Dark Horse (6 page)

Catman sits up. Leaves tumble off him. “Can’t see leaving Nickers, can you?” he asks.

Sometimes I think Calvin “Catman” Coolidge reads my mind.

“So,” he says, springing to his feet and sticking out his hand to give me a lift, “we won’t.”

“Why that’s a wonderful idea, Calvin!” his mother exclaims.

“Indeed!” Mr. Coolidge agrees.

Note to self: No matter how much time I spend with the Coolidges, I’ll never be able to read
their
minds.

“Who’s going to tell me what I’m missing here?” I ask.

Before I know what hit me, Catman hoists me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Catman!”

He spins me around, then dumps me into a pile of leaves. “Nickers,” he says, “is coming with us.”

Eleven

For a minute I’m totally psyched. A road trip with Catman and Nickers? A chance to meet Kat, Dakota, and Wes? And maybe I could help Hank with Cleopatra.

Then reality sets in. What about gas? Our horse trailer gets horrible mileage. To haul Nickers out to Illinois would cost more than I’d make in months shoveling manure at Spidells’ Stable-Mart. And what about food on the way? And expenses once we got there? My food
and
Nickers’s grain.

Life was so much easier when I was younger, when I just believed things would work out in spite of reality, in spite of everything.

“Come on. Let’s clue in your old man,” Catman says.

“I haven’t agreed to anything. I’m pretty sure Dad won’t want me to go.”

He totally ignores me and whistles for Nickers.

My horse stops grazing and stares at him. I think she’s laughing. Then she goes back to munching grass.

“Nickers?” I call.

Nickers trots toward me, and I swing onto her back. “I wish I
could
go to Nice, but I can’t. You have to see that, right?”

Catman steps onto the old stump we use as a mounting block and waits until Nickers and I sidle up to it. His steady grin is his way of saying he’s not paying attention to me this time.

We ride in silence to my house, but it feels like we’re arguing. Catman can say more without words than most people can say with words.

When we’re halfway up the road to my house, Catman mutters something. I think he says, “Funky, man.”

I follow where he’s looking and see Dad and Madeline struggling with a tall metal pole that fans out like an upside-down umbrella. Skinny ropes dangle from the top.

“New invention?” Catman whispers to me.

“Looks like it,” I whisper back. “Hope this one sells better than the last one.”

“The parent saddle? That one was far out, man.”

“It was
too
far out. The licensing people told Dad that parents don’t give their kids horsey rides anymore.”

Madeline’s last invention was a dining table that opened into a dishwasher so you wouldn’t have to get up from the table to clear it. That’s the one that just about broke us.

Dad calls when we ride up on the lawn. “What’s the word from your cousin?”

“Still a bad scene, but it wasn’t arson,” Catman answers. To me, he whispers, “Are you cluing him in on the road trip, or am I?”

“Catman,” I whisper, “I told you I can’t—”

“Well,” Madeline says, “I guess that’s one good thing, knowing that nobody set the fire on purpose. I hope you’ll tell the family we’re praying for them.”

“Catman!” Mason rushes to us as soon as we’re on the ground. Mason’s my little brother. We got him when we got Madeline, which made it all worth the effort, if you ask me. He’s small for his age. And he’s sweet for his age because his mind doesn’t always work the way most people’s minds work.

“Be right back,” I tell Mason. “I need to cool Nickers down. How was Buddy today?” Buddy is Mason’s horse. We’ve had her for almost five years. She was born right here in our barn.

“I brushed her shiny,” Mason says, grinning. He grabs Catman’s hand and tugs him toward the house.

I say hey to Buddy, then brush Nickers and cool her down. All the while, I’m bracing myself for what I know Dad will say when Catman tells him about the trip. Dad will tell him I can’t go. And I understand. Even if Dad turned out to be okay with Catman’s family paying for everything, it would still mean I wouldn’t be bringing home a paycheck from Spidells’ Stable-Mart. I already told Dad I put in for extra hours over Thanksgiving break.

I turn Nickers out to pasture, and when I come back to the yard, Catman, Dad, and Madeline are laughing so hard they can’t speak. “What?” I ask.

