“Like it?” she asks, doing that angel smile of hers. She rubs her cheek against the kitten she’s holding.
“It’s different,” I say, trying to decide if this is the real Kat.
“Thanks! I like different.”
“Me too.” I reach out to pet her kitten, but it squirms to get away.
“Don’t take it personally,” Kat says. “Kitten’s shy. I’m going to write Catman about her.” She runs her finger along the kitten’s gray-white head. “Better hurry. You missed Mom, but Dad made breakfast.” She dips out, closing the door after her.
“Morning, Dakota!” Popeye calls when I come downstairs.
“Morning . . . Popeye,” I answer, trying the name out loud. He doesn’t flinch.
“Sad, sad, sad that you missed Miami. She looked radiant today. I tell you, that woman gets more beautiful every day! Don’t you agree, Wes?”
“Whatever.” Wes is working through a stack of pancakes that appear to be dog shaped. Rex is at his feet.
I pour myself a glass of juice. Dogs are barking somewhere. “Is that coming from upstairs?”
“Yeah.” Wes says this like I’ve challenged him to a duel. “So?”
Popeye smiles at both of us. “You’ll have to get Wes to tell you about his dog business. He’s placed over two dozen dogs, and none have been returned.”
“Cool. Mind if I check e-mail?” I ask.
“Be my guest.” Popeye stabs a bacon strip and slaps it into the frying pan. “Never quite took to the e-mail. Give me real junk mail, the kind that shows up in the mailbox out front. And love letters! What would have become of all my love letters to Miami if they’d been love e-mails? Which reminds me . . .” He grabs a handful of letters from the counter and hands them to Wes. “Wes, would you run these out to the mailbox and put the flag up so the postman will take them? He’ll be here any minute.”
Wes sighs, but he does it.
I move to the computer. When the screen pops on, I’m in someone’s in-box. “Okay if I close out of this account and go to mine?”
“Go right ahead,” Popeye says, still frying up bacon. “Miami forgets when she’s in a hurry, which she always is. Now, she’s a different story when it comes to e-mail. Uses it all the time. Why, I remember one time when . . .”
I’m only half listening as I log in to my account.
Yes! Neil’s written me back already. Right below my question “How am I supposed to get up to Chicago?” Neil’s written one word: Drive.
This is so Neil. Just because he never worries about anything and always finds a way to get what he wants, he thinks everybody should be like that. I check when he sent the e-mail. Three minutes ago. I don’t see instant messenger on this computer, but there’s a chance I can catch Neil while he’s still online.
As fast as I can, I type a reply:
Neil, how am I going to drive to Chicago?
A. I don’t have a car.
B. I don’t know how to drive!
I hit Send and wait.
“Dakota, would you like a short stack of pancakes?” Popeye asks.
“No thanks,” I answer, staring at the screen, willing an e-mail to appear.
“We must eat to keep up our strength,” Popeye insists.
“Okay.”
Ding. New mail.
It’s from Neil. He’s actually there, at the other end of cyberspace. Neil has typed in answers to my twofold question:
Dakota says: I don’t have a car.
Neil says: GET ONE.
Dakota says: I don’t know how to drive.
Neil says: LEARN.
Thanks a lot, Neil.
I log off, knowing that’s as far as I can take this with Neil. What he’s saying between the lines is: Dakota, grow up. If I can get you from Chicago to California, the least you can do is get to Chicago.
And he’s right. It’s up to me.
As soon as I sit at the table, Popeye sets down a plate of horse-head pancakes. “Would you prefer cats or dogs?” he offers.
“Horses are good,” I assure him.
Wes comes back from the mailbox, snaps a leash on Rex, and leaves without a word. This kid really doesn’t like me.
Kat walks through the kitchen, carrying four cats and tossing me a smile before going outside.
I wolf down the pancakes, which turn out to be pretty good as long as I don’t think of it as biting off a horse’s ear. Then I head outside, glad for the alone time. I need to work things out. How am I going to learn to drive, and what can I drive to Chicago?
As I walk toward the barn, I gaze up at the blue sky streaked with wisps of white.
“Heads up!”
