CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Libby,” Porter said, approaching in the dim light, “you should be ashamed.”
Motionless, Libby sat on the chair. The skin around her foot felt tight, ready to burst. “I had to protect him,” she said. Anger flared in her chest. “From you!”
“Protect him? Right.” Porter walked closer. “A woman phoned. Saw a horse kick her dog in the teeth, asked if I knew whose horse it might be. She described you and your friend.”
“But how’d you know … ” Griff asked.
“Oh, c’mon. This property and barn … first place to look.” He fixed a longer gaze on Griff. “Aren’t you the kid they caught lighting garbage cans on fire back of Shooter’s Hardware?”
Griff shook his head. “No … it was firecrackers, that’s all. It was just for fun. I wasn’t trying to start … ” He stopped and pulled back, tucking his head in like a retreating turtle. “Besides, what do you care?”
Porter turned to Libby again. “Hang out with trouble,” he said, “you get in trouble. And I thought you were a good kid, Lib.”
Lib. As if he were a close friend. Libby squared her arms over her chest. “I am a good kid,” she said. But what energy she had suddenly withered. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Thunder rumbled, leaned his head over the stall, and nudged his muzzle against the top of her head.
“And here you are,” Porter said, legs planted apart, three yards in front of Libby, “with whose horse?” His face compressed, then he shouted, “Whose horse is this, anyway?!”
Like a kitten trapped in a sack, Libby’s heart flip-flopped.
Griff stepped from the stall and stretched his arm in front of her. “You don’t have to answer him. He knows.”
Libby understood what Jolene had to deal with all those years. Embers of anger sparked into flame. “It’s okay, Griff.” She firmly moved his arm away and though her hands trembled, she looked up and met Porter’s glare. “By law,” she said, “you own him. But Thunder will never really belong to you. I’m the one who loves him. He should belong to me.”
“Huh,” Porter said, seemingly caught off-guard. He crossed his arms and turned on his radio voice. “That’s a good speech you’ve worked up, but I’m taking this horse home, then I’m pressing charges against you and this other kid—for horse theft.”
“But … ” Libby leaped to her feet—instant mistake—and crumpled to the ground. She held her left knee to her chest and let out a sharp cry.
“You’re too much,” Porter said, turning away to the stall. “You should take up acting.” He unhooked the latch and grabbed Thunder. “C’mon, Thunder,” he said, his voice cool and controlled. “Let’s get you home where you belong.” The Appaloosa snorted, but followed Porter out of the barn.
Griff hurried after them and watched from the doorway. “He’s … jeez … he’s making Thunder keep up with him, just holding the reins from his cab window. And he’s not going very slow, either.”
Libby dangled her legs on either side of Griff’s bike seat. With every bump in the road, her foot throbbed. Every so often he asked, “How ya doin’?”
“Okay,” she lied.
She hung on to Griff’s waist as his body moved up and down over the pedals. His back grew warm and sweaty beneath his T-shirt. “Good thing for the hills—downhill, that is,” he said, puffing up another incline. They reached the top, then coasted down the next hill.
At long last they passed the stable and turned into the Rosellis’ driveway. Starlings sang gratingly from the oaks, as if it were their duty to wake up Ruby and alert her. Libby slid off the bike onto her good foot. “Here,” Griff said, “use my shoulder.” Libby hobbled along, one hand on Griff, until she made it to her doorstep. “Thanks,” she managed, then using the step railing, hopped to the top step, and slowly, slowly turned the front porch door handle.
Before stepping in, she waved good-bye.
Griff nodded, then jumped on his bike. His tires rumbled over gravel and soon grew faint and silent.
Libby eased herself into her cotton-lined sleeping bag, found the least painful position for her foot, and closed her eyes.
For the next hour, she replayed the night through her mind. If only she’d thought of another place to take Thunder, but where? Her mind drifted, in and out of half-sleep, always circling back to the unbearable pain in her foot.
As the sun climbed higher, Libby heard sounds of stirring. Sounds of Ruby filling the tea kettle with water. Before long, Ruby stepped from the living room out onto the porch. Her face was freshly made up, brighter than the morning sun spilling onto Libby’s sleeping bag.
