The Thirteenth Horse Read online

  PRAISE FOR AMANDA WILLS

  ‘I enjoyed every second and barely put it down! Another great horsey read from one of my favourite pony authors.’

  AMAZON FIVE STAR REVIEW

  ‘I wish all teen books were more like Flick Henderson and the Deadly Game. It is a terrific read, with a twisty, engaging plot, just enough romance and lots of pets. I'm only sad I've finished reading it - bring back Flick!'

  ALISON BOSHOFF, DAILY MAIL

  ‘Absolutely love this author.'

  AMAZON FIVE STAR REVIEW

  THE THIRTEENTH HORSE

  AMANDA WILLS

  Copyright © 2017 by Amanda Wills

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  1. Wanted: Animal Lover

  2. Mill Farm Stables

  3. Mystery Horse

  4. Friends and Enemies

  5. War Horse

  6. Secret Rider

  7. Equestrian Ballet

  8. Apology Accepted

  9. Early Bird

  10. Wooden Horses

  11. Private Lessons

  12. A Helping Hand

  13. Blind Spot

  14. The Thirteenth Horse

  15. Tough Competition

  16. The Ultimation

  17. Friday the Thirteenth

  18. Trapped

  19. Sisters and Rivals

  20. Achilles Heel

  21. Smile for the Camera

  22. A Friend in Need

  23. New Year’s Eve

  24. A New Owner

  Afterword

  About the author

  FREE AND EXCLUSIVE!!

  Also by Amanda Wills

  1

  WANTED: ANIMAL LOVER

  K risty Moore reached for her piggy bank and gave it a hopeful shake. Inside, coins jangled reassuringly. She had been saving for weeks. Would there be enough? She tugged open the plastic stopper and tipped the contents onto her bed, biting her bottom lip as she sorted the coins into piles and counted carefully. As she did she remembered all the odd jobs she’d carried out to earn the money. A pound a day for walking Mrs White’s arthritic spaniel, Max, while she was laid up with the flu. Two pounds for washing Mr and Mrs James’s filthy estate car. They’d seen Kristy coming a mile off. It cost five pounds in the car wash in town. Fifty paltry pence for weeding the whole of Mr Smith’s front garden. She should have known better - Mrs White had warned her he was as mean as they come.

  The piles of coins remained stubbornly small no matter how many times she re-arranged them. Kristy felt inside the piggy bank, just in case she’d missed a note or two, but no such luck. It was pathetic. She had worked for hours and hours and had earned the precise sum of seventeen pounds, twenty-three pence and a shiny silver button.

  She sat slumped on the end of her bed and stared despondently at the piggy bank. A group lesson at Coldblow Equestrian Centre was twenty-five pounds. It would take her at least another three weeks to earn that. Three years, if miserly Mr Smith was paying her wages. It had been months since she’d last been near a horse, let alone had a chance to ride. And she was suffering as a consequence. She had a dull ache in her heart that wouldn’t shift and a tendency to gaze glumly out of the nearest window when she should be concentrating in lessons. She was grumpy and impatient with her parents. They thought she missed their old house, their old life. But they were wrong. All she really missed were her riding lessons. She didn’t need to visit a doctor to know what was wrong with her. She had serious horse withdrawal symptoms.

  ‘Kristy, lunch is ready!’ bellowed her mum, forgetting yet again that they lived in a tiny two-bedroomed apartment now, not a large, detached house with a massive garden and a view of the hills.

  ‘Coming!’ Kristy shoved the coins back into her piggy bank and left it on her bedside table, next to a photo of her riding Minty, her favourite pony at Coldblow.

  Her dad was already sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. They used to have a dining room in the old house, with fussy curtains, heavy oak furniture and an ornate chandelier. Kristy preferred eating at the breakfast bar. It was so much more cosy.

  ‘Why the sad face?’ he said.

  Kristy slid into the seat next to him. ‘You know all those odd jobs I’ve been doing for the neighbours?’

  He nodded. ‘You’ve worked really hard.’

