Runaway (5 page)

Nine

I finish putting away groceries. Then I get an apple out of the fridge and pour myself a glass of milk. I’m halfway through the apple when I hear the
ding
that means new e-mail has arrived. I know it couldn’t possibly be Winnie already, but I check just in case. And it is!

Dear Horsewoman,

Yep, I know you don’t think of yourself as one. But you are! It says a lot that the abused horse chose you. He sensed something good in you, someone he can trust. Horsemanship is more than knowing how to post in a saddle or win a blue ribbon. It’s communicating with your horse. So you’re off to an amazing start!

Since you haven’t been around horses, you need to observe them. Watch how they relate to each other. I admit that I recognized this e-mail address right away, even though I don’t know who you are exactly. But I won’t tell Hank or anybody there that we’re e-mailing. That’s your call, okay? At least I know you have horses to watch at Starlight Animal Rescue. One will be the leader, the dominant horse. The others are more content because they trust the leader. They don’t mind letting a dominant mare go first. They’ll gladly move over if she wants their spot. They respect her.

That’s the role you need with this abused horse. You need his love and respect. Then he’ll do what you ask.

So how do you become the leader? Not with force. Your horse would win that one. Plus, somebody already tried force with your horse. Instead, ask. Ask your horse to do what you want him to do. If you want him to move over, touch his side with your finger. Don’t keep pushing. Touch, then release. If he doesn’t move, touch again with a little more pressure. Then release. And do it again. And again—until he’s so annoyed with you, he moves. Don’t force, but don’t stop until you get the behavior you want.

That’s enough for today. But I’ll be here. Write me again!

Winnie

I’m so excited. I want to write back and thank her. But Wes and Popeye come in, then Hank and Kat. And we all fall into dinner preparations—slicing celery, making salad, filling water glasses, and setting the table, while Popeye works his magic with the fish he brought home from the market. Wes keeps as far away from me as possible.

Just as Popeye turns the skillet to warm, I hear a car drive up. “Miami!” Popeye cries. He drops the fryer spatula and runs outside.

Hank takes over cooking the fish. “Something tells me Mom’s home.”

From the kitchen, I hear Popeye greet his wife as if they haven’t seen each other in years.

“Are they for real?” I ask Hank.

“Real as it gets, Dakota,” he answers.

Popeye rearranges seating at the table so he can sit next to his wife tonight. He prays for the food and for each one of us and for a lot of things—the smell of fresh-cut hay, Kat’s new hairdo, Rex the dog, and finally the fish.

Annie asks how our days went, and she starts with me.

“Fine,” I reply.

Wes harrumphs.

I go on as if I haven’t heard him. “I hung out in the barn. And I almost got eaten by a pack of wild dogs.”

“She wrecked a pet adoption!” Wes shouts.

“Wes, lower your voice, please,” Popeye says.

“I’m sure there’s more to this story, Wes,” Annie says, passing him the salad. He doesn’t take it. “Tell us what happened, honey.”

“No.” He stares at his plate in heavy silence.

“All right,” Annie says calmly. “Let us know if you change your mind. Kat, what did you do today?”

Kat tells us about Kitten’s new hiding place in the barn. “And I got a promising application for Barney the cat.”

“Application?” I ask.

“That’s one way we place abandoned pets,” Kat explains. “We won’t let them go with just anybody.”

Hank reports on Lancelot’s progress, or lack of it.

Then Annie turns to her husband. They’re sitting so close together that their noses touch. “Any progress on the latest rhyming book?”

I nudge Kat and whisper, “Rhyming book?”

She whispers back, “Dad writes children’s books.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, louder than I meant to.

Popeye balances his knife and fork across his plate and rubs his hands together. “Two promising projects,” he says, like he’s giving away a secret. “One is about a unicorn, or maybe a camel, who doesn’t want to go on Noah’s ark. So the poor creature says, ‘Can’t you see it’s way too scary? Is this whole trip necessary?’”

“Brilliant!” Annie exclaims. She kisses Popeye’s bald head.

“Nice rhyme, Dad,” Hank adds, grinning at me.

“I think you should make it a cat instead of a unicorn,” Kat suggests.

