Dark Horse (8 page)

Nickers is startled. She jerks back. I’m not ready for it. The rope slips through my fingers. She rears.

“Easy, Nickers,” I say. “Stand down.”

She does. She stops rearing, but her whole body is quivering.

Hank charges toward us, bringing the barking dogs with him.

Nickers bolts, but I grab the rope in time. She rears again.

“Stay back, will you?” I yell at Hank. My heart is pounding. I can feel Nickers’s fear. I hate seeing my horse like this. She rode all the way here, and now this?

“Down, Nickers,” I urge.

She comes down from her rear. The rope slacks. She touches ground, then lunges back. I can’t hold on to the rope. Nickers pivots, then gallops off, disappearing into the darkness.

“Great.” Hank spits out the word. “That’s all we need around here. Another wild horse.” He turns his back to me and says to Catman, “I can’t believe you’d bring that wild thing with you.”

Wild Thing?
That’s what people used to call my horse before she and I became best friends. It’s what Summer Spidell still calls her.

And I will not stand for it. I grab Hank’s arm and spin him around. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck to look at him. “My horse is not a ‘wild thing.’ Her name is Nickers.”

Then I push past him and run as fast as I can after my horse.

Note to self: Next time, stay home and shovel manure.

Fourteen

I sleep in late the next morning. It didn’t take me long to catch up with Nickers last night. Dakota helped. We brought her back close to the house and settled her in the paddock. Dakota waited with me until I was sure Nickers would be okay on her own there.

After that, Dakota, Kat, and I stayed up talking most of the night in Kat’s room. It was pretty cool. I’ve never done that with anybody except Lizzy and Hawk. I slept in Kat’s spare bed, and Dakota camped out in a sleeping bag on Kat’s floor. When I woke up, I had a three-legged dog on my pillow. Kat had four cats on her bed. And Dakota was gone.

Catman is standing over the stove when I come downstairs. His dad and uncle are sitting across from each other at the dining room table. They’re holding their newspapers in the exact same way, folded over three times. It freaks me out a little to see two Mr. Coolidges.

“Morning, everybody,” I call, joining Catman in the kitchen.

“Good morning to you, Winnie!” Mr. Chester Coolidge and Mr. Bart Coolidge declare in unison, as if they’ve rehearsed it.

“Toasted peanut butter and cheese sandwich?” Catman offers. “With fresh tomatoes?”

I’m used to his weird food creations. “No thanks.” I watch him flip the sandwiches like they’re pancakes. “Where is everybody?”

“Dakota said to tell you she’s in the south pasture,” Catman says. “Everybody else split before I got down here.”

“My Annie is at the hospital saving lives,” Catman’s uncle reports.

For a second I think he says
Miami
. Then I realize he’s talking about his wife.

“Wes is at Nice Manor, the assisted-living home,” he continues. “He’s planning some kind of dog show or dog training event with them to raise money for the barn. Awfully proud of that young man.”

“Kat was telling me about the fund-raising plans last night,” I say. “Her Fur Ball sounds great too. Sorry we’re going to miss that one.”

That accounts for everybody with the exception of Hank. I’m not looking forward to my next encounter with him. He’s so different than he sounded in his e-mails. And he’s changed a lot since he was in Ashland. Or maybe I never really got to know him. “So, where’s Hank, Mr. Coolidge?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Better call me Popeye,” he answers, “to avoid confusing me with my little brother.”

“A matter of minutes,” his twin protests.

“Wes dubbed me Popeye, and it’s stuck.”

“Popeye it is, then,” I agree.

“Let’s see. . . . I believe Hank’s gone into town to get a few supplies and to pick up more lumber. I don’t expect him back for quite a while.”

“Good,” I mutter.

“What was that, Winnie?” Popeye asks.

Catman jumps to the rescue. “She said, ‘Good.’ Like, it’s groovy to see the barn getting rebuilt.”

“Did Hank tell you the guys at the station house are all coming to help us raise the barn?” Popeye asks.

“Far out!” Catman says. “A real barn raising?”

