Chapter 5
“DAD, WHERE’S BEN?” WILLA ASKED as she pulled a grilled cheddar cheese sandwich from the microwave oven.
It was Friday afternoon. Willa had just finished her math and science homework and needed a pick-me-up before writing a book report.
Willa liked to finish Friday’s homework before the weekend. This way she could concentrate on Starbuck instead of decimals, fractions, and the solar system.
“Um . . . Dad?” Willa asked again. “Did you see Ben?”
“Ben?” Dad asked. His back was to Willa while he stared at the laptop on the counter. From where Willa stood, she could see it was open to his favorite recipe site, Hip, Hip, Gourmet! “I think he’s outside with Winesap.”
Surprise, surprise, Willa thought, taking a bite of her sandwich. Ben had hardly said two words to Willa since her flyers went missing from her backpack—probably because two nights ago Willa had found them in the recycling bin behind the house.
Willa was so mad, she wanted to scream— but she didn’t. She knew Ben didn’t want Winesap’s real owners to be found.
“Sarah told me her family is having company over Thanksgiving,” Willa had told Ben as they walked up from the bus today, “so Sarah and Chipper will be too busy to do stuff with us.”
Willa expected Ben to share her disappointment. Instead, he shrugged, smiled, and said, “That’s okay. I’ll spend Thanksgiving with my new best friend—Winesap.”
Glancing out the window, Willa saw Ben feeding Winesap blades of grass through the fence.
Ben thinks he knows a lot about horses, Willa told herself, but I know something he doesn’t know.
Dusting toast crumbs from her hands, she thought, I know what’s best for ponies. And finding Winesap’s real owners is best for him.
“Willa?” Dad asked, interrupting her thoughts. “I can’t decide on a side dish for Thanksgiving dinner. Do you prefer squash casserole with pineapples and walnuts or broccoli au gratin?”
“Does ‘au gratin’ mean melted cheese?” Willa asked.
“You mean like the grilled cheese sandwich you just ate?” Dad teased. “Sort of.”
“Then I vote for broccoli,” Willa declared.
Dad tapped his fingers on the counter. “Your mom likes the squash recipe,” he said. “So I’ll make both. Along with the string-bean dish everybody loves.”
Squash casserole, broccoli, and string beans?
“Um . . . Dad?” Willa asked slowly. “No guests are checking in to Misty Inn for Thanksgiving . . . so why all the food?”
“You never know who might drop by,” Dad said with a grin. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Sure,” Willa said, smiling too. They might not have guests for Thanksgiving, but they would have an awesome dinner. And broccoli with melted cheese.
As Willa rinsed her plate in the sink, she noticed a sheet of paper on the counter. At the top of the page in Dad’s elegant handwriting was the word THANKSGIVING. Along the sides were doodles of cornucopias.
Willa tilted her head to look closer. It was a Thanksgiving menu with turkey, two kinds of salads, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, shoestring fries—even tofu turkey with quinoa stuffing. At the bottom of the list were five desserts, including two kinds of pie—pumpkin and apple.
“Two pies, Dad?” Willa asked.
“Maybe one will do,” Dad said. “The other can be a chocolate or coconut cream cake.”
“If it’s one, please make it pumpkin,” Willa said. “Pumpkin is my favorite even when it’s not Thanksgiving.”
“Just so you know,” Dad said, “your brother voted for apple.”
“As in Winesap?” Willa sighed.
Gazing out the window, she watched as Ben petted Winesap through the fence. It made her want to spend time with her own pony doing what they loved best. . . .
“See you later, Dad,” Willa said with a little wave. “I’m riding Starbuck to the beach.”
It was gray and cold by the time Willa and Starbuck reached the island’s sandy shore. The dramatic weather made the snow geese and crashing waves seem even more awesome to Willa.
She looked across the bay to Assateague Island, tall grass swaying in the wind. The island and its wild ponies made her think of Winesap.
“I don’t get it, Starbuck,” Willa told her pony. “Don’t Winesap’s owners want him back?”
