CHAPTER 16
“Is it okay if I invite Mr. Hamilton over?” I ask Mom and Dad on Sunday afternoon. All week my head’s been full of images that don’t have anything to do with one another but are mashed together all the same: light slanting across Mr. Hamilton’s barn, Sam startling at a wisp of tail in trees, Nari and her sister driving away in a pickup, their long hair streaming.
And my equine therapy plan. I keep waiting to hear back from Andy. Getting a yes from him will mean I can tell Mom and Dad all about it.
Mom looks up from the computer, where she’s been scanning another job board. Dad has his lesson plan book open on his lap, but he’s staring off into space instead of writing his usual notes.
They both shrug and say “Sure” at the same time. Then Mom asks, “Today?” And Dad asks, “Why?”
“Yes,” I say to Mom, “if he can make it.” Then I turn to Dad. “I need to ask him some more questions for my project.”
That’s not the whole reason, though. I’m also hoping I can convince Mr. Hamilton to come into the woods with me. He doesn’t believe Jack’s stories, but maybe seeing the horses will change his mind.
“Well, of course,” Mom says. “Invite him over. I’ll make coffee.”
“I don’t think we’re really going to have enough time for that.” The last thing I need is Mom taking up all of Mr. Hamilton’s conversation time.
Mom snorts. “We don’t need to spend light-years at the table, Claire, but we do need to at least invite the man in.”
She can’t see me roll my eyes as I leave the room to call. And I don’t feel a single flutter when I pick up my phone to dial Mr. Hamilton’s number, or when I invite him over.
“No plans,” Mr. Hamilton says when I ask. “How soon do you want me there?”
“The earlier the better.” I want to leave enough time to find the wild horses.
His rough-sandpaper voice crackles. “I’ll be right over.”
It doesn’t take long. The coffeepot beeps to tell us it’s ready just as Mr. Hamilton’s green pickup rolls down the driveway.
I go out to meet him, wrapping a sweater around my shoulders and slipping my boots on first. The air pierces my skin. Winter isn’t far away anymore.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Hamilton,” I say as he opens the driver’s-side door.
“My pleasure.” Together, we walk inside.
“Glad to see you again, sir,” Dad says, shaking hands. “Thanks again for helping Claire.”
“I’m happy to,” Mr. Hamilton says. “Good way to keep busy since my grandkids are so far away now. Claire actually reminds me of them.”
“I can see that,” Mom says. “And it’s so nice to finally meet you. I remember Owen from school. Let me take your coat.”
Once we’re all sitting around the table, I explain what I want to find out and press RECORD on my phone’s audio. “I learned so much from visiting you,” I say. “But I’m interested in anything else you might remember about how people used horses on farms. Jack—I mean, your dad—maybe he told you stories?”
“He certainly did.” Mr. Hamilton nods. “He loved talking about the old ways, especially since his parents stopped using horses. It’s kind of funny that he missed them so much, seeing as how he was the one who got in the accident.”
Mr. Hamilton explains that horses were crucial for logging, transporting wood down from mountains. Even though they were slower than the skidders that came later, they could wind around trees without much damage to the landscape. People rode behind on small wagons and attached the logs so they dragged on the ground.
“And sugaring was another matter,” he says. “The horses would pull a large tank that had a little seat for the driver in front. They collected the buckets they’d already hung on the trees and poured sap into the tank.”
“You know,” Mom says, “my dad logged with horses for a while back when I was growing up. I don’t remember it very well, though. Eventually he stopped and bought his wood instead.”
“A lot of people have changed the old ways,” says Mr. Hamilton. “The new ways do go a little faster. But still, horses can do just about anything, if you need them to.”
I stop the recorder. “Would you like to meet ours?”
“Well, sure,” Mr. Hamilton says quietly. “I haven’t been near a horse since—well, since my grandkids left.”
“Ours are really nice. I think you’ll like them.” I can’t look at Mom or Dad, or my voice will crack into pieces.
“We’ll stay behind,” Mom says, nodding toward her computer and Dad’s chair with the lesson-plan book still open. “Claire can show you around the barn easily. She loves spending time there.”
