Buckskin Bandit Read online

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  www.dandibooks.com.

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  Buckskin Bandit

  Copyright © 2004 by Dandi Daley Mackall. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph copyright © 2003 by Bob Langrish. All rights reserved.

  Interior horse chart given by permission, Arabian Horse Registry of America.® www.theregistry.org.

  Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez

  Edited by Ramona Cramer Tucker

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This novel 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 events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

  For manufacturing information regarding this product, please call

  1-800-323-9400.

  ISBN 978-0-8423-8724-8, mass paper

  For Ramona Cramer Tucker,

  my amazing and talented editor,

  who helps me keep “Winnie’s world” straight.

  Thanks for your friendship.

  And thanks to Jeff and Kayla for sharing you.

  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

  Horse Talk!

  Horse-O-Pedia

  Author Talk

  Dear Winnie the Horse Gentler,

  I know you’re terrific with horses. But how R U with parents?? I LOVE my Paint, but my parents are driving me crazy! Whenever I go 2 a horse show, they HAVE 2 come along. Then they worm their way to the arena and clap and cheer every time I go around. And if I win, they scream so loud! It’s totally embarrassing! Can you help?

  —Horse Show–bound

  I stared at the computer screen, trying to come up with an answer. After school I’d biked straight to Pat’s Pets, where I have a part-time job on the Pet Help Line. My friend Catman Coolidge, who’s in eighth grade, answers the cat questions. Another friend, Eddy Barker, who’s in seventh grade with me but is way more responsible, does the dog questions. He also works part-time, helping Pat in the pet shop.

  I get any e-mails to do with horses. Pat trusts me on the help line because I gentle horses in real life, training them for their owners by figuring them out instead of bullying them.

  I’d already handled eight horse e-mails that afternoon, but this one had me stumped.

  March had come in like a lion. It was only midmonth, but she was going out like a lamb. Through Pat’s window I could count 18 shades of green. It even sounded like spring inside the pet shop. Parrots squawked. Lovebirds sang. New puppies yapped from their pen.

  Catman slid over a crate to sit next to me. He stared at my empty screen. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. We get each other. In honor of spring Catman was wearing a lime green leisure suit, which I guess guys wore in the 70s. And a flowered shirt. Maybe it was more like a flower-child shirt, like hippies used to wear in the 60s. That’s when Catman should have lived. He would have fit right in.

  Catman squinted at me through his wire-rimmed glasses, making his bright blue eyes piercing question marks.

  “I know,” I answered. “I just can’t think of anything to tell somebody whose biggest problem is that her parents care too much about her life.”

  The truth was, I envied the kid. I only had one parent, and he’d been so tied up working on his current invention that lately we’d barely talked.

  Note to self: Life is so unfair.

  “Hang tight, Winnie,” Catman advised, his eyes not letting me look away.

  He knew. Somehow the Catman knew what I was thinking.

  My mom had died almost three years ago, a week before my 10th birthday. We were living in Wyoming then so March was still winter. Even though there was a blizzard, I’d talked Mom into driving me to see the horse she was getting me for my birthday. That’s when she had the accident. Birthdays weren’t something I’ve looked forward to since then.

  Dad was doing his best to raise my sister, Lizzy, and me. He’d quit his job with the insurance company in Laramie and moved us across the United States. We’d stopped for a few months in each of the I states—Illinois, Indiana, and Iowa—for my fifth and sixth grades before ending up in Ashland, Ohio.

  We were making it too. Dad had turned into Odd-Job Willis, local handyman and inventor. And I’d become Winnie the Horse Gentler.

  Only Dad’s current invention had been taking over. It was almost like he wasn’t even there. I guess Catman had noticed. He doesn’t miss much.

  Pat, the owner of the pet store, hollered up, “Catman! Can you help me with these itty-bitty kittens? If they’re not the cat’s meow! No offense.” Pat always excuses herself to animals for using them in expressions.

  Catman left and I typed my answer:

  Dear Horse Show–bound,

  All I can say is that you should be really grateful that you have two parents who love you enough to embarrass you.

  —Winnie the Horse Gentler

  The bell over the pet-shop door rang, and Kaylee Hsu walked in. She glanced around, then waved when she spotted me.

  Kaylee is as short as I am. But on her it looks good. She has shiny dark hair and a smile that makes you feel like you know her. If she were a horse, she’d be an easygoing Morgan. I guess she and her parents are Chinese-American, but they must have been in America longer than my relatives, because her English is 100 times better than mine.

  I liked Kaylee. But we’d never really done much together. Her parents come to everything at school, and her mom is always the first to volunteer. I was pretty sure they have a lot of money, but Kaylee never acts stuck-up or anything—unlike Summer Spidell, another girl in our seventh-grade class. Summer’s dad owns half of Ashland, and Summer acts like she owns the other half.

