Dark Horse

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “Richard’s back in town?” Ever since we’ve lived in Ashland, Summer and her brother have done everything they could to make my life miserable. With Richard off to college in California, at least I’ve had only Summer to deal with lately.

  “Seriously,” she whines, “you have to come. Daddy’s threatening to make me clean stalls. Can you imagine? So, you have to get over there right this minute. If you don’t and somebody actually saw me shoveling manure, I’d never be able to show my face again.”

  Summer Spidell, never show her face again? Some offers are too good to pass up.

  I grin at Lizzy and Catman, then walk to the convertible and lean in until I’m face-to-face with Summer.

  She backs away. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting one last look at your face, Summer. ’Cause you’re about to shovel manure for the entire Thanksgiving break. So I guess you won’t be showing your face again.”

  “Right on!” Catman shouts.

  “W-wait! Winnie!” Summer whines. “You have to do this. You don’t understand. Maybe you can’t muck stalls now. But surely over the break you can—!”

  “No can do. I won’t be here.”

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her this desperate. “Why? Where are you going?” she demands.

  “To a place I think it’s safe to say you’ve never been. A place called Nice.”

  Twelve

  Hank Coolidge

  Nice, Illinois

  I tread softly over the wet leaves of the McCray pasture, inching toward Cleopatra as if she’s surrounded by land mines. Yesterday Cleo bolted when I stepped on a twig. It’s been over a week since the fire, and I still haven’t gotten close enough to her to treat the burn on her rump. I know the vet took care of it when she sedated Cleo the night of the fire, but I’d like to see for myself how it’s healing.

  “Easy, Cleo,” I murmur, inching through the tall weeds and over a fallen branch. It rained hard last night. I couldn’t sleep, worrying about my horses having no good place to go for shelter. We put up a lean-to in the south pasture, but Cleo’s got nothing here on the old McCray farm. She does have the basics—good water from the pond, enough grass among the weeds, a salt block I dropped off. She eats the oats I bring every day, but she waits until I’m gone to do it.

  “I don’t even want to catch you, Cleo,” I mutter.

  I learned from Winnie, my cousin Catman’s friend, that the best way to catch a horse is to try not to catch her. “Horses don’t like to be trapped or caught,” she informed me the only time I met her, about three years ago when I went to Ashland with Gram. We spent a couple of days at Catman’s. Winnie was pretty busy gentling a two-year-old Hanoverian for somebody, so we didn’t spend much time with her. I did get to watch her in action one afternoon though. It was amazing. I learned a lot in those few hours. She’s taught me even more through the Pet Helpline.

  Only this time, this “pet” may be beyond help.

  I close the distance between the mare and me by walking diagonally and pretending that I’m heading for an invisible horse somewhere beyond Cleo. Horses have a fight-or-flight nature, and I’ve seen both with this sorrel.

  My mind has replayed the fire a million times, especially the way I handled, or mishandled, Cleo. When I close my eyes, I still see Cleo cowered in the corner of her smoke-filled stall.

  And I see the barn in flames. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of that image.

  I’ve also replayed everything I did in the days leading up to the fire. I’ve tried to pinpoint the last time I was in the loft. The last time I was on the roof. The last time I did a general check of the whole barn.

  Since the fire inspector wrapped up his investigation, I’ve had time to do my own investigation of what used to be our barn. There are a lot of things I could have done better in the upkeep of that barn. I didn’t go in the loft very often, not with the grass so good this year. If I’d checked our loft every day, maybe I would have seen a pinhole of light coming in from the roof. I might have seen water dripping in on the hay. Maybe I would have smelled mold and known the hay was turning combustible.

  Now that everybody’s so sure the fire wasn’t some arsonist’s fault, I want to know whose fault it was. I want to know if it was my fault.

  When I’m about 15 yards from Cleopatra, her head springs up. Her ears flatten back, and her nostrils widen with fear. She snorts. I see her skin twitch, her muscles coil. She’s ready to bolt if I take another step.

  I don’t.