  ‘I still haven’t got enough for a single riding lesson.’

  He gave a sad smile. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know this has been tough for you. Moving into the apartment, changing schools. If I could afford to pay for riding lessons, believe me I would.’

  ‘I know you would. It’s fine, honestly.’ She smiled brightly. ‘I just need to think of another way to earn money. I need a proper job.’

  ‘What about a paper round?’ suggested her mum, placing a plate in front of Kristy. ‘They’re advertising for paper boys and girls at the newsagent’s around the corner.’

  Kristy chewed thoughtfully. ‘That could work. I could do it before school, couldn’t I?’

  ‘As long as your schoolwork doesn’t suffer,’ said her dad.

  Kristy made up her mind. ‘I’ll go straight after lunch.’

  A MAN WITH A BROAD, deeply-lined forehead and a pen behind one ear was measuring out sweets for a boy aged about eight, who was jiggling coins in his pockets. Kristy waited for the boy to pay and gave the man a hopeful smile.

  ‘I was wondering if you had any paper rounds going.’

  ‘We certainly do. Have you ever done a paper round before?’

  ‘No, but I’m a fast learner.’

  ‘It’s an early start. My paper boys and girls have to be here at six o’clock, seven days a week. Do you think you can manage that?’

  ‘Sure. I’m an early bird,’ said Kristy confidently.

  ‘And do you have permission from your parents? I’d need them to sign a consent form.’

  ‘Yes, they’re cool with it.’

  The man looked at her appraisingly. ‘You seem very keen, I’ll say that for you. Yes, I think I can offer you a week’s trial and if it all goes well, the job is yours.’

  Kristy felt like whooping with joy. Instead she smiled at the newsagent. ‘Thanks. When do I start?’

  He reached for a pile of forms on the counter behind him. ‘Sorry, I forgot to check, you are thirteen, aren’t you?’

  Kristy felt a flicker of anxiety. It had been going so well. ‘No. I’m twelve. Does it matter?’

  The newsagent frowned. ‘I’m afraid it does. Our paper boys and girls have to be thirteen. When’s your birthday?’

  ‘Not until the summer,’ said Kristy gloomily.

  ‘Then I can’t offer you a job. Sorry, but I have to go by the rules.’

  Kristy’s shoulders drooped. ‘It’s OK. I understand. Thanks anyway.’

  She trudged out of the shop.

  ‘Come back in the summer!’ the newsagent called after her. But it was no consolation. Kristy needed a job and she needed it now.

  The door clicked shut behind her and she wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck. It was late autumn and a chill wind whipped mocha-brown leaves into eddies at her feet. She didn’t feel like going home just yet. She thrust her hands into her pockets and stared despondently at the postcards in the shop window. Someone was advertising a secondhand bike, someone else had a litter of kittens for sale. Posters publicised coffee mornings
, charity bike rides and musical concerts. Just as she turned to go a mud-stained card caught her eye:

  Wanted: Animal-lover prepared to work long hours. Must be hard-working. Job satisfaction guaranteed! Call Emma Miller on…

  It was a local number. Her curiosity aroused, Kristy ran into the shop and asked the newsagent if she could borrow his pen. He whipped it from behind his ear and she scribbled the number on the back of her hand.

  ‘Is that Emma’s number?’ he asked.

  Kristy nodded. ‘I just saw the postcard.’

  He laughed. ‘She won’t be too fussy about your age. As long as you can shift a bale of hay.’

  As Kristy ambled back to the apartment she wondered who Emma Miller was and what kind of business she ran. Perhaps it was a cattery or a kennels. Or, if there was hay involved, maybe some sort of farm or petting zoo. Kristy didn’t mind what animals she kept, as long as there weren’t any snakes. Snakes freaked her out.

  She ran lightly up the steps to their apartment and let herself in. Her parents looked up as she burst into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, have you got a job?’ asked her mum.

  ‘Not yet. But I might do soon.’

  Kristy took the phone into the hallway and punched in Emma Miller’s number. The phone clicked and a woman’s voice rang out.

