Carol Spencer, blue eyed and golden haired, circled a big, lanky bay gelding whom its seller called Emerson.
At fourteen, Carol was already an experienced rider, but this awkward creature was like nothing she had ever seen. Would this horse be one she would be proud of having at Loafing Hills, her father Ned's farm in the Blue Ridge range in Maryland?
Her father inspected the animal and shook his head. "That's the saddest looking thing on four hooves. Carol, are you sure you ought to consider it?"
The thin, gray-haired man who was showing the colt handed the leadrope (shank) to Carol. The large, fifteen-three-hand horse attached to it observed her curiously and nudged her.
Carol and her father, Ned Spencer, had been on a trip to Georgia to visit his parents when she spied the sign: HORSES FOR SALE.
"Oh, Dad!" she had exclaimed. "Let's go in and find out what they have to offer. You promised me a horse for myself. They just might have what I'm looking for."
"Well, all right," he had said reluctantly, "but don't you realize we're a long way from home? Anything you get would have to be shipped back."
She laughed. "Of course. We wouldn't ask any poor thing to walk all the way back to Maryland!"
Mr. Spencer smiled warmly. His daughter was dear to him because she was his only family since her mother had lost her life in an auto accident when Carol was only three. He had raised her under the care of Mrs. Donavan, their housekeeper at Loafing Hills farm.
From the time Carol was nine, her father, Ned, had made a business of buying and selling horses. These included racehorses. He purchased them from racetracks and retrained them as hunters or pleasure horses. He developed a good market for them and had a brisk trade.
Loafing Hills' animals earned fame for their soundness and performance. The work was rewarding, and the Spencers found it interesting and satisfying.
Carol had begun taking riding lessons at the age of ten from a very experienced equitation teacher. She had become a very good, experienced rider, and she dearly wanted a horse of her own.
When Carol saw Emerson, she was immediately intrigued. Though the ungainly colt was only three, his bones were so prominent that he looked misshapen. His belly was distended like an overloaded sack, making his dark coat that rippled over his wide-set ribs, appear to have a washboard effect.
Ned Spencer asked, "What do you see in him, Carol?"
"I think he shows promise." She stroked his nose. It was velvety smooth to her touch.
