One time Plum sensed Taylor’s gaze and turned. Their eyes locked in a cold standoff before Taylor turned away, feeling incredibly awkward.
Taylor began to chew her thumbnail. She’d broken herself of the nail-biting habit in fourth grade by keeping her nails painted with yucky-tasting polish. But in times of deep stress — as in the days just before her parents split up — she reverted to the bad habit. At the moment, though, she wasn’t even aware that she was chewing her nail. Taylor’s mind was set on something more important. Her mother had made it more than clear that she couldn’t keep Albert and Pixie herself. But she had to come up with some plan to keep Plum away from them.
“Taylor, what’s going on with you?” Mr. Romano asked after class. He was standing, leaning on his desk and looking at her with probing eyes.
There was so much Taylor wanted to say. Mr. Romano was a nice guy. She trusted him. But her mouth was dry and no words formed in her mind. Besides, there was no way he could help her with any of her problems.
“Listen, I’m going to be blunt,” Mr. Romano said after a few minutes of awkward silence. “Guidance told me your parents split up a few months ago. Is that it?”
Taylor inhaled deeply and considered the question. She had to at least say something. “Maybe. I don’t know. I miss my dad, but not all the fighting. I wish he’d come around to visit, I guess. It hurts my feelings that he doesn’t. And Mom’s always stressed about money now. But that’s not why I didn’t do so well on my report.”
Mr. Romano raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Okay, then, what’s the reason?”
“Well, you may not think this is a good excuse, but something came up this weekend that I totally didn’t expect.” She quickly ran through the story about Pixie and Albert. She told him how she’d argued with her mother over keeping them and that it was completely out of the question. “And all I can think about is that they need a home by tomorrow or …” Her voice cracked with emotion.
“Or what?” Mr. Romano asked gently.
“The sheriff takes them to auction and anyone could buy them and we wouldn’t know what happened to them.” Taylor couldn’t even bring herself to mention the meat market possibility. Telling Travis about it had turned out to be more painful than she’d expected, and she didn’t ever want to talk about it again.
“Could the owners be forced to take them back?” Mr. Romano suggested.
“The sheriff is looking for them, but I don’t think anyone knows where they went. Besides, they weren’t very good owners to begin with.”
Mr. Romano nodded and folded his arms. A faraway look came into his eyes. “I grew up around here, you know. When I was a kid, my sister and I would take trail rides out of a stable down on Wildwood Lane. I forget its name. It’s at the bottom of Quail Ridge Road. Do you know it?”
Taylor thought she knew every stable and barn in the area but couldn’t think of one at the bottom of Quail Ridge Road. She shook her head. “No. I can’t picture it,” she replied.
“I remember that they were always taking in strays,” Mr. Romano recalled. “Too bad they’re not still open.”
The fond, distant gaze left his eyes, and Mr. Romano snapped back to the present. “All right, Taylor, I’m going to give you a break.” He handed her paper back to her. “You have until Friday to redo this paper with the additional two pages on horses in ancient Egypt.”
“Thank you. I’ll do a good job this time,” Taylor assured him.
“Don’t let the horses distract you.”
Taylor nodded, though she wasn’t sure that was really possible. She was almost to the door when Mr. Romano spoke again. “I just had a thought — Plum Mason rides, doesn’t she? Maybe she’s looking for a horse.”
“Oh … I don’t think so,” Taylor said quickly.
“Are you sure? You might want to ask her,” Mr. Romano insisted.
“No. No. I’m sure she isn’t looking. Besides, these two are pretty rough-looking. She wouldn’t want them.”
“I know you two aren’t exactly friends. Would you like me to mention it to her?” he offered.
This was terrible! Why had she ever told him?
“No. I don’t think she’d be the right kind of owner for this horse,” Taylor insisted.
“I see.”
With another nod, Taylor left. What did I see mean? Did it mean Yes, I understand. I won’t mention it to her? Or was he implying that she disliked Plum so much that she was going to keep Albert from Plum even if it meant denying him a good home?
