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  A Horse’s Best Friend

  Copyright © 2018 by Dandi A. Mackall. All rights reserved.

  Illustrations by Phyllis Harris. Copyright © Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez

  Edited by Sarah Rubio

  Scripture quotations are taken from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  A Horse’s Best Friend is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Mackall, Dandi Daley, author. | Harris, Phyllis, date- illustrator.

  Title: A horse’s best friend / Dandi Daley Mackall ; illustrations by Phyllis Harris.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale Kids, Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2018] | Series: Winnie: the early years | Summary: Eight-year-old Winnie is torn between being a good friend to her old horse, Chief, and unpopular friend, Simon, and wrangling an invitation to mean girl Tamson’s birthday sleepover.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018027391 | ISBN 9781496432841 (sc)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Christian life—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Popularity—Fiction. | Horses—Fiction. | Ranch life—Wyoming—Fiction. | Wyoming—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.M1905 Hs 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018027391

  ISBN 978-1-4964-3286-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-3285-8 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-3287-2 (Apple)

  Build: 2018-09-20 08:07:08 EPUB 3.0

  For Cassie, who—like her grandmother—loves horses

  There are “friends” who pretend to be friends, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.

  PROVERBS 18:24

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Mustang Madness

  Chapter 2: The Herd Nerd

  Chapter 3: The Home Herd

  Chapter 4: Odd Girl Out

  Chapter 5: Don’t Bug Me!

  Chapter 6: Friendship

  Chapter 7: Phooey on Field Trips

  Chapter 8: To Be . . . or Not to Be . . . a Friend

  Chapter 9: Real Friends

  Chapter 10: Stuck Like Glue

  Chapter 11: Here, There, and Everywhere

  My True Horse Story

  Top Five Lessons I Learned from Sugar

  Fun Horse Facts

  Horse Terms

  Draft Horse Breeds

  Parts of the Horse

  About the Author

  Mustang Madness

  “Where are they?” I ask, trying not to whine. And failing.

  Mom and I are lying on our bellies behind some bushes. We’ve been waiting over an hour to see Mustangs. Wind rips across the hillside. Shadows move on the purple mountains.

  “Be patient, Winnie,” Mom says. “It was your idea to come with me.”

  Every year Mom comes here to watch wild horses. And every year I beg to come along. This is the first year she’s said okay. We drove our trailer because sometimes Mom brings back a horse to gentle. She trains it, then sells it. The money goes to the wild horse refuge in Laramie.

  So far, we’ve seen only three deer and an antelope. No Mustangs. And now I can’t get that song out of my head: Home, home on the range, where the deer and the antelope play . . .

  “So, Winnie, how are you getting along at school?” Mom asks.

  Now I get it. Mom let me tag along because she already knows the answer to her question: I’m not getting along at school.

  “Okay,” I mutter.

  She waits me out. Mom is the most patient human in the world. She can train any horse because she doesn’t rush or lose her temper. She’s the best horse gentler in Wyoming. And she’s pretty good with daughters, too.

  Finally, I give in. “Well, maybe not so great.” Tamson invited all of the popular girls in my class for a sleepover birthday party. Not me. No surprise. At recess, Tamson tells us what to play. Lately, it’s jail tag. I’m not invited to do that either, so I swing or sit by myself—jail without the tag.

  I’d do anything to be invited to Tamson’s sleepover.

  Mom stares at the crest of the hill. “What’s not great?” she asks.

  Tamson’s face pops into my mind. “Mom, did you ever have a bossy girl in your class who ruined everything?”

  Mom sighs. “I did. Stephanie. That girl thought she owned the school. I think she had parties just to leave me out.”

  I can’t believe this. Everybody likes my mom. “What did you do?”

  “I let her boss me around for almost a whole year because I wanted her to like me. Then I decided to ignore her. As soon as I did, I got to know Laurie.”

  Laurie is my mom’s best friend. “But how did—”

  “Shh!” Mom whispers. “They’re coming. Feel it?”

  “I don’t feel any—” I stop. I do feel it. The ground shakes. The sound of hooves grows louder. I peek.

  At the top of the hill, two horses rush at each other. The bay rears and strikes a hoof to the black stallion’s neck. The black rears and twists, then bites the bay’s belly.

  “Mom!” I cry. “Stop them!”

  “It’s all right,” she says. “The black stallion is keeping the younger stallion in line.”

  In seconds, the bay drops back to the other horses, who were watching from the top of the hill. The black stallion arches his neck and whinnies his victory. He rears. When his hooves strike the ground, he breaks into a gallop.

  More horses appear over the hill. A Buckskin. A paint. A pinto. A dozen bays. They follow the stallion at high speed. The whole herd thunders down the hill . . .

  And straight at us.

  The Herd Nerd

  I watch, frozen to my spot, as the herd of wild horses gallops toward us. I shut my eyes and pray. That’s what my sister, Lizzy, would do. “God, don’t let us be stomped to death!”

  Mom laughs. “We’re fine, Winnie. They’re racing to that stream in the valley. That’s why I always start out here. Sooner or later, the horses will need to drink.”