“It’s my favorite place.” I’m relieved that Mom and Dad aren’t coming with us. If they’d both wanted to join, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.
“Our barn was always my favorite too,” Mr. Hamilton says.
The sun’s broken through the clouds and our walk to the barn is cold but bright. As soon as we step inside, Mr. Hamilton takes a deep breath and smiles. “Horses have a sweet smell, don’t they?”
“I love it.” I lead Sam out of his stall and put him in cross-ties so Mr. Hamilton can pet him, but he stands a bit to the side at first while I take out my brushes.
“You must have really liked horses, right?” I ask.
I already know the answer. Anybody who keeps horses has to love them, not just like them. It’s like Dad says: They’re a lot of work. A lot of money too.
Mr. Hamilton steps closer. “Yes. Growing up, I always thought our barn was perfect for horses, that it was a waste not to have them.”
I laugh. “I thought that too, when I visited.”
“I never managed to convince Dad, though,” Mr. Hamilton says. “I guess he never really got over losing his team. He was scared to lose more.”
I swallow hard. “I can kind of understand that. I can’t imagine not having horses, but I also can’t imagine having different ones. And actually… we aren’t going to be able to keep Sunny and Sam.”
“Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mr. Hamilton says. “Why?”
My throat burns. Emptiness grows. But I keep my voice as strong as I can. “It’s a lot of things. Mostly money. Horses are expensive, and our barn needs repairs.”
“That’s hard,” Mr. Hamilton says quietly.
I start brushing flecks of hardened mud off Sam’s coat. It’s time to change the subject. “How did you get to be so good with horses if you didn’t have them when you were growing up?”
“I hung around a lot with a friend down the road who kept them. Eventually I learned how to train and ended up getting the hang of it.” Mr. Hamilton reaches out to stroke Sam’s neck. “Ah. There’s just something about being around them, isn’t there? They always make me feel better.”
“That’s how Sunny and Sam help me,” I say. “Sometimes I get this—feeling. In my chest. It’s kind of like birds swoop in there and flutter around. It happens when I get nervous. But I never feel it when I’m working in the barn or riding.”
“I know what you mean,” Mr. Hamilton says. “And it doesn’t surprise me at all that being with your horses helps.”
Mr. Hamilton leads Sam back into his stall. The way he smiles gives me courage and I ask him what I really want to know: if he’ll hike into the woods with me to find the wild horses, the ones I think are linked to Jack. I thought about riding, but I don’t want Sunny to run away like she did before.
“I’m always glad to go hiking, but I hope I didn’t get you too excited about my dad’s stories,” Mr. Hamilton says. “He was so confused about that time in his life.”
“The thing is, I think he was right,” I say. “I’ve seen two wild horses already in the woods, and there’s no way to explain where they came from.”
“Wild horses?” Mr. Hamilton says, his voice a little less calm. “That’s—interesting.”
“Not everybody sees them,” I say. “And I can tell that’s not the only thing that’s different about them. It feels like they’re connected to Jack.”
Mr. Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Dad’s horses couldn’t still be alive. Even if they survived the fall into the water—which, remember, would be impossible—they’d have died long ago.”
“I don’t think they’re the same horses. I just think they ended up there because of Jack somehow,” I say. “It started with his horses, then whole generations grew up hiding in the forest. I’ve only seen two, but who knows how many there could be.”
Mr. Hamilton pulls a cap out of his coat pocket and clears his throat. “You know what, I’m interested. I’d like to see these wild horses.”
In the quiet of the forest, Mr. Hamilton closes his eyes. I take deep breaths of cold fall air, the musty smell of dying maple leaves mixing with the spicy cedars that will keep growing all winter long. Come on, I think. Show us where you are.
Then I hear a snuffling in the trees behind us, the soft thud of a hoof sinking into dirt. A wisp of black tail disappears around a hemlock.
“Did you see that?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Hamilton says. But he stands up and peers over to where the horse sprang away, and says, “Oh. This is interesting.”
He holds up a horseshoe, rusted and flaking. It’s so large, much too big for Sunny or Sam. They aren’t draft horses—not like Jack’s were. Not like these wild horses could be.
