The Runaways

By Brenda Barnes Clark

How can Billie prove the theft when no one in their right mind would believe that a horse speaks? In her quest to save Penny, Billie and Penny show amazing courage and tenacity to overcome seemingly impossible, life-threatening situations. In this fast-paced adventure story, Billie grows in confidence as she deals with prejudice, disability, bullying, family loss, compassion, and forgiveness while doing whatever it takes to save the runaway pony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda Barnes Clark
• Release date: Jun 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736109212

Brenda Barnes Clark

ABOUT THE AUTHORI grew up on a small farm in Massachusetts with ponies, horses and other animals. I won prizes with my extraordinary piebald pony, Scout. Many of my stories are based on my adventures with Scout and my friends with their horses. I've been making up stories about horses and drawing horses since before I can remember. I now live in West Virginia where I imagined the Billie Rose Tackett horse adventures. I hope you enjoy reading Billie's stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.I am a long-time member of the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), the West Virginia Writers, the Writers League of The Villages, and the Friends With Words critique group. I am a four-time winner in the Annual West Virginia Writer's Contest, and I placed in a Writer's Digest magazine annual contest.

Book preview

1

Poor Pony

The 1946 County Fair, Laughing Creek,

West Virginia

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Ilook at all the ponies saddled and ready for riders. They’re chained to the spokes of a big wheel that lies flat. It turns like a merry-go-round when the ponies walk. They all look fat and clean. All except one.

So why is that one so different, the one with the scruffy red coat and ears cocked sideways? And why does it seem to be calling me? I shouldn’t pick it, but I know I will.

I’m Billie Rose Tackett. I always go for the underdog because that’s what I am. I’m short and skinny for an eleven-year-old girl, and not being white in my town makes me stand out. Most kids don’t want anything to do with me.

The pony turns and stares right at me, like it expects me to choose it. My heart does a little flip.

The ticket taker opens the gate. Okay, kids, come on in. Mount your favorite pony.

I race to the grubby one with its eyelids half closed and stroke the front of its face. Matted hair droops over one eye. It stands much taller than the others. I reach back, pull up the extra-large saddle blanket and feel its ribs.

Ohhhh. It’s so bony I want to cry.

My big sister—she's nineteen—is wandering along the fence watching me. Rita, this pony’s too skinny. It’s sick.

I turn back to the pony. I want to take you home and make you better.

I bet its mane and tail used to flow long and straight. Now they're dirty and tangled. Big patches of shaggy winter coat hang off its side. I’d love to spend hours brushing it. Just smelling its horsiness every day would be heaven.

The pony’s dark eyes look right into mine. Weird tingles stretch up the back of my neck and through my scalp.

Whaaat—was—that?

Choose one of the other ponies, Billie. Sis sounds so bored. She probably wishes she was with her boyfriend, Roger. But here she is, babysitting me instead.

The pony ride keeper, a big smelly man with hairy arms and a bushy brown beard, grabs me by the waist and swings me up into the air, plopping me in the saddle.

Don’t you worry none, lil’ lady. This pony ain’t a big eater but she’s as healthy as all these other ponies. She’ll give ya a good ride.

The keeper slaps the pony’s rump, and it lurches forward along with all the other ponies. My neck jerks back. I grab the saddle horn with both hands. The pony shakes its head and flicks its ears back flat.

Rita leans over the fence. Are you okay, Billie?

No!

I’ve been waiting months for this ride, but that strange feeling is happening again. This pony needs my help.

2

Stop the Ride!

Ibend over the saddle horn. You’re having a rough time today, aren’t you?

The pony tosses its head.

That does it. Stop the ride!

It’s all right, girlie. The keeper’s leaning against the gate. You’ve got three more go-rounds.

But the pony has a mind of its own. It stops, lowers its rear end and sits on its fanny just like a dog. The other ponies have to stop too.

I cling to the pony’s neck but can’t stop from sliding off the saddle, landing flat on my butt in the dirt.

The keeper hurries over holding a metal rod. Before I get to my feet, he jabs the pony in the stomach again and again. My belly squeezes tight, feeling the pain. Anger twists the keeper’s face, and I shrink away from him.

Up. You lazy. . . He grunts and holds the metal rod back, ready to stab the pony again.

From somewhere deep inside me, courage gushes up. I jump between the monster and the pony. The toes of my old Mary Janes are rock hard. I swing my foot back and kick his shin as hard as I can. Stop that, you meanie.

Owww! He drops the weapon and grabs his leg.

The pony struggles to its feet and reaches around me to bite the keeper's shoulder. Teeth clack together. A smirk plasters itself across my face.