Popeye pours himself and his brother another cup of coffee, then sits down again. “I am blessed with some great buddies in the department.”

“My brother always did have a grand array of friends,” Catman’s dad observes.

“Morning.” Kat breezes in so silently she could be a ghost. Or an angel. Her bright red wig doesn’t quite fit the angel image, but the rest of her does. She’s thin and graceful, almost breakable, with a kind of see-through skin that shows her veins. Her eyes are soft, like they’ve seen things the rest of us haven’t. Last night she took off her wig to go to bed, and she talked so openly about her cancer that she put me at ease.

“Morning, Kat!” the Coolidge twins call in unison.

Kat walks to the porch and lets her cats outside, then joins Catman and me in the kitchen. She wrinkles up her nose when she gets close. “Something smells funny.” When she sees the peanut butter, tomato, and cheese sandwich, her face goes even whiter. She swallows hard. “Catman?”

“Yes I am.” Catman slides two sandwiches on small plates and delivers them to the Coolidge twins.

“When can we start looking for Kitten?” Kat asks, as Catman flips a final sandwich onto his own plate.

I catch a troubled look pass between the Coolidge twins. I have a feeling they both believe that cat’s gone for good, burned up in the fire.

“Honey,” Kat’s dad begins, “Catman might not have time to—”

“Solid,” Catman says. “I’m here for a cat hunt, as promised. But first I need to ask you some questions, Kat.” He moves to the dining table and plops down next to his uncle. He waits until Kat and I take seats across from him. Then he asks Kat, “Have you looked for Kitten in the usual digs? Checked her secret pads?”

Kat nods. “I keep checking her favorite spots over and over. I climbed the oak tree out front. She loves that tree. I’ve checked the basement, my closet, the old shed where Dad parks the mower. We drove to the quarry because that’s where Dakota found her when she ran away last summer. I’ve looked everywhere. Everyplace except the barn.”

We’re all quiet. I don’t know about the others, but I’m imagining Kat discovering her burned-up cat in the burned-out barn. I shake my head to get rid of the image.

Catman swallows his last bite of sandwich and stares at Kat. “Okay then.”

“Okay then?” Kat stares back at Catman.

“We’ll have to find your cat from the inside out, not the outside in.” He pops up from the table and puts his empty plate into the sink.

Kat follows him. “Inside out?”

He turns the full power of those intense blue eyes on Kat. “I’ll need you to tell me everything about your cat. Can you do that?”

“Yes!” Kat’s eyes are as big as Catman’s and filled with admiration.

I get up from the table. “Sounds to me like you’re in good hands, Kat. I think I’ll go find Dakota and see how Nickers is getting along.”

“Wait!” Popeye cries. “What’s the hardest part about learning to ride a horse?”

“Learning to ride a horse?” I repeat, wondering if he’s hinting that he’d like to learn to ride.

“What’s the hardest part about learning to ride a horse? The ground!” he cries, answering his own riddle. “Get it?”

I laugh. I should have known. Bad jokes must run in the family.

“‘The horse hooves pound. I hit the ground. We pass a hound who barks a sound.’ That’s from a little children’s book I’m working on.” Popeye’s face turns pink. I think he’s blushing.

“Sounds good,” I tell him.

“What’s the best story to tell a runaway horse?” he asks quickly, before I can reach the door.

I shake my head. “I give, Popeye.”

“What’s the best story to tell a runaway horse? A tale of
whoa
!” The answer comes in stereo—from Popeye and from his brother.

“Still telling those same old jokes, I see,” Bart Coolidge accuses.

Popeye smiles at me. “This man, as you must know by now, is king of the bad joke.”

“Sa-a-ay,” Bart begins, “why did the Ferris wheel cross the road?”

I think Popeye is about to answer when Bart beats him to it. “Because it heard that Smart Bart’s Used Cars is
wheel
friendly!” He cracks up, laughing so hard he ends in a coughing fit.

Kat laughs until there are tears in her eyes. Then she stops and runs to the window. She pulls back the cat curtain. “Hank’s coming up the drive.”