And if that last thing was what he’d meant — was it true?
After all, maybe Plum really did just have a run of bad luck with the horses she’d leased.
No. It wasn’t possible.
Taylor couldn’t believe that Plum could have two horses in a row die like that without being, in some way, responsible.
* * *
Taylor arrived home that afternoon just as her mother was rushing out. “You’ll never guess who I’m going to see,” her mom said excitedly.
“Who?”
“Devon Ross! My catering company was recommended to her, and she might want me to cater a luncheon for her. Can you imagine all the wealthy clients I could pick up from a job like this?”
“That’s great! Are you going to her house?”
“No. I’m meeting her at her stable.”
“You’re going to Ross River Ranch? Cool! Can I come?”
Jennifer considered this a moment but then shook her head. “You’d better not. Bringing my daughter might seem unprofessional.”
“Could you ask her if she wants a horse and pony? Free!”
Jennifer cringed slightly, clearly not thrilled with the idea. “I don’t even know the woman, Taylor.”
“Please!”
“If I can fit it in naturally, I will.”
“You won’t,” Taylor challenged.
“I said if it feels right, I’ll do it. Now, don’t bug me. I’m nervous enough. This could be big.”
“If you get the job, would we have enough money to feed a horse?” Taylor suggested hopefully.
“Taylor!” Jennifer scolded as she planted a kiss on Taylor’s head. “Wish me luck,” she said, and hurried to her car.
Entering the quiet house, Taylor threw herself onto the couch and lay there. If she could only think hard enough, eventually a solution had to come to her. But what if there was no solution to this?
Taylor hadn’t seen her father in a month, but she knew where to find him. He’d still be at his job down at the garage. Maybe he had extra money somewhere — enough to let her board a horse and pony.
Taylor walked outside and went to the side of the house. She found her bike leaning there. In twenty minutes, she rode into the shopping district of Pheasant Valley, not much more than Maria’s Pizzeria, the post office, the Pheasant Valley Pharmacy, Lovely Stems Florist, and Mike’s Auto Repair and Gas Station, where her father, Steve Henry, worked for Mike Malone.
“Steve, your kid’s here,” shouted her father’s boss, a bald man with a round belly, when she walked into the front office. “Hey, Taylor, what’s new?”
“Know anyone who wants a horse and a pony?” she asked as she walked through the office toward the repair garage.
“Nope,” Mike replied. “Who the heck has that kind of dough? Not me, that’s for sure.”
“Come on, Mike, you’re rich,” Taylor shot back playfully.
“Yeah, I wish.”
Taylor spied her dad working under a car on the farther of two mechanical lifts. His blue jumpsuit was smeared with grease. In the bright fluorescent light, his skin looked extra pale. “Hey, Taylor, what brings you here? You okay?” her dad asked, still working.
The sullen, accusing words What do you care? came to mind, but she shoved them aside. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just wanted to say hi, you know?”
He looked down from his work for the first time. “Yeah, well, good to see you. Sorry I haven’t been around. I seem to get into a fight with
your mom every time I come, so I figured it might be better if I stayed away for a while. Nothing personal to you. You know that, right?”
“Sure.”
“How are you and your mom doing?”
“She’s working hard. She might have a catering job from Mrs. Ross.”
“That rich horsewoman?”
“Yeah, that’s her.” Taylor figured this was a natural lead-in to the subject of horses. “Guess what Claire and I did last week?”
“Sprang a gorilla being held hostage in someone’s basement?” he ventured with a chuckle.
“Not exactly. We rescued a horse and pony, though.”
She gave him a quick version of all that had happened, including the threat of Plum Mason. “So, I was wondering if it would be all right with you if I boarded them somewhere. They would be mine … ours, I mean. You like to ride, don’t you?”
Steve Henry laughed in a way that was not encouraging. “That was a long time ago. It would be fine with me if I had that kind of money — which I don’t. What does Mom say?”
“We can’t afford it,” Taylor mumbled.
