Stealing Thunder
ALSO BY MARY CASANOVA
PUBLISHED BY THE UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA PRESS
Curse of a Winter Moon
Frozen
Moose Tracks
Riot
When Eagles Fall
Wolf Shadows
Stealing Thunder
Mary Casanova
THE FESLER–LAMPERT MINNESOTA HERITAGE BOOK SERIES
Funded by the John K. and Elsie Lampert Fesler Fund and Elizabeth
and the late David Fesler, the Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage Book
Series publishes significant books that contribute to an understanding
and appreciation of Minnesota and the Upper Midwest.
Originally published in 1999 by Hyperion Books for Children
First University of Minnesota Press edition, 2014
Copyright 1999 by Mary Casanova
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by the University of Minnesota Press
111 Third Avenue South, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401-2520
http://www.upress.umn.edu
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Casanova, Mary.
Stealing Thunder / Mary Casanova. —
Summary: Libby visits her neighbor’s spirited horse Thunder every day,
grooming and riding him. When Mr. Porter starts to abuse Thunder, she
decides to steal him away to safety with the help of her new friend Griff.
ISBN 978-0-8166-9210-1 (pb : alk. paper)
[1. Horses-Fiction. 2. Animals-Treatment-Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C266St 2014
[Fic]-dc23
2014007914
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
The University of Minnesota is an equal-opportunity educator
and employer.
20 19 18 17 16 15 14 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my writers’ group, who helped me face the hard questions,
and for Katie, Eric, and Chas—for always being there.
Many thanks also to my editor, Julia Richardson;
my agent, Kendra Marcus;
and to the orchard workers in LaCrescent, Minnesota,
especially those at the real Apple Shed.
CHAPTER ONE
Round and nearly full, the August moon shone on the Mississippi. It lit up sandstone bluffs riddled with rattlesnake holes. Bullfrogs croaked under its milky white beam. Like a search light, it flooded the highland apple orchards of southeastern Minnesota—as if showcasing the coming harvest—and crept into the Roselli’s front porch.
Libby stirred on the porch couch. She pushed strands of hair from her eyes, reached to the wicker table, fumbled for her watch, and found it: 11:37. She’d slept—what—maybe half an hour? Suddenly wide awake, she felt the familiar feeling return. Free-falling. The way she’d felt since she found Jolene’s letter in the mailbox, only four days ago. It was as if she were losing her footing, plummeting down a bottomless ravine.
She pulled on shorts beneath her cranberry T-shirt crammed her feet into her tennis shoes, and stood. Her breathing filled her ears. She listened for her parents, a footstep, a door opening … . Nothing. The house was quiet.
The words of Mr. Lenkin, her sixth-grade English teacher, rolled through her head: “Desperate needs require desperate deeds.” She thought of her plan. A shiver tiptoed up her spine. She lifted the front door hook—glad that she’d chosen the porch over her hot upstairs bedroom—and silently slipped outside.
The air was bathwater-warm and sweetly scented with Jersey Macs, her favorite and always the first apples to ripen. Crickets rubbed their wings and pulsed high notes. The moon shone on the towering swallow house, which stood in the front yard, and painted everything silvery white: the three oaks, the gravel driveway and the orchard. Libby followed the edge of the crescent-shaped rose bed, walked beneath the oaks, then broke into a run. Dew on the grass soaked her ankles as she raced left and north between long rows of apple trees.
A brown rabbit zigzagged ahead of her, followed by a fox, its tail tipped white. She slowed her pace to watch them disappear—hoped the rabbit would escape—then ran on.
Breathless, Libby reached the white fence that divided her family’s orchard from Northwind Stables. She placed her hands on the top board, its paint chipped and peeling. On the other side of the fence, her shadow waited, its shoulder-length hair wild as an osprey’s nest. She could almost hear her friends Emily and Rachel say, “You brush Thunder’s mane more than you brush your own.” Well, they were at Girl Scout camp. For a while, she didn’t have to worry about their opinions of her “mousy-brown” hair.
