Secondhand Horses

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

About the Authors

Kathleen—
to Jane Owen, delightful writer, for the seed of
The Chicago Manual of Style
and even more for our friendship that knows no bounds.

Lauraine—
to my father, Laurel Clauson, who gave me my first pony,
an obstinate Shetland named Polly, when I was five.

Many thanks to those who were willing to share great pictures, laughs, and adventures researching this book. Thanks to the horse experts: Kitty, Bonnie, Debbie, Liz, Ellie, and Stuart. The miniature horse people: Becky, Debbie, and Clint. Thanks to Laurie for medical questions; the Jacksons for the right house for the ranch; Facebook friends and fellow adventurers Sue, Ambria, and Brooklyn.
Much love to Fred for living with a working writer. ~ Kathleen

Always, always to Jesus for making all of us different and loving every one of us the best.

S
unneeeee!” her mother called from the house.

“Bounce, bounce, drop, slap, clap! Bounce, bounce, drop, slap, clap!” In rhythm with her chant, eleven-year-old Sunny slapped her bare feet on the trampoline, seat dropped, hit the trampoline deck with her fists, and, while airborne, clapped her hands over her head. “Yayness! Next time, faster!” She pushed off, her breath coming in gasps. “Then—faster—then
faster
—”

Fridays were the
best
because they meant no school for the weekend. And this weekend would not be normal. It would be
rocko-socko
wonderful.

Tomorrow night the S.A.V.E. Squad—Sunny, Aneta, Vee, and Esther—would explore the last night of a traveling carnival in Oakton—
alone
. A first for all four eleven-year-olds. Sunny’s Uncle Dave would drive them and had promised to go off and amuse himself. Vee had the Anti-Trouble Phone—the ATP. Afterward they’d stay at Sunny’s uncle’s ranch—complete with horses—hours of yayness. Could it get any better?

Oh yes. This was a major yayness weekend.

“Dinner!” Her dad
never
called them in for dinner.

Startled by the deep voice, Sunny lost her tucked position, landing on her side with her legs flipping over her head.
Ouch
. Her neck kinked into the deck. Two smaller flopping bounces and Sunny scooted off the padded edge, heart beating wildly. Not because she’d been bouncing, slapping her hands, and pushing off for nearly half an hour.

Because she’d just remembered about dinner.

Pounding in from the side yard and up the back deck steps, she burst through the Dutch door into the large, airy kitchen. Four pairs of eyes turned toward her. Only her youngest brother, seven-year-old Peter, smiled, and his wobbled. Mom, with springy red hair like Sunny’s, sat in her regular seat in the ladder-back chair at one end, and tall, skinny Dad at the other end. Her two blond brothers sat side by side with an empty seat across from them.

Deep trouble
.

Ugh
.

“Hello, Sunny,” Dad said calmly, as though his face weren’t flushing red like hers did when anger grabbed hold of her. While she slid into her seat, she watched a cord in her father’s neck pulse in and out. To her lifetime recollection of getting into trouble, she’d not seen her father’s neck do that before. Creepy cool.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she burst out, grabbing her napkin and spreading it onto her lap.

James—the older of the two boys at nine years old—had his napkin up to his mouth, fake coughing so their father wouldn’t see him laugh. Laughing when Dad was mad was not a good idea, and James knew it. Tenderhearted Peter looked ready to cry.

“I’m sorry. I started it.…” Sunny’s voice trailed off. That’s when she smelled it, although it was so pungent she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t smelled it out on the tramp. It was icky-strong, the way spaghetti smells when you go out to the tramp just for a minute and get distracted by the rhyme of bounce—seat drop—slap—clap. Pasta burned. Stuck to the pan. As in, not useful for dinner. The huge unopened jar of marinara stood guard on the sink next to the soaking pan.

Dad gestured toward the stove. “Yes, you started it. That’s fine. However, finishing is the other half, Sunny Lyn.” Dad usually had laugh lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, only this time the lines were set for trouble.

He’d used her middle name.

“I’m hungry,” James said, tipping his head toward the fridge and wiggling his eyebrows at his sister.

“Still waiting,” her mother said.

