Pride (The Eventing Series Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books by Natalie Keller Reinert

  Part One - Pride

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Two - Fall

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Your Next Read

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Natalie Keller Reinert

  Cover Photo: iStock

  Cover Designer: Natalie Keller Reinert

  All rights reserved.

  Also by Natalie Keller Reinert

  The Grabbing Mane Series

  Grabbing Mane

  Flying Dismount (2021)

  The Hidden Horses of New York

  The Alex & Alexander Series

  Runaway Alex

  The Head and Not The Heart

  Other People’s Horses

  Claiming Christmas

  Turning for Home

  The Eventing Series

  Bold (A Prequel)

  Ambition

  Pride

  Courage

  Luck

  Forward

  Prospect

  The Show Barn Blues Series

  Show Barn Blues

  Horses in Wonderland

  The Catoctin Creek Series

  Sunset at Catoctin Creek

  Snowfall at Catoctin Creek

  Springtime at Catoctin Creek

  Sign up for a free book at nataliekreinert.com

  Part One

  Pride

  I REINED BACK the big gray Thoroughbred as we reached the top of the hill, and together, we gazed out over the landscape.

  The starting box waited at the base of the slope below us, its single open wall an invitation to come and stand inside, dancing, nerves jolting, fingers trembling, waiting for the countdown and the whistle and the jovial “Have a great ride!” from the starter. It was the gateway to our favorite world: the cross-country course.

  Beyond the starting box’s spindly wooden confines, a crazy collection of cross-country jumps were scattered over hillsides and fields willy-nilly, the scenery of logs and brush a siren song to people (and horses) like us. Eventers—we were the lucky ones, happiest of horse-people, calling a gallop through woods and fields a competition. My horse and I were about to go charging across that patchwork of forest and pasture on this north Georgia farm, taking the fences as they came to us, sending our fearless hearts flying over them. Cross-country day was my greatest joy. All I needed for inner peace was out there on those green hills, in a zig-zag of hogs-backs and coffins, trakehners and tables.

  Still, I hung back for a moment, studying the slopes before us. Our hills in Ocala were more moderate than these steep foothills, the stout cousins of the nearby mountains. Their azure humps wavered in the early summer haze like approaching thunderclouds. I wasn’t used to seeing such heights. Every time I looked up, I thought a rainstorm was about to descend upon us.

  Mickey shifted beneath me, ready to go, and I closed my fingers on the reins to steady him, still trying to picture the course map I’d been studying. The steep hills played tricks on my eyes, and it was difficult to put the little black squares on a flat sheet of paper into position along the hillsides. That awful construction-sign fence, the one with the yellow and black barricades on either side—wasn’t that supposed to be at the top of a hill, before a short slope down into the woods? From up here, the jump looked like it sat in the middle of a broad empty field, flat as a pancake. I’d walked the course twice, but things still looked different from horseback and far away. Hopefully, the course walks would kick in once I was out there, my muscles taking over for my lapses in memory.

  “I need a portable map,” I told Mickey, who flicked an ear towards me with modest attention. “Maybe a nice laminated job I could clip into your mane.”

  That wasn’t such a bad idea, actually. I could make them at the kitchen table on rainy days, sell them on the side to other confused event riders. Make a little extra cash. Why not? Jules Thornton, star eventer and Etsy entrepreneur. Anything would make more money than training horses. My professional life was one large black hole of debt. Maybe I should learn knitting while I was at it; there seemed to be a tremendous market for knitted things, according to the Internet.

  “I could knit adorable gray ponies for all of our fans,” I told Mickey.

  The adorable gray pony shook off flies with a tremendous full-body shudder, all sixteen-plus hands of him shaking like a dog climbing out of a bathtub, flapping his head so hard the spare leather on his throat latch went flying out of its keeper. I leaned forward, grunting as my belt caught me in the stomach, and tucked the loose end back into place. That’s why the amazing portable eventing map would flop; it was cursed with a fatal flaw, like so many of my bright ideas. “You’d have sent my map flying and I’d be out of luck. Riders would sue me after they went off-course.”

  “What map?”

  Up rode Pete, sitting comfortably on his blood bay mare with his feet dangling out of the stirrups, reins loose and shoulders slouched. His hat was tipped back from his forehead and a few strands of red-chestnut hair fell over his tan skin, just missing his sparkling blue eyes. So fresh, so clean, so annoying—the pair of them looked as if they’d just come back from a nice hack, rather than a novice cross-country gallop on a hot day in May.

  “You didn’t go back to the barns?”

  “Thought I’d stick around and see your round before I take her in. She’s barely blowing.”

  Five years old and fighting fit, I thought wistfully, looking at the little mare with admiration. She had a light sheen of sweat on her neck and a dancing glitter in her eyes, as if she’d found the gallop refreshing and good for her complexion. Pete looked fresh and cool as well, which should have been physically impossible, considering the weather. Eighty-five degrees in the shade, not a cloud in the sky, moderate humidity; my smartphone told me all that, but I could feel it already, with the surety of a born Southerner. If only I looked Southern! I knew full well I was red in the face and drenched in sweat, as if I’d just run a marathon. Pete was so annoying and gorgeous and annoying. Why couldn’t he just be hot and miserable like a normal person, like me?