“Mom and I have finally hit on something we agree on, then. Sorry, baby; it is most definitely not in the budget.”
An unexpected flash of hot anger flared in her. “Then what is in your budget?” Taylor asked defiantly. “You don’t seem to be paying for anything else.”
“Hey!” Steve cried, shaking the greasy wrench he held at her. “Watch that mouth. It’s none of your business what I’m paying for. I’m paying plenty. When did you get so fresh?”
“Sorry,” Taylor muttered. She had never intended to make him mad. The words had just sparked out.
“I’m sorry, too. When you’re older you’ll understand. It’s tough.”
He was right that she didn’t understand. Taylor didn’t understand why her parents had fought so much that they’d split. She didn’t understand why the mere mention of money made both of them blow up all the time. She didn’t understand it and she didn’t like it — but that was how it was.
“I know how much you love horses,” her father went on. “You get that from me. I never had lessons or anything, but back in the day we used to trail ride over at a place … oh, what was the name?”
“Was it on Wildwood Lane?” Taylor asked.
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Mr. Romano told me about it.”
“You have John Romano this year? He’s a good guy. Yeah, the Romanos went there, too. I think I remember seeing him there once or twice. It was a great place. Too bad it closed.”
“Hmm. Too bad,” she echoed.
He glanced out the garage window. “It’s getting dark earlier these days. I don’t want you riding your bike in the dark. Maybe you should get going.”
Taylor estimated that she had another two, possibly three hours of reasonably good light left. But she knew he was working and couldn’t stand there talking with her much longer.
Steve came to her side and wrapped her in a hug. “I’ll come by next week. Okay?”
“Okay,” Taylor agreed, not really believing him. She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you then, I guess.” Despite her doubts, it was somehow comforting to pretend she thought he was telling the truth.
“Okay. Be good. And sorry I couldn’t help you with the horse thing,” Steve said as he let her go.
“See you next week,” she said with a wave.
Outside, Taylor checked the sky. It wasn’t even dusk yet. She had plenty of time to take the long way home. She was sick of going the same old way, seeing the same old scenery.
Pushing off on her bike, she rode out to the stoplight and began to ride up steep Mohegan Lake Road. Before she arrived at the right turn that would take her toward her house, she came to Quail Ridge Road and turned left instead. As soon as she began to ride down the road, she knew she had intended to come this way all along.
Taylor’s bike picked up speed as she rode down the hill. Her mother always said, I never take Quail Ridge if it’s icy. Too dangerous.
Now she saw why.
Taylor was soon going so fast she wasn’t sure she could stop. She gripped the handlebars as the road bent one way and then the other. To her right, a low stone wall was all that separated her from a sharp slope leading down to a wooded area.
Pressing on her hand brakes, Taylor attempted to pull back on the bike’s ever-increasing speed. All she had to do was get to the bottom where the road turned sharply right and then leveled out. After that, she’d just have to read street signs to find Wildwood Lane.
Taylor was nearly to the bottom of Quail Ridge Road when her front tire slid on gravel. She clutched the handlebars desperately. Her bike went over onto its side, spinning toward the other side of the road.
Despite the burning pain of her badly skinned knee that throbbed beneath her newly torn jeans, Taylor let out a small snort of laughter when she looked up. She was staring at a bent, rusted street sign overgrown with vines: WILDWOOD LANE. She could barely make out the name beneath all the plant life tangled around the sign. If she hadn’t spun all the way across the road and crashed into it, she’d probably never have found the lane.
Taylor winced as she tried to straighten her leg. Reaching out to the signpost for support, she pulled herself up. Although it hurt like crazy when she let go of the post, she could stand — which meant her leg wasn’t broken, at least.
Grabbing the handlebars of her dented bike, she spun the front wheel with her toe. It turned easily. She was relieved that the bike, although scraped and dinged, was otherwise unharmed. She wheeled it to a tangle of overgrown forsythia bushes that were turning brown and stashed the bike inside its branches.