  I don’t want to make this horse’s life any worse than it already is.

  I cross back the way I came, through the muddy pasture, down the ditch, and out to the road.

  Dakota’s waiting for me. She’s got Blackfire saddled up western, which means she’s going on a serious ride. “How’s Cleopatra?” she asks.

  “Don’t ask me. I couldn’t get close enough to her to tell. I think the burn’s healing okay. Hard to say from here, though.”

  Blackfire dances in place, eager to get going.

  “Well, Blackfire and I are celebrating the start of fall break. Want to tag along for the ride? I think we’ll go over by the quarry and look for Kitten again. Remember? That’s where I found her the last time she disappeared.”

  “The barn wasn’t on fire the last time she disappeared.” There’s no way that cat survived the fire. If I had any guts, I’d tell Kat what I think really happened instead of letting her go on hoping Kitten will magically turn up.

  “Come on, Hank,” Dakota pleads.

  I shake my head. “Too much to do. Dad and I are starting work on the frame for the new barn this afternoon. He’s got trucks coming out tomorrow to clear rubble.”

  “Sounds like you could use a break then,” Dakota says. “I’m sure Starlight could. She misses you. She tried to follow Blackfire and me out of the pasture.”

  “Yeah, well, tell her I’m rebuilding the barn for her. She needs that more than she needs me. Starlight shouldn’t have to stand outside in the rain. And I’m sure not going to make her stand out there in the snow. So I’ve got work to do.”

  “I don’t think Starlight gets all that,” Dakota says. “She just wants you to ride her.”

  “Look, Dakota. There’s no time for Starlight.”

  “‘No time for Starlight.’ Sounds like the title of a cool book, but a sad state of affairs if you’re a horse by the name of Starlight.”

  “Must be nice not to have to worry about all the work that needs to be done around here,” I snap.

  Dakota grins. “It’s lovely.” She and Blackfire trot down the lane.

  I cut across two pastures on the way home and wish I’d stuck to the road. My jeans are soaking wet from the tall grass, and stickers cover me from the knees down. I slip crossing a ditch and end up mud-covered on my whole left side. Now I’ll have to change clothes before I can get back to working on the barn.

  I’m halfway up the drive when I see a blue Nissan next to the rubble. Someone’s standing in the burned-down barn. I think she’s taking pictures, maybe even shooting video.

  “Hank!” Kat runs out of the house toward me.

  “Not now, Kat.” I walk faster toward the barn.

  “I just need to ask you something!” Kat yells after me.

  I wave her off. “Later. Somebody’s out there.”

  I don’t slow down until I reach the woman. I was right about the camera. She’s holding one, and a second camera sits on a tripod a few feet behind her. “Hey! What are you doing out here?”

  She looks up from her camera like I’m the intruder. “Excuse me?”

  “Look.” I take a deep breath and try to calm down. I thought we were done with the reporters crawling all over the place. “There’s nothing left to report, okay? You need to go.”

  Frowning, the woman looks a lot older than I thought she was, more like Gram’s age than Mom’s. “And who exactly are you?” she asks.

  “Who am I? I’m the one whose burned barn you’re stan
ding in. Who are you?”

  “Ah,” she says, dipping her head a little. “Sandra Leedy.” She starts to stick out her hand but lets it drop to her side. “Didn’t your father tell you I’d be finishing up today?”

  “What?” The only thing I can think of that might need finishing up is the fire investigation. “Are you with the fire investigation unit? Have they changed their minds about it not being arson?”

  She takes a picture of a pile of ash where our round pen used to be. “No, no. I have a copy of the final report. They’ve ruled out arson. And I’m not with the county’s fire unit.”

  “Then what are you—?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, smiling. “Let’s start over. Sandra Leedy with Farm Federal Insurance. I’m a claims investigator. You must be Mr. Coolidge’s son.” She sticks out her hand.

  “Hank.” I shake her hand. Her fingers are stiff and cold.

  “Well, Hank, I should be out of your hair pretty soon. I think I’ve got all I need. I took most of the pictures yesterday and got my samples the day before. I’ll be done today.”

