Spirit Riding Free: Abigail's Diary Page 6

  Abigail, Lucky, and Pru cheered the loudest as all the herds got their Saddle Showdown badges.

  Right after the badges, the Fillies got to vote for the herd they thought should take home the Hungerford Heart. There was no question in Abigail’s mind who deserved it. She put her ballot in the box, feeling proud and satisfied.

  Ms. Hungerford then asked the Golden Valley herd to bring the Hungerford Heart trophy forward. It was the moment Abigail had most been waiting for the entire weekend.

  Even though they were no longer in the running for it, Abigail felt her heart race, just seeing the finely crafted silver trophy again.

  “I’m so glad your herd will get the Heart again this year,” Abigail whispered to Jimena. She winked. “But we’ll try again next year if that’s okay.”

  “We’d love that…” Jimena said in a loud voice.

  Ms. Hungerford stood in front of all the herds. She held the trophy high, so everyone could see it, and announced: “This year the Hungerford Heart goes to the herd from Miradero!”

  “Huh?” Abigail wasn’t sure she’d heard that right.

  “You don’t have to wait for next year!” Jimena handed her the trophy. “We all voted for you.” She pointed to every girl at the Jamboree. “We all think that you deserve the prize for showing the best Frontier Filly values.” She reviewed the weekend. “You showed honor by standing up and taking the blame for the food fight. You fought for us all to get another chance at Boots and Bows, which showed valor. You were honest when you finally told us about Snips.” She gave a side-eye to the tent where Abigail’s brother was peeking his head through the flap. He waved sheepishly.

  “What about compassion?” Lucky said. “I don’t think we’ve—”

  Abigail poked her. “Don’t talk them out of it!”

  Ms. Hungerford finished for Jimena. “You showed compassion toward Snips when you all decided not to send him home… or tie him to a tree.” She laughed. “Pru told me that was one of your ideas.”

  “One of our best ideas.” Pru shrugged. “But not practical.”

  “You showed restraint and great care for your brother when you could have acted in frustration and anger.” Ms. Hungerford put her hand on Abigail’s shoulder. “That’s what compassion is.”

  Abigail took a deep breath and let herself take the trophy from Jimena.

  “You also saved me when my horse ran away,” Jimena said. “I’ll never forget it. Thanks.”

  Lucky and Pru gathered with the Fillies, as did Snips, who slipped out of the tent and squeezed among the Fillies for a front-row view.

  “Ha!” Snips said with a cheer. “I knew it. I told you I’d help you win the trophy, and I did.”

  Lucky quickly put her hand over Snips’s mouth while Pru held his arms.

  “It’s okay,” Abigail said. “We know he didn’t help us. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

  Pru and Lucky let him go. Abigail said, “Snips, we will talk about this more on the way home.” She sounded very motherly. “Go pack up Señor Carrots.”

  “Aw shucks,” Snips said. “I want to stay at Camp Jamboree forever.”

  Abigail narrowed her eyes at him and threatened, “I swear, Snips, my Frontier Filly compassion is slipping away. If you don’t get out of here now, I’ll have to give back the trophy.” She didn’t say what she’d do to him, but her eyes were really scary.

  “I’m going.” Snips sulked off toward their tent area. “Good-bye, fellow Fillies! It’s been fun knowing ya. See you at the next Jamboree.”

  “That will never happen.” Abigail rolled her eyes as he walked away.

  “I guess we should go pack up, too,” Pru told Lucky and Abigail.

  “One more thing…” Ms. Hungerford stopped them from leaving. “I believe we owe you these.” In her hand were the badges each girl had missed: Majestic Mare and Saddle Showdown.

  Abigail looked at the badges, then stepped closer to Pru and Lucky. They whispered to one another for a long moment, then Abigail moved back to Ms. Hungerford.

  “We didn’t earn them,” she told their leader.

  Ms. Hungerford said, “It’s not your fault that Snips made the tasks difficult for you.”

  “While that’s true,” Lucky said, “we respectfully do not accept the badges.”

