Runaway (4 page)

Seven

“You heard me! What do you think you’re doing?”

I nearly jump out of my skin at the shrill voice.

A girl about my age is standing at the window, glaring in at me. “This is private property.” She narrows green eyes at me. Her auburn hair is short and stylish. I’m not sure what her face looks like because she’s wearing enough makeup to put on her own theater production. Her name-brand jeans cost more than everything in my suitcase. “Well? What are you doing in Hank’s truck?”

So the truck is Hank’s? I don’t answer her. I open the truck door, and she has to step back or be hit by it. Neil taught me that the best defense is a good offense. I shift into my best
offensive
manner. “
I
live here. This is
my
home. And the last time I looked, you weren’t part of it.
You’re
the one on private property.”

“
Me
?
” she asks, sounding outraged. “Hank and I are . . . friends! I’ve never seen you around here before. Who are you?”

“Who are
you
?” I ask, not backing off. “What are you doing here?”

“My horse is here! Hank is helping me train it.”

“Lancelot, right?” That makes sense. No wonder the poor horse is so mixed up.

She nods. I think I’ve surprised her again by knowing her horse’s name.

“So,” I say, taking a step toward her, “what’s your name?”

“Guinevere.”

I laugh. “Cute. What’s your real name?”

Her eyes get even skinnier—green slits under perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Guinevere!”

“Oh.” I think she’s telling the truth. Maybe it’s time to make nice and play well with others. “So, what do they call you? Gwen? Gwenie?”

“Guinevere,” she says through clenched teeth.

Hank strolls out from the barn. “Hey! I didn’t hear you drive up.”

Guinevere doesn’t turn from our stare-down. “I didn’t. Daddy dropped me off at the road, and I walked in. Then I found
her
in your truck.”

“Great!” Hank says, sounding totally clueless to the drama before him. “Then you two met already?”

“Gwen and I are gal pals,” I answer. “Could I meet Starlight now?”

“Sure.” Hank turns back to the barn, and Guinevere shoves me aside to walk next to him.

“Who
is
she?” Guinevere whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says, turning back to me. “I thought you guys did this already. Dakota, this is Guinevere La Roche. Guinevere, Dakota Brown.”

“Dakota?” Now it’s her turn to laugh. “And you made fun of
my
name? What kind of a name is ‘Dakota’ anyway?”

On cue, I let my face fall. I stare at my fingers and let my voice shake. “It’s . . . it’s the only name I have. My parents abandoned me on the plains of North Dakota when I was just a baby. I was almost dead when Indians found me. They called me ‘Dakota’ because that’s all they knew about me. The foster system added ‘Brown.’”

It isn’t true. None of it. But the story gets the reaction it always does.

“Oh wow,” Guinevere says, her mouth curling as if she’s eaten something sour.

Hank’s crooked grin half forms on his lips. I can almost see his brain connecting the dots. “Right. So, you want to see Starlight or not?”

In answer, I stride ahead of them and into the barn. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine, but there’s quite a bit of light inside the barn too. Windows let in sunshine all along the loft. I can see four stalls, and there are probably four more on the other aisle. The front half of the barn is taken up by a wooden, circular pen.

Lancelot stands at the far end of the pen. But when he hears us, he starts walking over. Then he sees Guinevere. His ears flatten, and he stops in the center of the ring.

“Hank,” Guinevere whines, “you said you’d teach him to come to me.”

“I’m working on it,” Hank says, climbing into the pen with Lancelot.

I want to see how he handles the horse, so I climb in too.

Guinevere glances from Hank to me like she’d better not get left out. Then she climbs in. “Here, Lancelot,” she calls, striding toward the horse.

“Don’t walk straight at him,” Hank cautions.

“What?” Even as she says it, it’s clear that she heard Hank. She just doesn’t like being told what to do.

“Come at him from the side,” Hank says. “That way he’ll see you coming and won’t be so scared of you.”

“Scared of
me
? My horse is probably scared of
her
.” Guinevere points in my direction. She takes a few steps toward her horse, and he trots away.

