Wild Thing (11 page)

“Man, those cats are no match for that horse,” Catman said.

“They don’t really think they can sell that horse, do they?” Pat asked.

“I doubt it,” Dad replied. “Hope it doesn’t slow things down.”

“Well, they better keep it away from me!” Lizzy cried.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, as I watched them jerk on the ropes. They closed her in from behind, snapping a whip to move her into the arena.

The auctioneer cleared his throat over the loudspeaker. “As you can see, you’ll be bidding on a lot of horse here,” he said. “Can you bring her all the way in, men?”

One of the men dropped his rope and jumped the fence as the mare lunged forward. The crowd chuckled.

“Uh . . . what’ll ya give me for this . . . spirited mare?” asked the auctioneer. “Come on, men! Don’t be shy. You’re not afraid of a little horse, are you?”

My stomach ached. My head throbbed. Crowd noises blurred. I could sense Wild Thing’s pain as if they were pulling
me,
humiliating and terrifying
me.

“Is he kidding?” Dad said. “Who would be crazy enough to pay for a horse like—?”

“Seven hundred and fifty dollars!” I cried, standing on my tiptoes, waving my number
34
as if I were signaling for rescue planes.

The arena fell silent. All heads turned toward me.

Lizzy gasped.

Dad made a choking sound.

The auctioneer spit into his microphone. “Sold!”

“Winnie!” Lizzy cried.

“Lizzy,” I whispered, “that’s Wild Thing!” I could hardly remember bidding. It was as if someone else, someone inside me, had shouted out $750. Seven hundred and fifty dollars—our limit.

Dad looked like somebody had punched him in the stomach. When he finally spoke, he sounded as if the punch had knocked the wind out of him. “Are . . . you . . . out . . . of your mind?”

“Dad, I had to—”

“That was all of our investment money!” His skin tightened around his cheeks and neck. “That was all I had. And you blew the whole thing on
that?”
He glared at Wild Thing and pointed his finger as if it were a sword.

“I can gentle her, Dad!” I insisted. “You’ll see!”

“I saw!” he shouted. “We all saw! It took an army of men to get that wild creature into the arena!”

People turned to stare at us.

Dad got louder. “They should pay
us
$750 to take that horse off their hands!”

“Dad,” I pleaded, “I didn’t mean to bid the whole—”

Lizzy broke in. “Dad, I’m sure Winnie knows what she’s doing.”

Lizzy didn’t look sure. But I’d never been more grateful she was my sister.

“Nobody knows more about horses than Winnie,” she went on.

Dad shook his head. “That’s what I used to think too.”

It took me the rest of the day to lead Wild Thing home. She danced and sidestepped, trying to run ahead, forcing me to turn her in circles again and again until we were both dizzy.

Catman and Lizzy were waiting for us at home. They lifted the old gate and swung it back so I could turn Wild Thing into the pasture. When I did, she raced off as if her tail were on fire.

That night I slept in the barn on Mom’s blanket as Wild Thing paced in our own pasture. It should have felt like my dream coming true. Wild Thing was actually here, just as I’d imagined her.

But it wasn’t the same. She wasn’t mine.

Dad hadn’t spoken to me since the auction, and he had every right to be angry. There was no question of keeping Wild Thing for myself. Dad needed his investment money back. We’d have to sell the Arabian in the Stable-Mart’s sale and hope somebody bid more than I had.

Still, if I could gentle her, I could make sure she ended up in a good home with people who would appreciate her. That would have to be enough.

Sunday afternoon Lizzy came to the barn as I was pulling out hay for Wild Thing. “Can’t you get her to come?” Lizzy asked.

I sighed. Cupping my hands to my mouth, I hollered, “Wild Thing!”

I waited for a nicker. None came.

“Not much of a name.” Catman had crept up behind us.

“How do you do that?” Lizzy asked. “Scared me half to death!”

He shielded his eyes and gazed out to the pasture. “Shouldn’t you name her White Beauty or Misty or Flicka or something?”

I didn’t answer, so Lizzy did. “Winnie has this thing about naming horses,” she explained. “Like if she doesn’t name it, she won’t get attached and feel sad when it goes away.”

Catman leaned down to scratch a kitten who rubbed against his ankle. “What’s the plan?”

Two more cats pranced up to Catman for attention. They purred, trusting him totally.

Trust!

