Dark Horse at Oak Lane Stable (Book 3)

2023 Nominee for the Eric Hoffer Award

2022 Purple Dragonfly Book Award - First Place for Middle Grade Fiction

ISBN: 979-8-9882964-6-1

E-ISBN: 979-8-9882964-7-8

$13.95 Paperback, $3.99 Ebook

Chapter 1. Excerpt:

Night Hawk danced under me, pulling against the pelham bit and narrow double reins I held in my freezing, gloved hands. Frosty vapor filled the air when my dark horse snorted and tossed his head up and down, jangling the bit’s curb chain fastened under his chin. We waited near the in-gate for our turn in the first round of the late afternoon Junior-level jumper class at the Northern Illinois horse show. I could barely feel my toes—they’d gone all numb—but he was definitely warmed-up and ready to go. My stomach did somersaults.

“This is your first jumper class, Cassie, and you’ve only trained for a few months,” said Stan Hoffman, the manager at Oak Lane Stable for almost 27 years. He grabbed the reins to steady Night Hawk, who shifted back and forth under me, “But you’ll do fine.” 

“What if I forget the course?” I caught my breath and twisted toward the ring when I heard a shout, then two poles hit the ground with a thud from the horse and rider currently competing. 

“You’ve worked hard at this.” Dad stood next to Stan and cupped his wool knit gloved hands together for warmth. He looked toasty in his Western-styled shearling coat. “Do your best. I’m going to watch you compete from up in the stands.” He pulled down his black knit cap, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, then wove in and around the other horses and riders standing near us. He headed for the aluminum bleachers, a grandstand of sorts, that were set up along the long wall of the big metal pole building that housed the coldest-on-record, indoor, mid-January hunter/jumper horse show. He took a seat in the first row, near the center of the ring. 

What if I messed up in front of everyone who watched me? I’d look like a loser and be laughed at forever. Dad would shake his head and tell me later that riding a jumper was too much for me at 14, even though I’d been riding since I was a kid. He’d say, “See? I told you so,” and I’d probably have to sell Night Hawk despite buying him only four months ago, which meant giving up my second horse in less than a year, and …

“We’ve walked the course, Cassie. You’re familiar with the ten fences and the distances you need to ride between them. I’m more interested in you having a clean round with time faults than trying to take things too fast too soon.” Stan patted the strong neck of the tall, dark horse under me.

“But—”

Stan held up his hand. “You can do this.”

I breathed in, then puffed out the frigid air. I readjusted my seat in the saddle, hoping the effort would create some kind of warmth, but breeches in winter weren’t very cozy. Even my wool navy show coat felt thin against the 15 degree late afternoon air.

  Claire Ferguson, Oak Lane Stable’s riding instructor, walked up to Stan and me. She was buried in clothes made for snowy weather. She handed me my winter barn coat so I wouldn’t turn into a giant Popsicle while I waited to go. I buried my nose against the coat’s fake-fur collar and stuck my gloved hands deep into its soft flannel-lined pockets. Stan still held Night Hawk by the reins.

Keith Hintz, Oak Lane Stable’s head show groom, also approached us, wearing winter gear and carrying a silver metal bucket of grooming tools he always brought to the ring. He pulled out a small navy blue towel and ran it first over Night Hawk’s dark coat, then over my boots to make them shiny. “Nervous?” Keith asked. He threw the towel back into his bucket and reached in for a metal comb to smooth out Night Hawk’s thick mane. He worked on the forelock and looked up at me.

I nodded yes.

I wished Mom and Grandma Leona could’ve come to watch me. They always made me feel better and a lot more sure of myself than I really was. But Mom had a deadline for an article she was working on for one of the ladies’ magazines she writes for and Grandma Leona lived in Florida from October until almost May, so she wasn’t around to stand in the bitter cold with us either. I was on my own . . .