  Kaylee stopped to talk to Pat. All week at school Kaylee had been going on and on about her horse, a buckskin she called Bandit. She didn’t really own the gelding. But every spring, as soon as the old trail-riding stable just outside of town opened, she got her parents to go for an hour horseback ride with her. And for the past three years she’d always ridden the same horse.

  Happy Trails was opening for their first ride of the season Saturday—tomorrow—and Kaylee wanted me to go meet her horse today.

  “Be right there!” I called, logging off. I said a quick good-bye to Pat and Catman, and left with Kaylee.

  We biked the two miles to Happy Trails. Kaylee’s bike is regular. Mine is a back bike, one of Dad’s earliest inventions. I have to pedal backwards to go forward. I hate my bike because of the way people stare at me.

  “I can’t wait to see Bandit!” Kaylee said for the 100th time. “I go to that old livery for only one reason. Bandit. Wait un
til you see him, Winnie. They call him Buck, because he’s a buckskin. But I’ve always called him Bandit. The first time I rode him, he stole a Snickers out of my back pocket and ate it, paper and all.” She grinned sheepishly at me. “And now he has stolen my heart. I know it’s silly. But for almost three years, I’ve pretended Bandit is mine.”

  I knew how Kaylee felt. I’d felt the same way about my horse, the most beautiful Arabian in the world. I’d dreamed of owning Nickers when people were still calling her Wild Thing. “It’s not silly at all, Kaylee.”

  “I knew you would understand, Winnie.”

  When Happy Trails came into view, it surprised me how run-down the place was. Weeds hid half the hand-painted letters on the Happy Trails sign. Beer and pop cans littered the hill.

  “I’ve never seen it this dilapidated,” Kaylee said.

  We left the bikes and walked up the lane, dodging puddles. About 10 horses’ lengths from the stable was an old house. Both buildings had plywood nailed to the roof where shingles should have been. I had a feeling the stable had been nice once, log-cabin style, with hitching posts, like a Pony Express outpost. But now it was a rotten place for a horse to live. I thought about Stable-Mart, the ritzy stable owned by Summer Spidell’s dad. What a difference!

  Note to self: Life is so unfair for horses too.

  It didn’t look like anybody was around as I followed Kaylee into the stable. Inside it was dark and dank, and my first impulse was to set the prisoners free. The stalls were so small I wondered if the horses could even lie down or turn around in them.

  Kaylee was already peeking into stalls. “Bandit?” she called.

  When my eyes got used to the dark, I walked up to the first horse, an old Palomino. She was swatting flies with her tail. I hadn’t seen a single fly at my barn. I’d thought it was too early for them. The mare didn’t look up, even when I clicked for her. Her trough was empty, and I didn’t see a water bucket. The manure had piled on the floor so long that it smelled like acid and vinegar.

  “This is the mare Mom rode last year,” Kaylee said, stopping two stalls down from me.

  “It’s great your mom rides with you,” I said, trying not to think about the way my mom and I used to ride together.

  “It’s so dark in here!” Kaylee complained. “Bandit?”

  I counted eight horses in the barn. At the next stall a roan Quarter Horse hung his head, as listless as the Palomino.

  “Here you are, Bandit!” Kaylee cried. “It’s me, Kaylee!”

  I’d started down to Kaylee, when all of a sudden she screamed.

  There was a crash, as if the horse had kicked down the stall.

  “Kaylee!” I cried, running to her. “Are you okay?”

  The back stall was even darker than the others. But I could make out a cream-colored horse that might have been a buckskin. He had his ears back and teeth bared.

  “Bandit,” Kaylee pleaded, approaching the stall again, “don’t you remember me?”

  “Be careful,” I warned. The gelding’s eyes were white with fear and anger. He looked too sweaty for the cool of the barn. His ribs and bony back stuck out, and I could smell his fear.

  “I have to get closer,” I said, feeling for the stall latch, as rage burned inside me. I could make out tiny scars on his rump and sides. It didn’t take much imagination to picture the whip and spurs that had made those marks.

  “Kaylee,” I said, gripping the stall door so hard I felt splinters under my fingernails, “this horse has been abused.”

  My fingers closed around the stall latch, and I turned the handle.

  “Here! You kids! Get away from there!”

  The screechy voice sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  I ran to the door to see who was yelling. An old woman, thin and round-backed, hobbled out onto the porch of the broken-down house. She wore a winter coat and had a gray scarf tied over her gray hair. Even from a distance, I could see that her face would have been at home on a Wild West wanted poster.

  “Go on, now!” she shouted. “This is private property!”

  “Let’s go!” Kaylee whispered.

  I knew she was right. But I couldn’t stand to leave Bandit.

  “I’m going right now to call the police!” The woman turned and shuffled toward her door.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Kaylee insisted. “Winnie! We could get in trouble!” She grabbed my elbow and dragged me out of the barn, as the woman slammed the door of her run-down house.

  Kaylee and I biked straight to my house for help. We hopped off our bikes and rolled them up the ditch and onto the lawn. Since the snow had melted, our muddy appliance graveyard was in full view again. Appliance parts spread across the lawn, as if a spring rain had showered us with metal. Dad uses the parts to repair things.