“Wonderful idea, Kat!” Popeye exclaims.

“What’s the other story about?” Annie asks, taking a bite of her fish.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Popeye jokes. “Mice. Not sure where this one is going, but I do like the sound of the words.”

“Hit it, Dad,” Hank says.

Popeye clears his throat and recites the lines as if he’s in an elementary school recital: “Do Mice Sneeze?” He clears his throat again. “Do mice sneeze? When they sneeze, do they buckle at their little mice knees? Do their ears blow free in the wintry breeze? Do they scuse themselves, saying, ‘Scuse me, please’?” He glances around the table for approval. “There’s more, but that’s enough for now.”

“Marvelous!” His wife kisses his head again.

Popeye’s face reddens. “Well, it has a nice sound. But like I said, I don’t know where it’s headed. There’s more plot on a cereal box than in the mice story.”

“I like it, Dad,” Kat says. “Bet you could work a cat into that one, too.”

“I’ll bet I could,” Popeye agrees.

I’m wondering if he’s actually sold one of these rhyming books, but I don’t ask.

Conversations break off as we work through dinner. Kat just picks at her food.

Suddenly, she stands up from the table. “I need to be excused.”

The smiles vanish from every face. “Want me to come?” Annie asks.

Kat shakes her head and runs up the stairs.

It’s so quiet I can hear a woodpecker tapping outside. “She hopped down from the counter earlier, and I thought maybe she hurt herself.”

“No,” Popeye says. “I doubt it.”

We eat in silence for a couple of minutes.

Then Popeye smiles and says, “Talked to Ms. Bean today. She and her honey want to meet us in Nice for fireworks on the Fourth.”

“They can meet us at the Made-Rite,” Annie agrees.

I’ve been waiting the whole meal to ask my big question. Now’s as good a time as any. “I was wondering . . . ,” I begin.

“What’s that?” Annie asks, pushing away her plate.

“I’m almost 16—”

Hank interrupts. “Which is why we’re celebrating both of our birthdays at the Made-Rite.”

I smile at him, then turn to Popeye. “I want to learn how to drive. I know Hank drives, right? Guinevere said the truck is his.”

“Will be,” Popeye corrects, “when Hank turns 16 and passes the driving test. He’s a first-rate driver already, though.”

“Dad has let me drive the truck around the farm since I was Wes’s age. Comes in handy around here. Can’t wait to get my license, though. I’m taking the test right after my birthday.”

I turn to Annie and Popeye. “Would you ever have time to teach me how to drive?”

“Sure!” they both answer at the same time.

“Sure?” Wes says. He throws his napkin onto his plate. “Sure? She just got here! I’ve been here a year, and nobody’s bothered to teach me to drive.”

“You’re only 14,” Popeye reminds him.

“Hank just said he was driving at my age.”

“Lower your voice, Wes,” Annie says. “Look at it this way. If Dakota gets her license, maybe she’ll teach you to drive.”

“No thanks! I don’t want anything from her!” He spits out the words.

“Wes!” Popeye says. “What’s gotten into you?”

Wes shoots me a look to injure. “I would have placed Taco with Mrs. O’Malley if it hadn’t been for
her
.”

I start to defend myself, but Annie takes over. “Wes, calm down. Dakota’s part of this family too, and—”

Wes gets up so fast his chair tips over backwards. Rex explodes in a fit of barking. “Family?
She’s
not my family! And you’re not my mother! I’m writing
my
mom and telling her to come get me. I’m not staying here, and you can’t make me!”

He storms away from the table with Rex barking at his heels. Popeye starts to go after him, but Annie puts her hand on his arm, and he sits down again.

I feel like it’s my fault. “I didn’t mean to wreck anything.”

“Dakota, it’s not your fault,” Hank says.

“Of course not.” Annie’s voice is soft, soothing. “I don’t think even Wes believes that, really. He’ll come around.”

I doubt it. “Do you think his mother will come and get him?”

Annie and Popeye exchange a look and seem to agree without words. Then Popeye explains, almost in a whisper. “Wes’s mother has some serious problems. Wes came to live with us because she went to prison for dealing drugs. She’s in rehab now, and we pray for her every night.”

