Wild Thing (14 page)

I pretended to have trouble with her as I led her around the arena in front of 50 or 60 onlookers.

The loudspeaker praised the white Arabian: “ . . . led by a child! Good ground manners. Only five years old.”

My ears were ringing. Wild Thing’s steady
clip-clop
pounded like my heart.

We reached the far side of the arena, away from the crowd.

“Wild Thing,” I whispered, my words choking in my throat, “please believe that I love you.”

I took a deep breath and flicked the end of the rope at her, behind my back where no one could see.

She jerked, but she stayed with me, forgave me for it.

“Go!” I cried.

She wouldn’t leave me.

My stomach ached at the sight of her wide eyes, white with suspicion. I swallowed, then snapped her with the rope. It couldn’t have hurt her, but it scared her. She’d trusted me.

I lifted my arms suddenly. “Get out of here!”

Frightened, she reared, then bolted toward the fence. I jumped to the side, crashing into the dirt, rolling over in time to see her sail over the fence and run terrified into the pasture.

Dad and Lizzy were at my side as I got up.

“Winnie, are you okay?” Lizzy asked, reaching for me.

“That crazy horse!” Dad cried. “Winnie, are you hurt?”

I stumbled to my feet, tears stinging my cheeks.

“That stupid, no-good horse!” Dad said. “I never should have—!”

“No!” I cried. I couldn’t stand it. “She’s not stupid! She’s wonderful! And kind. And honest.”

“Winnie,” Dad said, “I know you wanted this to work out. But that horse—”

Everything was wrong. “Oh, Dad,” I said, sobbing and shaking. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“What?” Dad looked pained, confused. “It’s not your fault.”

“It
is
my fault! Everything’s my fault! I made her act up like that! I didn’t want anybody to buy her. But I messed it up like I messed everything up.”

At the corners of my vision, a blur of people swam together—Catman and Barker and Pat.

“I’m so sorry, Dad!” I said. “Sorry for
everything!
”

“What are you saying, Winnie?” Dad asked. He looked as frightened as Wild Thing had.

“I’m sorry I killed Mom.” I said it softly, and nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

Dad’s face turned white. As I stared at him, the pictures pushed at my brain: Dad saying, “Don’t go, honey. It’s too icy”; Mom and I getting into the car; Dad coming into my hospital room and telling me Mom had died in the wreck.

“It was all my fault,” I said, feeling like I might vomit. “If Mom hadn’t driven me to see that horse, she’d still be alive.”

Dad got down on one knee and held me by my shoulders. “Listen to me, Winnie. The accident wasn’t your fault. I
never
thought it was your fault—not for a minute! Honey, I am so sorry.”

“You?
You don’t have anything to be sorry about! You didn’t want her to take me to see that horse. You told her it was too icy!”

“No, honey. You know your mother. Nothing either one of us said made a bit of difference! She’d made up her mind. That’s how she was—about horses, about you. It . . . was . . . an . . . accident,” Dad said slowly, not letting go of my shoulders. “I had no idea you felt it was your fault. I’ve been so caught up just trying to get myself from one day to the next. . . . But I should have seen it, Winnie. I love you.”

I jerked away. “You
can’t!
Not after what I did! You can’t love me!”

I broke free from Dad’s grip and ran, shoving past Barker and Catman, through the crowd and out the arena. I heard Lizzy holler after me. Other voices yelled. But I kept running until I couldn’t hear them.

Wild Thing stood on the crest of the hill, her neck arched, the old fear and wildness back to protect her. Protect her from me.

“I’m sorry!” I yelled. My knees buckled, and I crumpled to the ground. She’d never forgive me. Why should she? Why should anybody?

I covered my head and cried until no more tears came. “I love you, Wild Thing,” I muttered. “You have to believe I love you.”

Lizzy’s voice replayed in her mind:
“God understands. You have to believe God loves you.”

Was Lizzy right? Could God possibly understand what I was feeling? I understood Wild Thing’s pain, felt it almost as clearly as I felt my own.

Do you feel my pain like that, God? Do you still love me? Can you ever forgive me?

I felt a hot breath at the back of my neck.

“Wild Thing!”

Her breath, heating the hairs on my neck, made me shiver.

I got up. She let me fling my arms around her and press my cheek against her neck. “Can
you
forgive me?” I whispered. I inhaled her warm, horse smell. “It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

The crooked thread letters of Lizzy’s needlework flashed into my brain again:
God in his gracious kindness declares us not guilty. Jesus didn’t die for nothing!

God’s gracious kindness.
I didn’t have to feel guilty, not for anything!
Jesus didn’t die for nothing!

Thank you,
I prayed, as something inside of me unclogged, opening passages to my heart.

The leadrope still hung from her halter. I threaded the lead through her halter to form makeshift reins. Then I stroked her back until her muscles relaxed.

Standing at her shoulder, I swung myself up on her back. She pranced, surprised, but pleased.

I leaned forward and hugged her neck. “Let’s ride,” I whispered, my thighs pressing in slightly.

She read my mind and took off at a canter. We raced through the pasture, the wind blowing, the sun shining. Riding again was like a piece of me being grafted back into my body. I wished Mom could have been here to ride with me. But I could think about her now without the guilt.

And right behind the forgiveness and grace, love was waiting. It flooded over me like a Wyoming river, flowing deep inside where nothing else had reached for so long.