Good thing you’re as slow as a mule an’ didn’t git me, you she-devil. He turns to me. And you, git . . . now. We don’t want your kind 'round here anyway.

I look at the poor wounded animal. She-devil? Oh! You're a girl pony.

What about my ride? I saved months for it. I try to ignore him saying, your kind.

You’ll git your money back at the gate. He waves a ticket at me. Here.

Rita rushes to my side, takes my hand and the ticket. Come on, Billie. The pony will be all right. I hang back, digging my heels in the dirt, as she tugs on me.

The pony nuzzles my cheek and nickers. The softness of her muzzle tickles me. Make him stop hurting her, Rita. I wrench my hand from Rita’s and hold the pony’s head. Her watery eyes lock on mine.

Don’t worry, kid, the keeper whines. I didn’t hurt her. She just needs to know who’s boss, is all. Ain’t the first time she done gone lazy on me.

'Billie, go with your sister. I'm okay.'

Who said that? Goosebumps prickle along my arms, and I let go of the pony.

Rita gives me a funny look. Who said what?

I cock my head and listen.

'Go ahead, Billie. I’ll come to you later.'

My mouth drops open. Now hearing that in my head was not my imagination.

Better mind your sister and git. Go on, git. The keeper points to the gate.

Then a kid from the third grade sitting on a chubby pony yells, Yeah, go on, git. I want my ride. You’re too old for pony rides. Git, Billie.

Git, brown girl. Git, the other riders chant.

Those words, they make me cringe inside. My skin color makes me stand alone, always an outsider.

I’m sorry, pony. Tears fill my eyes. I tilt my head, and my long black hair falls to the front, partly covering my face.

Come on, Billie, before we get into more trouble. Rita grabs my hand and drags me out of the pony ring. Her long nut-brown curls fly behind her.

I look back. The keeper yanks hard on the pony’s halter, pulling her out of the ring. I had ‘nuff-a you. You’re on the fast track to the glue factory.

Did you hear that, Rita? He’s going to kill her. Fat tears roll down my cheeks. I swipe them away with the back of my hand.

3

The Scary Visitor

The next day I wake early and crawl out of the bed I share with Rita, careful not to wake her, and get dressed. Before I leave our room, I reach under the bed for a loose sheet of paper and a pencil. The stairs creak as I hurry down.

When I walk into the kitchen, heat from the iron wood-fired cook stove hits me like a wall of flames. Whew! Ma was up early baking. There are eight loaves of her famous sourdough bread on the windowsills cooling. Most are waiting for Rita to deliver to Ma’s customers.

Ma’s sure to be back down any minute with a list of chores for me. I take one loaf down and slice off a thick piece then slip outside to the front porch.

The fresh scent of pine trees scoots into my nose. I relax and move to the other side of the porch. Ma might not see me if I hide between the big potted fern and the purple wisteria vines twisting up and around the trellis. I sit and scoff down my breakfast wishing I had some butter and jam.

The rocky ridge of Wildflower Mountain rises out of the mist like a dragon’s jagged spine. Low-flying clouds settle down into our hollow. Dampness clings to my skin, and I shiver.

The pony’s words keep swirling around me. How is it possible she spoke to me? I know I heard her—in my head. Maybe she’s magical.

I place my paper beside me on a smooth board of the porch and start sketching. This is when my imagination takes over. Strokes of the pencil appear on the paper. All my thoughts and my worries fade into the distance. I remember only the pony’s head and her tired eyes. Like a photograph, she appears under my fingertips.

A distant rumble jogs me from my concentration. The sound moves up through the hollow, sounding like hog snorts, getting louder and louder. Then a big black truck pushes through the mist and up our grassy driveway. Who’d be coming here at seven thirty in the morning? When the truck gets closer, I see Ricketts' Ponies painted on the side.

Brakes squealing, it stops next to our maple tree. The cab door creaks open, and a huge man with a beard and wearing dirty blue coveralls climbs down from the cab. The pony ride keeper!

I stand, fold my sketch and cram it into a pocket. Then I kind of sidestep over to the door. My heart takes off into a gallop.

Howdy-do, miss. I’m lookin’ for a lost pony . . . oh ‘bout this high. He motions with his hand how high the sit-down pony is.

We haven’t seen one, I mumble. He’s getting closer and squinting like he can’t see very well.

You! His voice booms. You're that bratty kid what kicked me.

He sees me now all right.

I bet you know where that nasty, no-good pony is. He’s red-faced and poking his finger at me. Where is she? Did ya steal her?

I back up until my fanny hits the screen door. My breath comes