Dark Horse (9 page)

Sixteen

Hank Coolidge

Nice, Illinois

“How’s it going, Kat? Settling in okay, Catman?” I try to sound casual and friendly as I trudge by my sister and cousin for the 10th time on my way to the barn. Each time I pass the porch loaded down with two-by-fours or bags of cement, they’re still lounging on the step in exactly the same spot.

Catman doesn’t look away from Kat, but he raises one hand, fingers in a V, the universal sign for peace.

Like peace is an option with all this work to do? Not for me, it’s not.

Since Catman and crew arrived three days ago, I’ve spent every minute of daylight working on the barn frame. Mom, Dad, Aunt Claire, and Uncle Bart have worked too. Even Wes pitched in before he took on more dogs for dog-sitting money. Dakota’s helped a lot, but she spends most of her time with Winnie. And I don’t even want to know what Winnie’s doing. So I don’t ask.

But Catman? He hasn’t hammered a single nail since he’s been here.

I stumble and drop the bag of cement I’m hauling to the barn. White powder puffs out and floats over me like ash. It’s the last straw.

I stomp back to Catman. “You know, this barn isn’t going to build itself.”

Kat frowns at me. “I thought Dad’s firemen buddies were coming to help with a big barn raising and everything.”

I check my anger because this is Kat. “They’re coming, all right.” I turn to Catman and try not to clench my teeth. “But if we don’t get the frame done first, there won’t be anything for them to raise.”

Catman shades his eyes when he squints at me. “Deep.”

It takes everything in me not to go off on him. “Catman, in case you haven’t noticed, we have a whole barn to rebuild!”

“Dude,” Catman says calmly, “you’ve got more than a barn to rebuild.”

I storm to the barn, hoisting the bag of cement onto my shoulder, before I say something I might regret. I’ve waited for years for Catman to come out and visit us, and now I can hardly wait until he leaves.

Dakota is still hammering on her part of the frame when I get back to the barn. She’s been there for over an hour. She sits on her heels and points to a bag of nails next to her. “Are these the ones you wanted from the truck?”

They’re not. “I needed the bigger ones, the spikes.”

She hops up. “Aye, aye, captain. Be right back.” She jogs toward the truck.

I take over her hammer and examine what she’s done. The nails are straight and right on target.

“Here you go,” she says, dropping a big bag of spikes. “So where’s Popeye?”

I arrange the next section of two-by-fours on the ground. “Dad got called into the fire station before dawn. He woke up Uncle Bart and took him along for the ride. I wish they’d get back since nobody else is around to help.” I hammer in the first spike. It feels good to slam it into the wood.

“Everybody’s doing what they can,” Dakota says.

“Right,” I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. “Catman sits around all day talking cats to Kat. Winnie the Great Horse Gentler disappears all day to play with the horses.”

“That’s not fair, Hank.”

“Really?” I bang in another spike in three swings. “So what exactly is the great horse whisperer doing this morning? Reading to Cleo? Singing to her?”

“Well,” Dakota says, “whatever it is, it’s working.”

“Yeah? Doesn’t seem like it’s working to me. Let’s see. . . . Has she brushed the horse yet? Treated that burn, maybe?”

“No,” Dakota admits. “But Cleo’s coming closer and closer to check things out. I don’t think she’s afraid of Winnie anymore. And we tried something new last night.”

She waits for me to beg her for the newest secret technique of Winnie the Horse Gentler. I hammer another spike. I get it in two swings this time.

“Laughter,” Dakota says.

That stops me. I stare at Dakota. “Laughter?”

“I’m not kidding you. Winnie must have laughed for two hours last night. It was pretty funny, actually.”

“Must be nice to be having so much fun,” I mutter. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed.” I realize I haven’t heard Dad tell a stupid joke for days either, at least not around me. Meanwhile, Winnie’s laughing her head off. “So, is Winnie just naturally happy and carefree? Or is there something about our burned-out barn that brings on her fits of happiness?”

Dakota doesn’t answer right away. Then she says, “Hank, if you spent two minutes with Winnie, you’d see how far off you are. Happy? No way. She’s got a sadness that runs so deep in her I can feel it.”

I stop hammering. “Winnie? Sad? I don’t think so. What’s she got to be sad about? She gets to go home after all of this. She’ll take her horse to her nice barn. And in a few months, she’ll be off to OSU to become star of their veterinarian school.”

Dakota shakes her head. “She’ll be off to a two-year community college. No, I take that back. She won’t be ‘off’ at all. She has to live at home, muck somebody else’s stables, and go to school on the side.”

“I don’t know where you got that,” I tell her. “Catman said he and Winnie are going to Ohio State in the fall. Winnie’s going into a pre-vet program.”

