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 friends, but it’s not happening as fast as I hoped it would. I figured out that what she needs even more than human friendship right now is a horse friend.”
“You call this friendship? Look at them!”
Nickers has her ears back and teeth bared. She forces Cleo to back away so fast that the horse rams into the fence.
“Okay,” I admit. “They haven’t exactly hit it off as buddies. But once Nickers establishes herself as the dominant mare, then Cleo will know she’s safe. She’ll feel like she’s in a herd. She’ll understand the pecking order. That’s safety to a horse. I think she needs to know where she stands with another horse. And it should give her confidence with people, too.”
I don’t think Hank’s listening to a word I say. He’s too into watching the Nickers and Cleo show out in the pasture.
“I know you’re trying to help, Winnie. And I appreciate it. We all do. But this isn’t working. If I’d known you were planning to do this—”
“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” I interrupt. “Because you’re never out here. You have no idea what’s going on with this horse.”
“So,” Hank says, like he’s a volcano trying not to erupt, “that makes two of us then.” He turns and storms up the hill, back the way he came.
I stay there and keep an eye on Nickers and Cleo until they’re done fighting for position. Eventually they go to separate corners of the pasture, like boxers resting up for the next bout.
* * *
“How did it go?” Dakota rushes up to me as soon as I walk in the house. It’s clear that everybody else has gone to bed.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “They fought. And Hank was there.”
“Hank? So that would explain why he ran in here all mud-covered and mad.” Dakota grins at me. “Come on. I made you a sandwich. You can eat it in my room and tell me everything. I want details.”
We go to Dakota’s room, and I plop onto her hooked rug and scarf down the sandwich. “Hank came running out of the dark and scared me half to death.”
“What did he say?”
“Before or after he ordered me to get my wild horse out of there?”
Dakota plops onto the rug with me. “That bad?”
“Worse. Nickers was pretty tough on Cleo,” I admit. “She chased Cleo all around the pasture. You should have heard the squeals coming from that mare.” I shiver, thinking about it. “Hank did.”
“He heard Cleo cry out like that?” Dakota asks. “No wonder he came running. I’ve never heard squeals like the ones from Cleo during the fire. It was horrible. Hank heard those too. He had to be remembering that.”
I hadn’t thought about that. I was too busy being defensive. “I don’t know. I really thought putting Nickers in with Cleo would be such a good idea. That mare needs the stability horses only get in herds. I knew it might be rough until they had the pecking order worked out. I just didn’t know it would be that rough.”
Dakota scoots over to her dresser and returns with a candy bar. She hands it to me.
“Thanks.” I take a huge bite of the chocolate bar. “Maybe I made a mistake putting Nickers in the pasture with Cleo. What if Hank’s right? What if I’ve only made things worse for that poor horse?” I choke on the last word or the candy. “I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have come here at all.” I shut up because I think I’ll cry if I admit anything else.
Dakota scoots closer. She’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, facing me. “Winnie, have you prayed about all this stuff?”
“Of course.” And it’s true. I’ve prayed for Cleo every day we’ve been here and even before that.
“I mean,” Dakota presses, “have you prayed for yourself? Talked to God about everything—Cleo, Nickers, Hank . . . you. Have you talked to God about veterinarian school?”
I smile patiently at her. “Yeah. I’ve prayed about it, okay?”
“And?” She’s so intense.
“And . . . and if you want to know the truth, praying hasn’t made me feel any better. Okay? But I keep praying anyway.”
“But doesn’t that help?” she asks. “Even if you don’t feel it, even if you don’t get everything you want, everything you pray for, doesn’t it make you feel better to know God’s listening? That He loves you so much that He takes time out to hear you?”
I shrug. I want to be excited with her. Her faith is so new. But I’m too tired to fake it.
Dakota sighs. She leans against the bed, frowning. “Man, I hope that never happens to me.”
“What never happens to you?”
“Right now, for me, prayer is totally to this Father who loves me no matter how much I mess up. And believe me, that’s not like any father I had growing up.” Dakota seems to be struggling with the words, as if she’s had a dream and doesn’t know how to translate what went on in her dream. She tries again. “When I pray, it feels like God’s right in the room with me, you know? Like I’m sitting on God’s lap, asking questions and spilling out my guts. Like He’s reaching down to love me.” She’s quiet a minute, and her cheeks turn bright red. “Sounds pretty stupid saying it out loud.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I say in almost a whisper. Because I remember. I remember feeling exactly like that, as if God’s love moved with me so close and fresh that all I had to do was think about it and it blew me away. It almost hurts to remember how it used to be.
“I just don’t want to lose that kind of a relationship,” Dakota says, more to herself than to me, I think. “That kind of love.”
Dakota leaves me alone so I can take a bath and get ready for bed. I take a long time. My mind replays what Dakota said about God and love.
After my bath, I’m not sleepy at all. I’m afraid I’ll wake Kat if I try to go to sleep in her room. Everybody else is asleep, so I ease downstairs. I’d give anything to be able to talk to Lizzy right now. Dad’s called twice since I’ve been here, but I wasn’t in the house. I can’t call them back because it’s long distance. And I’m the only person on the planet who doesn’t own a cell phone.
A dim glow filters into the kitchen and dining room as the computer’s screen saver shuffles photos.
If I can’t talk to Lizzy, at least I can e-mail her. I log on to my e-mail and see four messages from Lizzy. I scan the first two, all about how she and Barker are loving the Pet Helpline. It makes me miss her even more. And looking at a computer screen isn’t the same as having the real Lizzy to talk to.
On a hunch, I decide to check her instant message. Lizzy is online!