“I can’t quite believe that I’m doing this,” Bill Regan muttered, as he stared into his mug.

Opposite him, Trixie suppressed a smile. “Drinking coffee? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you do that before.”

He frowned. “No. Asking you for help.” He shook his head. “I know you’re grown up, now. But it still goes against every instinct.”

The twenty-five-year-old leaned back and considered him for a moment. Regan had not changed much in the years she had known him, though his circumstances had altered considerably. The Wheelers had down-sized their home stables when their children moved away, which had made it easier for him to leave them and start out on his own. He now ran a large boarding stable, with numerous staff.

“So, what’s the problem?” Trixie asked, at last. “Or do I have to guess?”

He set the mug down and looked straight at her. “One of my regular clients asked me to board some additional horses, which he’d picked up in less-than-optimum condition.”

“You mean, they were neglected?”

“Or worse.” He shook his head. “The truth is, we don’t know anything about these horses. And that’s a big part of the problem. There’s something about them that has me worried.”

“So, what do you want me to do?” she asked.

“You finished your coffee? Come and see them.”

He led the way out of his office and through the stables, pausing every so often to speak to someone, or for Trixie to admire a horse. They passed out into the grounds and followed a well-worn path. Regan stopped next to a small pasture with a number of horses in it and leaned on the top rail.

“They’re looking beautiful,” Trixie commented. “I expected…”

“They’ve come a long way since they arrived.” He pointed. “The brown and white pinto mare is called Daisy. Next to her, is a bay gelding called Chester. The brindle mare next to him is probably a Quarter Horse. She’s called Daisy. The black and white pinto gelding is called Chester. And the chestnut mare over in the corner is called Daisy.”

“Three Daisies and two Chesters? Couldn’t they think up any other names?”

He shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t actually know anything about their history, other than what I’ve told you and what I can deduce.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So, why exactly are you worried?”

“You game to ride one of them?” he asked.

“Sure. Do I get to choose which one?”

He shrugged. “Provided you want to ride one of the pintos, Daisy and Chester.”

She looked from one to the other of the two horses, each one splotched with large white patches. “Daisy is the brown one, right? I’ll take her.”

He nodded and set about catching her. Then he also caught the bay gelding. Both of them came to him readily and seemed pleased to be taken to be saddled. Once done, Regan led the way to a field where the horses were exercised.

“Keep your wits about you,” he warned Trixie. “She might be a bit unpredictable.”

Trixie nodded and mounted the horse, who obediently stood still and showed no signs of discontent. Regan mounted his horse, too.

“We’ll walk them in that direction,” he told her. “Just follow the course marked out.”

She nodded and they set off around the large oval marked by small orange plastic cones. They did a whole lap at a walk, both horses appearing perfectly well-behaved the whole time.

“I’m not noticing anything wrong, yet,” Trixie commented, as they reached their starting point.

“Take her up to a trot.”

Both horses trotted smoothly for the first lap and half of the second. Then, without warning, Daisy put on a burst of speed. Beside her, Chester stopped and reared high up onto his back legs. Daisy made a wide circle around him just as he started coming back down, and retraced her steps at full gallop, with Trixie holding on for dear life. She soon could hear Chester thundering along behind her.

As they drew close to the entrance to the field, both horses slowed to a walk, coming to a gentle stop at the gate, where one of the stable hands waited.

“What was that all about?” Trixie demanded of Regan.

“That’s what I want you to find out,” he replied. “Someone has trained them to do this. And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why, or even what the cue is that makes them do it.”

He dismounted and handed his horse over to the stable hand.

“Do they do it in the same place every time, or different places?” Trixie asked, while looking back at the end of the field.

Regan looked in the same direction. “Always the same place, always at a trot, but not every time they pass that spot. It might be something to do with that tree. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

She gazed at the end of the field a little longer. Just on the other side of the fence, an elm tree spread its branches. One or two overhung the very edge of the field.

“What do I do now?”

