Shelley Peterson - The Jagged Circle

Jockey Girl

Jockey Girl
The Jagged Circle

SHELLEY PETERSON

A Jockey Girl Book

Copyright Shelley Peterson, 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Publisher: Scott Fraser | Acquisitions editor: Kathryn Lane | Editor: Catharine Chen

Cover designer: Sophie Paas-Lang

Cover image: istock.com/rhyman007

Illustrations: Marybeth Drake

Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: The jagged circle / Shelley Peterson.

Names: Peterson, Shelley, 1952- author.

Description: A Jockey Girl book.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200269216 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200269224 | ISBN 9781459746947 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459746954 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459746961 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8581.E8417 J34 2020 | DDC jC813/.54dc23

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher.

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We all need family if not the one we have, well find another, for better or for worse.

Things we face fade away. Things we flee follow us.

Life isnt about waiting for the storm to pass. Its about learning to dance in the rain.

Vivien Greene

Evangeline Gibbs spirits were low. It was Monday of the spring break, and all her friends were away with family, either skiing down snowy slopes in faraway lands or sunbathing on romantic beaches. And here she was, mucking stalls in her grandmother Mary Parsons four-stall wooden barn. Sixteen-year-old Evie envisioned a lonely week of boredom.

The snow should have melted by now, she brooded. Flowers should be shooting up. Birds should be singing. Leaves should be sprouting. But no. The tree branches were stark and budless against the grey, unsettled sky, and she was bundled up in her old winter jacket with her blue knitted toque pulled over her long red hair. When she exhaled, she could see her breath. The water tap was stiff with frost, and shed had to use the hairdryer on it to get the water running.

At least the pipes werent frozen, she thought begrudgingly. She switched on the old barn radio beside the telephone.

Good morning this Monday, March twelfth, at two minutes to eight. The current temperature is minus four, but good news, folks! By two this afternoon well hit plus seven. You heard right! Our wintery weather will be moving down to New York. Might as well they blame us anyway.

Dumb joke, Evie moped, as she put down her pitchfork to empty the wheelbarrow. The very idea of a spring thaw seemed like a distant dream.

Followed by her tall black dog, Magpie, Evie pushed the heaped cart over icy ruts to the manure spreader. In her irritation, she shoved it harder than necessary up the slippery ramp, and the whole thing tipped over, spilling horse manure and urine-soaked wood chips onto the ground.

Arghhh! she yelled. Shh-shoot!

Magpie scampered for cover, and Evie stomped back into the barn to retrieve her pitchfork. Angrily, she forked up the mess and refilled the barrow. I cant stand this! she muttered aloud.

The winter had been especially long and harsh. With intense storms, high winds, and frequent power outages, it had been so bad that her grandmother had finally invested in a generator. Evie was glad, since no power meant no water, and no water meant driving miles away to haul it back for the horses to drink. And they drank a lot of water.

She dumped the twice-handled load in the spreader and carefully backed the wheelbarrow down the slick ramp. This time she managed to keep the front wheel from sliding off.

Calm down, you jerk, she told herself. She was acting like a spoiled brat, and she knew it. Being on a horse farm surrounded by beautiful countryside wasnt a bad way to live. She filled her lungs with fresh air and counted to ten.

She gazed over the sloping fields and winding driveway fenced with ancient cedar split rails. The property had been in the Parson family for years, and from the first time shed laid eyes on it, Evie had thought it was totally charming. As she stood at the barn door, to her right the lane curved up to the yellow Victorian farmhouse with a white wraparound porch. To her left, the lane ran down to the gravel road and across a meandering stream by way of the quaint wooden bridge that gave the farm its name, Parsons Bridge.

Her spirits lifted further as her gaze landed on the four horses in the big paddock out front, munching on the round bale of hay that Glen Judge had dropped off the day before. Each horse was attractive in its own way, Evie decided, from tall and thin to short and curvy. And all with such different personalities. She took pleasure in how pretty they looked against the white snow.

Each horse wore a different coloured blanket. Calm and collected Paragon was a lanky bay, and his blanket was bright green. Hed been Gran Marys show hunter and was still elegant and in surprisingly good shape. The retired old chestnut racehorse, Bendigo, whod won half a million dollars in his career and was still feisty, wore burnt orange. Christieloo, Gran Marys cheerful, willing hacking horse, was a palomino. Her deep-blue rug contrasted perfectly with her coat.

Last but certainly not least, Evie thought was her horse, No Justice. He was a sleek black and very nicely suited up in his blanket of crimson red. She called him Kazzam.

Her eyes rested on him. He belonged to her, she reflected, but really, she belonged to him. Kazzams bad temper was legendary, but Evie understood what angered him and why, and she felt he usually had good reason. She loved him for his distinctive personality. He returned that love by trusting her and allowing her to ride him. Together, they made a great team.