  “I had an idea for a mounted course map,” I explained, ignoring his dewy movie-star good looks. “A million-dollar idea, if I could figure out how to keep it on the horse’s neck.”

  Pete grinned and lifted one eyebrow
at me in that familiar quirk of his. “You don’t need a map, Jules. You got this. Keep the red flag on the right and the horse between your legs and you’ll be home in no time.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice.” Home, I wished. Home in the bathtub, with about a pound of epsom salts and a chocolate bar and a bottle of shiraz. Home with the air conditioning blowing down my neck. Home and its comforts were still hours away. I stroked Mickey’s light gray neck, feeling his heat and sticky sweat through my gloves. May was halfway over. It was barely even summer up north, but in Florida we’d been baking for months, and Georgia was happy to get in on the action.

  I was dying for a break in the weather, but we’d be waiting at least another six months before we saw one. I awoke sweating from dreams about cool nights and hoodies.

  Training event horses was tough on a good day. In the Southeast, it was an act of insanity.

  Still, it had to be better than snow.

  The loudspeaker nearby crackled to life. “Number 38, Louise Demaret on Rushing River, now on course. Number 39, Juliet Thornton on Danger Mouse, you’re on deck.”

  Pete reached over and placed a gloved hand on my thigh. I resisted the urge to lean into him. His little mare was desperately in love with Mickey, and I was trying to discourage their inappropriate romance. “You got this,” he repeated, eyes smiling from a crinkle of deepening lines, a gift from the sun for a life spent outdoors. “One more little training course, and you can go prelim this fall.”

  I nodded, lips tight. Thanks for the reminder. We were sitting in fifth place after the dressage and show-jumping. All I needed now was another clean cross-country round and a little bad luck for one of the riders ahead of me. With two more finishes in the top three this summer, I’d qualify for the fall championships. Then I just had to win the Training Level championships, and I’d have no trouble convincing Mickey’s conservative owners that it was time to pick a three-day event and start training towards it.

  Win the championships, prep for our first three-day. Nah, I wasn’t asking for much out of life, nothing special from today. My stomach lurched and I swallowed down something bitter. After all these years, horse show nerves were still part of life. You’d think it would get easier, but instead, the stakes just kept getting higher.

  Pete leaned in for a kiss. “Good luck,” he whispered, cupping my cheek. I pressed against his gloved hand for a moment, warm from his mare’s neck, and smelled the good scents of our life: leather, liniment, horse.

  “Thanks, Pete,” I whispered, managing a real, if sickly, smile, and gathered up my reins. “Time to go for a little gallop,” I told him, and Mickey tilted his black-tipped ears towards me, listening and ready, instantly at attention.

  He was so good like that. I gave Pete a wave and sent Mickey forward with a nudge from my seat.

  I let Mickey pick up a little jog down the hillside as we headed for the nearby starting box, scattering Pony Clubbers and gawkers who had come to see the horses set off on their runs. The starting box can be a pretty entertaining place to hang out at an event, especially in the lower levels. It takes time and experience to figure out what your horse wants from you before a cross-country round—some horses need to be kept wide-awake and pacing in circles, some horses need to stand very still and gaze out at the field before them, contemplating their first jump. Give them the wrong idea, and they start jumping around with their legs in the air well before it’s time to run. Especially, God love ’em, the Thoroughbreds.

  Mickey was an ex-racehorse too, but after a pretty tumultuous year together, I knew just how to keep his head firmly on his neck and his hooves on the ground. We jogged in a few neat little circles, scarcely more than fifteen meters wide, and as the starter glanced up and said “You’re up!” I brought him down to a walk, circled the starting box, and waited for the final countdown.

  “Five—four—three—” The starter was giving me a warning look, her stopwatch held up so I could see she meant business.

  I walked Mickey into the three-sided starting box, as big as a stall but with just one spindly railing around it. Once, I’d taken him in too soon, and he’d jumped out of it. I’d gotten a stern talking-to from the event organizers, and some interesting press on the blogs. Now I took him at the last second, which still annoyed the starters. There was no pleasing some people.

  “Two—one—have a nice ride!” The usual recitation.

  I gave Mickey a little nudge and he went springing into a trot, and then an easy canter, and we were on course.

  “Here we go, buddy-boy!” I gave him a rub on the neck and let him stretch out a little bit, feeling the footing. All the trepidation of five minutes ago was long gone. Now there was a big bubble of happiness in my middle and it came spilling out as a grin on my face. I waved at the jump judge as Mickey studied the first jump, a nice easy picnic table, hardly novice height, and popped over it with inches to spare. The jump judge, who looked like a little kid with her pony-tail and pink breeches, giggled at us.