“Deep, man,” Catman says. “It’s not an invention.”

“It’s a clothesline!” Madeline cries, pointing to the contraption they’ve been struggling with.

Then Dad’s laughter stops cold. “On the other hand, what if we put small wheels right here and here?”

Madeline stops laughing too. “Like roller skate wheels?”

“Exactly! I think this could be the next umbrella bike . . . maybe an umbrella skateboard!” Dad tugs at the cords. “We could get movable parts there.”

“With three-quarter-inch screws on the ends!” Madeline adds.

“I was thinking wires,” Dad suggests.

“You and your wires,” Madeline counters. “What if we . . . ?”

I pull Catman away from the invention scene and into the house.

Note to self: So much for the clothesline. Prepare for wearing wet clothes.

Mason shoves into the house ahead of us. “Lizzy!” he yells. “Catman’s here!”

“Thanks a lot, Mason,” I call after him. “Aren’t you forgetting somebody?”

He turns and smiles. “And Nickers!” he shouts.

I tousle his soft blond hair. “Yeah, well,
Buddy
was happy to see me.”

Lizzy comes out of the kitchen with a big smile, as always. My “little” sister is half a foot taller than I am, twice as pretty, and three times as nice. If she were a horse, she’d be a noble and dependable Trakehner.

“Hey, you guys!” Lizzy presses a button, and a floor mat unrolls at Catman’s feet. “Mind taking your shoes off, please?”

We kick off our shoes onto the mat. The roll-away welcome mat made us good money a couple of years ago, but imitations sprang up fast.

“How’s Hank, Catman?” Lizzy asks. “I feel so bad for that family. Do they like caramel and candy canes? I’m experimenting with a new cookie recipe. Maybe I’ll send them a care package.”

We follow Lizzy to the kitchen. Our kitchen looks like a cross between a sci-fi movie and a science lab. The fridge is really a counter with drawers. The cupboard looks like a fridge and turns like a lazy Susan. I don’t know what half the dials and buttons do in this room.

Lizzy checks one of the ovens in her three-story oven. “Do you think your Illinois relatives would ever come here for Thanksgiving? I would love to cook for everybody! I’ve invented the coolest pumpkin dessert.” She shuts that oven and opens the door to the oven above it. Something smells great in there. “Your uncle and everybody probably couldn’t make it even if they wanted to, right? They’ll have to rebuild the barn before winter, won’t they?”

Catman raises his eyebrows, which means, “Yes.”

“Thought so. Barker can’t come either. They’re having relatives in from all over. At least you’ll be here.” Lizzy taps lizard food into her dry lizard aquarium.

When Catman doesn’t say anything, Lizzy spins around. “Catman?”

He twists his lips, which means, “Sorry.”

“Why not?” she demands.

So we tell her. She nods and approves, but I can tell she’s disappointed. “Winnie’s coming with us,” Catman concludes.

“Catman!” I turn to Lizzy, whose green eyes are wide with surprise. “I’m not
really
going. I mean, I’d love to go and help with the horses and the barn and everything. But I know you guys need me to be here. And I’m working extra at the stable.”

“Nickers is coming too,” Catman continues, like I haven’t just said I’m not going. “You should come, Lizzy.”

“I’d love to.” She’s talking over my head to Catman, ignoring me like he is. “But I can’t. I’ll hold down the fort here, though. Barker and Pat can help me with the Pet Helpline.” Lizzy sighs, then stands up from the table. “Time to talk to Dad.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t know if—,” I begin. But nobody’s listening to me. They’re already out of the kitchen.

Lizzy leads the way to the clothesline, and Catman gets right down to it. “Need to rap with you cats,” he announces. “The Nice Coolidges are totally bummed. So our Ohio crew plans to groove over there to make nice and do our thing. Can you dig it?”

Madeline and Dad look from Catman to each other. “What did he say?” Madeline asks.

Lizzy nods for me to interpret, but I shake my head. I’ve already given up on this trip to Nice. I should work at the stable. I don’t want to ask for anything. Sometimes it’s easier just to give it up. Life hurts less that way.