Annie’s eyes are tearing up. “But even if she gets out of rehab and on her feet again, the courts won’t let her have Wes back.”

“Why?” I’ve always been jealous of kids who had even one parent in the picture. But I’ve never imagined having a parent some judge said you couldn’t be with. Maybe that’s worse. You’d have to be a pretty lousy mother for the courts to say you couldn’t keep your own kid.

“I think that’s Wes’s story to tell if he ever decides he wants to tell it,” Annie says. She takes a deep breath and shifts gears. “So, Dakota, back to driving lessons. When do you want to start?”

“Tonight? Tomorrow?” I’m more anxious than ever to get the plan rolling.

Annie gazes at her husband. “Looks like a job for Popeye. I’ll have my car at the hospital.” She smiles at me. “I’ve always said a gal needs to know how to drive a stick shift. Think you can learn on the truck?”

I don’t have much choice. “Sure.”

“Tomorrow then.” Popeye gets up from the table and clears his and his wife’s dishes.

“Guess I better watch where I’m riding tomorrow,” Hank comments. He picks up his and Wes’s plates and carries them to the kitchen.

I take the cue and clear for Kat and me.

After dinner, I read in my room until I’m sure everybody else is asleep. Then I slip downstairs and sneak outside to the barn. A moon-slice shines through the branches of the big oak and reflects off the barn roof, making the barn look like a purple shadow. I’ve never seen so many stars in my whole life. I think I know where they got the name “Starlight” for Hank’s horse and the Rescue.

Inside the barn, I make my way to Blackfire’s stall and tell him good night. “Tomorrow I’m going to watch you,” I whisper. I stay for a few minutes, then sneak back to my room.

As I lie in bed, I listen to the creaking of the farmhouse. Inside my mind, there’s a ticking, like a clock running down. I have a week and a half to learn to drive.

I am running out of time.

And so is Blackfire.

Ten

I think I’m the first one up and out the door the next morning. I can’t wait to start watching the horses. But when I jog to the barn, Hank’s already there.

“Man, you’re up early,” he says.

I’m disappointed that I’ve missed how the horses start their day. “Did you feed them already?”

“Yeah. Starlight gets feisty if she has to wait too long. Then the others join in.” He walks into Starlight’s stall and unlatches the rear door that opens to the pasture.

If the others join in, then maybe Starlight’s the lead, or dominant, mare. But I want to observe the horses together so I can see for myself. “Want me to let the other horses out with Starlight?”

Hank stares after his horse as she kicks up her heels and takes off at a gallop. “I better let Lance and Black out.”

At least he doesn’t call the horse Black Devil. He lets Lancelot out, and the gelding takes off like Starlight did, tossing his mane and twisting his neck.

Then we move to Blackfire’s stall on the other side of the barn.

Hank slips into the stall and unlatches the back door. “This puts him in the same pasture as the others. Stay there. I never know what he’ll do.”

Blackfire doesn’t do anything, not at first. His tail is flat against his rump, and his ears are back. I can almost smell his fear. He waits until Hank is all the way out of the stall. Then he rushes outside at a gallop.

“He’s so beautiful!” I exclaim.

“He is,” Hank agrees. “I just hope I can get him calmed down so we can find a home for him.”

“What if you don’t?”

Hank stares out at the pasture, where Black prances, hooves bouncing as if the ground is made of sponge. “There’s not much you can do when an abused horse won’t come around. We couldn’t sell him. And we couldn’t keep him either. Gram would have to try to find somewhere that could take him and just leave him alone. Wouldn’t be a good life, even if she did find somebody to take him on.”

I’m afraid to keep asking the what-ifs, like what if nobody would take him on?

“Don’t suppose you’re up for mucking stalls?” Hank asks.

I’m pretty sure that means shoveling manure, and I’d much rather watch the horses. “Not today, if you don’t mind. Maybe tomorrow?”

He laughs and goes back to Starlight’s stall.

When he’s out of sight, I sneak through Blackfire’s stall and out to the pasture. Lancelot and Blackfire are grazing in one corner, keeping an eye on Starlight, who stands a few yards off.

