It turned out she was right. There was a connection between Issie and her pony that was too strong to be broken. Mystic returned to Issie, not like a ghost, but as real as any horse, flesh and blood at her side ready to help her, whenever she really needed him.
Mystic had helped Issie so many times. They had ridden together in the middle of the night to catch saboteurs and horse thieves, and taken wild rides in broad daylight to save the Blackthorn Ponies in the Gisborne high country. But a couple of months ago when Issie had been riding at the Young Rider Challenge in Australia, Issie had begun to doubt her special bond with the grey pony. There were moments when she thought he had abandoned her. Things had got really desperate and it had become a constant fear that she would inevitably lose her bond with Mystic, as his appearances seemed less frequent as time passed. But Mystic had come through in the end in Australia, turning up when she truly needed him, just as he always did. And although she saw him less and less, she knew that Mystic wouldn’t leave her. He had never let her down, he was her protector.
But now a new threat loomed over Issie — one that Mystic couldn’t prevent. After so many adventures together, was this how it would end? Not in some wild, dangerous escapade, but with Issie stuck in the offices of some boring law firm? Not even Mystic could save her from Mrs Brown’s awful plan, which would keep her inside and away from horses for the whole holidays!
Issie tried to stop thinking about the stupid holiday job. She had almost finished grooming and tacking up Blaze, and as she did up the last straps on the cavesson and the throat lash, she was determined to make the most of her ride. After all, she wasn’t going to have much riding time left this summer if she was working from nine to five.
As they entered the arena, Issie rode Blaze on a loose rein to stretch her neck out long and low, and then gradually collected her up, doing lots of trot transitions before cantering in half circles to change the rein.
She had been working lately on the mare’s lateral work — which meant fancy dressage moves like half-passes and shoulder-ins. Blaze had been well-schooled in all these manoeuvres a long time ago when she was with El Caballo Danza Magnifico, so it was just a matter of pressing the right buttons and the mare would break out the most magnificent dressage paces.
Issie had been riding for nearly an hour and was just finishing up with some trot serpentines when she realised that there was a figure standing beside the arena, watching her. Startled, she pulled Blaze up to a halt.
“Don’t stop on my account!” the woman called out. “I was quite happy watching you. I’ve been here for ages. She’s a beautiful mare, isn’t she?”
The woman stepped over the side barrier of the arena and strode over towards Issie. She was wearing khaki jodhpurs and a white polo shirt. Issie hadn’t recognised her at first because she was wearing a cap on top of her flame-red hair and a pair of wraparound sunglasses hid her eyes.
“I called at your house and your mum said I would find you here,” Ginty McLintoch said. “I hope it’s OK, turning up like this? I didn’t mean to interrupt your training.”
“That’s OK,” Issie said. “Blaze and I were nearly finished anyway.”
Ginty nodded. “So this is your other pony?” She ran a cool, professional eye over Blaze, examining her conformation. “She’s certainly a looker. Does she jump?”
Issie felt herself stiffen at the question. “She’s not for sale either,” Issie said. “I got given her, and it’s a really long story…but I would never sell her.”
Issie couldn’t believe the nerve! Ginty had failed to buy Comet, so why would she ever think that Issie was willing to sell Blaze?
“I think I’ve given you the wrong end of the stick,” Ginty said hastily, sensing Issie’s hostility. “I’m not trying to buy your mare. Don’t get me wrong. She’s very nice, but I really didn’t come here to talk about your ponies.”
Issie was confused. “Then what are you here for?”
Ginty looked at her with a serious expression. “You,” she said. “I’m here for you, Issie. I want to offer you a job at my stables.”
Ginty McLintoch didn’t mess around when it came to business. Her discussion with Issie was swift and simple. She had a place in her stables over the school holidays for a junior groom. She was looking for a young rider who knew their way around a showjumper and could handle the responsibilities of exercising, feeding and grooming up to six horses a day.
“The pay isn’t great and the hours are long,” Ginty conceded, “but you will get to ride some fantastic horses. Not only every day for basic training, but also at competitions on the circuit. I guarantee you’ll learn more about riding in seven weeks with me than you’ve probably learnt in all the years you’ve been taught by Tom Avery.”
There was a sneer in Ginty’s voice as she said Avery’s name. Issie was well aware that the flame-haired trainer frowned upon Avery’s methods. Natasha Tucker was always talking about the rivalry between them. Ginty considered Chevalier Point Pony Club’s head instructor a low-powered amateur, compared to her and the high-stakes world of professional paid riders.
The dislike was mutual. Avery had made it quite clear that he was not a fan of Ginty’s methods either. Issie had heard him complaining about the slew of bad habits that Ginty had taught her star pupil, Natasha Tucker. The spoilt blonde was rather too fond of relying on her whip and was renowned for her ‘busy’ hands. But was that really Ginty’s doing?
Ginty obviously liked the way Issie handled her horses — otherwise surely she wouldn’t have offered her the job? And if Ginty thought that Issie was a good rider then perhaps her methods weren’t a world away from Avery’s after all.
Ginty was a famous trainer. She had brought on more than her fair share of champions. And being a junior groom in Ginty’s stables meant the chance to spend the school holidays riding amazing horses every day, instead of helping her mum with filing bits of paper and getting the lawyers cups of tea!
“Would I still have time to ride my own horses?” Issie asked.
“That’s up to you,” Ginty replied. “You’ll be working a six-day week — sometimes seven days when we’re competing at the shows. You’ll start at seven each morning and sometimes we’ll be away for days at a time on the show circuit, but usually if you’re not too exhausted by the time you finish work at four, then you’ll have time left at the end of the day to ride your own horses.”
“It sounds brilliant, thank you,” Issie said politely, “but I need to think about it.”
“Well, you don’t have much time to do that, I’m afraid,” Ginty said. “I need an answer soon. I’ve only got a week to find someone and I can’t afford to sit on my hands. Tell me now if you’re not keen, because I have a couple of other riders that I’m considering.”
“No!” Issie said hastily. “I mean, yes. Don’t offer anyone else the job. I want to do it. I just need to go home and check with my mum…”
Issie spent the bike ride home rehearsing the best way of breaking the news to her mother. She had a well-prepared little speech all ready, but instantly forgot it the minute she walked in the door.
“Ginty McLintoch has offered me a job. You said I’d never find a job with horses, but I have, and I want to go and work for her.”
Some people would call the conversation that followed an argument. Later on, when she had calmed down, Mrs Brown referred to it as a ‘heated discussion’. In the end, though, Issie didn’t care what her mum called it. She had won. Mrs Brown finally conceded defeat. After all, she had told her daughter that if she could find herself a paid job with ponies, then she could take it.
“On the plus side,” Mrs Brown reasoned, “starting work at seven each morning and mucking out