“I’ve just about had it with that horse,” she complains. “Maybe Daddy’s right and I just picked the wrong horse. Daddy found this beautiful five-gaited mare in Indiana.”

“Don’t give up on Lance,” Hank begs. “I just need more time with him.”

She smiles at Hank, softens, and becomes a sweet, flirty Guinevere I haven’t seen before. Truth is, I don’t like this Guinevere any better than the other Guineveres I’ve seen today. “Well, I guess more time with Lancelot means more time with me.”

I think I may puke. Since I haven’t budged from my spot by the railing, I start to climb out the way I came in.

“Wait, Dakota,” Hank calls. “Where are you going?”

“To find Starlight,” I answer.

“I’ll come with you,” he says, jogging to the fence and bounding over it. “Starlight’s over this way.”

I follow and wait for him to open the stall door. The top half of the double door is already open. Before he steps inside, he’s greeted by a gorgeous brown and white Paint.

“Starlight,” Hank says, scratching the mare under her chin until she stretches her neck toward him in pure pleasure, “this is Dakota.”

“She’s great.” I step around for a better look. “How long—?” I stop. I can see now that something’s wrong with her eyes. Really wrong. They’re white and shiny, like solid marbles. “Hank, what happened to your horse?” My voice cracks on “horse,” and something catches in my throat.

“She’s okay, Dakota. I’m sorry. I should have warned you. I forget what it looks like to other people. Starlight was born blind. Her owner wanted to put her down. The vet told Dad, and we brought her home with us. The dam, her mother, died giving birth to her, so we had to feed her from a bottle. We almost lost her. She was our first animal rescue.”

“So you named the place after her. And she gets along okay?” I realize that I’m stroking her neck the way Hank had stroked Lancelot’s neck. She’s soft and warm, and she doesn’t flinch or try to get away from me.

“Better than okay.” Hank pulls a metal hook from his back pocket and starts cleaning her hooves. “It was tough for a long time, even after we knew she’d live. She was scared of everything because she couldn’t see what was coming at her.”

“And now?”

“Now she’s spook-proof. I can ride her in a parade and she won’t shy.” Hank cleans her back hooves, then returns to her head. “I couldn’t ask for a better horse.”

“Hank!” Guinevere shouts from the pen. I can only imagine how her horse hates that shrill shout.

Hank grins at me. “Better go.”

“Are you doing this as a favor to Guinevere?” I ask, wondering how he could stand to have her around.

“Kind of. Partly for the fee her dad pays. We use it to run the Rescue. I guess I’m mostly doing it for Lancelot, though. I’m afraid they’ll sell him at auction, and who knows where he’ll end up? The Rescue is his last chance.”

“Hank!” Guinevere’s shout has turned to a whine.

Hank leaves the stall, letting me stay where I am. I can’t believe he’s not afraid I’ll hurt his horse. I stay with the mare for quite a while, hoping Guinevere will be gone when I come out.

No such luck. When I walk up the barn aisle, I see her hanging all over Hank while he tries to explain something about Lancelot. I slip around to the other aisle, out of sight, and tiptoe past the stalls.

When I get to the end, I hear Guinevere’s laugh. It sounds like she’s coming toward me. I duck into the nearest stall.

“She’s probably gone back to the house, Hank,” Guinevere says. “I can’t believe your parents would take on another foster kid, especially one who’s so old.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hank says.

“Fine, then. But come on back. I don’t have all day.”

I hear footsteps walking away and Hank saying something I can’t make out.

The stalls on this side of the barn aren’t as bright as the other side. It takes my eyes a second to adjust. When I glance behind me, I see a dark shadow. My hand flies to my mouth to keep me from screaming.

It’s a horse, huddled in the far corner of the stall. He’s black—the blackest black I’ve ever seen—without a white hair on him. Black as fire, I think, although I know fire isn’t black. Somehow it fits, though. I stare at him. He’s taller than Starlight, but leaner. Not a quarter horse. His muscles ripple on his neck and rump. I think he’s quivering. He’s scared.

“Hey, Blackfire,” I whisper. “It’s only me. I’m a lot more scared than you are.”

