AUTHOR’S NOTE
Mustangs are a dying breed. They are being subjected to inhumane and inconceivably cruel treatment at the hands of humans. An example? Being driven off cliffs to their deaths by people in helicopters. ON. PURPOSE. Please read more and learn how to help at www.protectmustangs.org and www.wildhorsepreservation.org.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Giant hugs to editor-extraordinaire Caroline Abbey, who said “YES!” to Wild Hearts. CA, you started this journey for me and let me venture into YA. I owe you a million milkshakes!☺
Laura Whitaker and Sarah Shumway, thank you both for taking on this project with enthusiasm! I’m very lucky to not have been orphaned. You’ve made me feel like a true member of the Bloomsbury family.
Endless thank-yous to Bloomsbury for publishing Wild Hearts . The thanks extends to the art department, sales team, and everyone who touched this project. Thank you, all!
Lesley Ward, I can’t thank you enough for your support over the years. You’re so kind.
Terri Farley, I learned so much from your website and Twitter (@terri_farley) about the plight of mustangs. I hope I did them the tiniest bit of justice in this book.
Lauren Barnholdt, your nonstop #1k1hr shames me into writing! :D <33 Becca Leach, you helped me so much during #BlackHole.
Thank you to my writing friends Aprilynne Pike and Becca Fitzpatrick.
Love to Team Elite: Lexi Carson, Grace Carson, Hannah, Karlee, and Juliett. <3
Special thank-you to Lex and Gracie for being the best little sisters on the planet. I’m grateful every single day that you’re in my life. I love you both so, so much and you mean everything to me! <33
Agent Jenn, I’m so glad you’re part of my team! You’re a dream agent and I’m so lucky!
Finally, thank you to all of the teachers, booksellers, and librarians who put books into the hands of young readers.
Jessica Burkhart is a full-time writer in Kentucky horse country. She is the author of the twenty-book Canterwood Crest series, which has over one million copies in print. Jess is passionate about mustang conservation and hopes to visit the horses in their natural habitat one day.
www.jessicaburkhart.com
Twitter: @jessicaburkhart
Instagram: @jessashley87
As Mimi Blake introduces us to the viewers at home, for the first time, I begin to feel nervous.
After the introductions, she continues with, “Katie, George spoke with you at length last week, so I think we’ll begin today with Drew.” She turns to me. “Drew. Katie has spent most of her life on the campaign trail with her father. But this is all new to you, isn’t it?”
Now I officially cross over into full nervous territory as I realize that some sort of response is required from me. I stare directly into the camera. “Yes, Mimi,” I say woodenly. “That is correct.”
That is correct? What kind of moron talks that way?
“You’re not really like any other candidate’s child that we’ve seen in recent years.”
Is there a question in there somewhere?
“Rather than dressing to impress, you dress…” With the back of her hand, she indicates my clothing from head to toe. Again, where’s the question? And how am I supposed to respond? Too late, I remember the tie in my pocket. I can’t put it on now… can I?
Looking directly into the camera, I say once more, “Yes, Mimi that is correct.”
I feel a sharp stabbing sensation around my ankle and realize that Katie just kicked me with the pointy toe of her green high-heeled shoe. Hey! And, ouch! Still, it does remind me of what Katie advised earlier, that I should talk directly to Mimi, not the camera, like we’re just two people having a conversation.
This immediately reduces my level of nervousness. And you know what else reduces it? Anger at Katie for getting me into this mess in the first place.
As anger fuels me from the inside, on the outside I suddenly feel distinctly calmer. And, as Mimi proceeds to ask me questions, I realize that this is easy. I know these questions! And how do I know them? Because the TV network forwarded them to Ann in advance to show to me. And that happened, according to Ann, because Katie’s people set a precedent last time by insisting that that was the only way Katie would do the interview with them—if she could see the questions first. This struck me as cheating at the time. What kind of wimp needs to know the questions in advance? What could she possibly be scared of? Coward. But her fear is serving me well now as Mimi continues, “We’re told that, despite your family’s relatively recent elevation in fortune—unlike the Willfields, the Reillys weren’t born with silver spoons in their mouths—you still ride the public school bus and even go to your old public school. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, Mimi.” Look at me! No more robotic “Yes, Mimi that is correct” for me. I’m nailing this thing! “I’m a big believer in public transportation,” I add. “I even took the train here today.”
“Well, don’t think you’ll be able to do that once you’re in the White House,” Katie blurts out, adding a muttered, “not that that’ll ever happen.”
What is it with that girl? And why does she get under my skin so much?
Oh, right. She’s annoying.
Plus, could she be right? If my mom wins, will my life really be that different? Excuse me while I retreat back into denial.
I decide to ignore Katie. Mimi does too, practically cooing at me, “Ooh, a real man of the people!”
She swivels her head sharply from me to Katie. I take this to mean that the camera will be swiveling to Katie now too, so I take this opportunity to whip my tie from my pocket and rapidly knot it around my neck. The ends wind up wildly uneven, but whatever.
After a dramatic pause and with a fake smile, Mimi says in a falsely cheerful tone that couldn’t be more menacing: “Katie:’
Just her name, full stop.