Libby stared at the glowing pasture. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. To cross the fence without Mr. Porter’s permission, especially at night, would be trespassing, breaking the law. But in another way, it wouldn’t. Not really. She was just going to visit Thunderbird, a friend. Jolene—for sure—would understand.
For three years Libby had cleaned out Northwind stalls, brushed down horses, polished tack—whatever was needed. In exchange, Jolene Porter had given her riding lessons, and in June, Jolene had occasionally allowed her to exercise Thunderbird—Jolene’s favorite—the seven-year old Appaloosa who was too spirited for beginners. “You have a way with him,” Jolene had said, as Libby rode around her in the outdoor ring. Jolene had smiled up from under her riding cap and red hair. “Or he has a way with you. It’s never clear which comes first.”
Libby thought of the neatly folded letter—a two-inch square—in her pocket. She knew it by heart:
Dear Libby,
We didn’t sell Thunder at auction with the rest because Jim feels he can get more by selling the last three horses separately. I know how much you love Thunder, but we just can’t take less than $5,000 for him.
Thanks for all your help. I don’t know when or if I’ll be back. Sorry to leave without a real good-bye.
Hugs,
Jolene
With all the arguments about money she’d overheard between the Porters recently, she knew they had to close the stable, but she hadn’t expected Jolene to leave.
Since then, Libby had wanted to ask Mr. Porter’s permission to see the horses, but his truck was always gone. She’d begged her parents, “Please, can’t we buy him? We could fix up a spot for him in the old barn.” On their other orchard, only three miles away, was a farmhouse and barn, still standing—barely. But her parents wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t only the money. It was harvest time, and the last thing they wanted to do, they said, was take on a horse.
As if a sharp stone were lodged in her chest, she ached to see Thunder. She climbed through the fence and glanced over her shoulder at the moon. Its cratered face mouthed “Oh,” as if in alarm.
With two fingers to her mouth, she whistled. Twice. Then waited. The pasture glowed, and she could see clear across it to the training ring, paddock, and horse barn. Though the horses were usually brought inside for the night, she’d watched earlier, at dusk, from her bedroom window and saw them grazing. She hoped they’d still be out.
Pumpa-pum—pumpa-pum …
Hoofbeats drummed across the field. Libby turned. Galloping toward her, under waves of bluish light, raced Thunderbird. The Appaloosa tossed his head. His brown mane a
nd long tail whipped. He ran in a wide arc, his neck curved like that of a warrior horse. Soon his dark socks slowed to a prance. His rump—a blanket of white with countless brown spots—marked him a descendent of the horses bred by the Nez Perce Indians. He stopped in front of Libby and whinnied loud and clear, his greeting rumbling deep in his chest. He pushed his muzzle toward her pocket.
Libby pulled out a sugar cube and let him take it from her palm. “One for now,” she told him, “and one when we’re done, okay?”
She touched his red halter, and shook her head. If Jolene were here, the horse wouldn’t be put out to pasture with a halter, which could get caught on fencing. She patted his back; at fourteen and a half hands in height, he was neither too big nor too small. He trembled. “Whoa,” she said. “Steady now.” With both hands, she jumped hard, using all her ninety-two pounds of strength to muscle herself across his back, then swung her leg over.
“Walk,” she said, without touching her heels to his sides. Gently, she grabbed a tuft of his mane in her left hand. He stepped into an easy gate. “Canter,” she said. The Appaloosa gathered his legs, picked up speed, and shifted into a smooth rocking motion. The night was awash with smells of damp grass, the tang of horses, and ripe apples. She let go of his mane and held out her arms, as if she were flying.
At the clover patch on the pasture’s western edge, Thunder eased up, settled into an easy trot. Then walked. “Whoa,” Libby said. He stopped and lowered his head to clover.
