Runaway by Dandi Daley Mackall

explains.
    Suddenly, I can’t eat. I have no business being here with this family. I won’t be here for the triple birthday. I don’t want to imagine what they’ll think when they find out I’ve run off to LA.
    I listen quietly as they make their big plans.
    “Don’t forget Ms. Bean and her young man will be here,” Annie says.
    Marvin promises a giant cake and plenty of Made-Rites.
    When we leave and walk outside, Hank looks around. “Mom, where did you park your car?”
    Annie points to a gold Plymouth minivan.
    “You got it!” Popeye hugs her. “Any problems?”
    Annie shakes her head.
    “But where’s your car?” Kat asks.
    “Our family is getting too big for a sports car,” Annie says. She dangles her keys. “So, who’s riding with me?”
    We divide up, girls in the van, guys in the truck.
    * * *
    When we’re back at the farm, I check e-mail and find a long message from Winnie. She gives me advice on riding and staying on. At the very end, she closes with this:
    Take your time with Blackfire.
    But what she doesn’t know is that I don’t have time to take.

Fourteen
    Sunday morning Kat wakes me up way too early, and we all go to church in the new van. Their church could be a Christmas card. Small and white, old-fashioned steeple, evergreens everywhere. Only thing missing is the snow.
    When I step out of the van, I expect to hear organ music. Instead, I hear drums and horns and a tambourine. I can’t believe these sounds are coming from a church.
    “Nice, huh?” Hank says, weaving to the beat.
    We sit in a long pew, with Wes taking one end and me the other. Kat sits next to me. She looks up every Bible verse and holds her Bible between us like we’re sharing. A lot of the talk—or the sermon, I guess—goes over my head. But the music rocks. I had no idea Jesus songs could sound like that.
    * * *
    When we get back to the farm, Popeye fixes grilled cheese sandwiches. Then he gives me a driving lesson in the truck.
    “Clutch!” Popeye cries, as we inch along the pasture trail.
    But it’s too late. I stall out the truck for the 13th time. “I’m never going to get it,” I complain.
    “ Never is never a word to use under these circumstances,” he says. “Let’s go again.”
    We do. I stall the truck four more times. But I’m starting to get the hang of steering. I have a long way to go before I can take this thing to Chicago.
    When we’re done, Popeye rushes inside to help Annie bake cookies. I head for the barn and Blackfire. Hank’s working with Lancelot in the round pen. I watch them as I groom Blackfire.
    “Lancelot’s looking good,” I tell Hank when he comes by again. “He seems more relaxed.” I’m pretty sure Hank’s working him with a different bit.
    “He’s coming along,” Hank says. He stops beside Blackfire and me.
    I run the brush all the way to Blackfire’s hooves. “Of course, Lance might do better if he had another horse riding with him.”
    Hank laughs. “If you think I’m putting you back up on Starlight, you’re crazy.”
    “Actually, I was thinking of Blackfire.” I expect Hank to laugh even harder, but he doesn’t.
    I figure he’s rejected my idea, though, since he dismounts and unsaddles Lancelot. He flings the saddle over his shoulder and heads for the tack room.
    I move over to Lance and start brushing him. His back is damp from the saddle, so I brush it the wrong way, then back again.
    Finally Hank returns. He watches me with Lance for a few minutes. Then he sighs. “Okay. Only not by yourself. I lead him.”
    “Yeah? Seriously?” I can’t believe Hank’s going to let me ride Blackfire.
    “You just sit there. I’ll do everything else. I mean it, Dakota. I don’t want you falling off again.”
    “Me either,” I agree. I walk over to Blackfire and put my arms around his neck. “Ready, handsome?” I whisper. “We’re going on a ride.”
    Hank takes Lance to his stall and comes back with a Western saddle, the kind cowboys use in