  Pru explained, “We want to come back next year! We can earn them then.”

  “Wait! You can still earn them now!” Jimena said. “Remember that rule in the handbook that says, ‘When badges are not immediately earned, Fillies can be given a second chance in the same weekend event, if the entire group agrees and there is no foul play involved’?”

  “The rule on page fifty-four?” Abigail asked. She began to smile.

  “We all want Miradero to have another chance!” Jimena said. “The weekend isn’t over yet.”

  Very slowly, Ms. Hungerford began to smile. “I suppose there is time left,” she said.

  Abigail sat on Boomerang’s back waiting for the horn. Boomerang was groomed with ribbons that made his mane and tail look like a rainbow. Chica Linda and Spirit wore matching rainbows.

  The PALs had earned the Majestic Mare badges, and now Abigail was going to ride fast in her Saddle Showcase performance. Her original idea had been to gallop around barrels, which was one of her and Boomerang’s best skills, but they didn’t have barrels at the campsite. Instead, Lucky and Pru were sitting on their horses in spots the barrels would have been. She was going to ride around them in a figure-eight pattern.

  When Ms. Hungerford blew the horn, Boomerang took off. Abigail lay close to his neck as they rounded Lucky and Spirit.

  “Atta girl!” Lucky cheered.

  “Go, go, go!” Pru called out as Boomerang and Abigail flew around them.

  There was a cheer from the Fillies. Snips was in the middle of the herds, frowning, while Señor Carrots stood by the fence nearby.

  Jimena shouted, “That’s probably a world record for the fastest barrel race without barrels!”

  Abigail laughed, and then she and Boomerang went to the center of the field area and took a quick bow.

  Lucky was up next. She hung off Spirit’s side and then swung up onto his back with a twist and a half flip. Abigail didn’t even know that Lucky’d been working on a cartwheel, which she did on Spirit’s backside as he raced forward. She also managed a somersault down Spirit’s back and a flip to dismount. It was amazing. When Lucky took a bow, the herds went wild.

  Pru’s routine was based on a competition form she did called dressage. In dressage, Chica Linda would prance to music in a very specific pattern. Again, since they weren’t actually competing, she decided to ratchet it up and try things she’d never done before. Since she didn’t have a way to play music, Pru handed out lyrics to one of the Fillies’ anthems. Everyone sang while Chica Linda danced around, her hooves moving in rhythm to the beat. It was great, and when she finished, she got a standing ovation.

  Diary Entry

  Dear Diary,

  We just got home from the Frontier Fillies Jamboree.

  When I told Mom and Dad about Snips and everything he’d done all weekend, they escorted him right away to his room and told him that he would be grounded for a good, long while. I could hear him yelling, “How can I be grounded? I helped them!” all the way down the hall.

  I was happy to let them take over Snips for a while. I had other things to worry about.

  I met Lucky and Pru at the barn where they were settling in Chica Linda and Spirit for the night. I brought apples for Boomerang and the others.

  We fed the horses apples and started talking about next year’s Jamboree.

  Ms. Hungerford told us that there’d be three new badges to earn, but she wouldn’t tell us what they are, so we can’t practice. That’s okay. I have a big surprise for everyone myself.

  I am going to make the horses “uniforms” just like the ones we wear as Fillies. They need leaf hats like ours. Wouldn’t that be cute? I was thinking I could also make
sashes, and then we could have badges that the horses earn, just like we do. Then we could sew them on, and the horses could parade around in their hats and sashes, and then it would be extra cute.

  I have a whole year, so I’ll make them for everyone. Wouldn’t Duchess and Cupcake and all the others love horse uniforms, too?

  I was thinking of fun horse badge ideas—for horses, not horse badges for people—while I was putting away the tack. I was surprised when I found a note in my saddlebag. It was from Jimena.

  It said:

  Miradero, take a bow….

  The Hungerford Heart is yours… for now.

  I giggled and set the Heart on a shelf in the barn. It glistened in the early evening sunset. I was so proud. I was going to polish the metal and oil the wood base every day until next year’s Frontier Fillies Jamboree.

