out the colors in moonlight. I pick up the hammers, hoping she’ll get the hint that I don’t have time to chat all day like Catman does. “I really didn’t notice the maple today.”
“That’s what worries me. You used to notice everything.”
I stop what I’m doing. She’s right. I remember other autumns when the sight of that maple tree shocked me with joy. I’d look at it every day to see the new artwork, God’s artwork.
“They’re leaving this weekend,” Kat says. “You should talk to Winnie before it’s too late.”
“Why?”
“Because she hasn’t noticed the maple either.” Kat walks away, disappearing in moon shadows.
Winnie again. I’ve thought about talking to her ever since Dakota told me about Winnie giving up her plans to become a vet. I’m not proud of the fact that I’ve been so hard on her since she got here. She thought she was coming to help our horses. Just because it isn’t working out that way doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be grateful that she’s trying. Besides, if Winnie really is as torn up as Kat and Dakota think she is, then I’ve probably made things worse. I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot.
Under my breath, I mutter, “You win, Kat.” Then I head to the old McCray farm to find Winnie.
By the time I reach the McCray property, a football field’s distance from Cleo’s pasture, my eyes have fully adjusted to the moonlight. I haven’t been out here for a couple of days. The tip of the pasture has been boarded off, separating it into a makeshift round pen. It’s a good idea, and for the first time I wonder if Dakota might be right. Maybe Winnie’s made more progress with Cleopatra than I figured.
From deep in the pasture, a squeal splits the quiet of the night. The terror in the cry flashes me back to the fire. I can almost hear Cleo screaming from her burning stall.
Then it comes again. This time it’s a high-pitched whinny filled with fear. Or anger. Or pain.
There’s another cry. The sound is completely different, like it’s coming from a different horse, not from Cleo at all. But that can’t be. Cleopatra’s alone in that pasture.
I take off running the rest of the way, terrified of what I’ll find.
The first thing I see is Winnie. She’s leaning over the fence, staring into the pasture.
I start to yell for her, but then I see Cleo. The mare is galloping hard, ears back, tail high. She’s running from something.
And then I see why. Behind Cleo, chasing that poor mare full speed in the dark pasture, is the white horse. Winnie’s horse.
Seventeen
Winnie Willis
Nice, Illinois
I’m so intent on watching Nickers and Cleopatra that I don’t notice anything else until I hear a shout, a human cry invading the night and drowning out the horse squeals. I wheel around and see somebody running out of the bushes like he’s on fire.
I freeze. My heart pounds. It’s pitch-dark, and I’m alone, a mile from the Rescue.
A gangly figure is racing down the hill, arms flailing. Finally I recognize him. It’s Hank.
He keeps coming. Midway down the hill, his foot slips, sending him sliding the rest of the way like he’s on a sled. He rolls over and over and lands a few feet away.
“Hank, are you all right?” I reach to help him up, but he pulls his arm away. Fine. He can take care of himself. I get it.
“Why would you put your horse in with Cleo?” Hank demands, kicking clumps of mud from his boots.
“Keep your voice down, will you?” I realize too late that I’m not keeping my voice down. Cleo and Nickers are staring at us, taking in the added commotion.
“Look—” Hank starts to shout, then tries again, a couple of decibels lower. “Look, Winnie. I don’t get it. Can’t you see what your horse is doing to Cleo? Cleopatra doesn’t need this. You don’t have any idea what that horse has been through.”
“Of course I do. That’s why I put Nickers in with her. Cleo and I are becoming
“That’s what worries me. You used to notice everything.”
I stop what I’m doing. She’s right. I remember other autumns when the sight of that maple tree shocked me with joy. I’d look at it every day to see the new artwork, God’s artwork.
“They’re leaving this weekend,” Kat says. “You should talk to Winnie before it’s too late.”
“Why?”
“Because she hasn’t noticed the maple either.” Kat walks away, disappearing in moon shadows.
Winnie again. I’ve thought about talking to her ever since Dakota told me about Winnie giving up her plans to become a vet. I’m not proud of the fact that I’ve been so hard on her since she got here. She thought she was coming to help our horses. Just because it isn’t working out that way doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be grateful that she’s trying. Besides, if Winnie really is as torn up as Kat and Dakota think she is, then I’ve probably made things worse. I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot.
Under my breath, I mutter, “You win, Kat.” Then I head to the old McCray farm to find Winnie.
By the time I reach the McCray property, a football field’s distance from Cleo’s pasture, my eyes have fully adjusted to the moonlight. I haven’t been out here for a couple of days. The tip of the pasture has been boarded off, separating it into a makeshift round pen. It’s a good idea, and for the first time I wonder if Dakota might be right. Maybe Winnie’s made more progress with Cleopatra than I figured.
From deep in the pasture, a squeal splits the quiet of the night. The terror in the cry flashes me back to the fire. I can almost hear Cleo screaming from her burning stall.
Then it comes again. This time it’s a high-pitched whinny filled with fear. Or anger. Or pain.
There’s another cry. The sound is completely different, like it’s coming from a different horse, not from Cleo at all. But that can’t be. Cleopatra’s alone in that pasture.
I take off running the rest of the way, terrified of what I’ll find.
The first thing I see is Winnie. She’s leaning over the fence, staring into the pasture.
I start to yell for her, but then I see Cleo. The mare is galloping hard, ears back, tail high. She’s running from something.
And then I see why. Behind Cleo, chasing that poor mare full speed in the dark pasture, is the white horse. Winnie’s horse.
Seventeen
Winnie Willis
Nice, Illinois
I’m so intent on watching Nickers and Cleopatra that I don’t notice anything else until I hear a shout, a human cry invading the night and drowning out the horse squeals. I wheel around and see somebody running out of the bushes like he’s on fire.
I freeze. My heart pounds. It’s pitch-dark, and I’m alone, a mile from the Rescue.
A gangly figure is racing down the hill, arms flailing. Finally I recognize him. It’s Hank.
He keeps coming. Midway down the hill, his foot slips, sending him sliding the rest of the way like he’s on a sled. He rolls over and over and lands a few feet away.
“Hank, are you all right?” I reach to help him up, but he pulls his arm away. Fine. He can take care of himself. I get it.
“Why would you put your horse in with Cleo?” Hank demands, kicking clumps of mud from his boots.
“Keep your voice down, will you?” I realize too late that I’m not keeping my voice down. Cleo and Nickers are staring at us, taking in the added commotion.
“Look—” Hank starts to shout, then tries again, a couple of decibels lower. “Look, Winnie. I don’t get it. Can’t you see what your horse is doing to Cleo? Cleopatra doesn’t need this. You don’t have any idea what that horse has been through.”
“Of course I do. That’s why I put Nickers in with her. Cleo and I are becoming
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