“Not anymore. She doesn’t have the money.”

I’m still not buying it. “Look, I don’t know Winnie that well, but I guarantee she’ll find a way to be a vet. It’s all she’s ever dreamed of.”

“Which makes it even sadder. She’s given up her dream.”

I set down the hammer and try to remember the last time Winnie and I e-mailed about anything except my emergency horse questions. Catman and I haven’t stayed in touch either, especially since he took off to film his cat movie. I know there’s never been much money in Winnie’s family. But surely they could find a way if she really wanted to go to OSU.

“You sure about this?” I ask Dakota.

“Haven’t you seen it on her face, Hank?”

Have I? I blew up at her the night they got here. Since then, she’s done everything she could to avoid me. And I haven’t gone out of my way to be around her either. But when I have seen her, she hasn’t looked happy. Dakota’s right about that.

Man, the last thing I want to do is feel sorry for Winnie. It was easier being angry.

Dakota picks up a metal bucket and loops the handle over her arm. “I need to go. I told Winnie I’d meet her in the pasture.”

“Now? You’re leaving
now
?” I want to tack up guidelines, but I can’t do it alone.

“I told Winnie I’d—”

“Fine. Forget it,” I tell her. “Just go.” I bang the nail deeper into the board and try not to let any other sound or thought into my head.

For an hour I do what I can by myself. Then Dad and Uncle Bart get back from Nice.

“Good news, Hank!” Dad says.

“I could use some,” I admit.

“The guys at the firehouse got together and volunteered to help us raise the barn on Thanksgiving Day,” Uncle Bart answers. “Your dad has some mighty fine friends, if you ask—”

“Thanksgiving? You mean Thursday? This Thursday?” I can’t believe Dad thinks we could be ready by then. “That’s too soon! Tell them to give us more time.”

“No can do,” Dad answers. “It’s the only day we all have off. Les and Rudy will be on call, but nobody has to go into the firehouse. It’s all arranged.” There’s not a bit of worry in his voice. “We’ll be just fine, Son.”

But we won’t be fine. There’s too much to do. I love my dad. I love my uncle. But sometimes it feels like I’m the only man of the house, the only adult. “Dad, think about it. We have to have the frame completely finished before we can raise the barn. That’s how it works. There’s just not enough time.”

“Nonsense,” Dad says.

“Nonsense indeed,” Uncle Bart agrees.

They work the rest of the afternoon with me. We lay out pieces of the frame. When Mom gets home from the hospital, she trades places with Dad so he can help Aunt Claire get dinner. Uncle Bart lets Mom use his nail gun, and she moves around the frame faster than Uncle Bart and I do.

“Bart, you should at least loosen your tie,” Mom insists.

Uncle Bart fingers his Tweety Bird tie like he’s afraid she’ll try to take it from him. “Say, I’m just fine, Annie, thank you very much.”

The sun has already set when Dad calls us in for supper.

“I say we call it a night,” Uncle Bart declares. “You know what they say about all work and no play.” He helps Mom up, and they start for the house.

I ache all over, but I’m not ready to quit. “Let me finish this corner and I’ll be right in.”

I stay out until it gets so dark I’m having trouble telling if the boards are square or not. When I turn to go, I almost trip over Kat. “How long have you been sitting there, Kat?”

She shrugs.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Reading,” she says. “By moonlight. Are you okay, Hank?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“Maybe because you’re still working. So is Winnie. She’s still trying to help that horse. Everybody else has eaten except you two.” When I don’t comment, Kat adds, “I’ve been worried about you.”

Kat’s the one we worry about. She’s the one with cancer. I know better than to say that to her though.

She gets up and points at something behind us. “Don’t you think that maple is the most beautiful tree on earth? Has it ever been this red before or held on to its leaves this long?”

I squint at the tree, but it’s hard to make out the colors in moonlight. I pick up the hammers, hoping she’ll get the hint that I don’t have time to chat all day like Catman does. “I really didn’t notice the maple today.”

“That’s what worries me. You used to notice everything.”

I stop what I’m doing. She’s right. I remember other autumns when the sight of that maple tree shocked me with joy. I’d look at it every day to see the new artwork, God’s artwork.

“They’re leaving this weekend,” Kat says. “You should talk to Winnie before it’s too late.”

“Why?”

“Because she hasn’t noticed the maple either.” Kat walks away, disappearing in moon shadows.

Winnie again. I’ve thought about talking to her ever since Dakota told me about Winnie giving up her plans to become a vet. I’m not proud of the fact that I’ve been so hard on her since she got here. She thought she was coming to help our horses. Just because it isn’t working out that way doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be grateful that she’s trying. Besides, if Winnie really is as torn up as Kat and Dakota think she is, then I’ve probably made things worse. I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot.