“Take her out again,” he suggested. “Try trotting around the track while it’s just Daisy by herself and see what she does.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Trixie did as directed. This time, Daisy obediently trotted the entire lap several times. In fact, whatever Trixie wanted her to do after that, the horse obeyed. They passed the tree, from both directions and at various speeds but without effect.

“So, it’s just if there’s two horses that they do strange things?” she asked, as they returned to the stable to groom the horse. “And is it just these ones, or do all of them do it?”

He shook his head. “It’s all of them, in any combination, but the bay gelding is the only one that rears. The chestnut mare will sometimes do the same thing without another horse present. The first time we had any two of them out together, the brindle mare threw her rider.”

“And that’s why I had the choice of the two pintos,” Trixie deduced. “I’m kind of glad you didn’t put me on a rearing horse without warning.”

He didn’t dignify the remark with a reply, instead asking, “Do you think you can find anything out about them?”

“I’m going to try.” She ran a hand over the shoulder of the horse Regan insisted on grooming. “They really are beautiful horses. What will happen to them, if you can’t get rid of this habit?”

A slight frown creased his brow, but the smooth motions of his hands did not alter. “I don’t know. Their current owner had some plans for them that didn’t include whatever this is. I don’t know what he’ll do if they don’t fit in with his ideas. But they’re safe here for the next few months, at least.”

She nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll do everything I can to find out. But I’m going to need more to go on. Do you have the details of the sale?”

Regan nodded. “In my office. I’ll give them to you before you go.”

The first thing that Trixie did was to search the internet for the name of the man from whom the horses had been confiscated. After ten minutes of sorting through people of the same or similar name, she found a likely candidate in a newspaper article from five years earlier.

According to the article, Jay Kalchik trained animals for media and entertainment. He had recently expanded his business to include horses when he bought out another trainer’s animals. The accompanying picture looked very like the mare she had ridden and the brindle mare.

A search on the business name showed that it was no longer operational. She accessed an archived copy of the site, finding that at some point the business had been converted to a riding school and mobile petting zoo. She looked through a gallery of pictures of animals, spotting ones similar to all five of the horses she had seen. She also found reviews in various places, most of which were scathing. It seemed there was good reason the business had failed.

Next, she tried the name of the previous owner. His illustrious career had ended seven years ago, after a horse-riding accident. The business had continued for some time, in the hands of his assistant. The website still existed, and Trixie spent some time exploring it.

The main page showed a photo of him at his retirement party, being presented with two dozen red roses. Underneath, he made a statement of thanks to those who had supported him and explaining that his business had closed.

From there, Trixie looked through the site’s photo gallery.

“Now, that’s interesting,” she murmured, reaching for the phone.

A short time later, Regan answered it.

“I want you to look at something,” she told him. “Tell me if I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“I’ll send you the link.”

Regan made a noise of dissent. “Now’s not a good time. I’ll call you back when I get back to the office. It’ll be about half an hour.”

Trixie pushed down a surge of impatience and agreed to the plan. While she waited, she kept looking. She jumped when the phone rang, having lost track of time.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Regan asked.

“Have you clicked on the link? Just look at the pictures and tell me what you see.”

“Bandit. Rearing.” He gave a short laugh. “It could be him. It’s a much more likely name for that horse than Chester.”

“Keep scrolling down.”

“Here’s the brindle mare.” He paused a moment. “She’s called Cleo.”

“Do you think it’s the same horse?”

He did not speak for a moment. “I think it is. It’s hard to tell, from just one photo.”

“Okay. Now, keep scrolling.”

“The two pintos. The gelding is called Chance and the mare is called Pepper.” He went on. “I think they’re the same horses. I’ll need to go and look at them and compare, to be sure.”

“One more to go.”

“The chestnut mare.” He sighed. “I’m not sure it’s her, but it might be. And she’s called Athena.”

“There’s a bit more information on each horse, including their acting credits,” she continued. “I haven’t had time to go through them thoroughly, but so far I’m not seeing anything that is likely to match the behaviour you’ve been seeing.”