Lizzy takes over. “Winnie wants to go to Nice with Catman and his parents.”

“And Nickers,” Catman adds.

Dad scratches his head. “In our horse trailer?”

Lizzy nods.

Now Madeline scratches her head. She and Dad become more alike every day. Neither of them can sit still, and they’d both forget meals and bills if it weren’t for Lizzy. “That trailer takes a lot of gas, doesn’t it?” Madeline asks. “Isn’t gasoline expensive these days?”

“It’s a crazy idea,” I say quickly. I wish Lizzy and Catman had kept their big mouths shut. “We shouldn’t have asked.”

I shouldn’t have wanted it.

“Bread’s no sweat,” Catman says. “My folks won more gas coupons than we’d need to fly to the moon. Dad’s grooving with jingles this year.”

I know Catman’s not making this up. His parents enter hundreds of contests and win plenty of them. One year they won a vacation to Bethlehem, Calcutta, Moscow, Paris, and a dozen other cities.

Turned out the cities were all in Ohio, but they had a great time.

“Tell them congratulations on winning another contest. That’s simply wonderful!” Madeline exclaims. Her bright red hair is caught up in a clip that can’t control it. She used to be as tall and skinny as my dad. She’s still as tall, but Lizzy’s cooking has turned her “pleasingly plump,” as Lizzy puts it.

“We’ve got 83 boxes of granola for the trip,” Catman continues. “Contests entries were on the backs. So no bread required for road chow.”

Hope is trying to bubble up inside of me, but I squish it back down where it belongs. There’s no way I could pull off this trip. What about the lost income from Spidells’ Stable-Mart if I’m not here to muck stalls?

Dad turns to me. “Winnie, what do
you
think? It seems to be up to you.” This is the exact same thing he said when we found out how much it would cost for me to be a veterinarian. He didn’t want to say no. He never wants to say no. But neither of us could see it happening.

Before I can answer, a car comes barreling up the drive, spraying gravel and squealing brakes. Mason runs to the barn. He hates loud noises.

Even before the dust settles and I see the gold convertible, I know it’s Summer Spidell. Her dad owns the stable where I’ve worked off and on since we moved to Ohio. Summer used to ride, but she gave up horses the day her dad bought her a car.

Summer stops close to us and keeps the motor running. “Good. I caught you. You simply have to get a cell, Winnie. Daddy wants you. My brother’s in town for the holidays, and they need you at the stable for who knows what. Daddy said to tell you that your extra hours start right now.”

“Richard’s back in town?” Ever since we’ve lived in Ashland, Summer and her brother have done everything they could to make my life miserable. With Richard off to college in California, at least I’ve had only Summer to deal with lately.

“Seriously,” she whines, “you have to come. Daddy’s threatening to make
me
clean stalls. Can you imagine? So, you
have
to get over there right this minute. If you don’t and somebody actually saw me shoveling manure, I’d never be able to show my face again.”

Summer Spidell, never show her face again? Some offers are too good to pass up.

I grin at Lizzy and Catman, then walk to the convertible and lean in until I’m face-to-face with Summer.

She backs away. “What are you doing?”

“Getting one last look at your face, Summer. ’Cause you’re about to shovel manure for the entire Thanksgiving break. So I guess you won’t be showing your face again.”

“Right on!” Catman shouts.

“W-wait! Winnie!” Summer whines. “You
have
to do this. You don’t understand. Maybe you can’t muck stalls now. But surely over the break you can—!”

“No can do. I won’t be here.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her this desperate. “Why? Where are you going?” she demands.

“To a place I think it’s safe to say you’ve never been. A place called Nice.”

Twelve

Hank Coolidge

Nice, Illinois

I tread softly over the wet leaves of the McCray pasture, inching toward Cleopatra as if she’s surrounded by land mines. Yesterday Cleo bolted when I stepped on a twig. It’s been over a week since the fire, and I still haven’t gotten close enough to her to treat the burn on her rump. I know the vet took care of it when she sedated Cleo the night of the fire, but I’d like to see for myself how it’s healing.

