Jumper by Michele Bossley

chapter one
    â€œOh, look, Grandpa! Isn’t he—”
    â€œBeautiful. I know, I know,” Grandpa interrupted. “You’ve said that about every horse, Reese.”
    â€œBut they are. Every single one of them.” I leaned against the fence rail to get a better look. Even with the icy raindrops pattering on my face, I couldn’t take my eyes off the gelding in front of me. Sixteen hands tall, he took the next jump with a soaring grace thatmade me catch my breath. “He’s fantastic,” I whispered. “What I wouldn’t give to ride a horse like him.
    Grandpa’s umbrella wasn’t doing a very good job. We were standing out in one of the worst downpours in the history of Spruce Meadows. Spruce Meadows is a famous show-jumping facility just south of Calgary, Alberta, where I live. They hold some of the biggest show-jumping competitions in the world there. My grandfather had gotten tickets for this tournament for my birthday, but it was our bad luck that the competition fell on the same day that southern Alberta was hit with a mammoth rainstorm. Water trickled down the back of my collar, my underwear was uncomfortably damp and my sneakers were soaked, but I didn’t care. All I could see was the horse rounding the course in front of me.
    Grandpa sneezed, then blew his nose in a tissue. After mopping his face vigorously, he turned to me. “Had enough yet?”
    â€œOh, please, Grandpa,” I begged. “Can’t we stay just a little bit longer?”
    Grandpa smiled at me, his blue eyes kind. “Well, I’m up to my knees in mud, but I guess I can’t get much wetter. A few more minutes won’t hurt.” He settled his felt cowboy hat a little more firmly over his iron-gray hair.
    â€œThanks!” I beamed at him. The gelding finished the course to a smattering of applause. Many people had given up and left already. Only those spectators in the covered stands were still dry and comfortable.
    The next rider came out on a dancing, skittish mare. She pranced and weaved—I could see the rider was having some trouble controlling her. I watched intensely, trying to pick up the rider’s signals to her horse. A good rider’s signals are almost undetectable unless you know what to watch for.
    The rain had turned the course into a slippery mess, and it was getting worse every second. I could hardly see through the sudden torrent that swept over the field. The mare galloped clumsily through the muck and launched herself toward the first jump. I held my breath as she gathered her forelegs neatly under her body and cleared the polesbut landed heavily, hooves splashing in the soggy grass.
    â€œHey, Gus, couldn’t you find a better seat than this?” A man grinned at Grandpa and blew the steam away from his hot cup of coffee. He was around forty-five years old, with thick, dark hair and a rugged, still-handsome face.
    â€œSitting under a canopy in a cushy chair is for old guys, Jim,” Grandpa retorted good-naturedly.
    â€œRich old guys, you mean,” Jim answered. He laughed, but I saw a slight frown crease Grandpa’s face.
    â€œBusiness is good, then,” Grandpa said. “Oh, yeah. Going great, in fact. Between the ranch and the corporate stuff in town, I keep busy all right. I’ll tell you, if it weren’t for trying to impress clients, I sure wouldn’t be out here in this weather. The only good reason for keeping horses is to make money, and jumping them over fences only pays if you’re chasing coyotes away from the chickens.”
    I snapped to attention at that. “These competitions are worth big money, Mr. ...”
    â€œBellamy.”
    â€œMr. Bellamy,” I finished.
    â€œYes they are, Missy, but only to the rider who wins. The rest have the cost of keeping an expensive horse in feed, training and vet bills, not to mention travel expenses to competitions. Just so they can jump over a set