The horse doesn’t move, and neither do I. But I can’t stop staring at him. Then he cranes his neck around and looks right at me. Maybe right through me. Popeye’s words come back to me, the way he said he could feel the woodpecker’s tapping in his soul. That’s where I feel the beauty of this horse.

I don’t know how long we stand like that. Finally Blackfire lifts his hoof and sets it down in my direction. Then the other hoof. And little by little, he makes his way across the stall until he’s inches from me.

I don’t move, but it has nothing to do with fear. I don’t want him to go away. His ears flick back and forth, but they don’t go flat back like Lancelot’s did.

He stretches out his neck until his nose, his muzzle, brushes against my arm. I shiver inside. It feels like velvet. His nostrils go in and out, getting big, then smaller, as he takes in my scent. I drink in his scent too. He nuzzles me, moving his muzzle along my arm, up my shoulder to my head.

I remember reading once that horses use their noses as fingers, touching their world and checking it out. I think we should all have muzzles. I close my eyes as he nuzzles my face and shares his warm breath.

I blow back, right into his nostrils. He returns the favor. I reach out slowly and touch his neck. It’s soft and smooth. I move my hand up his neck until I reach his jaw. As I scratch his jaw, he sticks out his chin and closes his eyes to half-mast. If there’s a heaven, it must be like this.

“Now where are you going?” Guinevere’s sharp voice startles both of us.

Blackfire retreats to the back of the stall.

I duck out of the stall and close the latch.

“Dakota?” Hank strides up the aisle toward me. “I thought you went back to the house.”

I shrug. “I’m just looking around. That’s okay, isn’t it?” I ask, taking on the role of the poor orphan waif, eager to please.

“Of course,” Hank answers. “Just don’t get too close to this horse.”

“Why?”

“He was pretty badly abused before his owner got him. Actually, my grandmother bought him because she’d seen him mistreated. I’m trying to settle him for her, but he won’t let me near him.”

“Your grandmother rides horses?” I ask.

Hank laughs. “You obviously haven’t met Gram. She loves all animals, from a respectable distance.”

Guinevere scurries up to stand between us. “They didn’t call that horse ‘Black Devil’ for nothing. I’ve been telling Hank he shouldn’t waste his time. He can’t save every horse on the planet.”

“He doesn’t look wild to me,” I say, afraid to tell them I’ve been petting his grandmother’s horse.

“That’s because you’re not in there with him,” Guinevere says. She leans into Hank. “Let’s go back and work with Lancelot, Hank. I want to ride.”

Hank takes one more look at Blackfire. I will never call him Black Devil. They’re so wrong about this horse. Then Hank lets himself be pulled away by the impatient Lady Guinevere.

He glances back over his shoulder as she pulls him up the aisle. “You can watch if you want, Dakota.”

But I’m already heading out of the barn. “Thanks. I’m good. I’ve got stuff to do inside.”

What I do inside is take out my list-book and start a new page:

Top 10 Reasons Not to Like Guinevere

1. The stuck-up name fits.

2. She’s Cruella De Vil . . . without the heart.

3. She’s Frankenstein . . . without Frank’s charm.

4. She’s Cinderella’s stepmother . . . without the sense of fair play.

5. She’s the Joker . . . without his sense of humor.

6. She’s Lex Luthor . . . without the goodwill.

7. She’s Montana Max and Yosemite Sam rolled into one . . . without their sweetness.

8. She’s Sheldon J. Plankton . . . without the good taste.

9. She’s Dracula . . . without his unselfishness.

10. She’s Captain Hook . . . without the kindness.

Eight

Wednesday I sleep in on purpose. Then I lie in bed another hour, reliving my time with Blackfire. It feels so much like a dream that I’m almost afraid to go back to the barn.

When I finally venture out of my room, Kat is sitting on the top step, blocking the stairs. She’s holding her kitten, plus two bigger cats. She grins at me and whispers, “Barney and Fred don’t like each other. I’m trying to find them separate owners.”

“Did somebody dump the cats here?” I wonder how often this happens and if they can possibly find homes for all the animals. But it’s not my problem.

