Runaway (7 page)

Thirteen

Saturday morning I drag myself out of bed just as the sun is rising and get to the barn before Hank does. It’s worth it when I see Hank’s expression.

“Dakota Brown, you’re full of surprises.” He rips open a feed sack that smells like molasses and oats. “You feed Blackfire. I’ll take Starlight and Lance. But no riding until we get you through your driver’s exam.”

I love watching Blackfire eat. He chews with his mouth closed, making every bite last.

I hang out with Blackfire until Popeye calls Hank and me back to the house.

Popeye is wearing slacks and a white shirt, and Kat has on nice jeans and a yellow top that matches her hair color of the day.

Popeye takes charge. “Kat, you get that driver’s exam booklet. You can quiz Dakota on the drive up.”

“Will we all fit in the truck?” I ask.

Popeye smiles. “Boys can ride in the back. Nice day like this.”

Wes stands up from the computer chair. I hadn’t even noticed him. “I don’t want to go.”

Popeye turns to him. “We’re hitting the Made-Rite afterward.”

“I need to make calls about Taco.” He glares at me. “He still needs a good home.”

“All right,” Popeye says. “Just stay on the property. Don’t watch television, of course. I’ll leave my cell on in case you need us.”

Wes nods, then bangs out the door with Rex at his heels.

Popeye stares after him. Then he wheels on me. “Dakota, get in gear! Let’s see. Learner’s permit. Can’t remember how much that costs. You better bring 40 out of the pet bowl.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Pet bowl? Forty what?”

“Dollars! We keep petty cash and money from pet adoptions in the pet bowl. Anytime we place a pet for a fee, the money goes for the good of all the animals. Below the sink. Blue bowl. Takeoff time in 10 minutes!”

I change into my nicest pair of jeans and a layered cami and tank. Then I race downstairs and find the pet bowl exactly where Popeye said it would be. There is nothing petty about the cash in this bowl. There must be a couple hundred dollars. I grab two 20s and run to the truck.

Hank climbs in the back, and I get into the cab with Popeye and Kat.

The trip to Nice flies by, with Kat quizzing me from the driver’s booklet and Popeye tossing in random driving facts.

By the time we get to the DMV, I’m more nervous than ever about the test. Popeye parks, and we all walk in together. Hank’s windblown hair would look better on a punk rocker.

Kat eases up beside me. “Don’t worry. We’ll pray for you while you’re in there. Not that you’ll magically get the answers right or anything.”

“Awww,” I say, acting disappointed.

“We’ll just pray you remember the answers you do know,” Kat adds.

They sit in the waiting room, taking up all but one of the remaining seats, while I go to the desk, pay the $20 fee, and fill out a form. When I’m done, I glance over at the waiting room. Hank, Popeye, and Kat each give me a thumbs-up.

Six computers line a back wall, where two other wannabe drivers are taking their exams. My hands shake as I slide onto the stool and try to listen to the examiner’s instructions.

It doesn’t take long to key in answers. I have to guess on a couple, but most of the questions are ones Kat asked me in the car. When I’m done, I wave at the examiner, then hold my breath while she grades my test.

Without a smile, she starts telling me about the state’s driver’s ed class, the number of driving hours required for a license, and other things that don’t sink in.

“Did I pass?” I ask, interrupting her.

She grins and hands me a learner’s permit. “Congratulations.”

When I walk out to the waiting room, Popeye, Hank, and Kat stop talking.

I hang my head and shuffle over to them.

“Never you mind, Dakota,” Popeye says.

“You can take the test as many times as you want,” Hank adds.

Only Kat doesn’t buy into this scene. “Dakota, did you pass?” she demands.

I sigh. Then I grin and wave the permit. “Yes!”

Before I know what’s happening, the three of them are hugging me and dancing around like I’ve won the lottery. Even the two strangers in the waiting room clap for me.

As we walk back to the truck, Popeye bursts into a cheer: “Dakota, Dakota! She’s smart like Quasimod-a!” He does a little tap dance and passes it to Kat.

Kat comes through with, “Dakota! Dakota! We’ll celebrate with soda!” She does the same tap dance step Popeye did and passes it to Hank.

Hank’s face reddens. He glances around the parking lot, then shakes his head.

“Come on, Hank!” Kat urges.

Hank rolls his eyes, then mutters, “Dakota, Dakota. Fight, fight, fight. Now let’s go get some chow at the Made-Rite.” Then he climbs into the back of the truck.

“Ouch,” Popeye says, opening the cab door for us.