Starlight trots toward the two horses. They stop eating and raise their heads to face the mare. When she’s right up on them, they lower their heads and back away. Just a few steps, but they both do it. Then, as if she’s satisfied, Starlight goes right back to where they were grazing just seconds ago.

It’s hard not to think of the mare as a bully, but I try to remember what Winnie said in her e-mail. Horses need this structure. They need to know one horse is in charge. And I think I’m starting to see what she means. Lancelot and Blackfire go back to grazing. Gradually they move closer to Starlight and look more at ease. Instead of gawking around the pasture, they just eat.

I plop down in the grass and watch how the horses communicate with their bodies. Lance and Blackfire seem to know when it’s okay to move past Starlight and when it’s not. When Starlight faces them head-on, they stop or back off. If she turns and looks down, Blackfire strolls past her, unhurried.

I could watch them all day.

Hank finishes the stalls and comes to get me for breakfast. “What are you still doing out here?”

“Just watching,” I answer.

“Funny.” He shields his eyes in a salute as he gazes at the horses. “That’s something Winnie would say.”

When we walk into the kitchen, Kat’s at the computer. She’s back to her red, frizzy hair. This one is definitely a wig—can’t believe I didn’t see it before. Hair color is the only thing fake about this kid, and I’m betting she drops the whole thing before school starts. “Want to hear what Catman says about Kitten?”

“Sure.” I pull up a chair. Popeye and Annie are eating breakfast together. Hank digs through cereal boxes. There’s no sign of Wes, which is fine with me.

Kat reads Catman’s e-mail out loud, and the guy sounds like a hippie in an old movie:

“Fight or flight, man! Those are Kitten’s choices when she’s spooked. So you got to read that cool cat of yours and know she’s scared—before she scratches or runs. If her eyes get big, she’s a scaredy-cat. If she narrows her eyes, she’s trying to scare you back. Check out those groovy ears, man! Flat down, out to the side, scaredy-cat. Ears pinned back, she’s trying to scare
you
. Read her whiskers. Pointed forward and up, she’s scared. If she’s nervous, she’ll whip her tail low, back and forth. If she’s really scared, she’ll puff up her hair to look bigger.”

Kat stops reading. “Isn’t Catman the best? Hank says his cousin doesn’t talk much in person, but he writes me long e-mails.”

“So does he tell you what to do when Kitten gets scared?” I’ve read about horses’ fight-or-flight reaction, and I’m wondering how much of this translates.

Kat turns back to the computer screen. “He says I should never stare at Kitten. And I can give her a ‘cat kiss.’” Kat grins at me. “That’s when you blink in slow motion at your cat, when she’s looking at you.”

Annie breaks us up because she has to leave for work. Kat follows her outside, which gives me a chance to check e-mail. I log in to my personal e-mail first. Neil has left me a message:

How are motor plans coming along?

Short and sweet. I dash off an answer, equally short and sweet:

Learning to drive a truck.

I log out of my own e-mail and go back to Annie’s. Winnie left me another long e-mail. It’s even better than Catman’s. It’s as if Winnie has been watching the three horses with me. She describes the exact body language I observed. Then she tells me how to do the same thing, how to become Blackfire’s leader. I try to memorize her instructions about using my own body language to communicate with the horse. She even gives me exercises I could do with Blackfire in Hank’s round pen.

Popeye comes back in after seeing Annie off, and he looks like his mom just dropped him off for the first day of school.

Suddenly he straightens out of his slump and claps his hands. “As I recall, today is the beginning of Dakota Brown’s career on wheels! Right this way!”

“Heads up!” Hank calls, tossing me a bagel. “Can’t drive on an empty stomach.”

I take a bite of the bagel and jog to catch up with Popeye, who’s halfway to the truck already. “We’ll just stay on the property for now,” he explains. “After Saturday, when you pass the written driver’s exam, we can venture out a bit.”

“Driver’s exam? Saturday?”

“You’ll still have to take driver’s ed in the fall.”

I can’t really tell him I don’t need a permit since next week I’ll be driving to Chicago without a license. I suppose it won’t hurt to get the permit, though.