  I blew a kiss to the Hungerford Heart, and then Pru said, “Hey, Abigail, tell us all about the Heart.”

  So I did.

  “The trophy itself is a metal sculpture forged in the blacksmith shop where Ms. Hungerford’s father worked as a boy. It’s rumored that she forged the metal herself, heating and pounding a long silver bar and then bending it into the shape of a perfectly proportioned heart.

  “The statue represents the Heart of the Fillies and sits on a cherrywood base that is said to come from the very same tree as President George Washington’s teeth. Engraved in the base are the four noble virtues of the truest Frontier Filly.

  “You know, the Hungerford Heart is named for Ms. Hungerford’s grandmother….”

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  Continue reading for a sneak peek at the adventure that started it all

  Introduction

  A buckskin stallion stood at the edge of his herd, his head held high, his eyes alert. While the other horses filled their bellies with tender spring grass, his gaze swept the prairie. Leaves rustled in the breeze. Butterflies flitted among stalks of milkweed. A toad leaped onto a rock, to bask in the morning sun.

  All appeared peaceful.

  The stallion sniffed the air for hidden signs of danger. No damp scent of wolf. No musky scent of bear. And no people, with their strange odors of fire and soap. His ears pricked, listening for anything that might cause trouble, but he was greeted with a gentle trickle from a nearby creek and the lazy whistle of a meadowlark as it called to its mate. The stallion nodded with contentment.

  He lowered his head and nibbled the sweet grass, his tail flicking once, twice, to chase away a dragonfly. But on this morning, grazing wasn’t on his mind. He lifted his head again, his legs stiffening. The prairie stretched before him, a vast, wide-open space, and it was calling. He stomped his hoof and snorted. The others understood, for he was young and restless. They stepped aside. His sister gazed at him. Go, her eyes said. Checking once more to make sure the herd was safe, he took a deep breath. Then he reared up and…

  … charged!

  Nothing stood in his way. No mountains, no rivers, no houses or train tracks. With his face in the wind, he was filled with immeasurable joy. He was free.

  The morning sun warmed the prairie as the stallion’s galloping hooves beat their wild rhythm.

  1

  The morning sun streamed through the windows as Lucky’s shoes beat their wild rhythm.

  Though Lucky was a natural runner, with long, strong legs, the shoes themselves hadn’t been designed for such activity. Made from stiff black leather, with a half-inch heel, they laced tightly up the shins. That very morning the boots had been polished to a perfect sheen by the family butler. If she kept running, Lucky would surely develop blisters, but she didn’t have far to go.

  With no one around to witness, Lucky picked up speed and darted down the hallway of Madame Barrow’s Finishing School for Young Ladies. Running within school walls was strictly prohibited, along with other disrespectful activities like pencil gnawing and gum chewing. But sometimes rules had to be broken, especially when a hot, buttered scone was at stake. So Lucky ran as fast as she could, her long brown braid thumping against her back. Morning tea at Barrow’s was a tradition the headmistress had brought with her from England. The school’s cook could make the pastry so flaky it practically melted in the mouth. And she stuffed each one with a huge dollop of salted butter and sweet blackberry jam. Lucky’s mouth watered just thinking about it. But she was late. So very late. Which wasn’t entirely her fault.

  There’d been a… distraction.

  She’d been looking out the window as she tended to do during morning recitations, her mouth moving automatically, for she knew her multiplication tables by heart. “Twelve times five is sixty. Twelve times six is seventy-two.” Her legs felt twitchy, as they often did when she was forced to sit for long periods of time. “Twelve times seven is eighty-four. Twelve times eight is ninety-six.”

  “Lucky, please stop fiddling,” the teacher said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lucky sat up straight and tucked her feet behind the chair legs to keep them still.

  “Continue, everyone.”