“My plan,” I said, “is to help Wild Thing trust me, to convince her that I love her.” That had been Mom’s secret to gentling.

“Make her feel your love,” Lizzy said softly. I risked a glance at her. Lizzy knew how hard it had been for
me
to feel love since the accident. In the beginning, she’d tell me over and over that God and Dad hadn’t stopped loving me, that I just didn’t feel it. I’d told her so many times to stop talking about it that she finally had.

I needed to get moving. “Don’t just stand there!” I demanded. “Sing!”

Lizzy and I turned in a pretty awful version of “Amazing Grace,” then two other hymns, while Catman watched.

Wild Thing paid no attention.

“Some help you are, Catman!” Lizzy scolded.

“Don’t know those songs,” he admitted.

“Well,” Lizzy said, “you don’t know what you’re missing! Hymns rock! You’ll have to come to church with Barker and me sometime and hear hymns on the guitar. Sounds even better than Winnie and I.”

Lizzy had gone to church with the Barkers twice that I knew of. Dad and I had passed. Dad never talked much about God, not even back in Wyoming. But Mom had told us about how she and Dad had discovered Christ the same year they’d found each other: “Your dad and I met in a Christian campus meeting my second year at the University of Wyoming. I heard the most awful singing voice, turned around, and there he was.”

Catman’s grin brought me back to the present. Then he surprised me by bursting into song: “Wild Thing!” he sang, tapping his foot. “You make my heart sing! You make everything—!”

Lizzy and I were laughing so hard I couldn’t make out the words. But it didn’t stop us from singing along as Catman plucked invisible guitar strings.

That’s when I noticed Wild Thing, neck arched and ears pricked forward. “Don’t look,” I whispered, “but Wild Thing’s jealous.” Mom taught me that horses love laughter more than sugar cubes.

We forced even louder laughter until we heard a car drive up. Pat Haven and Eddy Barker hopped out. Macho, Barker’s black-and-tan puppy, bounded beside him, no sign of fear.

“How’s that horse?” Pat shouted.

“Coming along,” I answered.

“Thought you and that wild horse might need some food,” she said, tugging on the brim of her floppy hat. “Had an extra bag sitting around the store. Not my flavor.” She let out one of her deep giggles. I wished Wild Thing could have heard it.

I felt so grateful I could hardly look at her. “Thanks,” I muttered. “A lot.”

“Nonsense!” she said, getting back in her blue car. “Well, boys!” she hollered out the window. “Don’t stand around chewing your cud—no offense to neighboring cows.”

Catman and Barker hoisted a gunnysack of horse feed out of the trunk.

“I’ll be praying for you
and
that horse!” Pat promised, as she jerked the car forward and drove off.

Mom would have loved Pat Haven.

Barker stayed and helped put the feed into a rubber trash can I’d already cleaned out. I scooped some oats into a metal bucket and carried it out to the pasture, shaking it to lure in the mare. But she ignored me.

Barker’s dog trotted up to Lizzy, wagging his tail.

“I can’t believe what you’ve done with this dog, Barker!” Lizzy exclaimed, scratching Macho on his belly as the dog rolled over for more. “What’s your secret?”

Barker yanked something from his jeans pocket. An awful smell came with it.

“Gross!” Lizzy cried, backing away.

Macho lunged at his master as Barker peeled off the plastic wrap to unveil the grossest piece of meat I’d ever seen.

“It’s barely cooked liver!” Barker said. He tore off a piece and gave it to Macho. “You ought to see what he’ll do for roadkill!” He wrapped the liver back up. “Ah . . . the way to a dog’s heart is through his stomach.”

“That’s it!” I cried. “Lizzy, I need you to work your kitchen magic for Wild Thing. We need treats—horse treats!”

“You got it!” Lizzy said, wedging between Catman and Barker. “We’ve already got oatmeal and molasses in the house . . . and apples and carrots. I’ll whip up a horse treat even Wild Thing can’t resist!”

At dinner the kitchen smelled like molasses and oats. We ate spaghetti. Lizzy tried to get a conversation going, but Dad and I weren’t much help.

After dinner Lizzy shoved a bag filled with what could have passed for granola bars at me, and I trekked out to camp under a starry sky filled with the scent of horse and molasses.

Before curling up on the blanket, I broke off pieces of treat, laying down a trail from about 50 yards out, all the way to the blanket.