  ‘Hello!’ boomed the voice.

  ‘Hello,’ said Kristy.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Er, my name’s Kristy. I saw your advert in the newsagent’s. Are you still looking for a hard-working animal-lover?’

  The woman roared with laughter. ‘Why, are you volunteering?’

  ‘I think so. I mean, definitely. Yes please. As long as it’s not with snakes.’

  ‘Snakes? What on earth makes you think I’ve got snakes?’

  Kristy was glad Emma Miller couldn’t see her pink cheeks. ‘I was just checking.’

  ‘I need someone who is strong and enthusiastic. Someone who’s prepared to get their hands dirty. Someone who will follow instructions. Does that sound like you?’

  Kristy wondered what she was letting herself in for. Then she remembered Minty and the other Coldblow ponies. ‘It absolutely does.’

  ‘Marvellous. Come over at three o’clock for a formal interview. And if you pass that, the job’s yours.’

  ‘Great, thanks. Wait! You haven’t told me where to come.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’ said Emma Miller distractedly. ‘Silly me. We’re at the top end of town, close to the park. Mill Farm Stables.’

  Kristy felt a fizz tingle down her spine like she’d been hit by lightning. Did she say stables? She clutched the phone in a daze, and then stared into the handset as if it was a telescope and she’d be able to see a yard full of horses at the end of it if she looked hard enough. But the phone was revealing nothing and a little voice at the back of her head was telling her not to be so stupid. Of course Emma Miller hadn’t said stables. She must have misheard.

  She became aware of a tinny voice spilling out of the phone. There was only one way to find out. She held the handset close to her ear and said breathlessly, ‘Did you say -’

  ‘I’ll see you at three,’ said Emma Miller. And the line went dead.

  2

  MILL FARM STABLES

  K risty skidded her bike to a halt and tried to calm her racing heart. She almost couldn’t bring herself to read the blue sign at the end of the long gravel driveway. She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining for a few more blissful moments that she hadn’t misheard Emma Miller, and that she was about to attend a job interview at an actual stables. But it was no good, she had to know one way or the other. She forced open one eye and scanned the swirly white lettering. Mill Farm Stables. Four-star livery for horses and ponies. Proprietor Emma Miller. Kristy re-read the sign with both eyes wide open, just to make sure. Mill Farm was still a stables and Kristy felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  She wheeled her bike along the drive to a cluster of wooden-slatted buildings at the other end. The yard was empty, save for a ginger cat who was curled up in a ball on a bale of shavings. Kristy checked her watch. She was ten minutes early. Her eyes tracked back and forth, taking in every detail. Stables flanked the yard on three sides and a long barn ran the length of the fourth. Behind the barn a much larger building loomed. Kristy guessed it was an indoor school. Buckets were piled up under an outside tap and empty haynets were coiled in a heap next to two bales of hay. Compared to Coldblow it was a little shabby around the edges. The concrete was crumbling in places and the emerald green stable doors needed a lick of paint. Coldblow had enormous loose boxes with automatic water drinkers, a horse walker, a solarium and a huge indoor arena. But Mill Farm felt unfussy and welcoming.

  Kristy crossed the yard to the tap. She might as well make herself useful. She had filled all the buckets with water and had stuffed hay into six of the twelve haynets by the time a lean, blonde woman in a quilted jacket and jeans strode into the yard.

  The woman stopped in her tracks. ‘Kirsty?’ she asked faintly, her eyebrows knotted in surprise.

  ‘It’s Kristy, actually,’ said Kristy. ‘I did get the right time, didn’t I?’

  ‘You certainly did.’ The woman took in the filled water buckets and haynets. ‘It’s just that no-one has ever shown initiative before. I can’t quite believe it. I’m Emma, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Kristy politely, holding out her hand.

  Emma pumped it enthusiastically and looked Kristy up and down. ‘Have you looked after horses before?’

  ‘Only imaginary ones in the garden when I was little,’ Kristy admitted. ‘But I’m used to handling horses. I used to have riding lessons, you see.’

