Free Raja, Story of a Racehorse by Anne Hambleton Page A

thunder — he’d hide under the bed until the storm was over.”
    The big barn door slid open.
    â€œWe got soaked,” laughed Michelle, leading Toile into the barn, followed by Oakley, both laughing and dripping and making squishy sounds as they walked in their sodden leather riding boots.
    â€œI was on course and the skies opened up — couldn’t see anything. It’s a good thing Toile could. We won, but I couldn’t tell you what the last three fences were.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” She looked at Speedy, then me, her eyes flashing.
    â€œRaja don’ like thunderstorms,” drawled Speedy. “I mean, he really don’ like thunderstorms. If it’s okay with you, I think I better stay here with him tonight.” He sat down in his plastic lawn chair and started to sing in a low voice.
    Speedy sang to me all night. As the sun’s first rays made patterns on the barn aisle, I leaned over my stall door and nuzzled his wrinkled face. He reached up and patted my nose. “You’re welcome, Raja, anytime. I know you’d do the same for me.”

    January, two years later, Ocala, Florida
    â€œZero jumping faults, zero time faults, a clean round for Raja.”
    My favorite words!
    â€œOakley, I can’t believe how time has slipped by. Raja looks like a different horse than he did when I got him two years ago as a four-year-old. Look at his topline and the muscles in his hindquarters. He’s SOLID. I think he really might be my Olympic horse. This year will tell me a lot about what he’s capable of. I’m going to shoot for a Grand Prix this spring and if he’s as good as I think he is, the Olympic selection committee will start to pay attention to us. I’m really looking forward to this year. I bet you are, too, aren’t you, buddy.” She scratched the tickly spot above my eyes and fed me a sugar cube.

    At six, I was younger than most of the other horses and I progressed faster, jumping higher and more complicated courses. And, of course, I won for Michelle.
    Just like with Pedro and with Willie, we were better together.
    Back in Florida now, we trained every day and went to shows on the weekend. At almost every show, we drew an audience and someone offered to buy me.
    â€œSell my child prodigy? I don’t think so. He’s the smartest and most athletic horse I’ve ever sat on. He’s not for sale.”
    â€œThe Olympics are two years away and people are hunting around for talented horses that might be Olympic material. I think you’re in that category.” Prism told me one day. She always knew the latest about the horses, riders and trainers in the Hunter/Jumper world and loved the gossip traded around by other horses, the farrier, vet and Michelle’s students.
    The Olympics!
    A Brazilian Olympic rider with a funny accent tried to buy me, and a loud, aggressive man with a nasty-smelling cigar, Tony DeVito, wanted me for his daughter.
    â€œName a price, any price,” I heard him say, waving the cigar elaborately in the air, “I only buy the best.”
    But I wasn’t for sale.
    â€œOut of my way, dogs — dang…oww!” Michelle groaned.
    â€œWhat happened? Are you OK?” Oakley called from down the aisle.
    â€œNo! I tripped on Muttley’s tennis ball and twisted my ankle. Ow! I think I tweaked that metal plate they put in when I broke it last year.” She hobbled over to a hay bale and sat down, grimacing.
    â€œCan you please get me some ice and a bandage? I think there are some ice boots in the tack room fridge. You know, the ones we use on Toile after she jumps. And Speedy’s lawn chair? Thanks. Look — It’s already starting to swell up and turn purple. Dang! I’d better get an x-ray. It’ll be a while before I can ride. I don’t think I’ll make the big Grand Prix in Wellington this weekend.”
    She sat for a few minutes, thinking,