I slide in after Kat and try to remember if anybody has ever cheered for me before.

The Made-Rite restaurant isn’t much bigger than a school classroom. Trailer-shaped, it has six stools at the counter, a big booth open on both sides in the back, another little booth in front, and three or four tables scattered in between. On the walls are framed ads from old magazines: the Campbell’s soup kid, a Betty Crocker ad, and others I don’t recognize. Country music blares from the kitchen.

“There she is!” Popeye says. He tucks in his shirt and runs his palm over his head.

We walk to the back booth, where a long-faced woman sits, her lips turned up slightly. She’s wearing a light blue suit that matches her intense blue eyes—eyes that peer at me through wire-rimmed glasses. She’s tall, at least sitting down, with short, curly blonde hair that I’m guessing should be gray.

“Mother!” Popeye scoots into the booth and kisses her on the cheek.

“Hi, Gram,” Hank says, coming up beside me.

Kat scoots into the booth and kisses the woman’s other cheek. “I’ve missed you, Gram.”

“Gram” puts one arm around Kat, but she’s still staring at me. “And you must be Dakota.”

Hank and Popeye stumble all over themselves introducing me. “Dakota just passed her written driver’s exam,” Hank says, ushering me into the booth.

“Of course she did,” Gram says, holding out her hand until I realize I’m supposed to shake it. “That is why we are here.” She raises one finger and glances toward the counter.

“Coming, Mrs. Coolidge!” shouts the man behind the counter, a big man with a white apron and a three-cornered hat. He rushes four hot fudge sundaes to the table.

“Thank you, Marvin,” Mrs. Coolidge says.

“Annie’s not here yet?” Popeye glances around, looking dejected.

“She’ll be here,” his mother promises. Gram takes Kat’s cheeks between her palms. “How are you feeling, my angel?”

“Good,” Kat answers.

“When are you coming out to the Rescue?” Hank asks.

“She’s way too busy for us,” Popeye teases. “Unless she has a stray pet that needs a home.”

“How can you say such a thing, Chester?” She sounds offended.

“I didn’t mean it, Mother,” Popeye says quickly. “I was just—”

She smiles at him, and I’m thinking she was teasing. But it’s pretty hard to tell.

She stands, forcing Popeye to scoot out of the booth. “I do wish I could stay.”

“You’re leaving?” Popeye asks, standing back as she slides out of the booth.

“Duty calls,” she replies. “Dakota, lovely to meet you. Hank, Katharine, a pleasure, as always.” With that, she struts out, letting the screen door bounce behind her.

Popeye stares after her. “The woman is a force of nature,” he observes proudly.

When we’re halfway through our sundaes, Annie rushes in. She squints, finds us, then slides into the booth next to Popeye. “Well?” she asks, looking at me.

The others follow my lead and look sad.

“I never liked those driver’s exams,” Annie grumbles. “Well, we’ll show ’em next time.”

She looks so sad that I can’t keep it up. “I passed.”

She explodes with squeals that would get us kicked out of normal restaurants.

Popeye orders Made-Rites for all.

Annie glances around. “Where’s Wes?”

“Didn’t want to come,” Popeye answers.

They exchange a look, then Annie changes the subject.

When my sandwich comes, they all watch until I take the first bite. My teeth sink into the softest bun, filled with meat like a hamburger that fell apart or a sloppy joe without the sauce. It comes with mustard on the bottom and ketchup on the top, and it just might be the best sandwich in the entire world.

Marvin, the owner, gives us a lot of special attention, including extra pickles and fries. When he brings me another Made-Rite, on the house, Popeye asks him to sit down with us.

“Fourth of July’s fast approaching,” Popeye says.

“A week from today,” Marvin adds. “You coming in for the fireworks?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Hank says, taking a bite of his own Made-Rite.

“We’ll be celebrating a triple birthday!” Popeye exclaims.

“Hank, Dakota, and America,” Kat explains.

Suddenly, I can’t eat. I have no business being here with this family. I won’t be here for the triple birthday. I don’t want to imagine what they’ll think when they find out I’ve run off to LA.

I listen quietly as they make their big plans.

“Don’t forget Ms. Bean and her young man will be here,” Annie says.

Marvin promises a giant cake and plenty of Made-Rites.

When we leave and walk outside, Hank looks around. “Mom, where did you park your car?”

Annie points to a gold Plymouth minivan.

“You got it!” Popeye hugs her. “Any problems?”

Annie shakes her head.

“But where’s
your
car?” Kat asks.

