinked and seemed to notice her standing there. “Will you be lonely way out here? We’re about as at the end of Oakton as you can get and still be in Oakton.”

  Sunny shook her head. “I’ll be on video chats with Mom for school.” She hugged him again and then pulled open a box. “And I’m sure you’ll let my S.A.V.E. Squad friends visit. A lot.”

  “Eesh. Surrounded by little girls? That will be strange for this bachelor.”

  “We’re not little. We’re eleven!” Sunny huffed. “And it’s your fault you’re not married.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m ready to start finishing things. What do you want me to do first?”

  “I think I need you to clean out one of the outbuildings before we can start setting up this house.” He rubbed his face. “It’s been nearly two months that I’ve been living out of boxes. Time to settle in. There’s probably a lot of junk in those buildings. This old ranch hasn’t been cleaned out since the last owner left over five years ago.”

  Bouncing on her toes, Sunny said, “I’ll start right now. You won’t be sorry you said yes to me for two weeks!”

  He glanced out the kitchen window. “Dark now. Getting late.”

  “I don’t care. I want to start now. This is the new Sunny!” As she struggled with the front door, he called over his shoulder. “You’ve got to lift and pull at the same time.” More to himself, he muttered, “The screen door squeaks, too. I have to take a look at that.” He flapped a hand at the boxes as if to shoo them away and meandered over to the fridge. “You hungry?”

  “No,” she said over the screech of the front door. Although dinner had been those disastrous tuna sandwiches, she was too excited to be hungry. Once on the front porch, Sunny twirled around and around, staggering toward the large oval of overgrown grass and weeds in the middle of the circular gravel driveway. The final spin overset her balance, and she tumbled into the oval, panting and snorting. The stars were just beginning to come out.

  “Okay, outbuildings. You are about to meet Sunny the Finisher.” She jumped up and trotted over to the three buildings. She chuckled. “It’s like the three-bears buildings. The barn is Papa Barn, the middle is Mama Shed, and the laaaaassst is the Baby Lean-to!” The largest of the three buildings was a newer barn. Pulling open the door, she stuck her head in. Right inside the door were the stairs on the left to go to the haymow that was loaded with hay. Maybe it was straw. She couldn’t tell the difference, but she knew that horses ate one and stood on the other.

  After the stairs were three open stalls. On the left of the barn was the tack wall with Shirley and Mondo’s saddles, bridles, and all that other stuff that horses needed. Everything looked like a barn should. Trust Uncle Dave to take care of Shirley and Mondo before he unpacked boxes. She liked that.

  She shut the door behind her and moseyed on over to the right to scratch the noses of Shirley the palomino and Mondo the red sorrel. “Here’s hoping playing with you is one of my chores!”

  By the time she’d finished talking with the horses, night had definitely descended. She was nearly to the front porch when she remembered why she had come out in the first place.

  “Finishing, Sunny, finishing. It’s all about finishing.” She made her way to the mama-sized outbuilding. Older, smaller, its roof looked like the builder had skipped over every other board. Was it leaning to one side? She tipped her head. Yup. And sagging, too. The double door to the
Mama Shed also had a weak side. She had to lift that side up to remove the iron bar dropped into the two rings that kept the door closed. She stepped in. Darkness enveloped her; her foot slid over the edge of something, snapping her head back. Waving her arms, she went sprawling.

  So much for a big start in my new Sunny life.

  Chapter 3

  Attacking the Shed

  In the early light of the next morning, the shed’s interior resembled a topographic map her dad had on a recent family hike with its short piles and tall heaps of—what? After Sunny propped the door open with two chunks of cement she’d found nearby, she stood with her arms folded across her chest, legs wide. Sunny the Finisher surveying her project.

  Junk. Lots and lots of junk. Barely room to walk. No, make that no room unless you pretended it was a minefield and hopped through it. Sunny did just that and then dodged the path back to the doorway. At the door, she saw what had banged up her knee and bloodied the heel of one hand: an old yoke, like she’d seen in her history book, that a farmer would use to harness oxen. Next to it lay two rusted spurs with sharp-looking spikes. She tossed them to the side where they hit the wall and slid down into an old bucket. The bottom of a fan rake tipped over that. Why would someone save a broken rake?

  This cleanup just might take until she graduated from middle school, but nobody finished unless they started. She pounced on a broom that had retained enough sweeping bristles to do some good and started sweeping vigorously. Whipping the broom around each obstacle raised clouds of suffocating dust that sent her hacking and choking outside.

  Uncle Dave, carrying out a couple of empty boxes to the porch, called over, “You sure you’re up to this, Sunny girl?”

  “No—cough—problem,” she gasped, waving confidently. “Just waiting for the dust to die down.” Her throat had dried; she had to swallow a few times. “I’ll have this finished so fast you won’t know what hit you!”

  Since the shed showed no signs of giving up its dust storm right away, she set the broom against the door and wandered over to the lean-to. Pretty basic. Three sides, a slanted roof, and an open front. More rusted farm equipment Sunny didn’t recognize. She’d definitely made the right choice on cleaning out the tractor shed. This lean-to would involve pushing a whole lot of heavy stuff somewhere else. Something scurried behind the lean-to. Curious, Sunny peeked around the shed, and a happy smile curved her face. At the back of the lean-to, completely hidden from the front, rested an old trampoline. The bed was still on it. She counted the legs. Two looked bent. Still usable. More springs still on it than not, although they were rusty. Everything was rusty around here.