  I can’t believe Dad didn’t even mention this to me. But I think I know why. “Insurance investigation. That means you’re trying to find out if the fire’s our fault, right? You want to prove it was our fault.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t exactly put it that way in our brochure.” She half laughs at her joke. “Insurance companies like to do their own follow-up investigations in cases like this before they pay out large sums of money for a claim.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “Like I say, I’ll finish up today. But it might be a couple of months before the evidence gets processed and returned from the lab.”

  “A couple of months?” I shout. “We need a barn now! Our horses can’t wait on your investigation.”

  “I don’t mean to say you can’t do what you need to do until we’re finished,” she explains. “I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you. Your father can fill you in.” She stands there like she’s waiting for me to leave so she can go back to doing whatever she was doing.

  But I can’t leave. I have to know if this fire was our fault, my fault. I need to know. I clear my throat and realize it’s still sore, still burned.

  Finally she says, “Look, I can tell you this much. If you’re worried that I’ll be citing negligence in my report, don’t be.”

  “You mean it wasn’t negligence? You don’t think it was our fault?”

  She looks at her notebook. “The lab results aren’t back. But there’s no sign of careless smoking or poor wiring, no flammables out in the open. You’ve passed every fire and safety inspection, and fire codes were up to par and then some.” She smiles at me. “So you can stop worrying about that one. This fire wasn’t your fault.”

  Not my fault. The fire was not my fault.

  I know this should make me feel better. But it doesn’t.

  “I don’t understand,” I tell her. “If it’s not arson and it’s not our fault, then whose fault is it?”

  She’s already bending over the tripod to fold it up. “Hmm? Fault? Don’t worry about that. This fire’s a no-fault. We’ll be writing it off as an act of God.”

  The words, pointed and jagged-edged, sink into me. An act of God?

  What am I supposed to do with that?

  Thirteen

  Winnie Willis

  Nice, Illinois

  “Winnie, we’ve landed.”

  I hear the whisper in my dream. I feel someone’s breath on my forehead, a hand smoothing my hair. Catman’s hand, his breath. Only I don’t know if I’m dreaming, or . . .

  “Welcome to Nice,” Catman says, louder this time.

  I open my eyes, and I’m staring into Catman’s piercing blue eyes. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I am—in the backseat of the Coolidge-mobile. My head is on Catman’s shoulder. I must have been asleep for a while because it’s dark out.

  I sit up, suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry about that,” I mutter.

  “No sorrow here,” Catman says. He leans up to the front seat. “That’s the road, right there.”

  “Are you sure, Calvin?” his mother asks. “I can’t tell in this dark.” Mrs. Coolidge got her license only a couple of years ago. Since then, she gets behind the wheel whenever she can. I admit that I was a little nervous at first about Claire Coolidge hauling my horse and trailer behind the Coolidge-mobile, but she’s actually done a great job. She takes the turn.

  “Won’t they be surprised!” Mr. Coolidge declares, straightening his tie.

  “They will indeed,” Mrs. Coolidge agrees.

  “Wait.” I’m really waking up now. “You mean you didn’t tell them we were coming?”

  “We did discuss Thanksgiving Day. Nothing else though.” Catman’s mother smiles into the rearview mirror. “Mr. Coolidge and I love surprises.”

  “But what if they’ve got other plans? What if they don’t have room for me? Or for Nickers?” I’ve been nervous enough about spending the week with people I don’t know. Put me with a dozen horses I’ve never seen before and I’m fine. But people? That’s a totally different story. I’ve never been great around strangers, and it doesn’t help to find out these people aren’t even expecting us.

  “Since early fall my brother and nephew have been lobbying for us to leave the sanctity of our Ohio abode and make a pilgrimage to the foreign soils of Illinois to celebrate Thanksgiving,” Catman’s dad says.

  “They weren’t lobbying to get Nickers and me here,” I whisper to Catman.

  “Peace out,” Catman whispers back. “It’s cool.”