“Our family is getting too big for a sports car,” Annie says. She dangles her keys. “So, who’s riding with me?”

We divide up, girls in the van, guys in the truck.

* * *

When we’re back at the farm, I check e-mail and find a long message from Winnie. She gives me advice on riding and staying on. At the very end, she closes with this:

Take your time with Blackfire.

But what she doesn’t know is that I don’t have time to take.

Fourteen

Sunday morning Kat wakes me up way too early, and we all go to church in the new van. Their church could be a Christmas card. Small and white, old-fashioned steeple, evergreens everywhere. Only thing missing is the snow.

When I step out of the van, I expect to hear organ music. Instead, I hear drums and horns and a tambourine. I can’t believe these sounds are coming from a church.

“Nice, huh?” Hank says, weaving to the beat.

We sit in a long pew, with Wes taking one end and me the other. Kat sits next to me. She looks up every Bible verse and holds her Bible between us like we’re sharing. A lot of the talk—or the sermon, I guess—goes over my head. But the music rocks. I had no idea Jesus songs could sound like that.

* * *

When we get back to the farm, Popeye fixes grilled cheese sandwiches. Then he gives me a driving lesson in the truck.

“Clutch!” Popeye cries, as we inch along the pasture trail.

But it’s too late. I stall out the truck for the 13th time. “I’m never going to get it,” I complain.

“
Never
is never a word to use under these circumstances,” he says. “Let’s go again.”

We do. I stall the truck four more times. But I’m starting to get the hang of steering. I have a long way to go before I can take this thing to Chicago.

When we’re done, Popeye rushes inside to help Annie bake cookies. I head for the barn and Blackfire. Hank’s working with Lancelot in the round pen. I watch them as I groom Blackfire.

“Lancelot’s looking good,” I tell Hank when he comes by again. “He seems more relaxed.” I’m pretty sure Hank’s working him with a different bit.

“He’s coming along,” Hank says. He stops beside Blackfire and me.

I run the brush all the way to Blackfire’s hooves. “Of course, Lance might do better if he had another horse riding with him.”

Hank laughs. “If you think I’m putting you back up on Starlight, you’re crazy.”

“Actually, I was thinking of Blackfire.” I expect Hank to laugh even harder, but he doesn’t.

I figure he’s rejected my idea, though, since he dismounts and unsaddles Lancelot. He flings the saddle over his shoulder and heads for the tack room.

I move over to Lance and start brushing him. His back is damp from the saddle, so I brush it the wrong way, then back again.

Finally Hank returns. He watches me with Lance for a few minutes. Then he sighs. “Okay. Only not by yourself. I lead him.”

“Yeah? Seriously?” I can’t believe Hank’s going to let me ride Blackfire.

“You just sit there. I’ll do everything else. I mean it, Dakota. I don’t want you falling off again.”

“Me either,” I agree. I walk over to Blackfire and put my arms around his neck. “Ready, handsome?” I whisper. “We’re going on a ride.”

Hank takes Lance to his stall and comes back with a Western saddle, the kind cowboys use in movies. He shows me how to place the saddle blanket and where to cinch the saddle.

Blackfire’s back twitches when we tighten the girth, but he doesn’t try to get away.

“Are you sure this saddle’s comfortable for him?” I don’t like the way the horse keeps turning his head to look at it.

“As comfortable as a 25-pound chunk of leather can be on your back, I guess,” Hank says, pulling the cinch two notches tighter than I had it.

Hank teaches me how to mount, and it’s much easier with a real stirrup and a horn to grab on to. “Ready?” he asks, as I settle into the saddle.

I nod. My heart is racing. At first, I hang on to the horn while Hank leads me around the pen. Then I let go and feel my body move with Blackfire’s stride.

Still, I can’t feel the horse like I could when I rode Starlight bareback. “Hank?”

“What?”

“Do you think I could ride bareback?” I ask.

“You’re kidding. Remember what happened last time?”

“But I want to feel Blackfire. I think I need to feel him. Please?”

Hank stops, and so does Blackfire. When Hank stares at me, I think this could go either way. “You sound just like Winnie. You know that?”

“I do?” Right now, on horseback, there’s nobody else I’d rather sound like.

“Winnie loves to ride bareback.” Hank scratches his head, then sighs. “Okay.”

Blackfire seems more relaxed the second the saddle comes off. Hank boosts me up, and I settle onto the horse, feeling more a part of him this way. I know it will be harder to stay on without a horn and stirrups. But Blackfire’s not as broad-backed as Starlight, so it’s easier to grip with my thighs.

