“So, need any help?” Dakota asks.
“I could use some help,” I admit, grateful to have something to do besides try to talk. “I can’t get the ramp to come down.” I step aside and let Dakota try. Then we both pull, and it moves a little on one side, but it still won’t come down.
Dakota shouts toward the house, “Wes! Come here!”
Wes appears so fast that I think he must have been watching us from behind the tree. With him comes a big dog who looks friendly enough. But Nickers isn’t used to dogs, and she’s never been that crazy about them. I think she’ll be okay as long as the dog doesn’t start barking.
“What’s up?” Wes nods a greeting at me, then walks up to the stuck ramp.
“Thanks.” I feel like I should say something else to him, but I have no idea what. I wish Lizzy were here.
The three of us tug at the same time, and the ramp pulls free, making us stumble backwards.
“Thanks,” I tell them. There’s an awkward silence, and again I know I should say more, but I don’t know what to say. Where’s my sister when I really need her? Lizzy can talk the spots off a Pinto.
Loud voices are coming from the Coolidge gathering a few yards off. I can’t tell if they’re happy or angry. I start up the trailer ramp, then turn back to Wes and Dakota. “Um . . . you guys didn’t know we were coming, right? You think it’s okay we’re here?”
“Okay by me,” Dakota says.
“Me too,” Wes agrees. He does some kind of finger motion, and his dog runs to him and sits at his feet.
Dakota smiles. “You should have seen Kat’s face when Catman ran up.”
“He was looking forward to meeting Kat too,” I tell them. “And her cats. And you guys. And seeing Hank. I guess they haven’t been together for a couple of years. What did Hank say?”
I catch the look exchanged between Wes and Dakota. Then she shrugs. “I don’t know. Hank didn’t come out for the moon check.”
Nickers paws the floor, shaking the whole trailer. She whinnies. Somewhere in the distance, a horse answers her.
“I better get her out.” I make my way to my horse. “Easy, girl. I’m right here.” I snap on the lead rope and back her down the ramp with no problem.
Now that she’s out, with solid ground under her hooves, she can’t stand still. I feel the tension coursing through her like electricity as she picks up strange scents, sights, and sounds.
“She’s gorgeous,” Dakota says. “Arabian, right? Is she high-strung?”
“No,” I snap. I don’t mean to be so defensive, but too many people have misjudged my horse. Lizzy says I’m way too sensitive when it comes to Nickers. “Nickers is high-spirited,” I explain, “but I couldn’t ask for a better horse.” She’s sidestepping now, and her nostrils are big as she takes in the new smells. “She’s kind of wound up from the journey, I guess.”
“I think Blackfire has some Arabian in him,” Dakota says. “You’ll have to see him tomorrow. He’s out in the south pasture with a couple of the rescues.”
I want her to tell me where I can put Nickers. If I could lead Nickers around the grounds, she’d calm down. But I don’t know the lay of the land here, and it’s too dark to explore. Nickers eyes Wes’s dog. My horse’s ears flatten back. I turn her in a circle to try to get her mind off the dog.
“Come over and meet everybody!” Catman’s mother yells.
“Weird seeing more Coolidges,” Wes says. “Popeye and his brother sure do look alike.”
“Couldn’t be because they’re twins, could it?” Dakota says.
“I know that,” Wes fires back.
“Dakota! Wes? Winnie?” somebody shouts in a high-pitched voice.
“That’s Gram Coolidge,” Dakota explains. “We better get over there.” She and Wes walk toward the Coolidge crowd that’s gathered on the other side of the house, closer to the burned-out barn.
I follow as far as the edge of the house, but Nickers doesn’t want to get any nearer to that barn. She snorts and prances. She’s being a real handful.
Note to self: Why did I bring Nickers here? Why did Catman bring me here? What on earth were we thinking?
I circle Nickers to calm her down, but she’s still tense.
Catman trots over to us. “Far out, huh? Wait till you meet little Kat. She’s grooving to meet you.”
“Nickers is pretty wound, Catman.”
He reaches to scratch Nickers’s neck, but she sidesteps.