  I press my nose to the cool window and stare at the stars. The black sky is filled with pinpricks of light. The gravel road changes to dirt. I peer through the back window at the trailer. It’s too dark to make out Nickers inside, though. I can’t wait to get her out of there.

  We turn up a long drive. Yellow light spills from several windows of a big farmhouse. Unlike the Ohio Coolidge home, this one looks like it’s in great shape. No boarded-up windows, no patched-up roof. And so far, no sign of a single plastic lawn ornament. “You’re sure this is the right place?” I ask.

  “Right on,” Catman answers.

  “The yard certainly is plain and undecorated,” Mrs. Coolidge observes.

  “Mother used to say I got the creativity in the family,” Mr. Coolidge confides.

  Catman turns to gaze out his own window. “Oh, man,” he mutters. “Like, total bummer.”

  I pop my seat belt and slide over to peer out his window so I can see what he sees. Where a barn must have stood only a week ago, there’s nothing but a pile of charred rubble. The horses were lucky to have lived through the fire, but they’ll probably never be the same.

  “Look! They’re all outside!” Mr. Coolidge shouts. “I’ll bet it’s a moon check.”

  Catman explains, “Gram Coolidge started it. Anyone, anytime, can call a moon check, and the whole family has to chill out under the stars.”

  Catman and I have sat for hours on his roof and watched the stars in Ohio. Sometimes his parents climb out the second-story window and join us. Maybe we were doing our own Ohio version of a moon check without realizing it.

  “Yes! There’s Mother!” Mr. Coolidge exclaims.

  His wife glances out her window, then taps the brakes until we come to a stop.

  Several of the people stretched out across the lawn sit up and look our way. Mr. Coolidge reaches over and honks the horn. Then he lunges to get out, but he’s still trapped in his seat belt.

  “Here you go, dear.” His wife unbuckles him. “Now, go give your mother a kiss.”

  Catman and I climb out of the backseat. My stomach is knotting up the way it always does when I’m around new people. “Go on ahead,” I tell him. “I need to get Nickers unloaded. I haven’t stretched her since Indiana.”

  “I’ll help,” he volunteers.

  “No thanks. I got it. Go say hi to your cousins and grandmother and ever
ybody.” I give him a nudge.

  He grabs my hand, squeezes it, then takes off running, racing past his parents to the Coolidge crowd. Catman knows me well enough to understand that I need to be with Nickers before I face the masses. I watch him run straight to an older woman, wrap his arms around her, and spin her around. I’m guessing it’s his grandmother. I met her a few years ago when she came to Ashland to visit. What I remember most is her palomino hair. That, and the fact that she scared me a little until I realized she was extremely nice but extremely bossy. She struck me as a cross between a classy thoroughbred and a tough-skinned barb.

  My eyes adjust to the semidarkness as I move to the back of the trailer. “Easy, Nickers,” I say, working the trailer latch. “I’ll get you out of there in no time.” She shuffles her hooves when I swing the doors open.

  It’s a two-horse trailer, and my plan is to climb the ramp, walk through the empty half, and get my horse. I tug on the tailgate ramp, but the thing won’t budge. I pull at it again. It’s been stuck before, but it just can’t be stuck now. I want my horse.

  “Need some help?”

  I turn to see a dark-haired girl who’s almost as beautiful as Lizzy. Her hair is wild and curly. She’s slim and a couple of inches taller than I am. If she were a horse, she might be an Andalusian, an elegant Spanish horse with big eyes and inner strength. I recognize her from the news clip. “Dakota?”

  “That’s me.”

  I don’t know if I should hug her or shake her hand or what. We’ve been friends in cyberspace, exchanging dozens of e-mails, spending time on the Pet Helpline. But this is different. “I’m Winnie,” I announce stupidly.

  “You’re kidding,” she says.

  “No, I’m—” I stop, finally getting the sarcasm. She had it in cyberspace too.

  “You look pretty much like your e-mails,” Dakota says, grinning. “Maybe a little shorter.”

  I laugh. I like her already.