  Instead of asking why we had junk all over our lawn, Kaylee said, “I like your house, Winnie. It’s nice.”

  “It’s not really ours,” I admitted. I leaned my bike against a tree, and Kaylee leaned hers on the other side of the trunk. “We rent from Pat Haven. When we moved in, none of us thought we’d have any use for the barn or the pasture. Then I got Nickers. Then people started asking me to train their horses.”

  We made our way to the house, and I opened the door for her.

  She stopped in the doorway, one hand on the door. “Winnie, I can’t get Bandit out of my head. Do you think we should report Happy Trails to the animal protection people?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “We can see what Dad thinks.”

  The screen door slammed behind us. “Dad!” I shouted.

  I raced down the hall and into the living room. When I saw who was there, I stopped so suddenly that Kaylee ran into me. Madeline Edison and Dad were sitting on the couch. They’d met at the Chicago Invention Convention, where Madeline won some big prize. For months, they’d been spending time together—too much time, if you ask me. But, of course, nobody did.

  Dad quickly removed his arm from around Madeline’s shoulder. “Winnie! Didn’t expect you home so soon.”

  I was sure Dad had no idea where I’d been or when to expect me home.

  Madeline finger-waved at us. She was wearing a yellow flowered dress that might have looked pretty on somebody half her age.

  “Who’s your friend?” Dad asked, as if I hadn’t just caught him with his arm around Madeline.

  “Kaylee Hsu.” I imagined frost clouds around my words.

  “Hello, Mr. Willis,” Kaylee said.

  Dad introduced Madeline as his friend. Then he pointed behind our old couch. “And this is Mason.”

  I crossed the room to look behind the couch. Mason was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes seemed focused on something the rest of us couldn’t see.

  Mason is Madeline’s seven-year-old son. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Mason and his mom were from different families or different planets. Madeline is tall and skinny, with wild red hair. Mason is small and blond. He looks more like five than seven.

  They’re different in other ways too. Madeline is supposed to be some kind of genius inventor. Mason goes to a school for kids with special needs.

  “Hey, Mason,” I said, squatting at the end of the couch. “What’s going on?”

  He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. I knew he hadn’t heard me.

  Sometimes Mason is just like a regular kid, only nicer, sweeter. But he can have these spells, or time-outs, when he shuts out the world. I admire that and wish I could do it myself. But it always makes me sad when Mason does it.

  Dad and Madeline stood up. “Girls, maybe you should play outside,” Dad said.

  “Play outside?” I repeated. What were we, three-year-olds?

  “I think it’s best to leave Mason alone for a while,” Madeline suggested. “Your father was about to show me what he’s working on.” She headed for Dad’s workshop, and Dad trailed along.

  “Dad!” I called. “I need to talk to you. Kaylee and I were at Happy Trails an
d—!”

  “That’s good, Winnie. Have a good time.” He didn’t even turn around. “Nice to meet you, Kaylee.” He and Madeline disappeared into the workshop and closed the door.

  I tried to shrug it off. “Dad’s really caught up in his invention. Otherwise he would have helped.”

  Kaylee smiled, but I thought she looked sorry for me. I bet her dad never closed the door on her.

  I turned away. It was hard not to see the house through Kaylee’s eyes. She’d had to pass down the smudged hall and into the living room, where Lizzy had tried to hide the peeling, pale green walls under posters of tall pines and dense forests. At least Lizzy had picked up, because there wasn’t a single newspaper on the gold carpet. But the thin spots on the shag showed under Dad’s easy chair and the couch.

  Kaylee glanced toward the couch. “What’s wrong with the little boy?” she whispered.

  I moved to the hall, in case Mason really could hear me. “Mason’s not always like this. You’ll have to meet him when he’s having a good day. He’s the cutest kid in the world. Loves horses too. He’s the one I gave the foal to—the one that was born on Christmas Day.”

  She nodded and waited for me to go on.

  “Something happened to Mason when he was a baby. I’m not sure what. I think Dad knows, but he won’t tell me. Madeline won’t talk about it. But Mason’s head was injured. It left him with neur . . . neur . . .” I tried to think of the word Dad had used.

  “Neurological damage?” Kaylee asked.

  “That’s it. Kind of like autism, but it’s not.”

  “What can they do for him?” Kaylee asked, her whole face wrinkled in worry.

  “When something sets him off, like somebody shouting or scaring him, Madeline says you just have to try to keep him from retreating from the world. She says they try to get Mason to see the world as a friendly place instead.”

  Kaylee and I moved to the kitchen and downed some of Lizzy’s cheese cookies while we tried to figure out our next move. We thought about calling the animal-protection people. Kaylee was pretty sure we wanted the ASPCA, American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, but we couldn’t find their number in the Ashland County phone book. I tried calling Ralph Evans, who runs the local animal shelter, plus he gives the sermons at our church until we get a full-time pastor. But he was out of town for a wedding.