“Greetings!” hollers a man who looks exactly like Catman’s dad, minus the toupee and tie.
“Winnie,” Catman says, “this is my uncle Chester.”
“You were right, Catman. That’s the finest horse I’ve ever seen, and that’s the prettiest Ohioan I’ve ever seen.” He grins at me.
“Right on,” Catman agrees.
I elbow Catman. “Thanks for having us. I hope we won’t be too much trouble.”
“Nonsense!” he protests. “We’ll put you to work. The way Catman talks, there’s nothing you can’t do.”
I don’t know what to say, which is nothing new for me.
“Popeye!” Wes hollers.
“That’s me,” Catman’s uncle says. “Guess I’m wanted.” He walks off.
I watch him go, and already I feel better. I’m not sure if it’s because Catman’s uncle is so nice or because Catman said Nickers and I were pretty.
A door slams, and a tall figure storms out of the house. Behind him is a shaggy, limping dog. “What’s going on out here?” he shouts.
He’s too loud. Nickers picks up on the energy and dances in place again.
“Hank! Hey, man!” Catman runs up to his cousin and hugs him, somehow managing to lift him off the ground. The little dog yaps at Catman’s heels.
Nickers is getting more antsy by the minute. I circle her and move closer to the house so I can hear what Catman and Hank are saying.
“No, it’s great to see you, too, Catman,” Hank says, not sounding convincing.
I’m not sure I would have recognized Hank Coolidge. He’s a lot taller than the last time I saw him. I remember having the overall impression of Hank as an easygoing cowboy, but he doesn’t fit that description at all now.
“Been too long, man!” Catman play-punches Hank’s arm.
“I know,” Hank says. “It’s just . . . I wish you’d picked a better time to visit. We’ve got a lot of work to do on the barn and—”
Nickers paws the ground.
Hank wheels on Nickers and me. “What’s that?”
“Winnie and her horse,” Catman answers.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Where are we supposed to put another horse? We don’t have places for the horses we’ve got. I’ve got three horses crowded into one pasture already. We don’t have a barn, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I feel awful. This is exactly what I was afraid of. “Nickers is fine without a barn,” I tell him.
Hank says something, but I can’t hear him because the limping dog starts yapping again. Wes’s big dog trots up to Hank and barks.
Nickers is startled. She jerks back. I’m not ready for it. The rope slips through my fingers. She rears.
“Easy, Nickers,” I say. “Stand down.”
She does. She stops rearing, but her whole body is quivering.
Hank charges toward us, bringing the barking dogs with him.
Nickers bolts, but I grab the rope in time. She rears again.
“Stay back, will you?” I yell at Hank. My heart is pounding. I can feel Nickers’s fear. I hate seeing my horse like this. She rode all the way here, and now this?
“Down, Nickers,” I urge.
She comes down from her rear. The rope slacks. She touches ground, then lunges back. I can’t hold on to the rope. Nickers pivots, then gallops off, disappearing into the darkness.
“Great.” Hank spits out the word. “That’s all we need around here. Another wild horse.” He turns his back to me and says to Catman, “I can’t
believe you’d bring that wild thing with you.”
Wild Thing? That’s what people used to call my horse before she and I became best friends. It’s what Summer Spidell still calls her.
And I will not stand for it. I grab Hank’s arm and spin him around. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck to look at him. “My horse is not a ‘wild thing.’ Her name is Nickers.”
Then I push past him and run as fast as I can after my horse.
Note to self: Next time, stay home and shovel manure.
Fourteen
I sleep in late the next morning. It didn’t take me long to catch up with Nickers last night. Dakota helped. We brought her back close to the house and settled her in the paddock. Dakota waited with me until I was sure Nickers would be okay on her own there.
After that, Dakota, Kat, and I stayed up talking most of the night in Kat’s room. It was pretty cool. I’ve never done that with anybody except Lizzy and Hawk. I slept in Kat’s spare bed, and Dakota camped out in a sleeping bag on Kat’s floor. When I woke up, I had a three-legged dog on my pillow. Kat had four cats on her bed. And Dakota was gone.