“Morning,” she said. “Sorry to wake you, but I knew you’d want to know … ”
“What?” Libby raised her head off her pillow, then with a shiver of pain from her foot to her teeth, let out a moan. She dropped back and forced herself to be still.
“Jolene’s back. Spotted her little blue car pullin’ in over there just a few minutes ago.”
Libby started to sit up, then laid down abruptly. “I have to talk to her.”
“Well, there’s always the phone,” Ruby said.
The thought of getting to the kitchen phone was too much. “Say, are you okay?” Ruby squatted on broad knees beside Libby and touched her forehead with the flat of her hand, which felt cool. “Are you sick?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Libby muttered, and felt tears reaching flood level.
“How about some Tylenol?” Ruby asked.
“Yeah, and an ice pack, too. In the freezer.”
After Ruby examined Libby’s foot, she insisted on calling her parents, who arrived within the hour. Her mother stared at Libby’s swollen foot. “My gosh, Libby. How did this happen?”
“I twisted it after the bonfire,” Libby said. “Fell.” That was all she wanted to say. Actually, talking was hard.
By eleven, they were in Dr. Hasbro’s office. The doctor poked her tiny fingers along Libby’s ankle and foot bones. When she hit the mark, Libby clenched her teeth.
“Ow! That hurts!”
The doctor looked up at Libby’s parents, who stood side by side as if waiting for orders. “We’ll want to see X-rays,” she said. A nurse rolled in a wheelchair, smiled broadly, as if showing off the extra-wide space between her front teeth, and said, “Looks like I get to take you for a ride.” Libby was rolled to the X-ray lab, then returned again.
Before long, Dr. Hasbro put the black-and-white film up on the lit viewing screen. She pointed out two faint jagged lines, like lines etched in fine marble. “The good news,” she said, “is your ankle’s fine.”
“Well, that’s good,” Dad said.
“The bad news,” the doctor said, arms around the clipboard and pressed to her chest, “is that you fractured two foot bones.”
While Libby sat on an examination table, holding her foot at a right angle, toes toward the ceiling, the doctor fit white mesh around her calf and foot, then wrapped it around and around in white gauze. “We’ll put a temporary cast on today. Then later this week you’ll get a permanent cast, the kind your friends can sign. Oh, and you’ll need crutches. At least at first.”
“Crutches? I won’t be able to do anything.” How was she going to check up on Thunder? Who would look out for him?
“Oh, sure you will,” her mother said.
“And,” the doctor continued, “you should prop up your leg—two pillows under your knee, three under your foot, keep it above heart level—for the next twenty-four hours to keep down the swelling.”
“Twenty-four hours?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The first thing Libby did once she got home was to hobble into the house on her silver crutches with yellow shoulder and hand pads, and get to the phone. Why had she once thought crutches would be fun? They were extremely hard work. She leaned them against the wall, pushed two stools toward the glass windows, then grabbed the phone. She sat on the stool. Her foot wasn’t elevated above her heart with pillows un
der it, but she’d do that after she spoke with Jolene.
She dialed and looked out the sliding glass doors. Beyond the rows of green-leafed trees, fence and pasture, Jolene’s car glinted like a sapphire in the Porters’ driveway. God, don’t let Mr. Porter answer, please. It rang once, twice, three times, four.
“Hello?” came Jolene’s voice. She sounded distant, more of an acquaintance than a friend.
“Jolene?” Libby said. “It’s me … hi. I just … ”
“Oh, Libby, hi. Nice to hear your voice.”
“Yeah, well, Ruby saw your car.” She tried to smile. “Said you were home.”
There was a pause. “Bet you think I’m kind of silly writing that note … ” Jolene said, adding a light laugh that lacked sparkle. “But I’m back to stay.”
“So,” Libby said, “I was wondering … I can’t today, but tomorrow … can I come over?”
There was silence.
Libby wondered if Jolene hadn’t heard. “Could I come over tomorrow?”