I have no idea exactly what’s coming next. What I do know is that for Katie, it can’t be good.
But for me? This is going to be very good. Because there’s nothing I can imagine enjoying more than seeing my enemy fall on her face.
After Mimi’s menacing “Katie,” she turns to the camera and says, “We’ll hear from Katie Willfield after the break,” and we pause briefly for commercials.
I can’t say for certain what Mimi has in store for me once the break’s over. All I know is, it’ll be harder than those puffball questions she’s been lobbing at Drew. Why, she’s all but asking him, with moony eyes, to tell us all the reasons he’s so wonderful.
Ugh.
She’ll undoubtedly ask me some of the harder questions that George left on the table. Like if I ever felt shortchanged, growing up in a single-parent household in which the only parent spent most of his time focusing on his political career? Or if I have political ambitions of my own?
Both of those would be harder than the questions asked on the previous visit because they’re more personal. But that’s okay. I’m a professional. And I know how to use the personal professionally. The first question, I’ll answer by saying, I don’t feel shortchanged at all. When a candidate is as fit to lead the country as my father is, I can only feel privileged, blessed to be a part of his manifest destiny. And if it’s the second? I’ll say, It’s a little premature to throw my hat into the ring, don’t you think? and I’ll accompany it with a smile and a wink to let everyone know that, of course that’s in my future!
Oh, no. But what if, worst of all, she asks about the china patterns? There was nothing on the list of original questions about that but since George put it on the table with his comments, maybe it is considered fair game now? Still not a problem, I think as I stiffen my back. I’ll just fall on my sword. I’ll say, My father had no knowledge of what I was doing. Voters should not penalize themselves over childish high jinks that are my sole responsibility. And if she follows it up by questioning, Shouldn’t a parent know what his child is up to? Well, she won’t do that, because she’ll know that I could then counter with a qu
estion about her own lax parenting style, and believe me, she won’t want to go there. Everyone knows the Blake kids are nothing but tabloid trouble.
As we’re counted back down from commercial break and Mimi opens again with that eerie smile, followed by “Katie,” I’m feeling pret-ty good about my various strategies.
Then Mimi says, “Is it true what we’ve heard, that even though you’re sixteen, you’ve never had a romantic relationship in your life?”
What? She can’t ask that!
“Is it true you’ve never even been on a single date?”
I’m being blindsided here! How is it possible that she can do this? We had an agreement! These questions weren’t on the list! But then, with horror, it hits me: That agreement was for my last appearance on the show. We never had them sign one for this appearance.
Mimi leans forward in her chair and I can practically feel the camera moving in for a close-up of my humiliation.
“Is it true, Katie, that you’ve never been kissed?”
An hour later, I’m huffing and puffing as I lean in, my hands gripping the carved wooden armrest as I shove, hard, on the couch. It moves only an inch.
An inch.
Stupid freakin’ behemoth couch. I feel like I’m trying to move a Mack truck. Trees must have weighed more in the seventeenth century.
Yeah, that makes sense.
I groan and push again, straining with all my might. The leg screeches against the marble floors and then gives way, sliding abruptly. My hands slip off the armrest, and I slam to the ground.
“Oomph,” I say, my forehead resting on the cool floor that had, moments ago, been covered by a French provincial sofa.
The ground is musty. Dusty. Like, oh, I don’t know, it’s been covered by a couch for a few decades. I’ve gotten so used to the polished-until-I-can-see-my-reflection cleanliness in this place that it’s almost foreign to smell actual dirt.
Footsteps shuffle closer, and I suddenly realize I’m not alone. Crap, I hope my mom isn’t going to bust me.…
I roll over and look up into the amused, warm brown eyes of a boy close to my age. He’s leaning over, resting his hands on his knees as he peers down. I blink as if he’s a mirage and he’ll disappear. Spotting a guy like him in a place like this is harder than finding a lifeboat on the Titanic.
But he doesn’t.
Disappear, that is.
Awesome. The first boy under seventy I’ve seen in this place, and he finds me lying facedown on the floor of the billiards room.
“It was the candlestick,” I say abruptly, because it’s the only thing I can think of and I’m fighting the urge to check him out.
He’s cute. Really, really cute. He looks… Costa Rican. Maybe part Native American or part African American… or some combination uniquely his, because I’ve never seen a guy so totally drool worthy.
In a place like this, a place filled with rich, elderly white people, he stands out, dazzling in a way that has nothing to do with race, and everything to do with…
I blink, realizing that while I’ve been staring, his lips have been moving.
“… was the sofa?” he asks, furrowing his brow as he walks around so that he can face me as I sit up.
“Oh, uh, no, the sofa’s a little too heavy to use as a weapon. It was definitely the candlestick,” I say, and then jut my thumb in the direction of an antique brass candelabrum. “And Professor Plum. Because he’s weird-looking and I don’t trust him.”
One side of his mouth curls up as he reaches out to me.
I study him for a second before finally reaching out to accept his hand. It’s warm and soft and strong, and he easily pulls me to my feet. And then I’m standing close to him. So close I can smell him.