She stretched her legs behind her, across Thunder’s rump. She ran her hand along his neck; his hair was almost as soft as Mitts’s newborn kittens. For the past two weeks—under the bench outside Thunder’s stall—the kittens had curled beneath their calico mother, purring and mewing.
Time passed. Libby sat up on Thunder. Damp air clung to her legs. A breeze rustled the oak tops. Suddenly she shivered. “We better go back.”
From the direction of the barn came a voice. “Thunnnnder!” It was Mr. Porter’s, and he was using the surest way to lure in a reluctant horse—rustle-rush-rush—shaking oats back and forth in a bucket.
Libby groaned. “Oh, no … ” Thunder pivoted, leaned into his shoulder, then bolted toward the sound. “Whoa!” When he was bridled, she could control him, but now Thunder lurched forward into a gallop. Libby clung to his back.
Libby glanced at the ground flying by and tightened her legs around Thunder’s sides. The horse picked up speed, and flew across the pasture.
Seconds later, he came to an abrupt halt, nearly jolting Libby over his head, but she hung on.
Mr. Porter grabbed Thunder’s halter with a jerk. Thunder threw back his head. His muscles tensed beneath Libby. She felt heat rise to her face, and wished she could vanish.
“Hey! Settle down!” commanded Mr. Porter. He looked up and yelled, “What kind of stupid. … ” He pushed back his broad shoulders, and—in the controlled, molasses-smooth voice he used as a radio announcer on KQQR Country—asked, “Libby, just what’s going on here?”
Her words got stuck somewhere between her brain and her tongue. “Um … I … ” She tried to smile. “I’ll put him in,” she managed.
“Tried calling him earlier, but he just stared—stupid as a cow.” Porter shook his head. “Why we thought he’d be a prize horse, I’ll never know.”
Libby slid down and stood, finding her legs wobbly as a newborn foal’s. She pushed her hands into her pockets and closed her right fingers around Jolene’s letter. “He’s just spirited,” she said.
“He’s got his own ideas, that’s for sure.” Mr. Porter gripped the halter beneath Thunder’s chin, then yanked down hard. Thunder threw back his head—eyes wide, whites flashing. Porter yanked again, settling him. “But I got him now.”
Leading Thunder, Porter stepped through the paddock gate toward the barn’s back door. Suddenly, Thunder planted his forelegs, stopped abruptly, and pitted his strength in the loose dirt against Porter’s.
“Hey!” Porter yelled. “You’re not pulling that bull on me.” He pivoted toward the horse, one hand still on the halter, and aimed a swift kick at Thunder’s belly.
Libby opened her mouth as the toe of Porter’s worn cowboy boot hit with a sickening thud. Thunder jumped sideways. Porter stormed toward the barn, and this time, Thunder followed him.
Like a quiet barn mouse, Libby slipped in behind them. She sank down on the bench between Thunder’s stall and the tack room. Across from her, Cincinnati, the white Arabian, and Two-Step, the bay quarter-horse, hung their heads out of their stalls, watching. The other fifteen stalls were dark. Strangely empty. Libby hung her head and squeezed her hands tight between her knobby knees.
Ka-klunk. Porter slid the bolt across Thunder’s stall. “There,” he said. “Now I can get some sleep.” He tilted his chin toward Libby. “You get home now. And ask before coming over. Got it?”
“But … ” Libby said.
“I know you used to help with the horses,” Porter began, “but with only three, I can take care of them now.”
Libby reached beneath the bench to Mitts’ birthing bed, a wooden crate. She groped, searching for the kittens’ soft fur, but she found only the folds of the ragged flannel blanket. She scooted off the bench, got down on her knees, and looked more closely. “Um, Mr. Porter,” she asked. “Where are the kittens?”
Porter leaned against Thunder’s stall door, arms crossed. “One cat’s plenty,” he said, scratching his unshaven face. “Too many and they spread disease.” He paused to pull a cigarette from his white shirt pocket. “You ever see those animal shelters?” He snapped his lighter at the end of his cigarette, inhaled until the tobacco glowed red, then exhaled. “Sometimes,” he said, smoke swirling with his words, “you gotta do what’s best.”