Suddenly, the phone was muffled, but Libby could hear conversation:
“Who is it?” asked Mr. Porter.
“Just Libby.”
“I’m sick of that kid always hanging around here. Tell her no. Jeez. You don’t need her help anymore. Can’t we have some privacy for a change?”
Jolene came back on the line. “Uh, hi,” Jolene said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. You know, Jim and I probably need some time alone for a bit. We’re working on things. So better if we wait awhile before you come over.”
“Wait? Like … um … how long?”
“Um … oh, maybe a few weeks, perhaps.”
“Maybe never,” came Mr. Porter’s voice, followed by a snort-laugh.
“I miss our rides, too, Libby,” Jolene said softly, warmly. “Thanks so much for calling.”
“But … ”
“Listen, I have to … ”
Suddenly, the phone slammed in Libby’s ear. Libby held the phone, the dial tone buzzing, and studied its glowing push buttons. It wasn’t like Jolene to hang up like that. It had to have been her husband. And weeks? She wasn’t going to be allowed to go over to see Thunder? Her heart took a sharp turn. She chewed at the corner of her mouth and gazed out toward the Porter’s property. Suddenly there was movement. Libby squinted.
From the house, Jolene emerged—her red hair bright, even from a distance—and hurried to her sapphire car, Porter walking after her. She hopped in, then sped down the driveway toward the road. Dust swirled up behind, trailing her like a cloud. In the car’s wake, Porter stood like a store mannequin. Just stood there, watching his wife leave. Things, it seemed, weren’t going so well. After a few long moments, Porter turned away and walked toward the barn. Libby winced and hoped Thunder was out to pasture. Quickly she scanned the fields, but didn’t see him. From her stool, she wasn’t seeing the complete pasture. The horses could be on the far side of the barn, too. She made a vow: She’d keep her leg propped up all day, but swelling or not, she was heading back to the barn. Soon.
When Libby’s mother stepped in from outside, she said, “Libby, let’s just set you up on the front porch. Avoid going up and down those stairs, okay?”
Her mother helped get pillows under her leg, hoisting her foot high. Though it still hurt to move it, the medicine at least took the edge off the pain. Before heading out again, her mother handed Libby her portable phone. “When the phone rings,” she said, “you won’t have to get up.” She turned to the porch door, then stopped. Sunlight refracted off the second earring—a small diamond—in her mother’s right ear. “Oh, and one more thing … ”
Libby pushed strands of hair from her face. She suddenly was exhausted.
“Jim Porter called earlier. And, well … he said you’ve been over there late at night—after midnight. Is this true?” Her eyes reminded Libby of mink coats, deep brown with a touch of red.
Libby nodded.
“I know you miss the horses, Libby, but that’s no excuse for sneaking out like that. … ” She pressed her forefinger to her lips, paused, inhaled hard, then continued. “And he also shared his concern that you’ve, well, been hanging around with a boy who’s been in some trouble. Lives with the Wheelers now, apparently. Jim said he didn’t want to go into detail, but he was concerned about you … this boy’s influence on you … ”
Libby’s stomach felt squeamish. She felt she was being pressed into a dark corner, only she couldn’t see or feel its boundaries.
“I went over to see Thunder, Mom. That part’s true, but Porter’s wrong about Griff. He’s nice, he really is.”
“Well, time will tell on that,” Mom said, “but for now … ” She cast a glance at Libby’s foot. “For twenty-four hours, you’re grounded.” And then she laughed and the right corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. “As if you have much choice, right?”
Libby didn’t smile. “Right.”
Her mother headed outside.
Within seconds, Libby picked the phone off the floor and dialed Griff’s number. Her chest tightened, and her heart pulsed, but not quite as hard as with the first call.
“Yeah?” Griff said, answering. “I mean, Wheelers’. Griff speaking.”
“Hi,” Libby said.
“Hey … how’s it going?”
“I broke my foot,” she said, studying her odd appendage. “It’s in a temporary cast.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
She shook her head, then answered. “No, honest, I did. Fractured two bones. I have to get around on crutches,” she said, “but that won’t stop us from going back to the stable tonight, right?”