Another
ugh
. She’d been so lost in the potential consequences of forgetting to follow through
again
, she’d forgotten that it was still her night to do dinner. She had to fix
something
—a family rule. Leaping to her feet, she sent the chair crashing behind her.

“Sorry! Sorry!” She made a face, picking up the chair to set it back in place. Dad looked at Mom. Mom made her “no, wait” face. Sunny headed for the pantry, grabbed three cans of tuna fish, opened and drained them, then added mayonnaise and sweet pickle relish. She carried a loaf of Mom’s homemade bread to the table on a cutting board before racing back for the bowl of tuna fish. After thanking God for their food, James’s lip curled—he didn’t like tuna fish sandwiches. Everyone sliced off two slices of wheat bread and passed the tuna fish bowl.

“That’s it?” James was enjoying this way too much. Sunny narrowed her eyes at him.
Don’t push it, bro. I know you’re afraid of what’s under the bed
.

“James,” Mom said. “You won’t starve.”

While everyone munched on their sandwiches—Dad and Peter made a second one—Peter told Dad stories about what his best buddy had done while they’d been doing science over at his house. She knew he was trying to make Dad use those laugh lines, but while Dad listened and nodded to Peter, his gaze never left Sunny.

She felt lower than the rug on the kitchen floor. Her sandwich tasted like something in a really old bag lunch from a field trip to the Middle Ages; she left most of it on the plate.

After a miserable dinner, the boys and Mom cleaned up while Dad disappeared, cell phone to his ear. Sunny, sent upstairs to her room, gulped back tears. Minutes ticked by. The longer her parents had to think, the worse it would be for her.

All the things she’d left unfinished stomped through her mind. The English composition on friendship. Half done. Math problems half done for two days. A history test on the Middle Ages Monday, and she hadn’t finished the activities for it yet. She groaned and threw herself back on the bed, smushing the clean clothes her mom had left that afternoon for her to put away. Who knew what her parents would think of if they remembered all
that
?

She bolted upright.

The carnival
.

The sleepover weekend at Uncle Dave’s after.

The S.A.V.E. Squad.

Dad and Mom would ground her from
everything
.

During the summer, the four Squaders had been thrown together as Junior Event Planners. Although they hadn’t had anything in common but their differences, they’d had one adventure and then another and found that being different didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. Sunny liked that. She also liked that the Squad’s name was formed from the first letters of each girl’s name. She
especially
liked that the letter
S
was first.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she ordered herself to come up with a Great Idea. She had bazillions of Great Ideas. Now she only needed one. Right. Now. Of course, the idea to go jump on the tramp while cooking spaghetti hadn’t turned out to be so great, but—

“Sunny,” Dad called from the bottom of the stairs.

Ugh. Ugh. Ughness
.

Sunny descended the stairs, one slow step at a time, thinking in beat to the weight of each foot.
One. Great. Idea. Now
.

Anything
to hang on to this weekend.

Moments later, her dad speared her with a look and said in his Consequences Voice, “What would you do if you were me and your mom and had a kid whose forgetfulness impacted other people?”

Mom, Dad, and Sunny were sitting on the floor around the Quinlan Tribe Table, a low, round coffee table where the Quinlans decided “tribe” vacations, how to spend giving and fun money, resolve brother and sister issues, or negotiate consequences. Sunny had been at that table many times for the latter.

Taking a deep breath, Sunny recited the Great Idea that had plopped into her mind on the second-to-bottom step. “I’d send her to her beloved uncle Dave’s ranch for two weeks to do school and be a ranch hand and learn to finish fun stuff at the ranch.” It came out in a rush.
Hmmm
. She wished she hadn’t added the word
fun
. Consequences were
never
supposed to be fun.

She waited for the verdict.

T
he largest backpack the Quinlans owned, stuffed with all of Sunny’s school materials and a laptop, leaned against a small dresser in the large bedroom. Next to it sat her mom’s suitcase. Flinging out her arms, Sunny spun again and again. This Great Idea had worked faster than she could spell
feudalism
backward. Two hours earlier she’d been in Deep Trouble. Now she was a ranch hand at her uncle’s ranch. Here she would finish everything—and on time.