I turn in time to see Hank riding a big, brown horse straight at me.
“Dakota! Out of the way!” he shouts.
I scurry backwards as horse and Hank race by me in a blur. A few yards up the hill, the horse stops. It trots in small circles for a while before settling to a prancing walk.
My heart is still pounding at the close call, but I can’t take my gaze off the beautiful horse with a black mane that flows over its arched neck. It looks like the pictures I used to cut out of horse magazines and get in trouble for when the library reported on me. I think it’s a bay, but what I know about horses only comes from books.
When I was kid, I went through a horse-crazy stage, which was pretty stupid since I’d never even touched a real horse. I used to beg my dad for a horse. He’d laugh. Then I begged him to take me somewhere so I could at least see a real horse. He’d raise his arm and pull it back, like he was going to hit me. I don’t have a single photo of my parents, but that’s the picture of Dad I carry around in my head: one arm raised, ready to hit, the other hand wrapped around a beer can.
After Dad died and I went to live with the first foster family, I checked out horse books from the library and read every horse story I could find. I stopped when I realized I’d never own a horse of my own, no matter what I did.
Hank rides up to me, but I can tell he’s in control now. He’s riding English—no saddle horn, and a four-rein bridle. “Dakota, I’m sorry. He just got away from me. You okay?”
“I’m okay,” I answer, breathing in the smell of horse. It’s sweet and powerful. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a horse. I want to touch him so much.
Hank reaches down and strokes the horse’s sweaty neck. The bay relaxes, but his eyes flick, like he’s watching for the enemy.
Hank keeps scratching under the bay’s mane.
The scratching stops, and Hank grins sheepishly at me. “I’m really sorry about that. I’m trying to work the kinks out of this fella so his owners won’t trade him in. He’s a good horse. He’s just never been handled right. I can’t believe they’ve been riding him with this bit. It’s a bad fit. He caught it between his teeth, held on, and that was that. I couldn’t control him. I’m switching to a snaffle.”
“With the break in the middle?” I ask, picturing a page of bits from one of the library books I memorized when I was a kid.
Hank looks surprised, but he doesn’t ask. “That’s the one.” He leans forward and smooths the bay’s mane.
“He’s beautiful.” I reach to pet him, but he tosses his head.
“Come on, Lancelot,” Hank coos. “You’re such a good boy. You’ve just got more than your share of bad habits. Not your fault.” Hank smiles at me. His mouth is crooked, in kind of a cute way. “This is the horse I wrote Winnie about yesterday.”
“Maybe you better write her again,” I suggest, wondering if he’ll get the tease.
He gets it. I can tell by his crooked grin. “You want to meet a truly great horse? Meet me in the barn.” He starts off on Lancelot, then pivots around. “Give me 15 minutes to cool this one down. Then I’ll introduce you to Starlight. She’s worth the wait.”
“Starlight?” I repeat. “As in Starlight Animal Rescue?”
“Yep!” he calls back. “Don’t go anywhere.”
This reminds me that I need v
ery much to go somewhere. Chicago. Why am I fooling with horses when what I really need is a car?
Annie Coolidge’s red sports car is out of the question. She probably drives it to work every day. I’d be afraid to borrow it anyway. I need something older. When I get to Chicago, I’ll let them know where they can pick it up. I’m not a car thief.
There’s not another car in sight on the property. Still, I can’t imagine they’d be stuck out here without one. With his duties as a part-time fireman, Popeye’s got to have wheels.
I decide to explore. I circle the house, but there’s nothing. Then I lap the barn. Parked at the far end is an old beater pickup, with a snub nose, rusted high fenders, a metal truck bed, and a missing tailgate. I’m guessing this monstrosity has got to be 50 years old. Could it still run?
I walk closer. The tires are good. I glance both ways, then get in. The seat’s huge, with gray tape stuck at weird angles to hold in the foam stuffing. It smells like hay and manure. My feet don’t reach the pedals.
I go for the glove compartment and bump into the knobbed stick on the floor. Great. So not only do I have to learn to drive, I have to learn to drive a stick shift.
