Sobs clogged my throat as Mom stood and headed for the bakery box on the kitchen counter. “I don’t believe you people.”
Dad chuckled. “What did you expect, Robin? It’s a family tradition. You get to choose a purebred horse for your sixteenth birthday.”
“But I don’t want a stinky, smelly horse!” I jumped up, letting the bridle and blanket fall to the floor. “Don’t you ever listen? I showed you the Mustang again and again. I want a car. My car, so I can go places!”
A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. I swiped it away and ran out the back door. Crying in front of them. No way! Not after this! They’d ruined everything. I grabbed my shoes and raced across the porch. I was so outta there.
My car, my car, my car!
Chapter Three
Thursday, September 12th, 8:00 p.m.
I paused halfway across the lawn to pull on my shoes. Then, I cut across the driveway and ran beside it to the road. Back in middle school when I started cross-country, I’d mapped out a six mile route so I could practice at home. After running it for almost five years, it seemed automatic to take it now. I didn’t have to think about where I was going, just head south on Whisky Ridge until I reached the trail through the woods.
Wasn’t the fact that not one person in my family understood me bad enough? Did they have to destroy my birthday too? And it wasn’t like my birthday was supposed to be unlucky. It wasn’t Friday, the 13th. It should have been a good day. I barely complained when they expanded the barn so the horses had more room and added a shower stall so Felicia could bathe Vinnie on a regular basis. Well, not much—I still thought a swimming pool would be more fun.
Tears clogged my throat, and I ran faster. Dust puffed around my shoes from the path. Some green leaves still clung to vine maple branches. I wound through a grove of young alders, passed two cedars and came to the crosswalk on Highway 9. I jogged in place while I waited for the light to change. I was mad, but not stupid enough to dart between cars and semi-trucks that used the old main road between Seattle and the Canadian border.
Maybe I was adopted. That would explain why I didn’t look or feel like anyone in my family. Where had all these horse-nuts come from? Why couldn’t I have normal relatives? Mine would probably sell me before they parted with one of those four-legged wonders down in the stable. Green light and I was across the highway, heading for the Centennial Trail where I did most of my running. I always ran the dirt track, which meant I had to watch out for horse poop, but it was easier than avoiding the bike riders and dog walkers.
When I got home a little over an hour later, Mom and Dad waited in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Felicia and Jack were nowhere in sight. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and chugged half of it.
“Robbie, we need to talk,” Dad said.
“Why?” I knew I sounded like a snarky teenager, but I didn’t care. “You never listen to me. What’s the point?”
Mom heaved a dramatic sigh. “I thought you’d be over your snit when you got back. Come sit down and we’ll tell you what we’ve planned.”
“How joyful.” That got me a stern look from her. I stomped over to join them, slumping into a chair. “What?”
Another of Mom’s fierce blue-eyed glares before she planted her elbows on the table and gave me a steely once-over. “Your dad and I talked. He should have told you flat-out that the Mustang wasn’t an option. You can’t have a car until your eighteenth birthday, and the way it works in this family is you pay half of the cost.”
I took a deep breath. “I told Dad I could do that. I’ll borrow it from my college fund.”
He immediately shook his head. “No, Robbie. It costs a small fortune for college, and we don’t touch that money except for life and death. Believe me, a classic car doesn’t count.”
“It does to me.” I rolled the water bottle in my hands. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I want it.”
“Then, get a job and start saving up,” Mom said. “We’re not saying you can’t have it, Roberta Lynn. We’re saying that you have to do what your brother and sister did. You have to earn the money for the car to prove you’re responsible enough to have it.”
“But, mine will be gone. Brenna won’t keep it two years for me.”
“Then it isn’t meant to be,” Mom said. “There are other Mustangs.”
“What?” I almost felt my jaw hit the table. “I don’t want a different one. I want this one. Come look at it again. You’ll see how gorgeous it is.”
Mom rolled her eyes and shook her head. “The answer is no, Roberta. You are not getting a car. This weekend, you and Felicia and I are going out shopping. We’re finding you a horse.”
“I hate horses. They’re big, ugly and they stink, and they’re way too much work.”
