Page 9 of Wild Horses

Clare introduced some of the horses: Daisy, the palomino pony with a luxuriant mane; Patches, a roman-nosed pinto gelding; Honey, an elegant chestnut mare; and finally Spirit, a tall black standardbred with the kindest eyes.

‘Hey there, boy.’ Christy offered her outstretched palm, then buried her face in Spirit’s mane, breathing in the warm, earthy smell – a smell that instantly transported her back to childhood. It gave her an unexpected thrill.

They passed a sturdy yard, built like a stockade and holding Goliath, a magnificent Clydesdale stallion, who dozed in the shade of a currajong tree. Mares and foals dotted the green hillside beyond.

Next Clare showed Christy the student dorms and staff quarters – a collection of pretty weatherboard bungalows set in park-like grounds behind the stables.

Finally, they visited the school, to the right of the main house.

It consisted of a paved quadrangle, surrounded by half-a-dozen classrooms. The windows of the first classroom were adorned with colourful artwork and posters.

Inside, a few students were absorbed in modelling clay.

Some sat at rows of desks. Others chatted at a large trestle table set up at the front.

There didn’t appear to be a teacher anywhere.

‘What are they doing in class on a Saturday?’ asked Christy.

‘They’re volunteering to finish off the art project that I set them,’ said Clare. ‘Thank goodness you’ll be taking over their class in future. Art is hardly my forte.’

Mine either , thought Christy as she took another look through the window. Still, art was a creative pursuit, and she’d studied set and costume design. The room buzzed with energy, and she suddenly longed to be part of it.

The tables of an adjacent science lab were littered with beakers, microscopes and other instruments, hinting at the hands-on approach to learning embraced by the school.

A few steps away was a makeshift library.

Bookshelves and a bank of desktop computers lined the walls.

Floor cushions and beanbags created cosy nooks for reading and study.

But what really impressed Christy was the next room.

At the rear stood an old upright piano, its ivory keys yellowed with age.

Shelves brimmed with sheet music and an assortment of instruments – recorders, guitars, violins and a saxophone – hung on stands.

The centre of the room held a circle of mismatched chairs, inviting students to gather for lessons.

‘You have a music room?’ she asked in astonishment.

‘Why wouldn’t we?’ said Clare, looking bemused. ‘A qualified teacher comes in from Merriang twice a week. Astrid Vale. She’s a retired stage actor and drama coach. Well, retired except for teaching here. You two will have a lot in common.’

The name sounded familiar. Perhaps she’d seen this Astrid in a play somewhere.

Christy couldn’t wait to meet her. She took a final look around the buildings, satisfied.

Although equine therapy might have been the school’s focus, these classrooms reminded her that it also offered a thorough, if limited, curriculum.

Could she talk Clare into introducing drama?

As they turned to go, Tom came up from the stables wearing a wide grin. ‘Leo caught our runaway.’

‘Leo did?’ asked Clare in surprise.

‘It was the damnedest thing. Lofty – with his forelegs all cut up and primed for flight – and this green city kid. I didn’t think he had a hope,’ said Tom.

‘But there was something in Leo’s approach, a sort of calm certainty as he talked to the horse.

Leo walked right up and pressed his forehead against Lofty’s – almost like they were reading each other’s minds.

Then he picked up the trailing rope and led that horse right back to the stables.

I patched up his legs, gave him a shot of penicillin and anti-inflammatories, and left Leo feeding him carrots. ’

‘Why, that’s wonderful!’ Christy sagged with relief.

‘Tom’s a vet,’ said Clare. ‘He owns the clinic in town, but only works there one day a week. He has another full-time vet on board.’ She gave Tom a kiss on the cheek. ‘Come on, Christy. Time to get you settled in. I suppose your bags are still in your car?’

Christy nodded.

‘And your car’s on its way to Dalby. Maggie texted me. It will be hours before she’s back from being X-rayed. If you need anything in the meantime, just ask.’

Christy managed a tight smile of thanks. This news was an unwelcome reminder of the pandemonium she’d caused on her arrival.

Clare showed her into one of the self-contained bungalows nestled among shady gum trees. ‘This is your room. I’ll leave you to it. There’s a staff dinner at six up at the house, so you have an hour or two to relax before then.’

Christy stepped inside. She’d expected spartan but found cosy instead.

A quilt lay folded on the bed, stitched with patterns of wattle and waratah.

Beside it, a quaint wooden nightstand held a vintage lamp.

Across from the bed stood a small wooden desk and a sturdy oak dresser topped with a vase of fresh flowers. Such a thoughtful touch.

As Clare’s footsteps faded, Christy sank onto the bed.

She badly needed some alone time. Her thoughts were already drifting, caught in the currents of the day’s events.

She lay there, fully clothed, atop the quilt.

Her eyes grew heavy in a peaceful silence that wasn’t truly silent – the chirp of crickets, the rustle of leaves, the distant whinny of a horse.

Perhaps she’d take a little nap before dinner.

It had been a big day. But try as she might, Christy couldn’t relax.

The memory of Maggie’s pain-filled and furious gaze would haunt her for a very long time.