Catman is standing over the stove when I come downstairs. His dad and uncle are sitting across from each other at the dining room table. They’re holding their newspapers in the exact same way, folded over three times. It freaks me out a little to see two Mr. Coolidges.
“Morning, everybody,” I call, joining Catman in the kitchen.
“Good morning to you, Winnie!” Mr. Chester Coolidge and Mr. Bart Coolidge declare in unison, as if they’ve rehearsed it.
“Toasted peanut butter and cheese sandwich?” Catman offers. “With fresh tomatoes?”
I’m used to his weird food creations. “No thanks.” I watch him flip the sandwiches like they’re pancakes. “Where is everybody?”
“Dakota said to tell you she’s in the south pasture,” Catman says. “Everybody else split before I got down here.”
“My Annie is at the hospital saving lives,” Catman’s uncle reports.
For a second I think he says Miami. Then I realize he’s talking about his wife.
“Wes is at Nice Manor, the assisted-living home,” he continues. “He’s planning some kind of dog show or dog training event with them to raise money for the barn. Awfully proud of that young man.”
“Kat was telling me about the fund-raising plans last night,” I say. “Her Fur Ball sounds great too. Sorry we’re going to miss that one.”
That accounts for everybody with the exception of Hank. I’m not looking forward to my next encounter with him. He’s so different than he sounded in his e-mails. And he’s changed a lot since he was in Ashland. Or maybe I never really got to know him. “So, where’s Hank, Mr. Coolidge?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Better call me Popeye,” he answers, “to avoid confusing me with my little brother.”
“A matter of minutes,” his twin protests.
“Wes dubbed me Popeye, and it’s stuck.”
“Popeye it is, then,” I agree.
“Let’s see. . . . I believe Hank’s gone into town to get a few supplies and to pick up more lumber. I don’t expect him back for quite a while.”
“Good,” I mutter.
“What was that, Winnie?” Popeye asks.
Catman jumps to the rescue. “She said, ‘Good.’ Like, it’s groovy to see the barn getting rebuilt.”
“Did Hank tell you the guys at the station house are all coming to help us raise the barn?” Popeye asks.
“Far out!” Catman says. “A real barn raising?”
Popeye pours himself and his brother another cup of coffee, then sits down again. “I am blessed with some great buddies in the department.”
“My brother always did have a grand array of friends,” Catman’s dad observes.
“Morning.” Kat breezes in so silently she could be a ghost. Or an angel. Her bright red wig doesn’t quite fit the angel image, but the rest of her does. She’s thin and graceful, almost breakable, with a kind of see-through skin that shows her veins. Her eyes are soft, like they’ve seen things the rest of us haven’t. Last night she took off her wig to go to bed, and she talked so openly about her cancer that she put me at ease.
“Morning, Kat!” the Coolidge twins call in unison.
Kat walks to the porch and lets her cats outside, then joins Catman and me in the kitchen. She wrinkles up her nose when she gets close. “Something smells funny.” When she sees the peanut butter, tomato, and cheese sandwich, her face goes even whiter. She swallows hard. “Catman?”
“Yes I am.” Catman slides two sandwiches on small plates and delivers them to the Coolidge twins.
“When can we start looking for Kitten?” Kat asks, as Catman flips a final sandwich onto his own plate.
I catch a troubled look pass between the Coolidge twins. I have a feeling they both believe that cat’s gone for good, burned up in the fire.
“Honey,” Kat’s dad begins, “Catman might not have time to—”
“Solid,” Catman says. “I’m here for a cat hunt, as promised. But first I need to ask you some questions, Kat.” He moves to the dining table and plops down next to his uncle. He waits until Kat and I take seats across from him. Then he asks Kat, “Have you looked for Kitten in the usual digs? Checked her secret pads?”
Kat nods. “I keep checking her favorite spots over and over. I climbed the oak tree out front. She loves that tree. I’ve checked the basement, my closet, the old shed where Dad parks the mower. We drove to the quarry because that’s where Dakota found her when she ran away last summer. I’ve looked everywhere. Everyplace except the barn.”