Kat shakes her head. Her hair is working itself out of the still-black ponytail it’s stuck in. So I figure black must be her real color.

“We got Fred on his last day at the animal shelter. Barney belonged to one of Gram’s friends who died. We’ll find him a good home. He’s a great cat.”

“Hank’s grandmother is the one who brought over that black horse in the barn, right?” I’m trying to imagine an old lady who saves animals but doesn’t like them.

“Yeah. Did you see that horse? He’s really wild.”

“So they say.” I ease by her on the steps. Fred squirms and tries to get loose, but Barney doesn’t budge. Kat’s kitten hides its head under her arm. “Do you know where Hank is?”

“I think he went for a ride on Starlight. Mom’s at the hospital, of course. Dad’s in town getting groceries.”

Cool!
Blackfire should be by himself. I rush downstairs and outside. The screen door slams behind me, and I hear dogs barking. Two smallish mutts race across the yard toward me, yapping like crazy. I don’t know whether to wait and see if they’re all bark and no bite or try to make it back to the house.

But before I can decide, they’re on me. The gray, long-haired mutt growls and grabs my shoelace. I shake my foot to get him to let go, but he won’t. “Let go of me!”

The other dog, a Chihuahua, yaps even louder and shows its teeth.

Wes comes running up with Rex behind him. “Stop yelling!”

“Tell the dogs to stop yelling!” I snap. “Get them off of me, Wes!”

Wes glances over his shoulder, and now I see there’s a big white car that’s pulled up. An older woman in a straw hat is standing by the car.

“You’re ruining everything!” Wes snarls at me. “Go back inside.”

“That’s what I was trying to do when your attack dogs attacked.” I step around Wes, but I can’t get away from the shoelace-chewing mutt.

Wes reaches down and grabs both dogs, tucking one under each arm. “Why did you have to come here?” He shoots me a look that would wilt roses, then carries the dogs toward the white car.

All I can think is that maybe this woman is trying to dump these two dogs. My vote on that one is
no
. So I follow Wes.

“Sorry about that, ma’am,” Wes says, as if he’s this perfect gentleman. He walks up to the woman, who has one hand on the car door handle. “Do you want to hold one of them? See how soft he is?”

“I don’t think so,” the woman says. A smile flickers on her lips, then fades.

“But you were saying you thought Taco might be perfect for you. He won’t shed. He could go on vacations with you.” Wes holds out the Chihuahua, but the woman backs away.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think either dog suits.”

Then I get it. Wes has been trying to place one of the dogs with this woman. Not the other way around.

“But . . .” Wes moves closer.

The woman opens the driver’s door and gets in. Her hat scrapes the car roof and almost falls off. “I can’t have a barking dog in the condo. Or one that might attack my neighbors.”

“They don’t attack people!” Wes insists. “And they almost never bark.” He glares over his shoulder at me.

“Thank you anyway, young man.” She closes the door and gives a little wave from behind her closed window. Then she starts the car and drives off.

Wes turns to me. “Thanks a lot!” His glare is filled with hate. If he didn’t have a dog in each arm, I’m not sure what he’d do. “You just wrecked two weeks of work. She would have taken this dog if it hadn’t been for you.”

“And she probably would have brought it back when it attacked one of her neighbors!” I shout back, taking the offensive, even though I feel pretty lousy about denying the dog a good home. What if it never gets a home? What then? I shove that thought out of my head and glare at Wes.

“Why did you have to come here?” Wes mutters. He shakes his head and walks past me to the house.

I want to shout after him:
I didn’t choose to be here! And I’m leaving as soon as I can!
But I don’t.

I wait until I hear Wes talking to Kat on the stairs. Then I run to the barn. I want to see Blackfire. It’s stupid. I know that. But I
need
to see him.

The minute I open Blackfire’s stall door, he makes a low, soft horse sound. I think it’s called a nicker, and it’s instantly my favorite sound in the whole world. I want to bottle his nicker and carry it with me to California.