I feel around the glove box for a key. Nothing. I check the visor. It’s there. At least I can find out if the old truck will start. I stick the key in the ignition and turn when someone yells:
“Hey! What are you doing in there?”
Seven
“You heard me! What do you think you’re doing?”
I nearly jump out of my skin at the shrill voice.
A girl about my age is standing at the window, glaring in at me. “This is private property.” She narrows green eyes at me. Her auburn hair is short and stylish. I’m not sure what her face looks like because she’s wearing enough makeup to put on her own theater production. Her name-brand jeans cost more than everything in my suitcase. “Well? What are you doing in Hank’s truck?”
So the truck is Hank’s? I don’t answer her. I open the truck door, and she has to step back or be hit by it. Neil taught me that the best defense is a good offense. I shift into my best offensive manner. “I live here. This is my home. And the last time I looked, you weren’t part of it. You’re the one on private property.”
“Me?” she asks, sounding outraged. “Hank and I are . . . friends! I’ve never seen you around here before. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” I ask, not backing off. “What are you doing here?”
“My horse is here! Hank is helping me train it.”
“Lancelot, right?” That makes sense. No wonder the poor horse is so mixed up.
She nods. I think I’ve surprised her again by knowing her horse’s name.
“So,” I say, taking a step toward her, “what’s your name?”
“Guinevere.”
I laugh. “Cute. What’s your real name?”
Her eyes get even skinnier—green slits under perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Guinevere!”
“Oh.” I think she’s telling the truth. Maybe it’s time to make nice and play well with others. “So, what do they call you? Gwen? Gwenie?”
“Guinevere,” she says through clenched teeth.
Hank strolls out from the barn. “Hey! I didn’t hear you drive up.”
Guinevere doesn’t turn from our stare-down. “I didn’t. Daddy dropped me off at the road, and I walked in. Then I found her in your truck.”
“Great!” Hank says, sounding totally clueless to the drama before him. “Then you two met already?”
“Gwen and I are gal pals,” I answer. “Could I meet Starlight now?”
“Sure.” Hank turns back to the barn, and Guinevere shoves me aside to walk next to him.
“Who is she?” Guinevere whispers.
“I’m sorry,” Hank says, turning back to me. “I thought you guys did this already. Dakota, this is Guinevere La Roche. Guinevere, Dakota Brown.”
“Dakota?” Now it’s her turn to laugh. “And you made fun of my name? What kind of a name is ‘Dakota’ anyway?”
On cue, I let my face fall. I stare at my fingers and let my voice shake. “It’s . . . it’s the only name I have. My parents abandoned me on the plains of North Dakota when I was just a baby. I was almost dead when Indians found me. They called me ‘Dakota’ because that’s all they knew about me. The foster system added ‘Brown.’”
It isn’t true. None of it. But the story gets the reaction it always does.
“Oh wow,” Guinevere says, her mouth curling as if she’s eaten something sour.
Hank’s crooked grin half forms on his lips. I can almost see his brain connecting the dots. “Right. So, you want to see Starlight or not?”
In answer, I stride ahead of them and into the barn. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine, but there’s quite a bit of light inside the barn too. Windows let in sunshine all along the loft. I can see four stalls, and there are probably four more on the other aisle. The front half of the barn is taken up by a wooden, circular pen.
Lancelot stands at the far end of the pen. But when he hears us, he starts walking over. Then he sees Guinevere. His ears flatten, and he stops in the center of the ring.
“Hank,” Guinevere whines, “you said you’d teach him to come to me.”
“I’m working on it,” Hank says, climbing into the pen with Lancelot.
I want to see how he handles the horse, so I climb in too.
Guinevere glances from Hank to me like she’d better not get left out. Then she climbs in. “Here, Lancelot,” she calls, striding toward the horse.
“Don’t walk straight at him,” Hank cautions.
“What?” Even as she says it, it’s clear that she heard Hank. She just doesn’t like being told what to do.
“Come at him from the side,” Hank says. “That way he’ll see you coming and won’t be so scared of you.”
“Scared of me? My horse is probably scared of her.” Guinevere points in my direction. She takes a few steps toward her horse, and he trots away.