He sighed. “I don’t suppose it matters. They’re stunt horses. Which is completely different from what my client was told when he bought them. I don’t think he’s going to want to keep them.”

“I’m not certain they’re the same horses,” Trixie objected.

“The more I think about it, the more certain I am,” he answered. “And it will be easy enough to prove.”

“How is that?”

“Because I’ve gotten to the bottom of the page and there’s a picture of a man I know.”

Trixie frowned and scrolled down. There, in the background of one of the photos was a man whom she had not particularly noticed.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Leave it with me,” he answered. “I’ll get in touch with him and see if he can tell me the story. If he can’t, I might need some more of your help.”

“Okay,” Trixie replied. “Let me know, either way.”

“Will do.”

A few days later, Trixie received a call from Bill Regan.

“I’ve got some news,” he told her. “I’ve been in contact with Reilly Jenkins – that’s the man from the photo. He did work for the trainer who originally owned the horses.”

“And he’s positively identified them?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “He’s been out here and seen them and he’s sure they’re the same horses. But he doesn’t understand why they’re doing that, either, or how they got different names. Bandit was trained to rear, but his cue wasn’t present, so he shouldn’t have been doing that.”

“So, it’s probably from the time they were with the guy they got confiscated from,” she mused. “Okay. I can see what there is to find out about him.”

“Thanks,” he answered. “And in the meantime, I’ll get on to training these horses not to suddenly bolt – though it would be a lot easier if I knew what the trigger was.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got anything,” she promised, and they ended the call.

Trixie went back to her notes, then back to her internet searches for a time, but came to a dead end.

“I think I’m going to have to go there,” she decided, at last. “Maybe there’s something at the property that can help… or someone.”

The next day, Trixie took a drive out to the property where the horses had last lived. She followed the straight, ill-maintained road across an expanse of flat country, with an edging of hills in the distance. Every so often, she passed a farmhouse, or a field with livestock. Once, a farm truck passed her in the opposite direction, kicking up dust as its passenger-side wheels left the narrow strip of bitumen.

She missed the driveway on her first approach and had to turn around and go back. Tall grass scratched against the worn paint of the fence posts. The gate stood open, leading onto a rutted drive. Trixie eased the car through and followed it back to the house, which stood a couple of hundred yards back from the road.

Even before she reached it, she concluded that no one lived here any more. The yard was littered with discarded belongings and old cars. The house had an empty look to it.

Trixie pulled up and waited for a few moments, just in case she was mistaken. No dogs came running and no one peeked out through the uncurtained windows. She got out and climbed the stairs to the front door. She knocked and waited, but no one answered.

Next, she took a look at the other surrounding buildings. The doors of a small barn and a stable stood open, their floors littered with blown leaves and other odds and ends. The barn had been partitioned off into pens that might have held smaller animals.

Beyond the stable, a field had been fenced off. At one end stood a tree of similar size and shape to the one in Regan’s field. She stood looking at it for a moment, then retraced her steps to the car.

A man stood next to it, peering in through the window. He must have heard her approach, as he looked straight at her, calling, “Can I help you with something?”

Trixie waited until she was closer before answering, “I’m looking for some information on some horses, but I’d just decided that there was no one home.”

“No one’s lived here in a while,” the man replied. “Not since the accident.”

“Accident?”

“Yeah. The man who lived here got thrown by his horse and badly hurt.”

A slight frown crossed Trixie’s face. That was two accidents associated with these horses.

“I wonder if that’s the horse I’m looking for.” She pulled out her phone to bring up some pictures. “Do you happen to know anything about it?”

“Sure,” the man answered. “He had five horses here. He said it was the pretty little pinto mare who threw him, but I know for a fact it was a bay gelding because I saw it with my own eyes.” He pointed across the fields to the other side of the road. “That’s my house over there.”

Trixie found Bandit’s photo. “Is this the horse?”

“Looks like him,” the man replied.

“And this pinto mare?” Trixie asked, flicking through to the right picture.