  Emma sighed. ‘If it’s free lessons you’re after, you’ve come to the wrong place. This isn’t a riding school. I look after other people’s horses. I want a stablehand, not a working pupil.’

  Kristy nodded vehemently. ‘I know.’

  ‘The last two girls I had were utterly useless. They had no interest in mucking out. All they wanted to do was ride. The last one was so dizzy she forgot to tie up the gate and the horses escaped. Fortunately they hadn’t reached the main road by the time I found them. I can’t imagine what would have happened if they had.’ Emma shuddered. ‘The girl before that spent more time on her mobile than she did working. You don’t have a phone, do you?’

  Kristy had been pestering her parents for a phone for weeks. Suddenly she was glad they couldn’t afford one. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ Emma opened the door of the nearest stable. ‘I’m going to set you a challenge. I want you to have a go at mucking out. If I think you show potential, the job’s yours.’

  Kristy peered into the gloomy stable. It was a mess. She’d never mucked out before. Not that she minded getting her hands dirty. She loved nothing more than spending a morning with her granddad, digging on his allotment. But the more she stared at the dirty bed of straw the more she realised she didn’t have a clue where to start.

  Emma must have seen the panic on her face.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t stand here and watch. I’ll be back in half an hour. That should give you plenty of time.’

  She disappeared into the barn leaving Kristy still staring at the stable, hoping for inspiration. She pictured her pet rabbit Bugs in his hutch on their narrow balcony. She mucked him out religiously every day. Surely the principal was the same when you mucked out a stable, just on a much larger scale?

  She went in search of a wheelbarrow and pitchfork and began forking out the muck and wet straw. Minty’s stable at Coldblow had thick banks of straw around the sides to stop her lying too close to the walls and getting cast. Kristy banked the clean, dry straw around the edges and while the floor dried she emptied the wheelbarrow onto the enormous muck heap at the back of the barn.

  ‘The straw’s in here,’ called Emma as Kristy pushed the wheelbarrow past the barn’s huge double doors. Kristy filled the wheelbarrow and wheeled it back to the stab
le. Using the fork, she shook the straw out, making a deep bed that looked so inviting she could have happily curled up and slept in it herself.

  She was carrying over a water bucket and haynet when Emma reappeared. She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, inspecting Kristy’s handiwork. After what seemed like hours Emma turned to her with a smile. ‘If that’s the first time you’ve mucked out a stable, then I am very impressed. I am happy to say the job of lowly stablehand is yours. If you still want it?’

  ‘I’d love it!’ cried Kristy.

  ‘The hours are four to six on weeknights and nine to three on Saturdays. You can have Sundays off. And, believe me, you’ll need it.’

  Kristy knew she was grinning like an idiot but she couldn’t help herself. It had something to do with the smell of horse that filled her nostrils and the sound of the occasional whinny from the paddocks. The dull ache in her heart had melted away like ice-cream on a hot summer’s day and she felt content for the first time in months.

  Emma closed the stable door. ‘I’ll give you a quick tour of the yard, introduce you to all the horses and show you your duties.’

  The tack room was a large, square room with a vaulted roof, two small windows and wood-panelled walls. Two of the walls were lined with saddle racks. Bridles and headcollars hung from hooks on a third. A moth-eaten three-seater sofa and two equally tatty armchairs were arranged around a wooden crate that doubled up as a coffee table. A kettle and a motley collection of mugs sat on a wide shelf and in the far corner was an old black stove, in which a log crackled and spat.

  ‘This is cosy,’ said Kristy, thinking of the immaculate but functional tack room at Coldblow.

  ‘It’s seen better days. But it’s warm and dry. The kids like to hang out here after they’ve ridden. You can join them, as long as you’ve finished all your jobs.’

  Emma took a headcollar and lead rope from a hook. ‘We look after twelve horses and ponies here at Mill Farm. You’ll be responsible for the three ponies, Silver, Copper and Jazz. You just mucked out Silver’s stable. Copper and Jazz’s stables are either side of his. Which school do you go to?’