So this was Wildwood Lane.
She was standing on a narrow dirt road leading off of Quail Ridge. It was just wide enough for one car or truck. Taylor took a step and discovered that her knee buckled slightly, causing her to limp. The pain wasn’t unbearable, though, so she continued down the road. No tire tracks marred the dirt, which meant that no one had driven through here at least since the rain last Saturday. Judging from the flatness of the dirt, Taylor guessed no one had been down Wildwood Lane in a very long time. There were only bushes and scrubby trees on either side of the road and for as far as she could see. But the road turned sharply, and she was curious about what lay around the bend.
When Taylor finally turned the corner, she breathed in a slow, awestruck breath. In front of her was the long-abandoned ranch. Blistered wooden buildings and a stable stood silently behind two corrals with broken, splintered fences. Silence hung so thickly over the ranch that Taylor felt she could almost reach out to touch the deep quiet.
Continuing on the dirt road, she came to a large wooden sign that must have once announced the name of the ranch. Now it was so badly faded and peeled that Taylor couldn’t read it.
A sudden wind blasted through and shook the loose shutters of the main building. With a bang, a door of another building slammed and made Taylor jump. In the surrounding woods, a loose limb creaked ominously.
Taylor passed a towering maple with knotty roots and widespread branches as she headed to the main building and slid the big front door to one side. She entered a hall with a dirt floor. Even now she inhaled the unmistakable aroma of the horses that had once lived here. To the left was an office, its door hanging off one hinge. A ripped leather couch and a big, badly worn desk were its only furniture.
She guessed that the doorless room to the right, with its many shelves and hooks, was the tack room. When she stepped inside, her sneaker hit something hard. A worn helmet rolled across the room. Picking it up, she lightly brushed it off and sneezed when a cloud of dust was dislodged. Taylor placed the old helmet on a hook and wiped her hands on her jeans.
In the far corner of the tack room floor, someone had left behind a synthetic general-purpose saddle. Taylor squatted to inspect it and saw stirrups still attached. Under the saddle was a filthy saddlecloth.
Lea
ving the tack room, Taylor moved farther into the shadowy building, walking down the stable’s central passage. The only light came from sun that filtered through breaks in the old roof overhead. On either side of her were six box stalls, three on each side, facing one another. Using the corner of her hoodie as a rag, Taylor wiped the grimy bronze nameplates beside each of the six stalls. DAISY. IRISH. MAYA. BUCK. SALU-SUE. And, finally, at the last stall — PRINCE ALBERT.
Was it possible?
Could this have once been Albert’s stall? How many horses named Albert could there possibly be?
Taylor did some quick mental math. Rick had said that judging from Albert’s teeth he’d estimated Albert was around fifteen years old. Pixie, he’d guessed, was well into her twenties. She knew her dad was thirty-four, and Mr. Romano appeared to be about the same age, more or less.
Albert would have been born when her dad was nineteen. And the colt would have been too young to ride for at least two years, probably three or four years.
Maybe this stall had once belonged to Albert’s sire. Though the name might just be a coincidence and not Albert’s father at all. Whatever the truth, Taylor was suddenly inspired by the name on the plate. This stall was meant to be Albert’s home!
Taking her cell phone from her back pocket, Taylor called Claire but reached only her voice mail. Before she could leave a message, she stopped herself. Mentally, she heard all the adults’ reasons why they couldn’t leave Pixie and Albert here. They didn’t know who owned the place. It would be too much work for Taylor to care for them alone, especially without proper supplies or gear available.
Taylor clicked off the call without saying anything.
Maybe it would be best to simply bring Pixie and Albert here without mentioning it to anyone.
But how would she get them here?
* * *
It wasn’t easy pedaling up the hill to Claire’s house with the old saddle and saddlecloth that she’d strapped onto the basket of her bike with a bungee cord. The dusty old helmet was fastened to the back of the bike with its own chin strap. The added weight of these things threw her horribly off balance, and the climb was difficult enough as it was.