Cinnamon. I breathe deeper, enjoying the warm spiciness of it. Yes, he smells like cinnamon. As I rake in another breath, I catch him staring.
Abruptly I step away, realizing I’m standing within inches of him, just breathing him in over and over like an idiot.
“Ahhh,” he says, once he has room to talk without speaking directly into my ear. “Because we’re in the billiards room, of course.”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly realizing how lame and outdated my joke is. Maybe if I didn’t play board games with old people all the time…
To avoid looking at him, I dust off the seat of my pants and focus really hard on my apron.
Oh god. I’m wearing a doily apron in front of a hot boy. “I always pegged it on Mrs. Peacock,” he says.
“Oh?” I ask, wondering if there’s a way to ditch the apron without looking like it’s because of him. I glance around, but it’s not like there’s a phone booth where I can go from the bumbling Clark Kent to the ultra-suave Superman. I don’t even have a pair of glasses to take off. “Why’s that?”
“She’s the only one not named after a color.”
I furrow my brow. “That’s not true. Peacock is a color.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, crossing his arms. I’m suddenly, acutely aware of how built this boy is. He has serious muscles. Glorious, beautiful muscles, evident even through his stark white button-down and perfectly tailored black vest. He looks like he just left a wedding reception and lost his jacket somewhere.
“Yeah, it’s a shade of blue. All the characters in Clue are colors,” I say, realizing in some corner of my mind that’s still functioning that I should probably shut up about Clue.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says, flashing a cocky grin. He reaches out toward my face, and I freeze, half-expecting him to caress my cheek like something from a romance novel. But he doesn’t. Instead he touches my hair, then pulls his hand away.
The way he looks at me, amusement glimmering in his eyes as he turns his hand and reveals a dust bunny, it’s like he knew what he was doing. Like he knew I’d think he was reaching out for… some other reason. And I fell for it.
Sheesh, I am so totally deprived of flirting-with-a-cute-guy opportunities, living in a retirement home with my mom. I need to get out more. I need to get a hobby or something before I swoon at his feet and ask if he wants to play bridge.
He smirks. “Sorry, it was kind of clinging to your ponytail. It was distracting.”
“Well, I find your hair distracting too,” I say, and then immediately wish I had just kept my trap shut.
I find your hair distracting? That was the best I could do?
“Really,” he says, his eyebrow quirking. I’m suddenly, acutely aware that his eyebrows are better groomed than mine. One of them, the right one, has two slashes through it, like he had it trimmed that way. Like he had them… sculpted to match the lines where his hair is buzzed shorter and little lines swoop and twirl on the sides of his head.
And I’m wearing an apron made of doilies.
“Yeah,” I say, my face warming. “Your haircut is, um, crooked.”
He smiles, that same amusement as earlier glittering in his eyes. “It’s supposed to be crooked.”
My laughter sounds like a barking seal having seizures, and I can’t believe he doesn’t back away. Instead, his eyes light up, like my reaction surprises him.
“So you walked into the salon and said, ‘Hi, I’d like a crooked haircut?’” I cross my arms, realize I look confrontational, and drop them again. Why do my arms feel so big all of a sudden? It’s like I forgot how to function. Like my limbs have become giant noodles attached to my body and I have no control of them.
He laughs, a surprisingly deep, smooth-as-honey laugh that makes my stomach do a flip. “I go to a barber,” he says, twisting his big silver watch in circles on his wrist. “And I let him do whatever he wants.”
“Brave,” I say, motioning with my hands in ridiculous wavy and jerky movements and oh god what am I doing?
“He’s been cutting my hair for eighteen years,” he replies, following my movement with his eyes, his lips twitching.
Oh great, he’s picked up the fact that I live in Awkward City, USA. I’ve become entertainm
ent.
And then his reply finally registers. Eighteen years. So he is at least eighteen years old. Probably nineteen. Although who knows, guys like him probably were born with sculpted hair and Armani suits, so he could still be just eighteen.
I swallow, breathing deeply and trying to calm my racing heart. “And did you like it?”
“Like what?”
“The crooked haircut,” I reply, twisting my fingers into the edges of my lace apron. Are my palms damp? Were they damp when he pulled me to my feet or is this a new development? What if I have the dampest palms in the entire world and he’s just really good at hiding his disgust?
“I did until now,” he says, one side of his lips curling up as he meets my gaze, like an open challenge.
“Oh,” I say, embarrassment creeping in. “I mean, it’s a good haircut. It, uh, looks good on you.”
“Right,” he says. “Clearly, you adore it.”
I blush harder now, my face so hot I’m sure he could feel it if he reached out and touched it. If he let his beautiful, long fingers slide across my cheek…
I clear my throat. “Um, I mean it. Crookedness and all.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, still peering into my eyes as he smirks.
I’m suddenly, completely sure that no one has ever insulted his hair before. Or his looks. Or… him at all. So I basically freeze, staring right back at him, thinking that I’ve ruined any chance I had with him.
“I was voted best hair, you know,” he says after I don’t speak.
“I can see why,” I say, then wish I hadn’t. I want to know who voted him best hair. Other than me.
Wild Hearts Page 27