“Hey, boy.” I remember exactly where he liked being scratched, so I do it again. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? I’m sorry somebody was mean to you and gave you that awful name.”

He nuzzles my neck while I keep scratching. “You’re Blackfire now.” I think looking at, and feeling, this horse is the biggest proof I’ve ever had that there’s a God. Blackfire couldn’t have been an accident. He had to be created by
Somebody
.

Outside, the wind kicks up. A branch scratches at the loft window above the stall. Blackfire jerks away.

“It’s okay.” I walk to him and stroke his beautiful head. His eyes are as black as the rest of him, intelligent, not missing a thing. I want to help Blackfire before I leave with Neil. But I have no idea how to go about it. I could ask Hank, but I’m afraid he might tell me I can’t hang out with the horse.

Then I remember the e-mail girl Hank writes when he has a question about horses.
Winnie the Horse Gentler!
Why not ask her? She wouldn’t even have to know who I am. All I’d have to do is write her at that Pet Helpline.

I stay with Blackfire all afternoon, until I hear Popeye drive up in the truck. Then I help him carry in groceries. At least half of the bags are filled with cat food and dog food.

Kat comes out to help, and I do a double take when I see her hair. She’s wearing long, blonde braids that look the most like the real Kat.

“I like your hair,” I say, plopping a bag of dog treats on the kitchen counter.

“Me too,” she says. “I like yours.”

Together, we put away groceries while Popeye goes looking for Wes.

“Kat,” I ask when I’m sure we’re alone, “will you show me how you e-mail Catman?”

“Sure,” she answers, climbing up on the counter to put the brown sugar on a top shelf. “But if it’s about cats, I might know the answer.”

“I’m sure you would. I want to write Winnie, though. I’ve got a couple of horse questions.”

“Why don’t you ask Hank? He knows everything about horses.” She hops down from the counter, and I think I see her wince.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” But she looks even paler than usual. She takes a seat at the table. I think she may have hurt herself when she jumped.

“Sit tight,” I command. “I’ve got the rest of the groceries.”

She doesn’t argue.

“Don’t say anything to Hank about me writing Winnie, okay?” I search cupboards until I find the spot for cereal boxes.

She tilts her head. “He wouldn’t care. You can trust Hank, Dakota. We’re family now.”

I stop taking cans out of the plastic bag and turn to her. “
You’re
family, Kat.” I stop before I say something that might hurt her feelings. “I haven’t had family since I was nine.” And even then, it wasn’t what Kat’s thinking of when she talks about family.

“Want to know what my favorite verse in the Bible is?” she asks, picking up her kitten, who’s sneaked in from somewhere. Kat doesn’t wait for me to answer. “‘See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are!’”

Something inside of me hurts. I can tell Kat feels that love, the love of a father. She has a peace about her you can almost feel yourself. I can’t even imagine what that would be like. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt the love of a father.

I put on my game face and grin at her. “Not a bad deal for you, Kat. Must make life pretty easy having God as your dad.”

She smiles back at me. “It helps a lot.” She stands, and I see her steady herself with one hand on the table before she speaks. I can’t help thinking something’s wrong with her. “Want to e-mail Winnie now?”

“If you’re sure you’re okay.”

She flashes me that full-court smile and sits at the computer, and I think I must be imagining things. In minutes we’re logged on to Annie Coolidge’s e-mail account, and Kat has found the e-mail address in Annie’s contact list. “The only person I e-mail is Catman, so I didn’t bother opening another e-mail account. Mom lets me use hers.” She clicks in Winnie’s e-mail address and gets up. “All set.”

“Thanks, Kat.”

It feels funny writing someone I don’t even know.

Dear Winnie,

I admit I don’t have much experience with horses. I’ve never taken a riding lesson or horsemanship class. To be honest, yesterday was the first time I actually touched a horse. But I’m staying where there’s this abused horse that, for some crazy reason, seems to like me. He lets me pet him and scratch his jaw.

What I need to know is where to go from here. How can I help this horse? I don’t have much time, so the sooner you can give me an answer, the better.

Thanks,

Don’t-know-much-about-horses

Before I lose my nerve, I hit Send.