Dark Horse (10 page)

Eighteen

Hank Coolidge

Nice, Illinois

“Hank!” Kat calls the minute my foot hits the stairs.

“Morning,” I call down, amazed that she’s up and dressed already. I finish coming downstairs and see that Kat’s not alone. Catman’s at the counter finishing off a tall glass of orange juice. He’s wearing sandals, bell-bottoms, and a tie-dyed shirt. Nobody’s going to mistake my hippie cousin for a farmer.

“Guess where we’re going!” Kat shouts. She smiles at Catman. “Do you want to tell him, or should I?” she asks him.

“Do your thing, Kat Woman,” he says.

“We’re going to find my cat!” Kat announces. “And maybe even film her!”

I stare from one to the other. “I don’t get it.” Maybe they’re going to the shelter to get a cat.

“Kitten!” Kat exclaims. “Today we’re going to find her. It’s taken a while to put all the pieces together, but Catman’s got it all figured out.”

“Figured out? Figured what out?” My cousin better not be doing what I think he’s doing. Not to Kat. “It’s great that you’re still trying to find Kitten. Just don’t get your hopes up.”

Her smile fades fast, like somebody dimmed a switch inside her.

Catman takes her hand. “Let’s split, my little Kat. Hank forgot. Hopes are meant to be up.”

Dakota comes downstairs as soon as Catman and Kat leave. “Where are they going so early?” She yawns and shoves her hair off her face.

“To bring home Kat’s kitten, of course,” I answer sarcastically. But my sarcasm is weak compared to Dakota’s. I don’t think she picks up on it.

“Sweet!” she exclaims. “Kat sure has missed that cat of hers.”

“You don’t really believe they’re going to come back with that cat after all this time, do you?”

“Why not?” She walks to the fridge and pours herself a glass of milk.

I follow her. “Why not? Because the cat’s been missing so long? Because it was probably in the barn when it burned down? Because Catman’s not magic? Kat shouldn’t believe everything he says.”

Dakota frowns at me. She has a milk mustache. “Kat’s prayed for Kitten since she went missing. She believes she’ll find her cat. She’s not believing in Catman. She’s believing in God.”

“That’s fine,” I snap. “That’s just great.” I’m not sure why I’m so angry, why I’m taking it out on Dakota. “It’s all terrific . . . until she hits reality. Until the barn burns or the horse goes crazy or the cat’s gone for good!”

Dakota keeps staring, like she can see through me. “Reality? Why would Kat have to hit reality? She’s already in it with God, right? I mean, isn’t God smack in the middle of reality?” She takes another swig of milk. “You’ve known God a lot longer than I have, so maybe I’m missing something here. But I know Kat. She’s in this with God, so she’ll be okay, no matter what. Hope’s a good thing.”

Dakota is so new in her faith, so out-there in her trust of God. Was I ever like that? “I’m just saying things aren’t always that easy.”

“You know, you sound a lot like Winnie,” she says.

“Winnie? No way.”

“Way,” she insists. “Have you heard her talk about giving up hope of becoming a vet?”

When I don’t say anything, I feel her gaze on the back of my neck.

“Have you seen her this morning?” Dakota asks.

“Who? Winnie?”

“No. Eleanor Roosevelt,” she answers.

I grab my jacket from the coatrack. “She’s probably still asleep.”

“Are you kidding? She got up a couple of hours ago. Felt like the middle of the night.” Dakota yawns again. “I’ll bet she’s with Nickers and Cleo.”

“Did you go along with that move?” I ask her.

“Winnie thought Cleo needed a horse friend. Made sense to me.”

“Well, it didn’t work. Cleo doesn’t need one more worry. I’m going to move the Arabian back to the paddock and give Cleo some peace.”

“Hank, that’s not a good idea.”

The porch door slams behind me as I take off for the pasture.

I glance at the barn, and I’m surprised to see Uncle Bart and Aunt Claire hammering on the frame. “I’ll be right back!” I holler at them.

“No hurry!” Aunt Claire hollers back.

I do hurry. But when I come over the last rise in the field before McCrays’, I see something amazing, so amazing I have to stop where I am and watch. Cleopatra is standing still a few feet from Winnie and Nickers. The blocked-off tip of the pasture looks more like a round pen now. Winnie’s filled in the spaces with an old gate, a ladder, and tree limbs.

