Brown Sunshine of Sawdust Valley (3 page)

T
he Moores' house in Sawdust Valley was a modest frame dwelling on three acres of land. The only outbuilding was an old shed that had been unused for years. Lady Sue settled into the shed as if it had been built for her. She didn't seem homesick, or frisky, either. Even when Molly turned her out into the pasture.

Except when she was eating, Lady stood so still she might have been in a museum. She didn't object to the vet who came to rasp her teeth or the blacksmith who came to trim her feet or the leg rubbings and poultices Mr. Moore gave her.

Dr. Bill Winquist commented on her “quiet demeanor.” “Usually, I have to use a twitch to distract a horse while I file its teeth.”

The blacksmith made almost the same comment. “Appears she ain't worn shoes in a devil of a time. Yet she ain't skittish. Most always when feet has been neglected, I got to give the lip a good twist to tone down the kickin'. Do you want I should shoe her, front
and
back?”

“Yes, four new shoes,” Mr. Moore said, proud of his new mare. But Molly wondered if Lady had any spunk at all!

Freddy Westover came over to watch the shoeing. Smokestack trotted up a few minutes later, taking a spot right beside Molly. He sniffed at the pieces of hoof lying on the ground—they were too tempting to resist.

“She's o-l-d,” Freddy stretched out the word. “She'll end up a flea-bitten gray.”

“I like grays,” Molly snapped. Suddenly she felt old, too. Freddy had that effect on her. He could always make her feel stupid.

“She'll probably end up a roan,” Mr. Moore said with authority. “And I wager she won't flinch at anything. What Molly and I care about is performance, not color.”

Freddy left before the end of the shoeing. When all four of Lady Sue's hooves had bright new shoes, Molly's father paid the blacksmith. Then, bridling the mare, he swung his leg over her back and settled into position. He clucked and jiggled the reins.

Like a barn swallow in flight, Lady Sue wheeled
and with a soaring motion was up, up, and away. Mr. Moore looked excited—like a little kid. Molly stared after them, pleased with her father's happiness but even more astounded at Lady's eagerness. Pops gave a commanding whoa—and Lady willingly stopped. He walked over to Molly and, almost bowing, he handed the reins to her. For the first time, Molly felt a flutter of excitement.

Do I want to ride her bareback? Molly thought. I'll stick to bareback, since Pops already rides her without a saddle and she is fine like that. Pops is much bigger than I am! She might behave differently with my weight.

Molly led Lady Sue easily to the fence. The horse stood very still while Molly climbed the rails and mounted. Lady didn't even move as Molly settled onto her back. And who should show up at that very moment but Freddy on Strolling Joe. Lady was immediately aware of them. She let out a whinny as if to say “I'M HERE NOW.”

Freddy sneered. “Molly! Does the old mare know how to walk?”

Molly clicked to Lady, and instead of a walk she broke into a trot! It took Strolling Joe's fastest walk to catch up with her. Freddy's expression was kindled with surprise, and while Molly held fast to Lady's mane, she suddenly felt a burst of pride at being her owner!

Dear Diary,

Gosh, in only a month, Lady Sue's looking so much better. Maybe it's her winter coat coming in. But she doesn't look as skinny as when we first brought her home. Although she's not my Dream Horse, she's more fun than I expected.

Last night at supper, Mom, who shies away from horses as if they were dinosaurs, admitted that even
she
could see a change in Lady.

“I'm so proud of you and Daddy,” she said. “It's one thing to buy a fine horse to begin with, but to take an aged mare and restore her to a kind of elegance . . . well, that must be what your manual calls horsemanship.”

You know, Diary, I think Mom's right. Old horses need almost as much care as foals. I mean, it doesn't take anything for Freddy to make Strolling Joe look good. That horse is only four years old and just looks good naturally. But with Lady . . . the sunken places above her eyes are becoming less noticeable and she's starting to look more filled out. Even distinguished.

Besides, today when Strolling Joe was doing
his fastest running walk, Lady, at her fastest trot, easily kept pace with him.

Pops rides Lady only on Sundays. All week I have her for my very own. Day after day, we move through autumn stillness or whirling winds. And when it rains, I spend the afternoon in the shed, reading aloud to her from
My Friend Flicka
or one of our equitation books.

Mostly, though, she prefers the rain-sloshed pasture to my stories. She dashes out and lets the raindrops trickle down her back.

It's like the manual says, “Horses have got to live their own lives. Only rarely do they share their inner feelings.”

