A Shocking Event!

Under the blazing afternoon sun, Homer raced toward the stable. He burst in, gulping air, and made a beeline for Bluestone Belle’s stall.

“Blue.” Homer stroked and nuzzled the horse, looking deep into her azure eyes. “I love you, girl. You’re the best friend a fellow could have.”

The mare whinnied softly and nuzzled him back, nudging the Lone Ranger mask up and off.

“Nothing else matters, as long as I have you.”

Dr. Willoughby appeared in the shadows. “Your dad disappoint you again?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. To be disappointed you have to have . . . expectations.” Homer buried his face in Blue’s snowy mane.

“I would feel hurt if my father wasn’t there on my birthday.”

“Maybe you should see a shrink.”

“Homer, look at me.” The doctor touched Homer’s shoulder but he shrugged him off. “We’re going to get through this, little man. I want you to know you can count on me.”

“You don’t really care about me. Besides, I hate it when you call me ‘little man.’”

“I’m sorry. I promise I won’t ever call you that again. Friends?” He offered his hand.

Homer hung back, then presented his hand. “Friends.”

They shook on it. As Homer ran out the door, Dr. Willoughby opened his fingers and studied the moist wad of gum stuck to his palm.

Grizzled pudge Bart Jessup navigated a blue pickup with a red horse trailer through Bel Air. “Saguaro Stables” was splashed across both sides of the trailer in yellow letters.

Grizzled beanpole Rocco Wilson slouched next to him, studying a map. “It’s a left,” said Rocco.

Bart dived into the turn.

“Not here, you idiot. The next one.”

A short while later, the truck veered off into a wooded area.

“This doesn’t look right,” said Bart.

“Trust me, will you? I made the delivery three weeks ago—a present for his kid.”

“What a deadbeat.” 

They drove in silence, descending into a canyon.

“If we screw up, we’re finished,” moaned Bart.

“It’s all right. We’re going in the back way.”

“I hope so. See this?” Bart pointed to his thickly bandaged left foot. “Crawford shot me because Easton’s check bounced!”

At the Easton house, all that was left of the birthday cake were the candles. The party had moved to the living room, where salsa music blared. High on sugar, the Owl flapped his wings, hooting. The Duck and Mouse tooted on paper horns and cha-cha-cha-ed to the music. Homer glumly observed the spectacle.

Hoping to engage the boy, Dr. Willoughby cried out, “Charades. Name of book!” and hopped across the room, wiggling his fingers in the air on both sides of his head.

“Rabbit,” said Homer, yawning.

Dr. Willoughby pointed affirmatively to Homer. He then crawled on all fours back to his starting point, stood, and hopped across the room again.

“Bebe!” ­shouted Maria.

“Bug. Volkswagen!” yelled Joe.

Dr. Willoughby rolled his eyes and wagged his finger: no.

“Redux,” sighed Homer.

Maria mouthed the word “redux” and shook her head, perplexed.

Dr. Willoughby pointed to Homer, stood, and took an exaggerated bow. “‘Rabbit Redux’ by John Updike. Well done, little . . . my boy.”

The doctor straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “My, oh my, I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” He checked his watch. “But, unfortunately, I have to go. Maria, lunch was excellent.”

Maria blushed with pride. “My pleasure, doctor.”

He nodded in Joe’s direction. “Joe.”

“Einstein,” retorted Joe.

Dr. Willoughby put his arm around Homer and they walked to the door. Maria gestured at his owl mask, which Dr. Willoughby yanked off, clearing his throat self-consciously. “So, my boy, I’ll see you Thursday.”

The blue pickup with a red trailer pulled onto the Easton property and stopped behind the stable. While Bart kept watch at the stable door, Rocco sneaked in. Just as Maria, Joe, Dr. Willoughby, and Homer emerged through the front door of the house, the thieves led Bluestone Belle around to the back of the stable.

“Blue!” Homer pointed to the horse and dashed forward.

Maria and Joe followed close behind. “Stop! Leave horse alone!” shouted Maria. 

Dr. Willoughby jumped into his car and raced to the barn, grinding to a halt as the horse van sped away. Maria, Joe, and Homer arrived, breathless.

“Get in!” cried Dr. Willoughby.

The group hopped into the back of the car and it took off in hot pursuit. They tore down Beverly Glen, spying the truck in the distance.

Dr. Willoughby dialed 911 on his cell phone. “I want to report a stolen horse.”

The dispatcher continued to floss her teeth. “A horse.” She rolled her eyes at the dispatcher in the ad­ja­cent cubicle.

“That’s right. They’re on North Beverly Glen right now.”

“What’s your address; we’ll send a car.”

“You don’t understand, we’re on the road. Look for a blue pickup with a red horse trailer.”

“Do you have the license plate?” the dispatcher asked, filing her nails.

“No, but—”

“Go to your nearest police station and fill out a complaint.”

The line went dead.

Dr. Willoughby muttered to himself, “The police chief will hear about this.”

“What are we going to do?” wailed Homer.

Maria held him close. “There, there, niño, we find your horse.”

They arrived at an intersection. Dr. Willoughby looked to the right and to the left, but the truck was nowhere to be seen.

“Can I use the phone?” asked Homer, pulling a business card out of his pocket.

Estelle, a middle-aged receptionist whose long fingernails curled under at the ends, answered the phone with, “Easton, Bruin and Wade.”

“Can I speak to my dad?”

“Your who?” she asked incredulously.

“My dad, Mort Easton. It’s his son.”

“One moment.” She buzzed the intercom. “Mr. Easton, someone who says he’s your son is on the line.”

“Put him through.”

“Homer?” said Mort to the speakerphone, his nose buried deep in a contract.

“Dad, they’ve taken Blue!”

Mort put down his pen and lifted the receiver. “Calm down, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Blue, Dad, they’ve stolen my horse.”

“Who stole her?”

“I don’t know, some guys in a truck. Dad, you’ve got to help.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She’s in Herbal World. Please, Dad.”

“Call the police.”

“We did, but they won’t help,” Homer protested.

“I’m going into a meeting now, but I’ll call the horse farm later and see what they advise.”

“Horse farm?”

“Where I bought her,” Mort explained. “The Saguaro Stables in Tucson.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Homer clicked off and announced to his comrades, “We’re going to Tucson.”

Everyone stared at him, their eyes wide with shock.

“Tucson?”

 For kids who love stories about horses, "Saving Bluestone Belle" is the perfect gift. Click the link below to 'search inside the book' and order this rollicking adventure tale.