Mr. Hamilton gently hands me the horseshoe. “You might want to save that. Who knows how it got here—maybe from a logger, a long time ago.”
“Or maybe it’s from Jack’s horses,” I say. “Maybe it got buried here when they escaped.”
Mr. Hamilton smiles. “Your imagination’s about as impressive as Dad’s.”
“If we just wait a little longer, we’ll see the horses again,” I say. “They always come back.”
Minutes pass. Two more times I swear I see a silver-dappled leg or back moving through the trees, and twice Mr. Hamilton says, “Maybe. Maybe you’re right.”
Then it’s getting colder, and I know it’s time to go. “Thanks for coming with me, Mr. Hamilton,” I say. I can’t hide my disappointment, but he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Claire,” he says. “It’s true that I don’t know what I saw. But that also means I’m not sure I didn’t see what you think is there. Do you know the difference?”
My throat burns, and I can only nod instead of speaking.
“It will make even more sense as you get older,” Mr. Hamilton says. “There will be so many situations you’re not quite sure of. Eventually you realize that uncertainty is just part of the deal. And you do the best you can.”
We leave the woods in silence, the horseshoe dangling from my fingers.
After Mr. Hamilton drives away, I tell Mom and Dad I’m going back to the barn to finish up with a few chores.
But that’s not the whole truth.
Mr. Hamilton said it was hard to be sure about everything in life, but if I can get a closer look at the ring of stones by the lake, I can figure out if it is what I think it is: the opening to a tunnel. I think Jack was right—the items from the box came from Pine Lake. And the horses did fall through Cedar Lake. They just found their way from one to the other, and a tunnel would explain how. I saddle Sam quickly.
As we head into the woods, I take a deep breath, letting the cold, clean smells of late fall fill my nose. The sunlight’s fading, though, the sky overhead the color of a bruise. I don’t have much time.
Sam almost seems used to the dappled horses now. As they curl through the tree trunks, their hoofprints landing softly, he just nods and snuffles. And they seem to know exactly where we need to go, because they stay a few steps ahead, pressing up the path until we reach the woods and the border with state land that leads to the lake.
A text pings, and I pull out my phone. It’s Mom.
Where are you?
Oh no. I never texted to tell her I was heading out.
Finishing up chores.
Hopefully Mom isn’t out at the barn to catch me in a lie.
OK. But come back soon. It’s getting dark.
Whew. She must still be at the house. But still, this is risky.
Sam and I pick our way past branches until we reach a small clearing, just before the trees thicken and cluster close to the water. I don’t have time or light to figure out the best route with him, so I pull a halter over Sam’s head and loop the lead rope I brought around a sturdy low-hanging branch. It’s important not to tie it tight—even with calm, steady Sam, I wouldn’t risk having him startle and pull himself into a trap. Horses have died that way.
“Stay here, buddy,” I whisper. It’s getting darker. I look past my shoulder and just barely see the horses waiting in the distance, their sides lifting in and out as they breathe. In the fading light their dappled bodies seem transparent and soft as fog, but solid too. Then I walk toward the lake.
The ring of stones is still there, stacked and layered, held in place like a black waterfall laced with silver. I edge as close as I can to the water without stepping into it. Now I’m near enough to touch one of the stones, and I do, feeling its cold, smooth surface. I reach one foot out to a strip of sand jutting past the rock and balance on that, my other foot squarely planted on the bank. From there I can peer into the space between the stones, where darkness gathers.
As I look into it, blinking, my eyes slowly adjust.
I turn on my phone’s flashlight to be sure, and it’s exactly what I thought. Packed sand lines the bottom, making a path. The top is bound close with the stretching, thickly woven roots of trees. And the sides are covered with stones.
I can’t tell how far back it goes. I can’t tell where it leads. But if Cedar Lake is at the other end, it’s not hard to imagine weary horses sinking down, then finding a hidden path beyond the frozen water, a way out when everyone thought there couldn’t be.
It’s not hard to imagine the horses ending up right here.
Even though the tunnel is set back into the bank, even though it’s masked by trees that bend so close to the water that they freeze into the ice when winter comes, I can’t believe I’ve never seen it. Because looking at it now, some small and secret part of me feels that I’ve always known it was here.