“Tonight?”
“Yup.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Are you crazy?”
Libby paused, flashed on Thunder’s beautiful spotted blanket, the way he tossed his head trotting toward her in the moonlight, his gentle eyes—one tinged red.
“Probably.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At three minutes past midnight, Griff showed. After napping the whole afternoon, Libby was wide awake. Griff held the porch door open for her. She maneuvered out and down the steps on her crutches. “If we get caught again … ” Griff whispered.
Libby shook her head. “We’re not getting caught this time.” Her foot began to throb, but now that it was held firm with the temporary cast and she was on painkillers, it felt much better. She step-hopped across the yard. Griff walked alongside in slow motion. At the white fence, Libby stopped. “Good. His truck’s gone.” She whistled once and waited. No horses responded, so after what seemed like hours, they crossed the pasture and arrived at the barn door.
Griff opened the swinging door and Libby hobbled ahead. Then, from behind, he clicked on a flashlight beam. Mitts darted through the beam, then disappeared along the barn floor.
“Hi, Mitts,” Libby whispered. Barn cats, they had a mind of their own.
The horses stirred in their stalls. Jolene must be gone again—for good. If she were back in charge, the horses would be out grazing in the cooler night air, without flies thick on their bodies.
Like a ghost in the darkness, Cincinnati hung her white head over her stall. She whinnied softly.
“Shhhh,” Libby said. With her shoulders resting into the arm pads, she stroked the mare’s fine cheekbones. Two-Step, in the next stall, lifted his head up and down. Libby hobbled to him. “Hi, boy,” she said, and patted the flat of his nose.
Across from the other two horses, Thunder rose to his legs in his stall and shook his coat. He stretched over his gate and pressed his muzzle toward Libby’s shorts pocket.
“I’ll get you a treat,” she whispered. She hadn’t remembered to bring sugar cubes. But Jolene always kept a box of apple treats—red apple-shaped biscuits that the horses loved—on a tack room shelf. They’d do.
Like a shadow, Griff followed Libby to the tack room. She shined the beam around the leather equipment, the neat piles of stable pamp
hlets and papers on Jolene’s desk.
“Lots of stuff,” Griff said.
“She always keeps it organized. Everything in its place. That’s Jolene.”
On a middle shelf, Libby found the treats and grabbed a handful from the box.
Truck tires grumbled in the gravel driveway.
Libby froze. Like soapy water swirling down a drain, her courage vanished.
“Uh-oh,” Griff whispered. He clicked off the flashlight.
The vehicle’s door slammed shut, followed by a clank.
Libby tried to think. They had to hide. Maybe under the desk, but it wouldn’t be easy to scramble to her knees. And she couldn’t hide the crutches. “Thunder’s stall,” she said. “C’mon.”
Griff followed her, then unbolted the stall door. Libby clunked in. Thunder danced nervously. If Porter was planning to hurt Thunder, he’d have to deal with them first.
Libby’s crutches sank deep in cedar chips. She leaned against the stall’s wall. Griff crouched down and peered through the stall slats. For a moment or two it was silent, then the stable door slid open.
Libby inched her head out, just far enough to see. Framed in the opening, silhouetted by the moonlit yard, was Mr. Porter. In his right hand, he lugged a small can with a spigot. He looked over his shoulder toward the dark house, then back into the barn.
He moved toward the hay bales just inside the door, leaned forward and poured from the can. The smell of fresh gasoline wafted to Libby’s nose. She started to edge to the stall door. Griff clamped her arm.
Mr. Porter stepped back into the stable’s doorway, flinging something toward the bales. “Stupid matches,” he muttered.
Libby watched blankly, then in a flash, understood. She unbolted Thunder’s stall, heart pounding in her chest, and pushed out through the stall door. The same second the match lit. The next moment the small flame hit the pool of gasoline and roared into a ball of curling hot fire above the bales.
Back-pedaling quickly, Porter stared at the fire, then quickly shoved the door closed and was gone.
In their stalls, the horses snorted and danced.
Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 7