  Mustangs run past us to the stream. They take long drinks, side by side, like they’re all buddies. They are beautiful. Four foals spread their forelegs and lower their heads to nose the water.

  Something rises inside me. Suddenly, I’m so grateful to be here with Mom.

  “I thought Mustangs were small and scraggly,” I tell Mom.

  “Some are. These are mixed. Wild horses were brought here from Spain. Mustang comes from a Spanish word that means ‘stray horse.’ See that Buckskin mare? She’s the boss.”

  “Wait. I thought the black stallion was boss.”

  “It’s his herd, all right,” Mom explains. “But she’s the boss.”

  I watch “the boss.” She shoves a young stallion away and lets one of the foals in. When another mare tries to come up to the water, the Buckskin bucks. She really is the boss.

  “That mare reminds me of Tamson,” I mutter to myself.

  “Tamson?” Mom ask
s. “Tamson Fry?”

  When I nod, Mom laughs so loud a couple of horses look our way. But they must have decided we’re no threat. They go back to drinking. “I should have known!” Mom says. “My Stephanie is Tamson’s mom. In the wild, the filly of a herd’s bossy mare usually becomes the bossy mare when she’s old enough. Imagine that.”

  I watch, and I imagine. I can almost see Tamson pushing and shoving horses into line.

  The bossy mare whinnies. I think she’s telling the herd it’s time to leave. She leads them to a grassy patch up the hill. They graze together.

  Except one horse stays by the stream. She looks like I thought Mustangs would—scraggly. Her short mane stands up like a rooster’s comb. She’s gray with specks of brown, like big freckles.

  When she tries to catch up with the herd, the Buckskin turns on her, ears back, teeth showing.

  The little Mustang stops. She hangs her head.

  “That’s just mean!” I say.

  “It happens,” Mom says. “Sometimes, for whatever reason, a bossy mare decides a certain horse doesn’t fit in. Poor little thing. She’s the herd nerd.”

  Note to self: I know exactly how that Mustang feels.

  The Home Herd

  “You’re back!” Lizzy squeals when Mom and I pull up with the trailer. My sister is a year younger than me, except for one day a year (her birthday) when we’re the same age. But she’s taller. And prettier. And nicer. “Did you get a horse?”

  Mom parks by the barn. I hop out and open the tailgate so Mom can back out our new horse.

  “I’m sure this horse is very smart. But her coat is not a work of art.” The rhyme, as always, comes from our friend Simon. We call him Rhymin’ Simon at school. He and his twin, Austin, are in my class.

  Mom and I agreed that we had to rescue the outcast Mustang.

  “What’s her name?” Lizzy asks, keeping her distance. She is as scared of horses as I am of her spiders and lizards.

  “Rainbow,” Mom answers.

  “Hobo,” I answer at the same time.

  Simon says, “She looks kind of plucky. So how about Lucky?”

  Lizzy claps her hands. “I love it!”

  “Lucky it is,” Mom agrees.

  “Lucky?” I ask. “Really? Nobody in the herd wanted her there.”

  “Then we’ll have to make sure Lucky feels wanted here,” Mom says.

  Mom tries to lead Lucky into the barn. But Lucky won’t go peacefully. She rears. She jerks the lead rope. She plants her legs and won’t move.

  Lizzy shouts, “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  Rhymin’ Simon adds, “Lucky’s strong.”

  I start toward Mom, but she shakes her head. She doesn’t want my help.

  Mom tries calming the horse by scratching her neck. Her fingers move to the top of Lucky’s shoulder: the withers.

  Lucky stops struggling.

  Mom keeps scratching and leads Lucky away from the barn.

  I jog ahead and open the pasture gate.

  Mom unsnaps the lead rope and turns Lucky into the pasture.

  Four horses are grazing together in the pasture. One is Austin’s champion Thoroughbred, Royal Princess. The remaining three belong to some of Mom’s other clients. Buttermilk, Mom’s Buckskin Quarter Horse, must be in the barn.

  Then there’s old Chief, our farm horse. The big gelding came with the ranch. He’s scratching his rump on an apple tree.

  Lucky, ears back in anger or fear, steps past Chief. The Mustang bucks in Chief’s direction. Chief doesn’t seem to care.

  Lucky’s ears prick forward when she sees the other horses. She whinnies.

  The four horses stop grazing. Their heads bob up as if they’re on the same puppet string.

  Only Princess returns a whinny. But it sounds more like a threat than a welcome.

  “Uh-oh,” Mom says.

  “What?” Lizzy demands. She and Simon are hanging over the gate. Mom and I are inside the pasture.

  I know why Mom is worried. “Princess is the boss of her little herd,” I explain. “She’s not going to like Lucky.”

  “Why not?” Lizzy asks. “I think Lucky’s cute.”

  Princess does not agree. Ears flat back, neck arched, she charges. Her herd follows.

  I smell Lucky’s fear. The fuzz on her back stands up. Her tail swishes fast.

  Princess leads the pack. They’re coming to fight.

  Closer and closer.

  My heart is pounding. I shoot up a prayer, even though I can’t form words in my head. I look from Lizzy and Simon to Mom, to Chief.

  “Somebody, do something!” I cry.