“I’ve just about had it with that horse,” she complains. “Maybe Daddy’s right and I just picked the wrong horse. Daddy found this beautiful five-gaited mare in Indiana.”
“Don’t give up on Lance,” Hank begs. “I just need more time with him.”
She smiles at Hank, softens, and becomes a sweet, flirty Guinevere I haven’t seen before. Truth is, I don’t like this Guinevere any better than the other Guineveres I’ve seen today. “Well, I guess more time with Lancelot means more time with me.”
I think I may puke. Since I haven’t budged from my spot by the railing, I start to climb out the way I came in.
“Wait, Dakota,” Hank calls. “Where are you going?”
“To find Starlight,” I answer.
“I’ll come with you,” he says, jogging to the fence and bounding over it. “Starlight’s over this way.”
I follow and wait for him to open the stall door. The top half of the double door is already open. Before he steps inside, he’s greeted by a gorgeous brown and white Paint.
“Starlight,” Hank says, scratching the mare under her chin until she stretches her neck toward him in pure pleasure, “this is Dakota.”
“She’s great.” I step around for a better look. “How long—?” I stop. I can see now that something’s wrong with her eyes. Really wrong. They’re white and shiny, like solid marbles. “Hank, what happened to your horse?” My voice cracks on “horse,” and something catches in my throat.
“She’s okay, Dakota. I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I forget what it looks like to other people. Starlight was born blind. Her owner wanted to put her down. The vet told Dad, and we brought her home with us. The dam, her mother, died giving birth to her, so we had to feed her from a bottle. We almost lost her. She was our first animal rescue.”
“So you named the place after her. And she gets along okay?” I realize that I’m stroking her neck the way Hank had stroked Lancelot’s neck. She’s soft and warm,
and she doesn’t flinch or try to get away from me.
“Better than okay.” Hank pulls a metal hook from his back pocket and starts cleaning her hooves. “It was tough for a long time, even after we knew she’d live. She was scared of everything because she couldn’t see what was coming at her.”
“And now?”
“Now she’s spook-proof. I can ride her in a parade and she won’t shy.” Hank cleans her back hooves, then returns to her head. “I couldn’t ask for a better horse.”
“Hank!” Guinevere shouts from the pen. I can only imagine how her horse hates that shrill shout.
Hank grins at me. “Better go.”
“Are you doing this as a favor to Guinevere?” I ask, wondering how he could stand to have her around.
“Kind of. Partly for the fee her dad pays. We use it to run the Rescue. I guess I’m mostly doing it for Lancelot, though. I’m afraid they’ll sell him at auction, and who knows where he’ll end up? The Rescue is his last chance.”
“Hank!” Guinevere’s shout has turned to a whine.
Hank leaves the stall, letting me stay where I am. I can’t believe he’s not afraid I’ll hurt his horse. I stay with the mare for quite a while, hoping Guinevere will be gone when I come out.
No such luck. When I walk up the barn aisle, I see her hanging all over Hank while he tries to explain something about Lancelot. I slip around to the other aisle, out of sight, and tiptoe past the stalls.
When I get to the end, I hear Guinevere’s laugh. It sounds like she’s coming toward me. I duck into the nearest stall.
“She’s probably gone back to the house, Hank,” Guinevere says. “I can’t believe your parents would take on another foster kid, especially one who’s so old.”
“It’ll be fine,” Hank says.
“Fine, then. But come on back. I don’t have all day.”
I hear footsteps walking away and Hank saying something I can’t make out.
The stalls on this side of the barn aren’t as bright as the other side. It takes my eyes a second to adjust. When I glance behind me, I see a dark shadow. My hand flies to my mouth to keep me from screaming.
It’s a horse, huddled in the far corner of the stall. He’s black—the blackest black I’ve ever seen—without a white hair on him. Black as fire, I think, although I know fire isn’t black. Somehow it fits, though. I stare at him. He’s taller than Starlight, but leaner. Not a quarter horse. His muscles ripple on his neck and rump. I think he’s quivering. He’s scared.
Runaway Page 4
