For Sale or Swap - Alyssa Brugman [17]
It made sense. Nobody would give up a horse like Brat for Blue. She loved him, but he was next to worthless in comparison. But what did that mean? Shelby ran through the scenarios.
Horse theft was definitely a criminal matter. She could call the police. Brat must have been reported missing. They would be able to find Brat's real owner and give her back.
What about Blue? The man had no incentive to bring him back now. Would this make him stolen too? How would the police track down the man who took him away? They didn't seem very confident when she had talked to them before. If he was a thief, he might be actually trying to hide. What if they couldn't find him? Would Shelby be left with no horse at all?
And where was Blue? He might be a brown horse too, by now.
She could see, running like a movie through her mind, Blue's face looking out at her anxiously as the truck door slammed shut. It sent a shiver of butterflies through her stomach.
She had visions of him tied up tight in some dingy shed, or squashed in a round yard with twenty or thirty other ponies – dirty, thirsty and distressed. It made her sick with worry.
When she got home, Shelby tried the man's telephone number one more time. It was still disconnected. She looked at the classifieds in the magazine. There was a number for placing ads. Shelby rang it and talked to a lady named Ruth.
'You have an ad in your latest magazine, but when I rang, the number had been disconnected,' she told the lady at the other end of the line.
'That's not uncommon, I'm afraid,' said Ruth. 'Better luck next time, eh?'
'You don't understand,' Shelby said. 'The number used to work. It was a swap ad, and we swapped.' Shelby thought about Blue, how exhilarating it felt when he splashed through the causeway, how he waited for her at the gate in the morning. She had a vision of him collapsed on some muddy shed floor, bony and dehydrated, taking his last gasping breaths. Her lip wobbled and tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
'Now I've changed my mind and I can't find the man who has my horse.'
'Ah,' said Ruth. 'I'm sad to tell you that's not particularly uncommon either.'
'Is there anything you can do to help me?' Shelby asked, biting her lip, trying to keep her voice steady.
'I'm not supposed to. Advertisers give their details in good faith. We can't just give them out to anybody who calls.'
'Please?' implored Shelby. 'I just want to know that my little guy's OK.'
There was silence on the other end. 'I'll see what I can do.' Shelby could hear the lady tapping at a keyboard. 'Which one is it?' Ruth asked.
'For sale or swap . . .' started Shelby.
'Eye-catching brown pony?' finished Ruth.
'That's the one,' said Shelby. It sounded as if she was finally getting somewhere.
'Hmm. Text came in by email. Payment by direct debit from a company account – you can't trace that. He did give a name though – you're going to love this. Ben Hall.'
Shelby scribbled it down on a piece of paper. 'That's great. Thank you so much.'
'Don't you get it?' Ruth asked.
'Get what?'
'Sheesh!' said Ruth. 'Do they teach you anything about Australian history these days? Ben Hall. He was a bushranger – a horse thief, amongst other things.'
'I don't suppose that's his real name then.' Shelby wanted to cry.
'It would be a co-inkydink. Tell you what I will do, and this is completely against the rules, but I'm a horsewoman myself, and can't even imagine the agonies you must be going through – if Mr Hall should place another ad, I'll give you a ring and you can look out for it when it comes out in the magazine. How does that sound?'
'Thank you so much,' Shelby said, her voice breathless with relief.
'I wouldn't put money on it, though.'
Not long after Shelby had finished talking to the magazine lady, Erin rang.
'So how's your princess today? Hooves all done?'
'Yep,' Shelby replied, trying to sound confident. For the last hour she'd been having horrific visions of Blue suffering some slow and painful death. Each time it prickled her skin and made her face slick with sweat.