Dad got up. He came around the table and put a hand on my shoulder. “Now, Robbie, you know you don’t mean that. It’s not as if you really hate horses. You used to ride Cobbie all over the place, and you took care of him yourself.”
I jerked away. “Cobbie wasn’t a horse. He was part Welsh Cob and part Welsh pony. He is dead. He’s been dead since I was twelve. And going out to find another stinky, smelly horse won’t bring Cobbie back. He’ll still be dead.”
“And we’ll all still miss him,” Mom said softly. “He was my first horse, Roberta. I loved him, too. Just because I have Singer now, doesn’t mean I love Cobbie any less. We choose to love creatures that have shorter life spans than we do, and we grieve them when they’re gone.”
“Not me.” I leaped to my feet, knocking the chair over again. “I won’t love another horse. Not ever. You can’t make me.”
I bolted from the kitchen and ran upstairs. I slammed into my room. They’d wrecked my birthday, and I wasn’t letting them get away with it. Mom might force me to go with them on Saturday, but I wouldn’t let her get me a horse. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t!
* * * *
Friday, September 13th, 7:15 a.m.
I sat in the school cafeteria waiting for Vicky, stirring my mocha with the straw. On the way to Marysville, Dad had tried talking to me about the stupid horse again, but I pretty much ignored him until he bought me a coffee at the espresso stand. Then, it was Jack’s turn. I tuned him out and texted my best friend, begging her to meet me. I didn’t know if she’d make it or not. Like she said, since her parents’ divorce, her mom got the house and a new job. Her dad got the new car and a girlfriend. And Vick got to take care of her two younger brothers and three younger sisters.
Ten minutes before the bell rang, she hustled across the Commons to join me. “Okay, I’m here. What’s the disaster?”
“I didn’t get my car,” I said.
She plunked her backpack on the extra chair and sat down next to me. “Did you really think your folks would cough up fifteen thousand dollars for a Mustang? That’s major bucks.”
“They’re buying me a horse instead—a four-legged hay-burner.”
“A horse? A real horse?” Vicky squealed and jumped up to hug me. “You are so lucky. I’d die for a horse. I’d kill for one. When can I come see it? What are you going to call it? Can I ride it?”
“You can have it,” I snapped. “You can freaking move in with my family and have it!”
“Oh, get over yourself,” Vicky retorted. “You’re the lucky one, Rob, even if you won’t admit it. You could be sharing a room with my sister, babysitting all the time and changing diapers when you’re trying to do algebra. There’d be no cell phone or your own TV or clothes from the mall whenever you want. I wish my biggest problem was getting a horse for my birthday instead of my parents’ divorce.”
The bell rang before I had to say that she was right. I did have things better than she did, but I still didn’t want a horse. I wanted my car, my amazing Presidential blue ’68 Mustang with its automatic transmission.
“So, what are you going to do?” Vicky asked, walking beside me toward Homeroom English. “When
does your horse arrive?”
“I have to go shopping with my mom and Felicia on Saturday,” I said. “And if they actually make me get a horse, I’m bringing home the worst one I find.”
* * * *
Saturday, September 14th, 2:45 p.m.
We spent the day touring stables and checking out the horses they had for sale. This plan had obviously been in the works for a while. Jack had hitched up the horse trailer to his pickup so we could bring home the horse when we found it. Mom and Felicia had chosen six horses for me to look at. If Shamrock Stable, the place where I did day camp during the summer, had been on the list, it might have been different, but my family obviously hadn’t considered the beginning level, safe horses suitable.
Two of the horses they chose had already been sold. Hurrah. The other four were experienced gaming mounts, so not my thing. I watched the owner gallop a paint around the barrels and shook my head. “No way.”
“Don’t you want to try him?” Felicia asked. “Jack said that he’s a sweetheart.”
“He’s too fast,” I said. “I don’t ride fast horses anymore, and you two can’t make me.”
Mom frowned at me. “If you just developed some confidence, you could be a very good rider, Robin. You have a good seat and good hands. There is no reason for you to refuse to ride when you’re obviously very talented. That would be like Felicia refusing to play the piano or your brother throwing away his paints because his work hasn’t been in a gallery.”
