Jumper by Michele Bossley Page A

of pretty poles? Hardly worth it.”
    â€œDepends on who you’re talking to,” I said, stung by the nickname Missy. Who did this guy think he was, anyway? “I happen to think training horses as beautiful as these is worth a lot more than money,” I continued.
    Jim Bellamy’s green eyes narrowed. I don’t think people disagreed with him to often. “You might change your mind about that someday, when your mommy and daddy don’t pay your bills for you.”
    My face flamed. Bellamy turned to Grandpa. “See you around, Gus.” He strode off to the covered seats, his coffee still sending up wisps of steam.
    â€œWhat a total jerk!” I burst out as soon as he was out of earshot. Grandpa glanced at me. “Well, he is! Who says he can callme Missy and criticize show jumping? Show jumping is amazing, and he can just stuff it!”
    Grandpa suppressed a grin with difficulty. “Jim Bellamy has a ranch down the road a ways from mine. I’ve known him for years. He’s always said what he wants and the heck with what everybody else thinks.”
    â€œReally?” I said coldly. “Well, maybe someone should remind him that there is such a thing as manners.”
    â€œMaybe someone should,” Grandpa agreed. He paused in thought. “Maybe you just did.”
    â€œNot enough,” I said grumpily. The rain was still coming down in torrents. The next horse and rider were consulting with some Spruce Meadows officials. I wondered if they might call off the rest of the competition, but it didn’t matter much anymore. I was wet and cold, and the rest of the show was ruined for me. I glanced at Grandpa’s mud-covered boots. “Come on, Grandpa. Let’s go home.”

chapter two
    â€œNo, NO! Push him forward! Put pressure on your outside leg as you round the turn. Straighten his head, Reese!” Laurel, my coach, yelled across the ring as Dublin approached the fence too close to one side and refused the jump. He stopped so abruptly I nearly lost my balance in the saddle. “You need to give him the right aids,” Laurel called from her seat on an old chuck wagon in the center of the arena. “Squeeze with your legs on thestride before the jump. The timing has to be split-second!”
    I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist and readjusted my helmet, tucking wisps of my brown hair back inside. “Okay. We’ll try it again.” I reached forward and patted Dublin’s smooth neck. “Come on, Dub. You can do it,” I encouraged. Dublin snorted, shifting the bit in his mouth.
    I was at my Saturday riding lesson, putting Dublin over the jumps in the indoor ring. The arena’s dirt floor, covered in a thick layer of sand mixed with ground-up rubber tire chips, made the air smell dusty-sweet and muffled the sound in the open space. Three of the other girls in my class were waiting for their turn at the jumps.
    I circled Dublin and headed for our last fence. I leaned forward, urging him on as I counted his strides. When we were less than three away from the jump, I loosened the reins and rose in the saddle, shifting my weight to help Dublin with the takeoff. I squeezed hard with my legs and felt hisbody bunch, then stretch, beneath me as we soared through space. It was the most glorious, floating feeling, but the earth rushed to meet us too quickly, and Dublin’s front hooves hit the dirt with a thud. I jolted a bit in the saddle and had to gather the reins quickly or I would have lost control of the horse.
    I let Dublin canter for a few paces before I started to slow him down, bringing him around to where Laurel was standing.
    She frowned. “That landing needs work,” she said.
    â€œI know. I didn’t have time to get ready. He was so quick.”
    â€œI think we should do some flatwork. You and Dublin are a bit off on your rhythm, and I think that’s what is causing the