Under my breath, I mutter, “You win, Kat.” Then I head to the old McCray farm to find Winnie.

By the time I reach the McCray property, a football field’s distance from Cleo’s pasture, my eyes have fully adjusted to the moonlight. I haven’t been out here for a couple of days. The tip of the pasture has been boarded off, separating it into a makeshift round pen. It’s a good idea, and for the first time I wonder if Dakota might be right. Maybe Winnie’s made more progress with Cleopatra than I figured.

From deep in the pasture, a squeal splits the quiet of the night. The terror in the cry flashes me back to the fire. I can almost hear Cleo screaming from her burning stall.

Then it comes again. This time it’s a high-pitched whinny filled with fear. Or anger. Or pain.

There’s another cry. The sound is completely different, like it’s coming from a different horse, not from Cleo at all. But that can’t be. Cleopatra’s alone in that pasture.

I take off running the rest of the way, terrified of what I’ll find.

The first thing I see is Winnie. She’s leaning over the fence, staring into the pasture.

I start to yell for her, but then I see Cleo. The mare is galloping hard, ears back, tail high. She’s running from something.

And then I see why. Behind Cleo, chasing that poor mare full speed in the dark pasture, is the white horse. Winnie’s horse.

Seventeen

Winnie Willis

Nice, Illinois

I’m so intent on watching Nickers and Cleopatra that I don’t notice anything else until I hear a shout, a human cry invading the night and drowning out the horse squeals. I wheel around and see somebody running out of the bushes like he’s on fire.

I freeze. My heart pounds. It’s pitch-dark, and I’m alone, a mile from the Rescue.

A gangly figure is racing down the hill, arms flailing. Finally I recognize him. It’s Hank.

He keeps coming. Midway down the hill, his foot slips, sending him sliding the rest of the way like he’s on a sled. He rolls over and over and lands a few feet away.

“Hank, are you all right?” I reach to help him up, but he pulls his arm away. Fine. He can take care of himself. I get it.

“Why would you put your horse in with Cleo?” Hank demands, kicking clumps of mud from his boots.

“Keep your voice down, will you?” I realize too late that I’m not keeping
my
voice down. Cleo and Nickers are staring at us, taking in the added commotion.

“Look—” Hank starts to shout, then tries again, a couple of decibels lower. “Look, Winnie. I don’t get it. Can’t you see what your horse is doing to Cleo? Cleopatra doesn’t need this. You don’t have any idea what that horse has been through.”

“Of course I do. That’s why I put Nickers in with her. Cleo and I are becoming friends, but it’s not happening as fast as I hoped it would. I figured out that what she needs even more than human friendship right now is a horse friend.”

“You call this friendship? Look at them!”

Nickers has her ears back and teeth bared. She forces Cleo to back away so fast that the horse rams into the fence.

“Okay,” I admit. “They haven’t exactly hit it off as buddies. But once Nickers establishes herself as the dominant mare, then Cleo will know she’s safe. She’ll feel like she’s in a herd. She’ll understand the pecking order. That’s safety to a horse. I think she needs to know where she stands with another horse. And it should give her confidence with people, too.”

I don’t think Hank’s listening to a word I say. He’s too into watching the Nickers and Cleo show out in the pasture.

“I know you’re trying to help, Winnie. And I appreciate it. We all do. But this isn’t working. If I’d known you were planning to do this—”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” I interrupt. “Because you’re never out here. You have no idea what’s going on with this horse.”

“So,” Hank says, like he’s a volcano trying not to erupt, “that makes two of us then.” He turns and storms up the hill, back the way he came.

I stay there and keep an eye on Nickers and Cleo until they’re done fighting for position. Eventually they go to separate corners of the pasture, like boxers resting up for the next bout.

* * *

“How did it go?” Dakota rushes up to me as soon as I walk in the house. It’s clear that everybody else has gone to bed.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “They fought. And Hank was there.”

“Hank? So that would explain why he ran in here all mud-covered and mad.” Dakota grins at me. “Come on. I made you a sandwich. You can eat it in my room and tell me everything. I want details.”

We go to Dakota’s room, and I plop onto her hooked rug and scarf down the sandwich. “Hank came running out of the dark and scared me half to death.”

“What did he say?”

“Before or after he ordered me to get my wild horse out of there?”

Dakota plops onto the rug with me. “That bad?”

“Worse. Nickers
was
pretty tough on Cleo,” I admit. “She chased Cleo all around the pasture. You should have heard the squeals coming from that mare.” I shiver, thinking about it. “Hank did.”