“I don’t want a horse, and I’m not getting on one ever again.”
That got me twin glares, but luckily we were soon in the truck and headed off to a nearby café for a late lunch. Felicia pulled out her cell phone. I thought she was texting a friend, but it turned out she was checking the classified ads in the local paper. “Hey, Mom. I think I found one.”
“Really? Let me see.” Mom drew into a parking lot and reached for the phone. “This does sound interesting. It’s a trained, registered Morab gelding. Why do they only want $100.00?”
“I’ll call and find out,” Felicia said.
“Don’t,” I said. “Let’s quit wasting time on this. That price is definitely a mistake.”
The two of them ignored me. What else was new?
Mom called the number and talked to somebody. In minutes, we were on the way north to Arlington. I stared out the truck window at the evergreens and alders that marched alongside the highway. Sunshine danced off the glass.
“There it is.” Felicia pointed to the next side street.
Mom slowed down for the turn. She went to the third driveway on the left, parking next to another truck, between the house and a large row of kennels.
I looked around. I didn’t see a barn or even a shed. “Where is this cheap horse?”
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “We’ll have to ask the owner. She told me someone else was coming to look at it.”
“Good. Maybe they’ll buy it.” I saw a shape in the dusty corral behind the house. Was that a horse? I opened the passenger door of the pickup and slid out. Felicia followed me. I headed for the corral and stopped when I heard a growl. Did they have a dog? I didn’t see one. When I scanned the caged runs, I spotted a giant cat. “What is that?”
“A cougar,” Felicia said.
We shared a look. What kind of nutcase would have a wild animal like that?
“Lovely,” Mom said. “It’s lucky we left Jack home. He’d want us to take it, too.” Sighing, she shook her head. “I’ll go find the owner.”
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll hunt for the horse.”
Mom walked away, and we headed off to the corral. My breath caught. Felicia grabbed my arm, nails digging into my skin.
I just stared at the skeleton pretending to be a horse. Red brown hide stretched over the bones, and I counted every rib. He was male, but I didn’t know if he was a stud or gelding. I hadn’t gotten close enough to see. Hips protruded, sunken sides, and he was absolutely filthy. Dirt covered his legs, up past his knees and hocks. Chunks of hair had fallen out of his mane. Maybe he’d rubbed them out. Half his tail was missing too. When he shifted, I saw yellow patches on his neck, side and one on his rump. So, he must have some paint blood too. Why else would he be a pinto?
“Let’s go, Robin.” Felicia pulled on my arm. “It’s hopeless. He’s hopeless.”
I almost went with her. Then, the horse lifted his head and looked at me. And I stopped. “No. He’s the one.”
“What?” Felicia hissed. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you should,” I said. “He’s the worst horse I’ve ever seen, and I’m taking him home.”
Chapter Four
Saturday, September 14th, 4:15 p.m.
Felicia gave me one of her older sister dirty looks that she’d practiced over the years. It meant I was being a spoiled brat, but I didn’t care. I kept most of my attention on the horse. He flicked his ears and cocked his head my way, flashing a white blaze, but his big brown eyes nailed me. And there was no way I’d leave him here to die of starvation. I turned and scuffed through the dust to the back porch. I carefully climbed the rickety steps and knocked on the door.
I’d concentrate on making him look good, like a horse again, not a skeleton. Later, I’d find him a good home and sell him. And nobody said I actually had to ride him in the meantime. He could just hang out in the barn with the rest of the hay-burners. Once I sold him, I would put the money toward my car. My car, my car, my beautiful car—well, if I got Brenna a down-payment, she’d save it for me. I knew she would. In this down economy, she’d take installments if that was the best I could do.
I pushed open the back door and saw my mother sitting at a kitchen table talking to a scrawny, older woman wearing the worst wig I’d ever seen. “Mom, I’ve found him. I found my horse.”
“He’s not yours yet,” Mom said. “Mrs. Bartlett tells me there’s another buyer coming to see him.”