We’re all quiet. I don’t know about the others, but I’m imagining Kat discovering her burned-up cat in the burned-out barn. I shake my head to get rid of the image.
Catman swallows his last bite of sandwich and stares at Kat. “Okay then.”
“Okay then?” Kat stares back at Catman.
“We’ll have to find your cat from the inside out, not the outside in.” He pops up from the table and puts his empty plate into the sink.
Kat follows him. “Inside out?”
He turns the full power of those intense blue eyes on Kat. “I’ll need you to tell me everything about your cat. Can you do that?”
“Yes!” Kat’s eyes are as big as Catman’s and filled with admiration.
I get up from the table. “Sounds to me like you’re in good hands, Kat. I think I’ll go find Dakota and see how Nickers is getting along.”
“Wait!” Popeye cries. “What’s the hardest part about learning to ride a horse?”
“Learning to ride a horse?” I repeat, wondering if he’s hinting that he’d like to learn to ride.
“What’s the hardest part about learning to ride a horse? The ground!” he cries, answering his own riddle. “Get it?”
I laugh. I should have known. Bad jokes must run in the family.
“‘The horse hooves pound. I hit the ground. We pass a hound who barks a sound.’ That’s from a little children’s book I’m working on.” Popeye’s face turns pink. I think he’s blushing.
“Sounds good,” I tell him.
“What’s the best story to tell a runaway horse?” he asks quickly, before I can reach the door.
I shake my head. “I give, Popeye.”
“What’s the best story to tell a runaway horse? A tale of whoa!” The answer comes in stereo—from Popeye and from his brother.
“Still telling those same old jokes, I see,” Bart Coolidge accuses.
Popeye smiles at me. “This man, as you must know by now, is king of the bad joke.”
“Sa-a-ay,” Bart begins, “why did the Ferris wheel cross the road?”
I think Popeye is about to answer when Bart beats him to it. “Because it heard that Smart Bart’s Used Cars is wheel friendly!” He cracks up, laughing so hard he ends in a coughing fit.
Kat laughs until there are tears in her eyes. Then she stops and runs to the window. She
pulls back the cat curtain. “Hank’s coming up the drive.”
That’s my cue. I slip on my jacket and sneak out while I can.
Fifteen
Before Hank shuts off the truck’s engine, I’m in the paddock with Nickers. Hank doesn’t see me, or maybe he pretends not to. Fine with me.
“Hey, Nickers,” I call. Her head springs up, and she’s at attention—neck arched, ears pricked forward. I never get tired of looking at my horse. Watching her stirs something inside of me.
Nickers prances over, and I wrap my arms around her neck and press my cheek to her soft fur. She nickers without sound, letting me feel the gentle vibration of it in her throat. “I missed you too,” I tell her.
Around us the farm has taken on a whole different look in the morning light. A few trees still reflect every color of orange, red, yellow, and brown. There’s a musky smell from the damp, fallen leaves in the pasture, but I can smell smoke, too. A breeze blows in chilly air, but it’s still warmer than Ohio.
I scratch Nickers’s jowl right where she likes it. Her eyelids droop to half-mast with pleasure.
At the far end of the paddock, on the other side of the fence, Dakota appears, leading a black horse. She walks along the fence until she’s opposite Nickers and me. “Morning,” she calls. She’s wearing jeans and a jean jacket, and I never would have guessed she grew up in Chicago if she hadn’t told me so.
“Is this Blackfire?” I ask her. The gelding is black as night, without a single white marking. “He’s amazing. Everything you said he was and more.”
She nods, playing it cool, but her dimples give away how proud she is of that horse. “Blackfire and I finished our ride, but we could go again if you want to ride Nickers.”
I do. There’s nothing I want more than to take off on Nickers. But I know that’s not why I’m here. “Maybe later,” I finally answer. “I feel like I should take a look at Cleopatra first. Where is she, anyway?”
“About a mile from here. If you can wait for me to brush Blackfire and take him back to his pasture, I’ll show you where we’ve got Cleo.”
I get Nickers’s brushes from the trailer, and we groom Blackfire and Nickers right where they are, on opposite sides of the paddock fence.
Dark Horse Page 7
