Chapter
Eighteen

Lucky was standing in a stall, in a deep bed of clean straw. His front legs were wrapped in bandages right up to his knees. There was no sign of Patrick.

“Lucky!” cried Tory. Her throat closed up and tears burned behind her eyes. She opened the stall door and flung her arms around Lucky’s shaggy neck. The pony’s ears flickered back and forth and he nickered softly.

Tory knelt down and inspected Lucky’s legs. The bandages were clean and white.

She was impressed by how neatly and snugly they were wrapped. Summer was right – that boy, Patrick, had done a good job.

Lucky nuzzled the back of Tory’s neck. She grinned, stood up and gave the pony another huge hug. “You’re going home today,” she told him. “You’re going home, Lucky.”

Something stirred inside Tory – a little voice that reminded her. It was Lucky’s home. Not hers. She only had two more weeks and then she would be gone. Cathy had said that if she didn’t move too far away, she could come sometimes on the weekends and ride Lucky. But Tory knew it wouldn’t be the same. Besides, Cathy would probably forget that she had ever promised that.

She blinked hard. I won’t think about that right now, she thought. I won’t! Something in the corner of the stall caught her eye. The straw was pressed down, as if someone spent a lot of time sitting there, and there was a book with a bookmark in it. Tory wouldn’t have been interested except for the picture of a black horse on the cover.

She stared in disbelief. It was Black Beauty! The book was much older than the one in the store, and the cover wasn’t shiny. She picked it up and opened it to the first page. It was a jumble of words she couldn’t read. Just for a second, she wished she were a better reader. Then she told herself, fiercely, I don’t care!

“What are you doing with my book?” said a cold voice.

Tory looked up. A boy stood in the doorway of the stall, holding a handful of carrots that were still covered in dirt from the garden. He had brown tousled hair, a pale white face, and blazing dark eyes. His eyes were swollen and rimmed with red, as if he had been crying for a long time.

Patrick.

She dropped the book into the straw. She stared back at him, her heart thumping.

He stepped into the stall. “What are you doing here?” he said.

She swallowed. “I’ve come for Lucky.”

“You can’t have him.” His voice was low, like a whisper, and Tory thought she had heard wrong.

“What?”

“You can’t have him. He’s mine.”

“No he’s not!” said Tory.

Two red spots appeared in Patrick’s cheeks. “I found him! I looked after him! He would have been dead if it wasn’t for me. You didn’t care about the fire. You didn’t care what happened to him. You just left him to die!”

Tory’s mouth dropped open. It wasn’t true.
It was Oliver who had abandoned Lucky, not her. Anger flared inside her.

“How dare you!” she shouted. “How dare you say that! You don’t know. You weren’t there!”

“Go!” said Patrick. “Now! I mean it! Get out of here! Just go!”

He raised his arm and Tory thought he was going to fling the carrots at her. Or maybe even hit her. “Go!”

She sucked in her breath. Oliver would know what to do.

She marched past Patrick, out of the stall.

“I’ll be back!” she said.