Wild Thing (10 page)

Lizzy spent the rest of the day peeling potatoes and basting a ham with chunky peanut butter. Meanwhile I cleaned the barn, which was in better condition than I’d thought. The red paint had flaked off, making it look run-down. But inside Mr. Haven had built a solid, horse-friendly barn, with large stalls that opened to pasture.

I’d finished sweeping the last stall when raindrops plunked on the roof. The smell of hay and rain set off a slide show in my head of our Wyoming ranch.

I heard the grinding gears of our old truck.

This is it,
I thought.
God, if you’re still listening, please help.
I knew God had to be listening all the time. But I felt so far away, it was hard to carry on a conversation.

It was like that with Dad too, as if we’d given up on talking to each other. The first few months after the accident, Lizzy had tried everything to get us to talk, to make things the way they used to be. But after a while, even Lizzy could see it wasn’t going to happen.

I’d have to cut through all of that—for one night at least. Wild Thing’s life depended on it.

I dodged raindrops as I dashed to the house. Dad ran up the steps, his jacket over his head. I tried to open the door for him, and he tried to hold it open for me. That was the other thing that had changed since the accident—politeness. Dad and I had become too polite with each other, as if that made up for everything else that wasn’t right between us.

Lizzy served dinner with candles and plates that matched. But Dad didn’t seem to notice. My stomach felt like colts were playing in it.

Dad reached for another slice of peanut-butter ham. “Found out today those bike parts I need cost a bundle.”

Lizzy kicked me under the table. I tried to remember what Catman said about leading a cat to water.

“Dad,” I said, forking my potatoes, “I wish I could bring in some cash around here. I mean, Lizzy’s doing her part babysitting and cooking most of the meals.”

“Well, it will all work out one way or the other,” Dad said. “Pass the salt, please?”

I passed it. “If only I could help in some way. But all I know is horses. Of course, a lot of people make good money from horses.”

Dad stared at his napkin. I knew he was thinking about Mom. Dad hadn’t taken any part in the ranch. He didn’t even ride.

Quickly I asked, “Have you seen the auction barn out on Baney Road?”

“I
have
seen that barn,” Dad replied. “I drove by there last Saturday. Most traffic I’ve seen in Ashland.”

“I hear lots of people make money from that auction,” Lizzy said. “Hundreds and hundreds . . . even thousands of dollars, maybe even—”

I interrupted her before she went too far. “If you know what you’re looking for, you can get a great bargain there. Then you’d sell the horse somewhere else for a lot more money.”

Please, God, lead my dad to water.

Dad took a sip of water and leaned back in his chair. “Where do people sell horses around here? The newspaper? Can’t imagine there’s much of a market in the classifieds.” He downed another bite of ham and wiped the peanut butter from his lips.

“Stable-Mart has a fall sale next Saturday,” I put in casually, trying not to look at Lizzy. Her hand reached under the table and grabbed mine.

“So,” Dad said, “say someone bought an auction horse as an investment. What next?”

Lizzy squeezed my hand so hard, my fingers tingled. “Then you gentle the horse and show it off at a real sale, like Stable-Mart’s,” I explained.

“How long would it take to get a return on the investment?” Dad asked, sounding like his old business self. “You know, to tame the horse and then resell at a profit?”

I faked a yawn. “We used to gentle our horses in a few days. Some took longer. But most came around by the end of a week.”

Dad leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Tell me everything you know about that Stable-Mart sale.”

I told him everything Hawk had told me.

“Perfect!” Dad exclaimed when I’d finished. “Winnie, I’ve got a proposition for you!”

Thank you, Catman! . . . And thank you, God!

Dad and I worked out the details. He’d drive Lizzy and me to the auction barn early so I could look over the horses and pick a few possible “investments.”

“I’ve only got $750 in savings, Winnie,” Dad said, forking the last bite of brownie cake Lizzy had made to seal the deal. “We’ll go as high as that, and no higher.”

As soon as I could, I ran to my room and got the horse blanket. I couldn’t wait another minute to give Wild Thing the good news.

Hang on, girl. One more week at Stable-Mart, and I’ll get you out of there for good!

I’d forgotten about the change in weather. Wind brought the soft rain in at a slant as I walked to Stable-Mart. I didn’t care. I still couldn’t believe it. I’d led Dad to water.

But deep inside I knew there was more to it.
Okay, God. Sorry about thinking you might not be listening.

A bright light shone from the stable as I walked around to the south pasture. The rain picked up, clattering against the metal roof and rustling the leaves.

“Wild Thing!” I called at the fence.

Rain poured down, making it impossible to see deep into the pasture. I climbed through the fence and headed out. “Here, girl!” I called.

I inhaled. I couldn’t smell her.

Don’t be silly. You can’t smell anything in this downpour.

I listened for any sign of her—a nicker, a whinny, a snort. Anything. “Wild Thing! Where are you, girl?”

Nothing but the splash of rain answered me.

“Wild Thing?” I shouted, panic rising in me like smoke, choking me.