Winnie and Nickers are in the center of the makeshift pen with Cleo on the outside. I watch as Winnie steps closer to Cleo, turns, and drops her shoulder slightly. I know enough about training in the round pen to tell that Cleopatra isn’t responding all the way yet. She’s not running away, but Winnie’s giving her the cue to turn and face her. Winnie wants to be given the respect of a dominant partner.

“Not ready yet, Cleo?” Winnie says. “Okay. Your choice, girl. Face me or run. Get it? Back to running.” Winnie sends the horse cantering in a circle, still inside the pen.

It’s a good system of training a horse, and I’ve never seen it done as well as I’m seeing it right now. For Cleo, there’s no threat of punishment, unless you call making yourself run punishment. The decision to give Winnie the nod as leader is up to Cleo.

The third time around, Cleo slows to a walk. Her lips are moving as if she’s chewing gum. Her ears flick up and back. She’s definitely paying attention. Then she stops again.

“Good girl, Cleo,” Winnie says softly. Amazingly her own horse is still standing statue-still in the center of the blocked-off area. “Now, give me a look, will you?”

Cleo cranes her neck around to give Winnie a good, long look. “Yes. That’s it,” she says, stepping in closer. Cleopatra doesn’t run off. She doesn’t look nervous or wary.

I hear Winnie’s quiet chatter, but I can’t make out the words. It doesn’t matter. She steps closer, right up to Cleo’s shoulder. Then she reaches up and scratches her neck. Winnie’s hand moves skillfully to Cleo’s withers, then traces the line of the back all the way to the rump. I know she’s getting a good look at the burn. I’m glad for that.

This time when Winnie walks to the center, Cleopatra follows her. Winnie doesn’t look back. She doesn’t have to. She’s the leader, and Cleo’s grateful to be led. Winnie the Horse Gentler has gotten through to Cleopatra. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.

The thought hits me hard.
I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.

What’s the matter with me? When did Hank Coolidge become someone who wouldn’t believe without seeing?

Nineteen

I turn from the scene of Winnie and the horses, then jog back the way I came.

When I catch sight of the barn, I slow down. I need to think. Too much is happening all at the same time. I need to organize my thoughts, collect them, study them, put them in place again.

“Hank! Hank!” someone hollers across the lawn.

I turn to see Kat running awkwardly toward me with Catman right behind her. She’s holding something in her cupped hands. When she gets closer, I can see the dirty white fur, the scroungy body.
Kitten.

Kat’s panting so hard that I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying, if her cat is alive or dead. “Hank, look!” she shouts, walking the rest of the way to me. “We found her!” She holds out her hands, and I see the cat, scrawny and dirty, but definitely alive.

“Kat, that’s . . . that’s amazing. Where on earth was she?” I stare at the cat, then take in the pure joy on Kat’s face.

“She was right by the pond in the south pasture. We think she’s been there all along since the fire. She made a hole in this prickly bush on the edge of the pond. I think she liked being near Starlight. She always did like your horse best. That was one of the things Catman picked up on when we talked about Kitten. Plus, I told him how Kitten never acted afraid of water like the other cats. Remember how she used to try to get into the bathtub? Or even in Starlight’s water trough! And she always comes to investigate when she hears water running in the sink.”

I nod and stroke the cat with my finger.

“Catman thought Kitten might have been born by water. So that made it her safe place. We were going to look in the old McCray pasture. But then Catman remembered that I’d told him how much Kitten loves Starlight. So we tried the south pasture first. I called and called for Kitten, but she didn’t come. We kept searching. And there she was, deep in that bramble bush.”

“Is she okay?” I ask, trying to take it all in. “She looks okay.”

“Kitten is groovy,” Catman says. “Her tail’s a little singed. Gives her character.”

“She’s purring!” Kat exclaims. She clutches her cat and rubs her cheek against the scraggly fur.

“Kat, it’s a miracle. I just can’t believe—” I stop myself. I’m tired of admitting that I can’t believe. I rephrase. “I can’t get over it.”

“Sure you can, man,” Catman says, slapping me on the back before moving off with Kat. “Build a bridge. You can get over it.”

* * *

The rest of the day everybody works together on the barn frame, even Catman. Turns out he’s a whiz at carpentry. Kat’s cats trail him as he moves around the work area. Winnie and Dakota work side by side refinishing an old desk Gram brought over for the new barn office. Kat makes sandwiches for everybody and walks Wes’s dogs so he can help carry lumber.