Mom’s needlepoint verse appeared in my head as clearly as if I were watching her stitch the letters:

For your unfailing love is as high as the heavens.

Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds.

—Psalm 57:10

I felt it—that unfailing love. And I knew Wild Thing felt it too. It surrounded us like fog, like the fog on that day when I’d first run into her.

I could have ridden like that forever. But I knew now that whatever happened, God was watching. And he loved us.
Please,
I prayed,
give her a great home.

“Let’s go back and show them you don’t deserve a name like Wild Thing,” I said.

Laying the rope across her neck, I reined her back toward the arena. We got to the gate at the same moment a sale horse was being led out. Wild Thing cantered straight in, slowing to a rocking, gentle gait.

Richard spotted us first. “Look out! It’s the Arabian!” he shouted.

Wild Thing and I moved as one around the arena. She wanted to please me, and she did, responding to every cue. When we pulled to a stop in front of the crowd, they burst into applause.

Spider Spidell’s astonished voice came over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen! I believe we have another horse to bid on.”

I fought back the tears. I’d done what I could to get Wild Thing a good home. The rest would be up to God.

“So,” Mr. Spidell shouted out, “who’ll start the bidding?”

Summer Spidell rushed past me to get to her dad. “Daddy! I want that horse! I have to have her! She could win State Champion!”

“She’s a good-looker, all right,” her father admitted.

“Do whatever you have to, Daddy!” Summer wheeled and pointed a red fingernail at us. “I want that horse!”

Please, God, don’t let Summer get Wild Thing!

Victoria shoved her way up to Summer.
Lord,
I prayed,
I’d rather see Victoria Hawkins get this horse than have her go to Summer!

Mr. Spidell cleared his throat into the microphone. “Then I guess I’ll start the bidding at—”

“Wait a minute!” Dad pushed his way through the crowd. “We have a problem.” He walked over and stroked Wild Thing’s head.

“A problem?” Mr. Spidell asked.

“There’s been a mistake,” Dad said, straightening the mare’s forelock. “This one’s not for sale.”

“No fair!” shouted Summer Spidell, her voice caught over the loudspeakers.

I leaned forward, wondering if I’d heard wrong. “Dad?”

“Come on now, Mr. Willis,” Mr. Spidell said. “This horse might just bring a very good price today. Are you telling me you can’t use the money?”

Dad sighed. “This horse already has an owner.” He winked at me.

I stared at him.
Already has an owner?
I hugged Wild Thing’s neck, then looked up. “But we can’t afford—”

“We’ll make it,” Dad said. “Your mother always said God’s love could see us through anything. All things are possible with God, right?”

I looked from Dad to Lizzy, who was crying next to him. God’s love—they felt it too.

I swung my leg over and slid off my horse. “Thanks, Dad,” I said, hugging him, being hugged. Lizzy wriggled in for a three-way hug. “Thanks, Lizzy,” I whispered. “You were right.”

Dad called over to Mr. Spidell. “Listen! If you need a horse gentled though, call my daughter—Winnie the Horse Gentler.”

Lizzy glanced around at the onlookers. “Did all of you hear that?” she shouted. “Winnie the Horse Gentler is in town!”

It was a great idea. I could gentle horses for other people! I’d make enough money to keep us in feed and help out at home.

“And I shall be moving Towaco to Winnie’s barn as soon as she will allow,” Victoria said.

“Victoria!” Summer shouted.

“Do not call me Victoria,” she said, her head held princess-high.

“Isn’t that your name?” Lizzy asked.

Victoria Hawkins shook her head. “Call me Hawk.”

“Hawk?” I repeated. “No way!” I stared at her. She couldn’t be Hawk, not
my
Hawk.

The slightest grin passed across Victoria’s lips as she asked me, “Read any good e-mails lately?”

“You!” I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d discovered I’d been writing to a real hawk. “That was
you
writing to the pet help line?” I asked, walking over to her. Hawkins—Hawk. Not even once did I make that connection.

“But why didn’t you—?” I stopped. I knew why she hadn’t told me she was Hawk. Hawk and I were friends. Victoria and I were not.

“Thanks, Hawk,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’d love to work with Towaco.”

Barker came up and shook Hawk’s hand too. “Hawk,” he said. “I like it.”

Pat Haven had cried so hard her mascara dripped off her face in black, watery streaks. “I’m proud as a peacock of all of you,” she said, giving Hawk a huge hug. “No offense.”

Mr. Spidell had apparently gotten fed up with us. Over the loudspeakers he said, “Could we get on with our sale, please?”

Richard Spidell rushed up. “Winnie, get Wild Thing out of here!”

“Don’t call her that!” I snapped. “She’s not wild, and she’s not a thing!”

“Good,” Catman said, pulling Nelson from his pocket. He walked up to the Arabian and put the cat on her back. The kitty purred, and the horse craned her neck around to see, then seemed to approve. “So what will you name her?”

I hadn’t dared think of a name. I glanced over at the beautiful white Arabian. “A name,” I muttered, trying to think of one that would be good enough. “Any ideas, girl?”

Her ears flicked back, then up. A scratching noise started in her chest, moved through her neck, and came out a low nicker.

“Did you hear that?” I cried.

Catman stood the closest to me. I threw my arms around him and hugged him. “She nickered!”