I ran to the end of the pasture, my tennis shoes slipping in the mud. “Wild Thing!” I screamed.

She wasn’t there.

I circled in the tall, drenched grass, calling out to her.

Thunder rumbled, then boomed. Lightning struck the sky in a jagged streak that lit up the whole pasture. And I could see. Wild Thing was gone.

I don’t know how long I sat in the pasture while rain soaked into my bones. I was too late. Wild Thing was gone.

Before I left, I checked the stable, the paddock, the other pastures. But I knew I wouldn’t find the Arabian. They’d gotten rid of her. And I’d probably never know where.

Saturday morning Lizzy woke me at dawn. “Winnie!” she shouted. “We have to be at the auction in thirty minutes!”

I rolled over and faced the wall. “I’m not going.”

Lizzy spent 10 minutes dragging the details out of me, and the next 10 convincing me I still had to go to the auction.

As soon as we got to the auction barn, I left Lizzy and Dad registering, while I slipped back to the holding stalls. As I examined horse after horse, I grew sadder and sadder. A sorrel American Saddle Horse could have won a beauty contest, but her cracked and bumped hooves indicated a history of poor care and lameness.

Three horses had weird teeth, altered to make them appear younger. A groove called Galvayne’s groove shows up at the top of a horse’s tooth at age 10 and grows longer the older the horse gets. Mom had a million stories about crooked horse dealers who’d filed off or filled the groove, stained or reshaped teeth to pass off an old horse as a young one. All three of these horses had filed teeth, but I could still feel their Galvayne’s grooves.

Two others had been drugged into being quiet. I could tell by their glassy eyes.

“Is that the one to bid on?” Eddy Barker peered into the stall where I’d been checking out a black Morgan. I wondered if Barker ever frowned. So far his smile had just changed sizes. Lizzy said the Barkers were the happiest family she’d ever seen. Catman was with Barker.

I must have looked surprised to see them. “Pat brought us,” Catman explained. “Something wrong?”

“We thought you’d be psyched,” Barker said. “But you look like you lost your best friend.”

I
had
lost my best friend. But I didn’t feel like talking about it.

“This is kind of a sad place,” I admitted. “Look at this Morgan.” I lifted his foreleg, where I’d spotted dozens of tiny scars.

“Pretty banged-up knees,” Catman said.

“He’s a stumbler,” I explained, setting down his hoof. “Somebody forced him to do too much too early. He doesn’t use his hocks well, so he drags his back legs.” I stood back so they could see his back shoe. “Toes are worn from dragging.”

“Winnie!” Dad called as he and Pat walked over to us.

“Where’s Lizzy?” I asked.

Pat laughed. “Hiding! Beats me how a gal who cuddles lizards and spiders can be scared of horses!”

Dad scanned the stalls. “So where’s our moneymaker?”

I showed them my three picks: a Paint mare, a bay Thoroughbred gelding, and a chestnut Arabian, who was four years older than the owner claimed and nothing like Wild Thing.

“There might be more,” I said, as we joined Lizzy and the crowd in the arena. “They bring some in late.”

“You hold our bidding number, Winnie,” Lizzy insisted, shoving a white cardboard
34
on a popsicle stick at me. She scooted closer to Dad.

The auction began, and we watched as the first two horses went over our limit. I couldn’t help comparing every horse I saw to Wild Thing. They all came up way, way short.

The Thoroughbred I’d picked trotted in.

“Is that one of ours?” Dad asked, sounding excited.

“He’s so skinny . . . and ugly,” Lizzy said.

“I’m counting on other people thinking the same thing.” I glanced around at the crowd. “He’ll clean up fine though.”

Even though I still didn’t want to be there—not with Wild Thing out of the picture—my stomach fluttered as the bidding started.

“Who’ll give me $500 to open it up?” asked the auctioneer.

Nobody did.

“One hundred dollars!” somebody called from the crowd.

The auctioneer did his calling, trying to bid us up.

Dad elbowed me, and I lifted our number to jump in at $250 and $625. I was so nervous, I kept repeating to myself:
not over $750. $750. $750.
But we lost out to an old horseman who looked as if he’d been to a million auctions.

“You were so close!” Pat shouted. “Winnie, you sure know your horseflesh! That fella who bought that Thoroughbred was around when my husband was in the horse trade. He’s as sly as a fox. No offense. ”

“I liked the others better anyway,” Barker said. “Didn’t you, Catman?”

The next horse didn’t sell. The owner had drugged the mare, but not enough. She limped in. The crowd murmured, and nobody bid.

“How much longer, Winnie?” Lizzy whined.

I started to answer her when I heard a squeal. Something in my heart felt electric. I strained to hear . . . to smell . . . to sense.

I’m going crazy. This is ridiculous. It can’t be—

Through the gate came a horse that took four men to lead. They crowded around so we couldn’t get a look at the animal, who whinnied, snorted, reared, and tore at the lines holding her down.

I knew before the men moved out of the way. I knew before I saw the arch of her neck, the flare of her nostrils.
Wild Thing!