“You can study Hank’s exam book,” Popeye offers when we reach the truck. He opens the driver’s door for me, and I slide in. By the time he gets in the other side, I have the key in the ignition.

“Not bad so far,” he comments. “Except, aren’t you forgetting something?”

I glance around the truck. “Where’s the thingamadeal that moves the seat up?”

He shows me, and I adjust the seat. Then I fix the mirrors and get ready to turn the key.

Popeye stops me. “Ah-ah-ah. What are we forgetting?”

At this rate, our first driving lesson will take all day, and I won’t even get to drive. “I give up.”

“Rhymes with ‘heat melt,’” he says, grinning.

I snap on my seat belt and wait for him to do the same.

For the next hour Popeye tells me—in excruciating detail—the nature of each of the truck’s gears, the movements required for each gear, the road conditions that warrant shifting gears, and more hints than I could possibly use over the next 50 years.

By the time he actually lets me touch the accelerator, I’m seriously considering walking to Chicago.

Hank strolls up. “Safe to come out of the barn yet?”

“I think that’s enough for lesson one,” Popeye answers, cheerful as ever. “After lunch, we can pick up where we left off.”

In the afternoon, Popeye gives me a driving demonstration, followed by pretend driving. We take a break, during which I watch Hank work with Lancelot. Then Popeye and I meet back in the truck, and I actually drive a few feet. Mastering the clutch and the gears is harder than I thought. The truck dies every few inches, but Popeye makes me hang in there. And by dusk, I’m able to make it out of first gear.

* * *

On Friday, when Hank goes for a ride on his horse and Popeye takes off for a volunteer firefighters’ meeting, I head straight for Blackfire’s stall. He’s not there, but I find him outside at the far end of the pasture, grazing with Lancelot.

I try calling Blackfire in from the pasture. He lifts his head but doesn’t come. Snatching a handful of oats from the bin, I walk to the field, recalling Winnie’s advice: Don’t walk straight at him. Keep an eye on the other horses. Lower my eyes.

When I get close, I hold out the handful of oats, still not looking at him head-on. He stretches his neck like a giraffe to reach the oats. I could grab his halter and hope he’ll let me lead him to the barn. But something inside tells me to try it the other way, to lead without a halter, as Winnie calls it.

Slowly, I square off in front of him and look directly at him as I raise my arms to my sides. He stops chewing and stares back at me. Then he lowers his head.

I turn, with my near shoulder moving forward. Then I look down, lower my arms, and walk toward the barn.
Please, make him follow me!
I’d say this is a wish, but I gave that up a long time ago. I think maybe it’s a prayer, but I know I don’t deserve to pray, because I only do it when I need something.

I’m afraid to look back. Then behind me comes the gentle
thud thump, thud thump
of hoofbeats. Blackfire is actually following me. He moves in so close I can feel his breath on my neck.

Only when we’re in his stall do I turn around. “Good boy.” I scratch his jaw where I know he likes it. “My good Blackfire.”

I’d like to clean out his hooves, but I didn’t think far enough ahead. Hank has hoof picks in the tack box, but I don’t want to leave Blackfire and have him go back to the pasture. I could close him in the stall, but I don’t want him thinking every time he follows me he’ll end up trapped in a stall.

If I could get him to the round pen, I could close him in there and go get the pick. Then even if he chose “flight,” he couldn’t go far.

I repeat the same routine I did in the pasture. Again, Blackfire follows at my shoulder. He jumps a little when I unlatch the stall door leading into the barn, but he follows me out into the stallway, the aisle that runs in front of the stalls. He keeps trailing me all the way to the round pen area.

I can’t even believe this is working so well. We’re about two feet from the pen’s gate. Then we’re home free.

“Hank?” Guinevere’s shrill voice slices through the barn. Blackfire jerks to a dead stop.

“Come on, Blackfire,” I coax, wishing I could tell Guinevere to shut up.

But it’s too late. She walks into the barn, takes one look at me with Blackfire, and screams, “What are you doing with that horse? Get out of there!”

Blackfire rears, paws the air, then takes off at a dead gallop.