“Who else would want him, but me?” I asked. “He’s a wreck. Of course, once he’s all the way dead, a vet student might take him to study the bones.”
“Roberta Lynn, that’s enough. Stop being rude. You have better manners. Use them.”
I folded my arms and waited. The door opened behind me, and I saw Felicia standing there. “What?”
“A old fat guy just got here with the worst trailer in creation. And he’s feeding your want-a-be horse grain. It’s gross.”
“What’s gross about it?” I asked. “At least someone cares enough to feed him.”
“He’s scarfing it so fast he almost chokes on each mouthful. Every time he spills some on the ground, he eats the dirt and the grain. He’s going to colic.”
“I don’t suppose anyone cares if he dies of that either.” I brushed past my sister and returned to the corral. Sure enough, she was right. A guy older than my dad stood with a bucket of feed. “What are you doing?” I asked. “He’s not yours yet.”
“He will be.”
I nodded. “Well, you’re feeding him. That’s something. He won’t be hungry or abused.”
“Nope. My partner and I will put some weight on him and run him up to Stanwood. They’ll ship him to the slaughter house in Canada.”
“You can’t!” I watched the horse nudge the guy for more feed like the two of them were best buddies. “He likes you. Come on. All he needs is a stall and regular meals for a while.”
“And six months to a year’s rest before he could be trained or ridden.” The man shook his head. “Nope, he’s history even if he’s too dumb to know it.”
“Then, why waste grain on him?” Mom asked, as she joined us, Mrs. Bartlett limping along behind. “Or are you just trying to win his confidence to make him easy to load?”
That earned a snort of laughter. “Lady, this grain is heavily salted. In a couple hours, he’ll be ready to tank up on water. By the time I run him to Stanwood next week, he’ll be more than a hundred pounds heavier.”
“And since they’ll pay by the pou
nd for him, you’ll make more money.” Mom put an arm around my shoulders. “Sometimes you need to know when to walk away, Robin. This could be one of those times.”
“Or not.” Felicia walked over to the fence and pushed down the bottom strand of barbed wire with her boot. She lifted the second line and climbed into the pasture. Murmuring reassurances, she walked up next to the horse. “I want to see his teeth.”
“I’ve looked at his papers,” Mom said. “He is barely two and a purebred Morab. Half Morgan and half Arabian.”
“And nobody’s ever faked registration documents,” Felicia said.
She sounded almost as snarky as I did when people irritated me. I saw Mom roll her eyes. Okay, so we were all channeling teenagers. What was it about this situation that brought out the immaturity in each of us?
Mrs. Bartlett leaned heavily on her cane. “Two people want Twaziem. That’s amazing since I only put the ad in the paper for one day. Mr. Johnson, you’ve shared your plans for the colt. Young lady, what are yours?”
Her tone reminded me of my track coach’s when my times sucked and I needed more practice to be considered for state competition. I straightened up to my full five-feet-six. “I’ll put him in a stall, feed him up, and do everything our vet says he needs to look like a horse again. Once he’s ready for training, I’ll turn him over to Rocky at Shamrock Stables and she’ll break him to ride.”
Utter silence, which always made me nervous, so I added, “I don’t know why they call it ‘breaking’ because I’ve never seen Rocky do anything mean to a horse or pony.”
The comment led to a lecture from Felicia about the history of horse training, like anyone really cared. Blah, blah, blah. I could turn her on, and since she knew everything about everything, she never shut up. While she blathered, she looked in Twaziem’s mouth, then felt around with her fingers.
“What are you doing now?” I cut her off mid-sentence. “He has teeth or he wouldn’t be able to chew the horse-killer’s grain.”
Dirty looks all around. Hey, I calls it as I sees it. Most people figured I was charming because I was blonde. A girl has to use what she’s got.
New lecture from Felicia. This one was about how horses had two sets of teeth in their lifetimes and how the permanent set came into the mouth in a certain order. Twaziem would get so many as a two-year-old, more as a four-year-old, some kind of hook when he turned five and he’d really groove at seven. Yeah, yeah, yeah. So, what? Who really cared?