Jumper by Michele Bossley

the last of the horses through the gate and into the trailer, then shut the trailer doors with a clang and dropped the latch in place.
    â€œThat takes care of it, boss,” he said.
    â€œGood.” Bellamy took off his hat and wiped his forehead. “You can take off now. I’ll drive them straight in.”
    â€œOkay. Give me a call when you want to start breaking the colts.” The younger man strode to his pickup and got in. The engine roared to life. He let in the clutch and bumped carefully over the rutted drive, around the pasture and out to the main road.
    I realized with sick certainty that I’d missed my chance. I could hardly have vandalized the truck with the two men standing there, but the younger cowboy might have helped me stop Bellamy if he knew my story. Now I was alone.
    Bellamy opened the door to the semi’s cab, ignoring the squeals and thuds that were coming from the trailer. He turned the ignition and carefully pulled the semi forward, the trailer rocking and heaving on the uneven road.
    The horses inside were terrified. The sharp bang of hooves on metal made me catch my breath. Bellamy’s horse, still tethered to a fencepost, yanked at his bridle and whinnied in reply. As the truck wound its way down the U-shaped drive, I looked over at Bellamy’s horse. I had an idea.
    The semi had driven into a copse of trees, so I snuck out of my hiding place. “Hi, Hoser, old boy,” I said in a wheedling voice, approaching the horse. “Nice, Hoser.” He laid back his ears—never a good sign. “It’s all right, Hoser. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I just want to take you for a little ride. Won’t that be fun?”
    I kept talking to him as I reached into my pocket and pulled out a limp carrot. It had been in there since yesterday, when I was going to have my riding lesson, but I figured Hoser wouldn’t know the difference. His ears came up and I let him smell the carrot. Come on, come on, I thought impatiently. As slow as he was going, Bellamy was getting farther and farther down the road. I didn’t have much time.
    Hoser crunched the carrot thoughtfully and nosed me, looking for more. “Sorry, pal,” I told him. “No more.” I untied the reins, put one foot into the stirrup and swung up. It was a Western saddle, so it felt a little weird, but I settled into my seat, held the reins with firm hands and gave Hoser a squeeze with my legs.
    He didn’t budge.
    â€œAll right, then,” I muttered. “I can see you’re called Hoser for a reason.” I delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. I didn’t have spurs, but it seemed to do the trick. Hoser bolted forward and began to canter. I gripped him with my knees and steered him toward the pasture. Bellamy had to take the long, U-shaped drive to the road, but Hoser and I could cut him off if we went straight across the pasture.
    Bellamy would never be able to turn that big truck and trailer around on this narrow, bumpy drive, so he had to be driving forward— slowly, too, or he’d bottom out on the ruts. He’d pass right by Grandpa’s truck. The keys were still in it. If I could pull it across the road before Bellamy got there, he’d be stuck. If I could get the cell phone to work, then the police would be on their way. If I could convince them of what Bellamy was up to, convince them to get those forms...
    Hoser clearly didn’t want me on his back, but I clung to him, trying to get the rhythm of his rough gallop. The barbed wire fence wasjust ahead. With a quick prayer, I gave Hoser the signal to jump and hoped like anything that someone had taught him what to do. My heart was in my throat as Hoser leaped.
    We sailed over the fence, landing with an ungraceful thump on the other side. Hoser’s hind legs slipped on the ice-crusted mud, and for a minute I thought we’d go down. Instead he scrambled up and immediately took off through the