The thought made Willa sad. She waited until Starbuck finished nibbling a clump of sea grass, then gently steered her around. Starbuck seemed to know the way home, walking up the beach to the trail that led straight to Misty Inn.
Ben was still standing in the field as Willa rode Starbuck up the driveway. He was too busy with Winesap to notice Willa dismounting and leading Starbuck to the barn.
“That’s weird,” Willa said aloud as they neared the barn. “I know I closed the doors before we left, so why are they open?”
Stepping inside the barn, Willa saw why. Her mom was inside the barn rummaging through the shelves.
“Hi, Willa,” Mom said, still rummaging. “I was just seeing what tools we have in here.”
“Why, Mom?” Willa asked as she removed Starbuck’s saddle. “Is something broken?”
“No,” Mom said, dropping a box of nails into a canvas bag. “If we’re not having guests for almost a whole week, I thought I’d work on some fixer-upper projects.”
“But I thought you were going to relax over Thanksgiving,” Willa said. “You know, put your feet up and binge-watch your favorite TV shows.”
“There’s plenty of time to be lazy,” Mom said, “after I hang up new towel racks in the guest rooms.”
Willa walked Starbuck into her stall. As she filled a water pail, Mom said, “Willa, I’m worried about your dad and Thanksgiving.”
“Dad has been acting so happy lately,” Willa pointed out, “like a pig in mud, Grandma Edna always says.”
“He may be acting happy,” Mom said, “but he’s got to be upset about no guests over Thanksgiving.”
“Why, Mom?” Willa asked.
“Your dad is a chef,” Mom explained. “Back in Chicago he loved cooking Thanksgiving dinners at the hotels he worked in.”
“I remember,” Willa said with a smile. Dad used to bring home the most awesome leftovers at night. It was like having two Thanksgiving dinners in one day.
“Cooking a small family dinner can’t be enough for him,” Mom said. “He’ll probably cook a ton of food, and we’ll have more leftovers than ever.”
Willa shrugged and said, “Then you’ll have one more project, Mom.”
“What’s that?” Mom asked.
“Finding charities to give the extra food to,” Willa said with a smile.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Mom asked. She was about to give Willa a hug when they both heard a loud squeal.
“It sounds like Ben,” Mom said. “I’ll go outside and see what’s up.”
Willa placed the full water bucket in Starbuck’s stall. “Ben better not be scaring Winesap, Starbuck,” she said. “That’s the last thing a lost pony needs.”
After closing the stall door, Willa left the barn. She caught up with her mom, who suddenly stopped short. Willa followed her gaze to the field. That’s when she froze too. Her brother was lying flat on the ground—Winesap standing over him.
“Oh no,” Willa cried. “Ben!”
Chapter 6
WILLA’S MIND RACED AS SHE took a step toward the field. What if Ben was badly hurt? How could she forgive herself for being a downer about Winesap? But then Mom grabbed her arm and said, “Wait.”
“But, Mom,” Willa began to say, “Ben is—”
“Just listen,” Mom said softly.
To what? Willa turned her face back to the field. She strained her ears, and heard a sound that wasn’t a squeal at all. It was the sound of Ben giggling.
Willa took another step and looked closer. Ben was now on his knees, still giggling as Winesap seemed to lick his face. He reached into his p
ocket and held out his hand, flat like Grandma Edna had taught them. Winesap lowered his head, nibbling what looked like string beans.
“Hey.” Ben giggled again. “That tickles.”
Willa smiled. She was glad her brother was okay and that Winesap was being gentle. But when Willa looked up at Mom, her brows were furrowed with worry.
“What’s the matter, Mom?” Willa asked. “Ben is having fun with Winesap.”
“Too much fun,” Mom admitted. “What’s going to happen when we find Winesap’s real owners?”
“I know,” Willa said with a nod.
“Remember when we moved to Chincoteague?” Mom asked. “Ben was shy and quiet as a mouse.”
“How can I forget?” Willa asked with a grin. “Ben could stand behind me for minutes without me even knowing.”
“But then Ben and Chipper became friends,” Mom pointed out. “And now Ben can hardly stop talking.” Mom watched Ben lovingly stroke Winesap’s muzzle. “What if finding Winesap’s owners sends Ben back into his shell?”