“Sa-a-ay!” Uncle Bart exclaims above the sawing and hammering. “Why did the turkey cross the road to work at Smart Bart’s Used Cars?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Aunt Claire says.

“Because,” Uncle Bart booms, “it was the chicken’s day off!”

“Good one, Mr. Coolidge,” Aunt Claire says.

I know Dad can’t let it go. Even when I was a little kid, I understood the joke wars would go on every time Dad and Uncle Bart got together, especially at Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving.
I’d just about forgotten that tomorrow is Thanksgiving. How could I do that? If Uncle Bart hadn’t pulled out a turkey joke, I might have forgotten Thanksgiving until I saw the turkey on the table.

“Why did the police arrest the Thanksgiving turkey?” Dad asks.

Kat, still holding Kitten, takes time to back Dad up. “I don’t know. Why did the police arrest the turkey?”

Before Dad can give the punch line, Uncle Bart hollers, “They suspected it of fowl play! Get it?
Foul
play,
fowl
play?”

Dad doesn’t laugh. He glares at his brother for ruining his joke. Then he tries again. “What do you get when you cross a turkey with an octopus?” This time he rushes the answer before
somebody
beats him to it. “Lots of Thanksgiving drumsticks!”

“I’ve got one,” Wes announces.

We’re silent. Dakota shoots Dad a raised-eyebrow glance. Telling jokes isn’t exactly up Wes’s alley, but lately he’s surprised us with a couple. And they haven’t been that bad.

“Go for it, Wes,” Dakota urges, “even though the joke competition is really tough around here.”

Winnie laughs. She and I are working on opposite ends of the platform floor.

“Okay,” Wes begins. “What do you call the feathers on a turkey’s wing?”

Nobody ventures a guess.

“Turkey feathers,” he answers.

Dakota and Winnie crack up. They laugh on and off for the next few minutes.

“Enough of barn work,” Dad says, getting off his knees. “Carry on! I have a couple of turkeys to prepare for tomorrow.”

“How many people are we feeding tomorrow?” Dakota asks when Dad’s gone.

“Hard to tell,” Mom answers. “But they’ll all be hungry. Ben and Roger are bringing their whole families.”

I didn’t realize we were feeding the whole crew. I like Dad’s buddies, but I’ve seen them eat. Meals are social events—long social events. “Mom, they know they’re coming to work on the barn though, right? We only have tomorrow to get the barn frame up.”

Mom sighs. “Even firemen have to eat, Hank.”

We all settle back into the rhythm of work. Nothing but the sounds of sawing, scraping, and hammering can be heard for several minutes.

I try to figure out how much of the work we have to get done before the barn raising. We have two more sections of the frame to build once we get done with the ones we’re working on now. We’ve been at it night and day, but we still have a long way to go. And we’re running out of time.

* * *

After dinner, we all go back to work on the barn. Dad and I are the last two still working several hours after the sun went down. Finally Dad lays down his hammer and rubs his back. “Well, we’ve made a lot of progress today. We should be fine. We can finish in the morning before the guys come. I think we could all use a good night’s sleep.” He groans as he gets up off his knees and brushes sawdust from his pants.

When I don’t stop hammering, he comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hank, we’re doing all we can. God will do the rest.”

I know he wants to say more. He wants
me
to say more. “Go on. I’ll be right in.”

He sighs, then heads toward the light of the house.

When I finally give in to exhaustion, I head inside and go to bed. The lights are out downstairs except for the night-light over the sink. Plates and silverware are stacked on the dining table, along with bowls and dishes we see only on Thanksgiving and Christmas. The dog-and-cat tablecloth has been replaced by a turkey tablecloth.

I get cleaned up and fall into bed, but I can’t sleep. My windows are open. The air is cool enough, but there’s no breeze. The night is storm-still, with no sounds filtering in from restless birds or other creatures. Then I hear a low rumble in the distance.

A storm’s coming. The next rumble rattles my windows and gets louder and longer. We’re in for a big one, and it’s moving in fast. If I’d been paying better attention when I was outside, I could have sensed the storm on its way.

And then what? I couldn’t have done anything about it. Starlight and the rescues in the south pasture at least have the shelter to stand in if it gets bad. Cleopatra and Blackfire have nothing to protect them from the storm. Neither does Nickers.