“He heard Cleo cry out like that?” Dakota asks. “No wonder he came running. I’ve never heard squeals like the ones from Cleo during the fire. It was horrible. Hank heard those too. He had to be remembering that.”

I hadn’t thought about that. I was too busy being defensive. “I don’t know. I really thought putting Nickers in with Cleo would be such a good idea. That mare needs the stability horses only get in herds. I knew it might be rough until they had the pecking order worked out. I just didn’t know it would be
that
rough.”

Dakota scoots over to her dresser and returns with a candy bar. She hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I take a huge bite of the chocolate bar. “Maybe I made a mistake putting Nickers in the pasture with Cleo. What if Hank’s right? What if I’ve only made things worse for that poor horse?” I choke on the last word or the candy. “I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have come here at all.” I shut up because I think I’ll cry if I admit anything else.

Dakota scoots closer. She’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, facing me. “Winnie, have you prayed about all this stuff?”

“Of course.” And it’s true. I’ve prayed for Cleo every day we’ve been here and even before that.

“I mean,” Dakota presses, “have you prayed for yourself? Talked to God about everything—Cleo, Nickers, Hank . . . you. Have you talked to God about veterinarian school?”

I smile patiently at her. “Yeah. I’ve prayed about it, okay?”

“And?” She’s so intense.

“And . . . and if you want to know the truth, praying hasn’t made me feel any better. Okay? But I keep praying anyway.”

“But doesn’t that help?” she asks. “Even if you don’t feel it, even if you don’t get everything you want, everything you pray for, doesn’t it make you feel better to know God’s listening? That He loves you so much that He takes time out to hear you?”

I shrug. I want to be excited with her. Her faith is so new. But I’m too tired to fake it.

Dakota sighs. She leans against the bed, frowning. “Man, I hope that never happens to me.”

“What never happens to you?”

“Right now, for me, prayer is totally to this Father who loves me no matter how much I mess up. And believe me, that’s not like any father I had growing up.” Dakota seems to be struggling with the words, as if she’s had a dream and doesn’t know how to translate what went on in her dream. She tries again. “When I pray, it feels like God’s right in the room with me, you know? Like I’m sitting on God’s lap, asking questions and spilling out my guts. Like He’s reaching down to love me.” She’s quiet a minute, and her cheeks turn bright red. “Sounds pretty stupid saying it out loud.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I say in almost a whisper. Because I remember. I remember feeling exactly like that, as if God’s love moved with me so close and fresh that all I had to do was think about it and it blew me away. It almost hurts to remember how it used to be.

“I just don’t want to lose that kind of a relationship,” Dakota says, more to herself than to me, I think. “That kind of love.”

Dakota leaves me alone so I can take a bath and get ready for bed. I take a long time. My mind replays what Dakota said about God and love.

After my bath, I’m not sleepy at all. I’m afraid I’ll wake Kat if I try to go to sleep in her room. Everybody else is asleep, so I ease downstairs. I’d give anything to be able to talk to Lizzy right now. Dad’s called twice since I’ve been here, but I wasn’t in the house. I can’t call them back because it’s long distance. And I’m the only person on the planet who doesn’t own a cell phone.

A dim glow filters into the kitchen and dining room as the computer’s screen saver shuffles photos.

If I can’t talk to Lizzy, at least I can e-mail her. I log on to my e-mail and see four messages from Lizzy. I scan the first two, all about how she and Barker are loving the Pet Helpline. It makes me miss her even more. And looking at a computer screen isn’t the same as having the real Lizzy to talk to.

On a hunch, I decide to check her instant message. Lizzy is online!

WinnieTheHorseGentler: Lizzy! I can’t believe you’re here.

Lizzy: I couldn’t sleep. Must have been God, huh? How are you?

Lizzy: Winnie???

Lizzy: What is it?

WinnieTheHorseGentler: I want to come home. I never should have come here. I’m not helping at all. All I can do is fight with Hank. And I haven’t gotten anywhere with Cleopatra. I’ve probably made her worse. I’ve barely had time to talk to Kat, and I haven’t even helped look for her lost kitten. Plus, Dakota’s going to start wishing she had never become a Christian because she’s afraid she’s going to end up like me. I want to come home! We need the money I’m not making. And I’m worried about Dad and the electric bill and everything there. Oh, Lizzy, what am I going to do?

Lizzy: God loves you, Winnie.

WinnieTheHorseGentler: That’s it? That’s your answer? I do know that. What I need to know now, though, is—

Lizzy: God loves you so much!

WinnieTheHorseGentler: I know already!

Lizzy: Do you? Because I’ve been wondering if maybe you forgot.