“Easy, Cleo,” I murmur, inching through the tall weeds and over a fallen branch. It rained hard last night. I couldn’t sleep, worrying about my horses having no good place to go for shelter. We put up a lean-to in the south pasture, but Cleo’s got nothing here on the old McCray farm. She does have the basics—good water from the pond, enough grass among the weeds, a salt block I dropped off. She eats the oats I bring every day, but she waits until I’m gone to do it.

“I don’t even want to catch you, Cleo,” I mutter.

I learned from Winnie, my cousin Catman’s friend, that the best way to catch a horse is to try
not
to catch her. “Horses don’t like to be trapped or caught,” she informed me the only time I met her, about three years ago when I went to Ashland with Gram. We spent a couple of days at Catman’s. Winnie was pretty busy gentling a two-year-old Hanoverian for somebody, so we didn’t spend much time with her. I did get to watch her in action one afternoon though. It was amazing. I learned a lot in those few hours. She’s taught me even more through the Pet Helpline.

Only this time, this “pet” may be beyond help.

I close the distance between the mare and me by walking diagonally and pretending that I’m heading for an invisible horse somewhere beyond Cleo. Horses have a fight-or-flight nature, and I’ve seen both with this sorrel.

My mind has replayed the fire a million times, especially the way I handled, or mishandled, Cleo. When I close my eyes, I still see Cleo cowered in the corner of her smoke-filled stall.

And I see the barn in flames. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of that image.

I’ve also replayed everything I did in the days leading up to the fire. I’ve tried to pinpoint the last time I was in the loft. The last time I was on the roof. The last time I did a general check of the whole barn.

Since the fire inspector wrapped up his investigation, I’ve had time to do my own investigation of what used to be our barn. There are a lot of things I could have done better in the upkeep of that barn. I didn’t go in the loft very often, not with the grass so good this year. If I’d checked our loft every day, maybe I would have seen a pinhole of light coming in from the roof. I might have seen water dripping in on the hay. Maybe I would have smelled mold and known the hay was turning combustible.

Now that everybody’s so sure the fire wasn’t some arsonist’s fault, I want to know whose fault it was. I want to know if it was
my
fault.

When I’m about 15 yards from Cleopatra, her head springs up. Her ears flatten back, and her nostrils widen with fear. She snorts. I see her skin twitch, her muscles coil. She’s ready to bolt if I take another step.

I don’t.

I don’t want to make this horse’s life any worse than it already is.

I cross back the way I came, through the muddy pasture, down the ditch, and out to the road.

Dakota’s waiting for me. She’s got Blackfire saddled up western, which means she’s going on a serious ride. “How’s Cleopatra?” she asks.

“Don’t ask me. I couldn’t get close enough to her to tell. I think the burn’s healing okay. Hard to say from here, though.”

Blackfire dances in place, eager to get going.

“Well, Blackfire and I are celebrating the start of fall break. Want to tag along for the ride? I think we’ll go over by the quarry and look for Kitten again. Remember? That’s where I found her the last time she disappeared.”

“The barn wasn’t on fire the last time she disappeared.” There’s no way that cat survived the fire. If I had any guts, I’d tell Kat what I think really happened instead of letting her go on hoping Kitten will magically turn up.

“Come on, Hank,” Dakota pleads.

I shake my head. “Too much to do. Dad and I are starting work on the frame for the new barn this afternoon. He’s got trucks coming out tomorrow to clear rubble.”

“Sounds like you could use a break then,” Dakota says. “I’m sure Starlight could. She misses you. She tried to follow Blackfire and me out of the pasture.”

“Yeah, well, tell her I’m rebuilding the barn for her. She needs that more than she needs me. Starlight shouldn’t have to stand outside in the rain. And I’m sure not going to make her stand out there in the snow. So I’ve got work to do.”

“I don’t think Starlight gets all that,” Dakota says. “She just wants you to ride her.”

“Look, Dakota. There’s no time for Starlight.”

“‘No time for Starlight.’ Sounds like the title of a cool book, but a sad state of affairs if you’re a horse by the name of Starlight.”