That’s my cue. I slip on my jacket and sneak out while I can.

Fifteen

Before Hank shuts off the truck’s engine, I’m in the paddock with Nickers. Hank doesn’t see me, or maybe he pretends not to. Fine with me.

“Hey, Nickers,” I call. Her head springs up, and she’s at attention—neck arched, ears pricked forward. I never get tired of looking at my horse. Watching her stirs something inside of me.

Nickers prances over, and I wrap my arms around her neck and press my cheek to her soft fur. She nickers without sound, letting me feel the gentle vibration of it in her throat. “I missed you too,” I tell her.

Around us the farm has taken on a whole different look in the morning light. A few trees still reflect every color of orange, red, yellow, and brown. There’s a musky smell from the damp, fallen leaves in the pasture, but I can smell smoke, too. A breeze blows in chilly air, but it’s still warmer than Ohio.

I scratch Nickers’s jowl right where she likes it. Her eyelids droop to half-mast with pleasure.

At the far end of the paddock, on the other side of the fence, Dakota appears, leading a black horse. She walks along the fence until she’s opposite Nickers and me. “Morning,” she calls. She’s wearing jeans and a jean jacket, and I never would have guessed she grew up in Chicago if she hadn’t told me so.

“Is this Blackfire?” I ask her. The gelding is black as night, without a single white marking. “He’s amazing. Everything you said he was and more.”

She nods, playing it cool, but her dimples give away how proud she is of that horse. “Blackfire and I finished our ride, but we could go again if you want to ride Nickers.”

I do. There’s nothing I want more than to take off on Nickers. But I know that’s not why I’m here. “Maybe later,” I finally answer. “I feel like I should take a look at Cleopatra first. Where is she, anyway?”

“About a mile from here. If you can wait for me to brush Blackfire and take him back to his pasture, I’ll show you where we’ve got Cleo.”

I get Nickers’s brushes from the trailer, and we groom Blackfire and Nickers right where they are, on opposite sides of the paddock fence.

“Thanks,” Dakota says, handing back the brushes. “All our brushes burned in the fire. Hank replaced a couple, but I liked the old ones better.”

“I’m really sorry, Dakota.”

“Not your fault. Let’s go see Cleo.”

We tromp through high grass and across ditches and pastures. We’re pretty quiet as we walk along together. Again, I wish Lizzy were here. She’d have Dakota talking a blue streak in no time.

“So,” Dakota tries, “it must be great to be a senior.”

“It’s okay,” I answer.

“Yeah,” she presses. “At least it has to be cool knowing you’re headed for Ohio State next year. Not that I’m crazy about school or anything, even a party school. I’m just saying it would be sweet knowing all the studying was going for a good cause—to learn more about horses and how to help them. You probably have to take a bunch of regular classes first though, right? Before you get to the real veterinarian classes? That would stink. But it would be worth it to end up a vet.”

“I’m not,” I tell her.

“Not what?”

“Not everything. I’m not going to OSU. I’m not going into a pre-vet program. And I’m not going to be a vet.”

“But that’s what Kat said. Catman told her you were—”

“Catman was wrong.”

Dakota frowns at me. “I don’t get it. I thought you’ve always wanted to be a vet.”

“I did. But it costs a lot of money to become a vet. My family doesn’t have money.”

“But if God wants you to be a vet, won’t the money come from somewhere?” Dakota asks this so sincerely that I’m not sure how to answer her. I know that when she came to Starlight, she didn’t believe in God or anything else. So she hasn’t had her faith very long. “It’s not that easy, Dakota.”

“But why not? God’s in charge, right? Kat showed me a verse that says nothing’s impossible with God. Something like that. And there’s that one about God giving us the desires of our hearts. I love that verse. Being a vet is still the desire of your heart, right?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I guess. I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a vet. But the older you get, the more you start seeing that things are complicated. My family couldn’t even pay the electric bill last week. How can I squeeze out money to go to OSU and then vet school? It’s just not going to happen.”