Willa could tell she was worried. She didn’t want that to happen either. “Maybe Ben shouldn’t spend so much time with Winesap,” she suggested. “I can tell him I need help with Starbuck.”
“Don’t interrupt their fun,” Mom said with a sigh. “Not until we have to.”
Willa knew what that meant, and she watched her mom walk back to the house.
Even Mom knows getting Winesap back to his real home is the right thing to do, Willa thought as the sound of her brother’s laughter rang in her ears.
It was then that Willa knew how she would spend the weekend. After finishing the book report that was due on Monday, she would return to her other assignment: looking for Winesap’s real owners.
“Your cherry cobbler was awesome, Dad,” Willa said at dinner that night. “And speaking of dessert, I think I’m in the mood for apple pie this Thanksgiving.”
“Awesome,” Ben exclaimed. “Maybe we can have ice cream on top too.”
Dad looked up from his place at the table. The last guests had left that afternoon, so the Dunlaps were having a private dinner in the Family Farm dining room.
“Willa, just before you were campaigning for pumpkin pie like it was running for president,” Dad said. “Why the sudden switch to apple?”
With a smile at Ben, Willa said, “I guess all that talk about apples made me crave some.”
Deep inside, Willa knew the real reason. Choosing Ben’s favorite pie for Thanksgiving made her feel just a bit less guilty about finding Winesap’s real owners.
“After we eat pie, we can watch the Boa Boy marathon on TV,” Willa suggested. “It’s on every Thanksgiving.”
Ben’s eyes popped wide open at the mention of his favorite TV superhero. “Seriously, Willa?” he asked. “You once said you’d rather get a cavity drilled than watch Boa Boy.”
Mom was surprised too. “Apple pie, Boa Boy,” she said. “Are you feeling okay, Willa? There is a bad cold going around.”
“I feel good, Mom,” Willa said cheerily. Guilty . . . but good.
“Well,” Dad said, leaning back in his chair, “I for one am looking forward to a nice small Thanksgiving dinner right here with my family.”
Mom and Willa traded looks. Dad sounded convincing. But so was his mile-long Thanksgiving menu in the kitchen.
Willa was finishing the last of her cherry cobbler crumbs when the kitchen phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, standing up with her plate.
“If it’s a guest, let me know,” Dad said, his eyes flashing. “Right away, Willa, okay?”
Hurrying into the kitchen, Willa glanced at the caller ID. It wasn’t a guest, but her other best friend, Lena. She placed her dish in the sink with one hand and picked up the receiver with the other.
“Hi, Lena,” Willa said. “What’s up?”
“You tell me,” Lena said.
“Huh?” Willa asked.
“That wild horse your family found,” Lena said. “Did you find his owners yet?”
Willa forgot that she’d told Lena about Winesap at school that week. “No,” she said. “I’m going to help Grandma Edna look for them this weekend.”
“And I am going to help you,” Lena declared.
“Help me? How?” Willa asked.
“A missing horse is a mystery,” Lena explained. “And who is better than solving mysteries than me?”
Chapter 7
“I DON’T WANT BEN TO know what we’re doing, Lena,” Willa said. “If he finds out we’re trying to find Winesap’s owners, he’ll just get upset.”
“So this mission is top secret,” Lena said, her dark eyes flashing. “Even better.”
Both girls huddled before the desktop computer in Misty Inn’s office. It was Saturday, but Lena was over bright and early to solve “the mystery of the mysterious pony,” as she called it.
“Did you hand out flyers?” Lena asked.
“Long story, but no,” Willa replied.
“Flyers are boring, anyway,” Lena said. “Did you try a pet psychic?”
“A . . . what?” Willa asked.
“Pet psychic,” Lena explained. “There’s a woman in Indiana who can tell you what your pet is thinking without even meeting him.”
Willa smiled. Lena was great at solving mysteries although sometimes her methods could be a bit far out.
“No pet psychic,” Willa said, “Let’s try some old-school ways first—”
“Hey, the door’s locked,” Ben interrupted as he rapped on the locked door. “What are you guys doing in there?”
