A Leap For The Sky, Kc Wheeler [funny books to read .txt] 📗

Chapter One

Her ears forward, her gait steady, Gypsy didn’t falter for a moment.

I counted my strides, one, two, three, and leaned forward as Gypsy sailed into the air, clearing the large fence with inches to spare.

“Wahoo! That was awesome!” my friend, Lucy, shrieked excitedly as we hit the ground.

I gave Gypsy a gentle, rewarding slap on her hot, sweaty neck. “Good girl, good girl, good girl,” I repeated happily. I turned to Lucy and grinned. “1.35 metres; no problem for Adele and Gypsy! Showjumping champs, here we come!” I exclaimed.

“You’re going to rock!” Lucy cried.

I dismounted my horse, loosened her girth, and walked her slowly around the rubber-chip arena, letting her cool off. It was a hot Summer’s day and Gypsy had worked incredibly hard for me. Her coat was thoroughly streaked with sweat, dark against her golden coat. I tied her next to Lucy’s horse, Bugs, and quickly untacked Gypsy before hosing her down.

Hot steam rose up from Gypsy’s back. “I bet that feels good, aye girl?” I murmured.

Bugs pulled hard against the lead rope, sticking his face through the water flow. “He wants a drink!” Lucy laughed. “Bugs is a strange horse.”

I giggled and aimed the hose at Bugs whose upper lip curled as he drank. Gypsy watched, her eyes wide with interest. “Gypsy thinks he’s strange too!” I stated.

Lucy was my best friend and had been for ten years since we discovered we were both totally into horses at age seven. Even today, we were often lectured for discussing horses in class when we were meant to be working.

Tall and slender with brown hair, I thought she kind of looked like her horse. Bugs was an athletic-built, plain bay Thoroughbred gelding who like Lucy, was very tall. At 16.2-hands-high, Bugs positively towered over Gypsy who stood a mere 15-hands-high.

Unlike Lucy, I looked nothing like my horse. I thought I was very plain looking with thick brown hair and grey-blue eyes. Gypsy was a beautiful, rich chestnut mare with a thick blaze and four white stockings. Part Quarter horse, part Thoroughbred, Gypsy stood not only short but quite stocky, being an unusual candidate for an excellent jumping horse. Though bred for Western, it was as though Gypsy was born to jump- She’d even been seen jumping freely by choice in the paddock! While her dressage was merely average, she made up for it with a super cute jumping style, scope to burn, and the heart to clear any obstacle she was faced her with.

My parents had given me Gypsy three years ago on my fourteenth birthday, as a nine-year-old mare with wins and placings up to 90 centimetres in showjumping. I was also told Gypsy had successfully given birth to a beautiful colt.

My fourteenth birthday was the best day of my life, and Gypsy was by far the best present anyone had ever given me. Gypsy and I clicked from day one and she had quickly become my best friend; alongside Lucy of course. Gypsy also gave me ever-growing confidence to move up the heights in showjumping. In one week from now, Gypsy and I were to enter and compete in our first ever 1.25 metres showjumping round at the 2015 Showjumping Championships.

Lucy and I led the horses to their paddock. We both grazed our horses at Ridgewood Stables. It was a great place with a large arena dotted with professional-looking show jumps, a small numbered dressage arena, 70 acres of turn-out grazing, and the stables. The beach was a ten-minute ride away and the roads were quiet. The owner, Michael, was very kind and obliging, and we were yet to encounter any serious problems with the boarders.

I slipped off Gypsy’s halter. “Off you go.” Gypsy stood there, ears forward, staring at me. She made no attempt to move.

Bugs however, took off in full gallop, letting loose a gleeful buck before halting and dropping to his knees in the centre of the paddock. He grunted as he rolled onto his back, hooves pointed loosely towards the sky.

Gypsy stepped towards the gate where we stood and stretched out her neck, blowing hot air at my hands. “Sorry girl. I don’t have a treat,” I told her, softly touching her velvet-nose. As if she understood, Gypsy stretched further, nosing at Lucy’s pocket.

“Ohhh, you’re too clever!” Lucy laughed. She pulled a carrot stick from her pocket and Gypsy gratefully took it between her teeth. She crunched down the carrot then reached out, hoping for more. Lucy pulled at her pocket so it was inside out. “No more. Sorry Gypsy!”

Lucy and I giggled as Gypsy sighed loudly. She turned around and plodded over to Bugs, where she too dropped to her knees and rolled, her heavy body pressing into the dirt. She stood, shaking dust from her coat, and the two horses slowly wandered side by side towards the water trough.

“Are we jumping tomorrow?” Lucy asked me.

I thought for a moment. “How about we ride down to the beach tomorrow? The horses could do with a day off jumping.”

“Sounds like a plan. Can we meet at around ten tomorrow morning?” Lucy asked. “Mum wants us to go shopping for new school shirts and socks,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I am not looking forward to going back to school!”

“Sure, ten is fine; and me neither!” I told her. “I’d much rather be riding. I keep telling Mum that I plan to show-jump for a living, so technically I’m better off practicing my jumping than wasting time at school.” I sighed. “But she keeps insisting that I stay at school for the last year anyway. ‘Just in case’ she says. She doubts my ability to turn my passion into a career, though she doesn’t quite word it that way.”