  “Twelve times nine is—”

  Lucky stopped reciting. Something on the other side of the street caught her eye. It was a horse, but not the usual sort that one saw in the city. This horse wasn’t attached to a carriage or wagon. A bright-red blanket lay across his back and feathers hung from his black mane. He was being led down the sidewalk by a man whose long blond hair was topped by a cowboy hat. The fringe on the man’s pants jiggled as he walked. Certainly the city was full of colorful people who came from every corner of the world, but Lucky had never seen a cowboy in person, only in photographs. He walked in a funny, bowlegged way and was handing out pieces of paper to passersby. Lucky leaned closer to the window, but a carriage pulled up and blocked her view.

  “Twelve times fourteen is…” Lucky tapped her fingers on the desk. She couldn’t get that cowboy and his beautiful horse out of her mind. What were they doing in the city?

  “Lucky. Please sit still!”

  And so it was that after recitations, instead of heading to tea with the other students, Lucky snuck out the front door to see if the cowboy was still there.

  He wasn’t. And by that time, morning tea had already begun.

  The headmistress believed that teatime was as crucial to a young lady’s education as literature or history because it taught manners and the important art of conversation. Plus, she insisted that the tea they served at Barrow’s Finishing School was superior because it came all the way from England and had a picture of Queen Victoria on the tin. Lucky wasn’t a huge fan of the stuff, but those scones were to die for.

  She bounded up the flight of stairs, lifting her long skirt so she wouldn’t get tangled. She detested the school uniform—a stiff white blouse that buttoned all the way to the chin and a gray wool skirt that always seemed too heavy and too hot. She’d pleaded many times for a change in uniform. She’d brought in newspaper articles to show the headmistress that pants were all the rage in other countries. But her reasonable request fell on deaf ears, for the headmistress was as immobile as a ship in the sand. “My young ladies will not be seen in public in a pair of bloomers!”

  Lucky leaped onto the second-floor landing. From the end of the hall came the clinking of china and the quiet conversations of her fellow students. She was almost there. Still gripping her skirt, she dashed out of the stairwell, turned sharply on her heels, and then raced down the hall.

  Only to bump into something.

  Correction—into someone.

  When a scone-craving, restless student collides with a no-nonsense, uppity headmistress, the impact is the stuff of legend. Not only was the wind
knocked out of both parties, but they were thrown off-balance. Objects flew into the air—a notebook, a hair comb, a marble pen. When Lucky reached out to break her fall, she grabbed the first thing in front of her, which happened to be the headmistress’s arm. Down they both tumbled, landing on the hallway carpet in a most unladylike way. Lucky knew this was bad—very bad. The headmistress had probably never sat on the ground in her entire life, let alone been knocked down to it!

  Madame Barrow pushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes. “Fortuna. Esperanza. Navarro. Prescott!” she said between clenched teeth.

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry,” Lucky said, scrambling to her feet. “I didn’t see you.” She offered a hand to the headmistress, pulling her up off the carpet. Then she collected the hair comb, notebook, and pen. “Are you hurt?”

  Madame Barrow, headmistress of Barrow’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, did not answer the question. Instead, with expertly manicured fingers, she brushed carpet fuzz off her perfectly pressed gray skirt. She set her hair comb back into place, collected the pen and notebook, and then drew a focused breath, filling her lungs as if she were about to dive underwater. Lucky could have sworn that the intake of oxygen added another inch to the headmistress’s towering frame. Silence followed. Agonizing silence. Then, after a long exhale, the headmistress spoke. “Do you know how long I have been teaching young ladies of society?” she asked in her thick British accent.

  “No, Madame Barrow.” Lucky tried not to stare at the headmistress’s right eyelid, which had begun to quiver with rage.

  “Fifteen years, Miss Prescott. Fifteen dedicated years.” With a flourish of her hand, she began what Lucky expected would be a long, dedicated lecture. “I was raised and educated in England, Miss Prescott, a country that is the pillar of civility and tradition. The patrons of this institution have placed the tender education of their daughters in my capable hands. In my fifteen years here, I have encountered many different sorts of young ladies. But never, and I repeat, never, has one child exhibited so much… spirited energy.”