Hank leads me, and I cling to a fistful of mane. But after once around, I loosen my grip and rely on my legs to keep me on. I lose track of how many trips we take in the round pen. When we quit, I slide off and hug Blackfire.

“There’s hope for you yet,” Hank mutters.

I don’t know if he’s talking about Blackfire or me.

I run inside and tell Kat about riding Blackfire. Then I log on to Annie’s e-mail and get ready to write Winnie. But Winnie has beat me to it. There’s a message waiting with the subject line:
Fight or Flight
.

I read through it. It’s the same kind of thing Catman told Kat about cats. Horses are “prey” instead of predators. So when they get frightened, their instinct is to fight or run away, and almost always, they’ll choose to run away.

If you can just remember that a horse’s first reaction to anything new is to run away, you’ll go a long way toward understanding Blackfire.

I can’t help smiling to myself. Maybe that’s why Blackfire and I have understood each other from the beginning. Running away is something I’ve always understood.

I start upstairs, but Kat meets me on her way down. “Come on!”

“Come on where?”

“Sunday night stargazing,” Kat answers. “Didn’t anybody tell you?”

I shake my head.

Hank comes thundering down the stairs, and even Wes heads for the lawn, where Annie and Popeye are spreading out blankets.

I follow along and take a spot next to Kat. For the rest of the night, under bright starlight, we watch the sky and eat popcorn to the tune of crickets, hoot owls, and an occasional woodpecker.

* * *

The next morning, I’m ready for another driving lesson. But when I come downstairs, Popeye’s chugging a glass of milk as he stands over the sink. He’s wearing brown pants and a matching jacket that says “Nice Fire Dept.”

When he sees me, he says, “Good, you’re up, Dakota. I’m due at the fire station. One of the boys called in sick.”

Annie’s stuffing papers into her briefcase. “Morning, Dakota. Sorry we have to rush off like this.”

“When are you coming back?” I ask, hoping it will be in time to give me another driving lesson.

“Up to my chauffeur,” Popeye answers, switching his lunch bag to his teeth so he can open the door for his wife.

“Great,” I mutter when they’re gone. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

Hank gets up from the table and sets his dishes in the sink. “How about riding Blackfire?”

Suddenly I’m not so disappointed. “Seriously? Yeah!”

I ride bareback, and again Hank leads me around the pen. After the fourth round, I’m ready to move on. “Hank, you can let go now. We’ll be fine.”

He steps back and holds up both hands. “I haven’t led you for the last two laps.”

“Then scram. Blackfire and I want to be alone.”

“Guess I can take a hint.” Hank leaves the ring but watches from the side as Blackfire and I continue to walk around and around. Finally, even Hank seems to get bored. “I’m going to muck stalls,” he says. “Call me if you need me.”

After a couple more laps, I’m getting dizzy, and I think Blackfire must feel the same. He edges closer to the pen. This time, when we pass the open gate, it’s like Blackfire’s reading my mind. He tucks, turns, and walks out of the pen.

I don’t try to rein him back. I want to see where he’ll go. Unhurried, he crosses the barn to the barn door, then out into the beautiful sunshine.

This
is riding. I breathe deeply, and the air smells clean. I glance around and see Kat waving at me from the front window.

Blackfire stops, and I wave back at Kat.

Out of nowhere comes a growl. Then a
yap, yap, yap!

“Taco!” Wes comes running from the house. “Get back here!”

But the little dog keeps running, making a beeline for Blackfire’s hind legs.

Suddenly, Blackfire lets out a whinny. The dog yaps at his heels. I feel the horse gather himself under me. Then he lunges.

I grasp at his mane to keep from falling off. Blackfire takes off, and I’m thrown forward so that I’m hanging on to his neck. He takes this as a sign to speed up.

We thunder up the hill. We’re halfway through the next field before I remember to breathe.

I’m surprised to feel the reins still in my hand. Somebody’s yelling behind me, but I can’t make out the words. I scoot back into riding position and remember to grip with my thighs.

The rhythm of the gallop begins to take me with it, regular and steady. Up and back. I loosen my grip on his mane, feel the wind on my face, and move with Blackfire. He runs across the road, and I’m with him, beat for beat. I’m not afraid. I want us to keep running together. Forever. Just like this. No wonder we’re riding as if we’re one. He’s running away, and that’s what I do best.

Ahead of us, I see rocks piled high.

We close in on the mound. But the closer we get, I see more rocks. And something else. It’s a quarry—a deep, cavernous quarry.

And we’re headed straight for it.