  “See you later!” I called back, but we were already continuing on too quickly for her to hear me, Mickey’s hooves finding the well-worn track of the horses who had come before us, moving through the big open pasture at a hand-gallop. Ahead there were a few more easy introductory fences—a coop in a fence-line, a wood-lined ditch ominously labeled “the Snake-pit” on the map. They actually threw some rubber snakes in the ditch, which I found hilarious. If your horse had a problem with ditches, some toy snakes were the least of your problems.

  Unless, I considered, the snakes were put there to scare whomever ended up in the ditch. Boy, landing in a pile of snakes would quickly teach you to put your heels down and keep your upper body back before a fence.

  Mickey didn’t notice the snakes and he didn’t threaten to tip me into them either, he was too busy looking at the dark smudge of forest ahead. As we leapt over the ditch with scarcely more than a lengthening of stride, I was already beginning to adjust my weight backwards, picking up his head and asking him to bring his hindquarters beneath his body. Mickey was not a naturally balanced horse when he was out galloping. He was more interested in covering ground as quickly as possible, and didn’t seem to mind that running downhill on his forehand could end up sending us both head-over-heels. He was also heavy as an anvil this morning, dragging his head down against the bit.

  “Oof,” I grunted, giving him a simultaneous tug on the reins and boot in the ribs. “Get your big ol’ head off the ground, dummy.”

  We swept down the slope towards the woods, the heat rising up from the fields around us in sizzling waves. At least the woods would be cooler than this, I thought, blinking at the sweat starting to trickle down my forehead. The backs of my leather-palmed gloves were cotton, specifically designed to wipe sweat away from my eyes, but I needed two hands to balance Mickey, who was evidently determined to stay top-heavy. My eyes would just have to burn.

  We jumped a hanging log into the woods and cantered cautiously along a mulched path through the oaks, Mickey’s pricked ears watching out for potential bogeymen in the shadows. Beneath the shade trees, where the sun never shone, the air temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. The breeze became a cooling caress instead of a furnace blast. I immediately decided I wanted to live my entire life in the shade, forever riding beneath towering trees who never parted their boughs for the sun’s rays.

  “Let’s just give it all up and stay here forever,” I told Mickey, but like a good sport-horse, he was only focused on the finish-line. He didn’t even know he was hot. He wouldn’t notice until we had pulled up and he was satisfied he’d won whatever race he was running in his mind. Then he’d drag me to the nearest hose-pipe and quiver impatiently, pawing at the mud puddles, until I doused him all over.

  A creek presented itself in our path and he splashed through it rather than jumping. “Good decision,” I told him. “Save your energy.” Ahead, the trail slanted uphill again and I could see the hot sun waiting for us.

  Oh, that souther
n sun! Someday, I was going to spend the summer in upstate New York. Or Vermont. Or Alberta.

  Mickey was happier galloping uphill than downhill, and he picked up speed as we tackled the steep slope and burst back into the open field. The weird road hazard jump was waiting for us atop its hill, yellow and black stripes blazing in the white summer sunlight. The center planks were painted in a chevron of the same colors. The resulting palette was garish and off-putting, but did horses even see colors? Maybe the whole challenge was psychological. Don’t try to psych me out, I thought grandly. There’s no scaring Jules Thornton.

  “Road closed!” I shouted, feeling giddy as Mickey took the bit and lengthened his stride. He liked a good uphill fence as much as any other horse with a powerhouse of a hind end, and my hollering had him hyped up. I let him go plunging up to the fence at his own pace, content to revel in his power, sure he’d make the right decision about when to jump.

  Mickey took off a full stride too early, catching me off-guard. I lurched backwards in the saddle and felt the cantle touch my breeches, then I regained control of my body and folded over his neck to stop my hands from catching his mouth on the other side. My legs slid up behind me, but I managed to keep my knees pinned to the saddle to maintain a semblance of security.

  I heard the jump judge gasp. Oh yeah, it was that kind of jump.

  We landed like a ton of bricks on the far side and I slumped over his shoulder as we started downhill again, letting him straighten himself out while I regained stirrups and reins and seat. Luckily, there was plenty of time before the water complex to get myself situated again.

  “Messy,” I told Mickey, sorting out my slippery reins. “But who cares what we look like, as long as we’re clear?”

  Pretty didn’t count for nothing in cross-country.

  The main problem with having the cross-country after the stadium jumping, in my opinion, is that there’s no mounted ribbon presentation, no slipping the rosette into your horse’s brow-band, no victory gallop around the arena. It’s highly anti-climactic to cool out your horse, pick up a gallon of Gatorade from the cooler, and march over to the jumping arena or wherever management has placed the leader board so you can stalk the final scores as they come in, one by one. Especially when you’re already disappointed by your dressage score from the day before. I’d spent the past twenty-four hours knowing that unless someone ahead of me screwed up royally, I wasn’t going to get what I’d come here for. I had about five more minutes for someone to make that golden mistake, and at this point it wasn’t looking good.