Colt by Nancy Springer

Rosie had not seen anyone since they started down the lakeside trail.
    â€œOkay. Hang on.” Colt eased Bonita into a slow walk.
    Without much guidance from Colt the Paso Fino kept her pace very slow, very smooth. Bonita seemed to understand that something was wrong, that extra cooperation was required of her.
    â€œHow you doing, Rosie?”
    â€œNot—too—good.” Clinging to the saddle near Colt’s knee, Rosie was beginning to pant with pain. His face had gone white. Colt stopped the horse.
    â€œYou can’t walk. Sit down before you fall down.”
    Rosie stood where he was, hanging on hard. “Maybe—if I could get on her behind you …”
    Colt considered. He had to help Rosie somehow.
    â€œYou weigh almost as much as your dad, right?” he asked slowly. Bonita was too small to carry Mr. Flowers. Bonita would be too small to carry Colt and Rosie without hurting herself.
    â€œRight,” said Rosie. “I forgot.”
    â€œBut if worse comes to worst …” Colt felt his eyes stinging at the thought.
    â€œNo way,” Rosie told him. “Forget it. We’re not going to hurt your horse. I’ll crawl first.”
    Colt knew he couldn’t crawl all the way back to the stable, not really. He said, “Let’s see if we can get you just a little farther, just down to where you can put your feet in the water.”
    Rosie shifted his grip so that he held onto Bonita’s silky mane, then hobbled on. Twice he had to stop. The last several yards he crawled. Already his feet had swollen so badly that he could not undo the knots of his running shoes. As Colt watched anxiously, Rosie sat on the lakeshore and swung his feet into the cold water, shoes and all. He bent over and splashed water on his knees.
    â€œAll right,” Colt told him, “stay there. I’m going to find us some help.” He sent Bonita toward the stable. If he was lucky, one of the other riders would be there. If not, he hoped at least he could reach the phone.
    Hang on, Rosie .
    There really was no choice but for Colt to go off on his own, and Rosie knew it. “Be careful!” he called after him.
    â€œGot to, man,” Colt called back cheerfully, but he meant it.
    He walked Bonita most of the way back. It seemed to take forever. Thinking of Rosie sitting there hurt and alone in the middle of nowhere, once in a while he risked a cautious paso corto . He did not dare go faster, because now and then Bonita shied at something along the trail, and he felt worried, though not for himself—if he fell off and got himself hurt, nobody would know where to look for Rosie.
    He met no one at all in the park, not a hiker on the trail, not a boat on the lake. Leaving the park, turning onto the roadside, he saw a car coming and lifted a hand to flag it down, but Bonita stiffened, ready to spook, and quickly Colt returned his hand to the reins. The man in the car waved at him and kept going.
    Stupid! Can’t that guy see I’m in trouble? What would a handicapped kid be doing …
    And then Colt realized: The man did not know he was handicapped. He was so used to thinking of himself in a certain way that for a moment it was as if his world had flipped, had spun upside down, but it made sense. He wore no braces to ride horseback, no crutches, no wheelchair, and his helmet looked much like anyone else’s riding helmet. Unless someone really paid attention to his thin, undeveloped legs, when he was on a horse he just looked like—
    Jeez, I just look like a kid on a horse .
    A kid who was old enough to handle things on his own. And he was going to have to. Already Colt had a feeling what he was going to find at the stable.
    Sure enough. Nobody.
    No cars were parked in the stable lot but Rosie’s. Mr. Reynolds was not back from wherever he had gone, and no other riders had arrived. Colt rode Bonita into the barn to be sure. No one was there to help