Willa and Lena traded panicky looks.
“No big deal, Ben,” Lena called toward the door. “We’re just watching . . . um . . . dumb, cartoony videos.”
“No, Lena,” Willa hissed. “Ben loves cartoony videos—even the dumb kind.”
Too late. Ben was tugging at the doorknob, trying to get in. “What kind of cartoons?” he demanded.
“Um,” Lena said. “Er—”
“Sparkle Ponies,” Willa lied.
After a moment of silence Ben said, “No, thanks. . . . I don’t feel so good anyway.”
Willa and Lena listened to the sound of Ben’s footsteps trailing off.
“That was close.” Willa sighed with relief.
“Let’s get to work,” Lena said, facing the computer. “What do you know about Winesap so far?”
“He’s short, stocky, and shaggy like the ponies from Assateague Island,” Willa explained, “so he probably came over with the pony swim.”
“When?” Lena asked.
“Good question,” Willa said. “Grandma Edna was here early this morning to look at Winesap’s teeth.”
“His teeth?” Lena asked, scrunching her nose in confusion. “What do his teeth have to do with anything?”
“A horse’s teeth can tell a vet how old he is,” Willa explained. “Grandma Edna told us that Winesap is probably between eight and twelve years old.”
“That’s a huge difference,” Lena said. “When I was eight, I couldn’t do a lot of things I can do now. Like ride a skateboard, swim backstroke, eat with chopsticks—”
“Lena,” Willa said, “we’re talking about a horse, not a human kid.”
“Right,” Lena said. She pointed to the computer. “There’s a special website for lost pets in Chincoteague. Let’s see if anyone reported a missing pony.”
Willa nodded and said, “I forgot to tell you that Winesap has four white socks. Not real socks, the color of his coat.”
“Got it.” Lena smirked as if to say “duh.”
Willa opened the lost-pet site. The home page had pictures of lost pets of the week and their information. There was a German shepherd named Lancelot, a cat named Caramel, a bunny named Trixie—even a pet rat who went by the name of Whiskers. But no missing pony.
“What makes a pony run away from home anyway?” Lena wondered out loud.
“If a gate is left open, a pony can run out of fear, like if he hears loud thund
er,” Willa explained. “They also run away out of curiosity or when they’re bored.”
“When they’re bored,” Lena repeated excitedly. “Let’s search for the most boring places on Chincoteague and ask if they’re missing a pony.”
“Let’s not.” Willa giggled. “Instead, let’s search to see if any missing ponies have been reported this morning.”
Willa and Lena made several searches for missing ponies on Chincoteague or the nearby mainland. After searching for fifteen minutes, they found no new clues.
“Now what?” Willa groaned.
Lena drummed the chair arm with her fingers thoughtfully. “There’s a site where you upload your picture,” she said, “then see which famous celebrity you look like.”
“What does that have to do with a missing pony?” Willa asked.
“Easy,” Lena said. “We upload Winesap’s picture to see if he looks like a missing celebrity horse.”
Willa stared at her friend. Did Willa just hear what she thought she heard?
“I think I have a better idea, Lena,” Willa said. She smiled as she turned back to the computer. “Let’s watch Sparkle Ponies.”
“Cool,” Lena agreed.
Willa and Lena spent the next half hour watching videos and voting for the most adorable kittens on a site called Cutie Kitties. After Lena left for her Saturday gymnastics class, Willa joined Dad in the kitchen.
“Wow,” Willa said under her breath upon seeing Dad’s menu for Thanksgiving dinner. It had grown to two whole pages.
“Question,” Dad said as he stood over a much-used cookbook on the counter. “For Thanksgiving, should I add anchovies to the Caesar salad?”
Willa scrunched her nose. “You mean those hairy little fish?”
“I’ll take that as a no.” Dad chuckled.
Willa pointed to Dad’s menu. “Are we really having three salads on Thanksgiving?” she asked. “For just the four of us?”
“As I said, you never know who might drop by,” Dad replied. He glanced back at the book and said, “Croutons. Garlic or the regular kind?”
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