  Odd Girl Out

  Mom throws herself in front of the charging Princess.

  Lizzy screams.

  “Mom!” I shout. She’s going to end up squished between Princess and Lucky.

  Mom holds up both hands, fingers spread. She stares at Princess. “No! Back!”

  The other horses drop to a walk. Princess slows down but keeps coming.

  “Winnie,” Mom says, like we’re just talking about the weather. “Go to the barn and rattle the feed bin.”

  I race to the barn and slap the nearest feed bin. I shake the oats inside. I whistle the way I do when I feed the horses.

  I hear the thump thump of hooves before I see the horses. Princess is in the lead. I scoop oats and dump them into her stall feeder. She runs in. I feed the other horses in their stalls.

  Mom walks in. “Not exactly a warm welcome.”

  “It’s all Princess’s fault,” I say.

  Note to self: there’s a Tamson in every crowd.

  The next day, instead of taking the bus to school, Lizzy and I accept Dad’s offer to drop us off on his way to work. Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about Tamson and her sleepover. Then I had a thought. Maybe Tamson, or Tamson’s mother, just forgot to send me an invitation to her party.

  “Okay, girls.” Dad has the invention gleam in his eye. “How about a pocket hat?”

  I don’t get it, but Lizzy says, “Sounds great, Dad!”

  Dad explains. “I’d always have my keys there. You could keep pencils. Notepads. Candy! Easy to make. Low cost.”

  “Dad, you missed our turn.” I sigh.

  Out the window, I see Simon. He’s waving.

  Lizzy waves back.

  Miss Pento, our teacher, hasn’t started teaching yet when I slide into my seat in the back row. Tamson is turned around in her seat. She’s talking to Landri about the party.

  “And movies!” Tamson says. “And popcorn. Mom’s making brownies with frosting.”

  I lean over so I can hear.

  “Hi, Winnie,” Landri says. She’s part of the popular group. But Landri is nice. She probably doesn’t know Tamson left me out.

  “What do you want, Winnie?” Tamson snaps.

  “Nothing.” I fake a laugh. “The party sounds fun.”

  “It will be,” Tamson says.

  Simon sits in front of me. He turns around. “When’s our class trip to Lizzy’s farm? Bugs and lizards will do no harm.”

  Before I can answer, Tamson makes a face. “Ew! Do we have to go?”

  Note to self: why can’t Lizzy play with dolls instead of lizards?

  Don’t Bug Me!

  Miss Pento prances to the front of the class. Her blonde ponytail swishes. If she were a horse, she’d be a spirited Welsh Pony.

  “In honor of National Science Week,” Miss Pento begins, “we’ll be learning about animals. Today, Simon is showing us his bug collection.”

  Groans rise from the class as Simon walks to the front.

  From the first row, Austin, Simon’s twin, whispers to Seth and cracks up laughing.

  Seth smiles but doesn’t laugh. He’s a whole lot nicer than Austin.

  Simon sets two lunch boxes on the teacher’s desk. “These are bugs. I’m their coach. The toughest bug is this cockroach.” He explains that one species of cockroach can live in the Arctic and another would be just fine buried in des
ert sands.

  “Please put it back, Simon,” Miss Pento says.

  Simon takes out a green caterpillar. “These guys make me think of God. How they change is very odd.”

  “Like Simon,” Tamson whispers, loud enough for us to hear.

  Everyone around her giggles. She looks at me, waiting.

  I don’t exactly laugh. But I smile.

  Tamson smiles back.

  Simon rhymes his way through both lunch boxes. He shows us a singing cricket named Jimmy and explains that only the boy crickets sing. They do it to get girl crickets. He takes out a queen ant and points out that there’s no “king ant.”

  He has a girl spider who can eat 25 boy spiders a day.

  “And now, I’ve saved the best for last! This roly-poly isn’t fast.”

  “Maybe that roly-poly is your real twin,” Austin shouts.

  Simon isn’t fat. But he’s not as thin as Austin. The whole class laughs.

  When Tamson turns to see if I’m joining in, I laugh too. But only on the outside.

  Simon keeps going like he hasn’t heard Austin. He shows us that his “pill bug” or “potato bug” isn’t round now. “But when I touch it, it rolls into a ball. See how the roly-poly rolls so small?” He moves to show Miss Pento. But his arm bumps a lunch box.

  The lunch box crashes to the floor. Bugs crawl everywhere. Girls scream. Boys shriek.

  Miss Pento jumps onto her desk. One of her shoes flies off.

  Simon drops to his knees. He herds the bugs into his lunch box. “Never fear! Bugs all here.”

  Miss Pento gets the class to stop screaming and settle down. Our teacher gracefully steps from her desk to her chair to the floor. “That was quite . . . interesting, Simon. Thank you.”

  Simon is staring into his lunch box. I see him silently counting bugs. He looks to the floor, then back to his lunch box.

  And I know. He’s lost one of his bugs.

  Miss Pento picks up her shoe and keeps talking. “Tomorrow we take the bus to the Willis Wyoming Ranch for our field trip. Winnie’s sister, Lizzy, has agreed to show us her lizard collection.”