“Must be nice not to have to worry about all the work that needs to be done around here,” I snap.

Dakota grins. “It’s lovely.” She and Blackfire trot down the lane.

I cut across two pastures on the way home and wish I’d stuck to the road. My jeans are soaking wet from the tall grass, and stickers cover me from the knees down. I slip crossing a ditch and end up mud-covered on my whole left side. Now I’ll have to change clothes before I can get back to working on the barn.

I’m halfway up the drive when I see a blue Nissan next to the rubble. Someone’s standing in the burned-down barn. I think she’s taking pictures, maybe even shooting video.

“Hank!” Kat runs out of the house toward  me.

“Not now, Kat.” I walk faster toward the barn.

“I just need to ask you something!” Kat yells after me.

I wave her off. “Later. Somebody’s out there.”

I don’t slow down until I reach the woman. I was right about the camera. She’s holding one, and a second camera sits on a tripod a few feet behind her. “Hey! What are you doing out here?”

She looks up from her camera like
I’m
the intruder. “Excuse me?”

“Look.” I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I thought we were done with the reporters crawling all over the place. “There’s nothing left to report, okay? You need to go.”

Frowning, the woman looks a lot older than I thought she was, more like Gram’s age than Mom’s. “And who exactly are you?” she asks.

“Who am
I
? I’m the one whose burned barn you’re standing in. Who are
you
?”

“Ah,” she says, dipping her head a little. “Sandra Leedy.” She starts to stick out her hand but lets it drop to her side. “Didn’t your father tell you I’d be finishing up today?”

“What?” The only thing I can think of that might need finishing up is the fire investigation. “Are you with the fire investigation unit? Have they changed their minds about it not being arson?”

She takes a picture of a pile of ash where our round pen used to be. “No, no. I have a copy of the final report. They’ve ruled out arson. And I’m not with the county’s fire unit.”

“Then what are you—?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, smiling. “Let’s start over. Sandra Leedy with Farm Federal Insurance. I’m a claims investigator. You must be Mr. Coolidge’s son.” She sticks out her hand.

“Hank.” I shake her hand. Her fingers are stiff and cold.

“Well, Hank, I should be out of your hair pretty soon. I think I’ve got all I need. I took most of the pictures yesterday and got my samples the day before. I’ll be done today.”

I can’t believe Dad didn’t even mention this to me. But I think I know why. “Insurance investigation. That means you’re trying to find out if the fire’s our fault, right? You want to prove it was our fault.”

“Well, we wouldn’t exactly put it that way in our brochure.” She half laughs at her joke. “Insurance companies like to do their own follow-up investigations in cases like this before they pay out large sums of money for a claim.”

“How long does that take?”

“Like I say, I’ll finish up today. But it might be a couple of months before the evidence gets processed and returned from the lab.”

“A couple of months?” I shout. “We need a barn now! Our horses can’t wait on your investigation.”

“I don’t mean to say you can’t do what you need to do until we’re finished,” she explains. “I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you. Your father can fill you in.” She stands there like she’s waiting for me to leave so she can go back to doing whatever she was doing.

But I can’t leave. I have to know if this fire was our fault,
my
fault. I need to know. I clear my throat and realize it’s still sore, still burned.

Finally she says, “Look, I can tell you this much. If you’re worried that I’ll be citing negligence in my report, don’t be.”

“You mean it wasn’t negligence? You don’t think it was our fault?”

She looks at her notebook. “The lab results aren’t back. But there’s no sign of careless smoking or poor wiring, no flammables out in the open. You’ve passed every fire and safety inspection, and fire codes were up to par and then some.” She smiles at me. “So you can stop worrying about that one. This fire wasn’t your fault.”

Not my fault. The fire was not my fault.

I know this should make me feel better. But it doesn’t.

“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “If it’s not arson and it’s not our fault, then whose fault is it?”

She’s already bending over the tripod to fold it up. “Hmm? Fault? Don’t worry about that. This fire’s a no-fault. We’ll be writing it off as an act of God.”

The words, pointed and jagged-edged, sink into me.
An act of God?

What am I supposed to do with that?