“But if you pray and believe, it could, right?” Dakota asks. “Because God loves you and wants the best for you and everything? Isn’t that how it works?”

I don’t know how to explain it to her. She’s so new. Everything about her faith is still simple and straightforward. I remember feeling like that, like all I had to do was believe, and God would take care of the rest. It would be great to feel like that again. I still love God and everything. And I know He loves me. It’s just different now.

“There’s Cleo,” Dakota says.

I’m grateful to have the subject changed.

At the far end of an overgrown pasture stands a lanky sorrel whose beauty can’t be hidden by the burrs in her tail or the wild look in her eyes. She’s not grazing. Her whole body says she’s watching us, expecting the worst.

My heart aches for the damaged mare. “That poor horse.”

“What are you going to do?” Dakota asks. “Hank hasn’t been able to get anywhere near her since the fire. And he wasn’t doing all that great before the fire.”

“So the horse is as intelligent as she is beautiful,” I mutter, the sting of him calling my horse Wild Thing still fresh in my mind.

“Hank’s not usually like this,” Dakota says.

“For your sake, I hope not.” I climb the fence, and she climbs over after me.

“Hank feels responsible for rebuilding the barn before winter hits,” Dakota explains. “He’s a pretty intense guy, and he can’t see how he’s going to pull it all off, even with the whole fire department coming to help.”

“You’re right,” I admit, feeling a little guilty for being so down on Hank. “I don’t really know Hank. I met him one time. I shouldn’t have said anything. Anyway, we’ve got more important things to work out.”

We lean against the fence and watch Cleopatra. Her eyes are fixed on us.

“Look at those worry lines above her eyes,” I observe. “Even her eyelids are wrinkled.”

A twig snaps somewhere behind her, and the mare bolts sideways. Her nerves and muscles are on high alert.

“We’ll need to make the pasture smaller.” I’m pretty much thinking out loud. “It doesn’t have to be round, but I need a safe area, like a round pen.”

“We had one in the barn,” Dakota says. “Maybe we could borrow some of the lumber Hank’s got stacked up for the barn frame. We could block off the tip of this pasture pretty easily.”

“Good. Remember how you played music to help calm Blackfire when you soaked his hoof to get rid of that abscess? I’d like Cleo to be treated to music when we’re out here. She’ll like the music, so that should take the edge off every time we show up. We’ll be bringing her something she likes.”

“Sweet. I’ll take care of the music,” Dakota promises.

“We need to be around this horse as much as possible from now on. You and I can take turns sitting out here and reading to her or singing or whatever it takes. But she needs to get the idea that not all humans are threatening.”

“Hey, I’m up for it. Totally.” She clears her throat. “Um . . . Hank could be a bit of a problem.”

“Why? Because we want to help his horse?” My anger at Hank comes flooding back fast.

“Not that,” Dakota says quickly. “It’s just that I told him I’d help with the barn.”

I turn to her. “Dakota, I’m going to shoot straight with you. From what I’ve seen of Cleopatra, she’s as shell-shocked as any horse I’ve ever worked with. Maybe even Nickers.”

“Nickers?” Dakota asks. “Was your horse really this far gone?”

I stare at Cleo while I explain what my horse was like when I first met her. “People called her Wild Thing, and back then, the name fit. The first time I saw that white Arabian, she galloped through a mist, leading a pack of horses behind her. Nobody could get near her. The biggest stable in Ashland, Spidells’ Stable-Mart, picked her up at an auction, and they only made things worse.” I turn to face Dakota. “It took me weeks and weeks to make friends with Nickers. And I’ve only got a few days with Cleo.”

“I guess I didn’t realize how bad off Cleo is,” Dakota mutters, her voice breaking.

“Fire gives horses a kind of terror they don’t get anywhere else,” I explain. “And every day that horse is left on her own, she gets farther and farther away from human contact and deeper and deeper into herself. Pretty soon, nobody and nothing will be able to reach her. I need you here with me, Dakota.”

“Then this is where I’ll be,” Dakota says. “Hank will have to understand.”

Note to self: And if he doesn’t, then it’s just too bad for him.