“What do you mean?” She rose slowly.
“You’re not gonna understand, but just like on the farm over in Wisconsin when I was a kid … ” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Mississippi, as if that explained everything.
Iciness flooded her. “Where are they?” she asked, her voice thin as skim milk.
“A gunnysack and stones.” The cigarette glowed again, then Porter exhaled sharply.
She pictured the one white kitten, the way it had nestled under her neck, the way it had licked her palm with its pink tongue. Her mouth went dry. Her chest hurt, as if cinched too tight. She could have found homes for them, put ads in the paper, hung signs around town. She wanted to shout, to scream, to yell, but she turned away—throat burning—and took off through the barn.
She raced across the pasture, stumbled at a sudden dip in the terrain, and fell. She jumped up and ran on until she reached the fence, then scrambled through the boards. She stopped, and couldn’t help but look back.
Beneath the yellow glow of the stable light, Mr. Porter shut the barn door, then walked toward his house.
Libby swallowed hard. The kittens. There was nothing she could do about them now. But what about Thunder? The whites of his eyes flashed in her mind.
In moonlight, she spun away and sprinted home through the orchard.
CHAPTER TWO
Libby’s mom peered over the cereal box on the counter and sniffed twice. “You sure smell horsy. Thought you took a shower last night.”
Libby sat on the oak stool, head down, munching.
“Horses must be in your blood,” Mom added with a laugh. “The smell’s comin’ from your pores.”
“Very funny,” Libby said, hoping to throw Mom—who had the nose of a bloodhound—offtrack.
In jeans and a Roselli Orchards T-shirt, her mother leaned against the sink, grease marks on her tan wrists, black hair cut close to her head. “Libby,” she began. “I wish we had the time and money for a horse, I really do.”
“Not just any horse,” Libby muttered. “Thunderbird.”
“I know,” Mom sighed, “buying a horse is just the start of the expenses. Besides, you don’t have to own something to enjoy it, y’know. When we camp at state parks, we d
on’t have to own the land to have fun, do we?”
Libby studied her cereal. Of course they’d had fun at Gooseberry Falls and Itasca State Parks, but that was different. Libby kept silent.
Her mother continued. “Even without owning Thunder, you have so much to be grateful for—all the wonderful times you’ve spent together. But we’ve been through all that, haven’t we?”
“A thousand times,” Libby muttered.
“Saying good-bye to someone you love,” Mom said, “is never easy.”
Libby wanted to tell her mother about the kittens and how the horses weren’t being treated right. But then she’d have to explain being out last night.
The phone rang.
Libby’s heart leaped. She glanced at the red wall phone and cringed. She hoped it wasn’t Porter calling to complain.
On the first ring, Mom picked it up. “Hello?”
Libby curled her toes around the bottom rung of her stool and shoveled in a spoonful of cereal. How would she explain herself? That she’d been sleepwalking? Sleep-riding? She stared at the crossword puzzle on the back of the cereal box as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Her parents wouldn’t be happy if they found out she’d snuck out after dark. It would shatter their “good girl” image of her. Just last week, when Libby’s parents had friends over for a bonfire, Dad embarrassed her by snugging his arm around her shoulder. “Some parents constantly complain about their kids,” he’d said, roasting a marshmallow. “With this girl, I’m always bragging. Libby doesn’t give me any reason to worry. She’s perfect.” Libby had edged away from him. Sometimes her parents made her feel more like a puppet than a person.
“Uh-huh,” Mom said, phone to her ear. “No, I’m sorry. We’re not interested.” Libby relaxed. Mom hung up and stepped to the sliding kitchen screen door. “Soon as you’re done eating, come on out.” The round kitchen clock showed 10:36. Libby had slept in. “Dad’s been packing boxes since six-thirty. He has a few workers, but he can always use more help.” Then she was gone.
Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 1