All of our lives have changed . . . because of Lady. Mom is really in business now! She's making twice as many jellies and jams as before. And Lady is pulling a cart full of tart-smelling currants and sweet red raspberries, and strawberry rhubarb preserves, apricots with almonds, blue plum, ginger marmalade, rose-geranium jelly, spiced grape jelly, and blueberry jam.

Mom's even become adventurous; she's made
a new blend using five different fruits. This was the end result of two weeks of experimenting. Pops and I got used to seeing everything but the kitchen sink simmering away on the stove. Acorns, nasturtium leaves, sassafras roots (that
I
had to dig up), and dandelion stems boiling away and sending their particular smells into the steamy kitchen. Only one new jam came of these long days of experimenting. Now orders come in daily for it. Mom calls it “Fabulous Five Fruit Medley.” I think helping with the household expenses makes Mom feel happier about everything.

Pops has changed, too. He even looks younger. He went to a new doctor who gave him pills that put an end to his sneezing and wheezing. Often when he rides Lady bareback, people ask him if he used to be a trainer, or a jockey. He breaks into a big grin and his face gets red.

I ride Lady Sue after school to keep her in shape. I ride her easy, thinking about her age. But she never pulls toward home even when we get close. She passes by our drive as if she's just getting warmed up and wants to go on.

At bedtime, I don't hear worried voices talking about me anymore. The light under Mom and Pops's bedroom door goes out earlier, letting me write in my diary until I'm ready for sleep. I don't even toss and turn. We're all too tired and happy, thanks to Lady Sue!

M
ost of the neighbor kids ate lunch at the school cafeteria, but Molly hurried home every day to feed and water Lady Sue. Mrs. Moore was pleased to have Molly at home, even though it was Lady who claimed most of Molly's attention. Only after the mare's pail of water had been freshened and the measure of oats poured into her manger was Molly ready to wash up at the kitchen sink and sit down to her own bowl of soup and a peanut butter sandwich.

Mrs. Moore usually remained standing at the door after Molly left again for school. It was a relief that Molly had grown to accept Lady Sue. “There are times,” Mrs. Moore thought aloud, “when all's right with Molly, then all's right with my world!”

She turned back to the kitchen, singing a hymn in her Sunday voice. She did up the dishes and put them away, still humming. Then she picked up a magazine from the sideboard and went upstairs to her bedroom to read. A whole blessed hour of peace!

Before getting comfortable in her recliner, she lowered the window shade against the blinding sunlight streaming onto her magazine. In one glance she saw Lady in the pasture thrashing and rolling from side to side. The magazine dropped to the floor. For a second the mare lay still, but her body seemed bloated as if it might explode.

Colic!
The word froze, unspoken in Mrs. Moore's mind.

Panic. What to do? Nothing must happen to
the mare now, just when Molly had grown to love her.

There was no mistaking the mare's symptoms. Words of advice said themselves, right out of the manual. “When you suspect colic, call your vet at once. No time to lose.”

Mrs. Moore wished Pops were home. He'd know what to do. And wouldn't waste time. There was no use
her
trying to help Lady Sue—she didn't know anything about horses. She had to get Doc Winquist.
Now!

Nervous fingers dialed the phone.

Click. Click. Click. So many numbers. Click. Click. Click. Click.

And the canned words. “Please check with your operator for the correct number. The number you have dialed is not in service at this time.”

Mrs. Moore hung up and dialed “0.”

“Operator, please dial for me. Our mare needs a vet immediately. She may have the colic.”

The clicks sounded foreboding. Strange.

Then Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

“Sorry, ma'am, the line's busy.”

What now? I'll have to go get Doc Winquist! He's got to save Molly's mare.

The white Chevy is with Pops. The only thing I have is the old pickup, which seems to run only when it wants to. There! It coughed a bit. Hurray! It started.

Through mud holes, onto hard roads Mrs. Moore steered the rattling truck, blowing her horn before even crossing the iron bridge and crunching into Doc Winquist's yard. She slammed on the brakes, sending chickens and geese flapping.

Mrs. Winquist hurried outside. “Florence Moore!” she exclaimed. “What brings you out this way in such a hurry, honking and scaring my chickens?”

“Our mare is down with the colic. Your line was busy, and I just couldn't wait. Is Doc home?”

“Sorry. Jensen's show horse got tangled in barbed wire and Bill went to sew him up. He's been gone near two hours, but maybe I can reach him by phone.”

“Okay. Tell him I'll pick him up. It'd be out of his way to come back home when we can take the shortcut to Sawdust Valley.”