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“It looks like I’ve found the right place,” she decided. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to get in touch with the previous owner?”

He shook his head. “He wasn’t friendly. And I heard that the insurance didn’t pay, either, so I don’t know what happened to him.”

“He made a claim about the accident?”

The man nodded. “I spoke to the lady from the insurance company.” He grinned. “She already didn’t believe him before I talked to her and nothing I said caused her to change her mind.”

“So, you think it was a false claim?”

“Oh, I know it was a false claim.” He shook his head, laughing. “No one was going to believe the story he told. He moves in here with five frisky horses that he hardly ever rides, and a whole lot of smaller animals that no one ever sees. We don’t see anyone coming and going; not him, and not any visitors – and believe me, out here, we know what goes on. And then he turns around and says that one of the horses threw him and ruined his business. What business? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I found an old copy of his website and it said he was running a riding school.”

The man let out a hoot of laughter. “A riding school? With those horses? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day. You’d need to be a stunt rider to stay on the brindle mare.”

“So I’ve heard,” she answered. “My friend, who’s looking after them, let me ride the pinto mare. She’s a lovely horse.”

“She might be,” he replied, “but I wouldn’t give her to a beginner, either.”

Trixie shook her head ruefully. “Neither would I. She took me for a gallop, with no warning at all.”

He nodded. “They’d be best off with a trainer of some kind. I wouldn’t trust them an inch.”

“I think that’s what I’m going to tell my friend,” she answered. “Thanks for answering my questions.”

“No problem.” He gave a half wave and strode off across the yard to where an old farm truck was parked.

Trixie got into her car and headed for home.

“I think I’ve got the basics of the whole story, now,” she told Regan that evening, over the phone. “The previous owner of those horses bought them with the intention of getting into movie work, or something like that, but he couldn’t break into it.”

“There’s more to that kind of work than just owning the right horses,” Regan observed.

Trixie made a noise of assent. “So, he moved to a new place and changed the names of the horses and trained them to do the thing that you showed me so that he could fake an accident. He said he was on the pinto mare, but he was actually on the bay gelding.”

“Makes sense. What next?”

“He put in an insurance claim, but it was rejected, and that’s the last anyone near there heard of him.”

Regan sighed. “I think my client is going to have to sell these horses.”

“Yeah, I think he is. But now that you know who they really are, he might be able to sell them to someone who’d appreciate their talents.”

“True.” He paused a moment. “Thanks, Trixie. I couldn’t have sorted this out without you.”

“I haven’t solved the whole problem,” she pointed out. “I still don’t know what the cue was – except that the field behind the stables had a similar tree.”

“That’s probably it, then,” Regan answered. “And I don’t think it matters, any more. I’ll advise him to sell, and I’ll put him in touch with Reilly Jenkins.”

She thought for a moment. “The original owner’s assistant?”

“Yeah.” He paused a moment. “I think he might buy them himself, actually. He wasn’t in a position to do it when they sold the first time, but I think he might be, now.”

“Well, that would be a happy ending for those horses,” Trixie answered.

“It would,” Regan agreed. “And that’s all I ever wanted.”

The End

Author’s notes: A big thank you to Mary N./Dianafan, for editing this story in the midst of all the Jixanny activity. I was rather late in getting it to her, but she edited it anyway, and in time for it to be squeezed into the end of the Saratoga-themed celebration. Thanks so much, Mary!

This story was written for CWE#26 For the Love of Horses. The story needs to feature one or more horses (I have five) and include the number 24 (I used two dozen roses). Of course, once I had horse characters, they needed horse names. The first one that came to mind was ‘Daisy’ - which I initially rejected, because that is the name of BonnieH’s cat, which makes it a cat name and not a horse name. But the internet says that’s a perfectly acceptable horse name, so Daisy it is. And Bonnie can consider all of these horses to be (re)named after her cat. :D

All characters and events in this story are, of course, fictional.

Please note: Trixie Belden is a registered trademark of Random House Publishing. This site is in no way associated with Random House and no profit is being made from these pages.

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