Lucy nodded knowingly. “Well, we have Showjumping Champs before school starts back again, so let’s just focus on that. Talking about school is sort of depressing,” she said, screwing up her face.

I perked up. “Every time I think about Showjumping Champs I get so excited!”

“Me too. I’m really nervous too though,” Lucy admitted.

Lucy and I had been planning for 2015 Showjumping Champs since last year’s Showjumping Champs. Not only was it to be my first class at 1.25 metres, but it was Lucy’s first class at 1.05 metres.

She had previously owned an old schoolmaster named Jock, who could no longer jump competitively over 95 centimetres due to mild arthritis.

But now she had Bugs. At only seven-years-old Bugs was young and fit. He had a big, effortless jump that had improved immensely since Lucy had owned him, and had won his last two classes at 95 centimetres. Schooling over technical courses up to 1.10 metres at home, I knew Bugs would find the 1.05 metres class within his capabilities.

“Bugs is an honest jumper,” I replied to Lucy. “I bet you guys will do great!”

I wasn’t nervous but I knew I was likely to be when the time came. I was so lucky to have such a reliable, talented horse to carry me, and my nerves, around the course.

“How was Gypsy today?” Mum asked me at dinner. Mum and Dad sat opposite me at the table and my eleven-year-old sister, Natasha, sat beside me.

“She was amazing!” I exclaimed with a mouth full of spaghetti bolognaise. “We jumped 1.35 metres. You should have seen her! She didn’t even hesitate and she cleared it by miles!”

Dad frowned. “Be careful on that horse, Adele,” he said. He was such a worrier, but I was the only one in the family who was interested in horses and was lucky to have such supportive parents.

“That’s great, honey,” Mum smiled at me and lifted her fork to her mouth.

“You guys have kept the 17th free, right?”

“What’s on the 17th?” Dad joked.

“As if you haven’t reminded us of the date enough times,” Mum muttered. Then she glanced at me. “Yes, we’ll all be there to watch you. Even Natasha.”

Natasha screwed up her face. “Boring!”

Sometimes I wondered how I could be related to someone who disliked horses so much.

I zoned out as Natasha started discussing her day with Mum and Dad. I kept fantasizing about Showjumping Champs. I could almost feel Gypsy’s smooth canter beneath me as we approached the first fence. I leaned forward slightly in my chair as Gypsy took off in my mind. A rider habit.

Chapter Two

It was yet another hot sunny day. The horse’s shoes clonked on the tarsal road as we rode North towards the beach. I loved that sound.

“So, Larissa has a new horse,” Lucy was telling me. “He’s a Selle Francais Warmblood and apparently he cost her parents over thirty-thousand dollars!” she exclaimed.

Larissa was not our most favourite person in the world. Larissa was so perfect that it made me sick.

She was very pretty with long black hair and bright green eyes. There weren’t as many Equestrian males as there were females, but any that existed were guaranteed to be chatting up Larissa at horse events.

Despite being a horse rider, she managed to keep long pedicured nails. This was because she didn’t take care of her own horses. She didn’t feed them, she didn’t groom them; she didn’t tack them up before riding, and she most definitely wouldn’t be caught dead with a pitch-fork. Her parents hired stable hands to do all the hard work for her. They even had exercise riders to keep the horses fit since they continued to buy Larissa new, expensive horses without selling on Larissa’s previous main mounts.

Larissa’s only responsibility was attending the lessons her parents scheduled for her, which were of course with highly rated grand prix and even Olympic riders. She was also expected to perform well at competitions, which she always did on her expensive well-schooled horses. Larissa always won. Always.

Admittedly, yes, we were a bit jealous of her; though I’d choose my Gypsy horse over any other horse in the world. But the reason we disliked her is because although sickeningly sweet to anybody she felt worthy of her presence, she treated those she believed not, like complete and utter crap. Apparently Lucy and I were not worthy of Larissa’s presence; probably because our horses weren’t Warmbloods and our families were middle-class.

“Larissa is competing her new horse in the 1.25 metres class at Showjumping Champs,” Lucy explained. “Imagine if you beat her!” she exclaimed. “I’d love to see the look on her face!”

“Well, there’s no chance of that happening,” I muttered bitterly.

“You never know,” Lucy said slowly. “Her new horse might be a good jumper, but so is Gypsy.”

“Her new horse is probably, like, 17-hands!” I cried, thinking of the advantages such a big horse would have over Gypsy. He’d have the ability to go around at a slower, more collected gait while still beating Gypsy’s time with his massive strides. 1.25 metres would require little effort for his long legs as opposed to Gypsy, who jumped cleanly, but with the fence high above her belly would not succeed without giving it her all.

“Height doesn’t always matter!” Lucy insisted. “He won’t be able to cut corners the way Gypsy can. She’s nimble and excellent at jumping from odd angles.”

I smiled as I pictured my little, fat, part-bred Quarter horse beating a thirty-thousand-dollar Warmblood. If only. While it was a pleasant fantasy, I’d be happy if Gypsy just did her best. And Gypsy always did her very best.

The track to the beach came into view and we could clearly hear the rush of the ocean. The horses now strode out and walked with a purpose, their heads held high.

We trotted down the beach track and into the soft sand. I always loved how a horse felt beneath me on the beach. Their movement always felt so soft; so floaty as they sunk down into the golden sand. It was