Midnight Mystery: 4 (Winnie the Horse Gentler) (2 page)

Catman was holding a foil strip while Dad screwed it to the box. “Did you know . . .” Dad grunted between turns of the screwdriver “. . . that the microwave . . . was invented after a researcher . . . walked by a radar tube and his candy bar melted in his pocket?”

I stared at the box contraption. “You’re reinventing the microwave?”

Dad patted the box as if it were his third child. “Winnie, you’re looking at a cold-a-wave! If I can get this to work, you’ll be able to put in a warm glass of water and in seconds take out a cold glass of water!”

Note to self: Tell Dad to invent the ice cube.

Actually, I was kind of proud of Dad for inventing stuff—except when his inventions embarrassed me, like the backward bike I had to ride to school or the shoe alarm that accidentally got our school a free fire drill. Dad had even gotten up enough nerve a while ago to enter an invention contest. He’d never be famous, but playing with his inventions made him happy and kept us in Ashland.

A horn beeped outside.

“Dad, Barkers are here! Okay if I go to the circus with them—in Loudonville?”

“Circus?” Dad stuck his head inside the cold-a-wave.

“Elephants, horses, clowns . . . ?” I prodded.

“Have fun!” Dad shouted, but from inside the box it sounded more like
harumm.

I followed Catman to the door. “Bye, Dad!” I shouted back.

He didn’t answer. Probably still had his head in the cold-a-wave. In Wyoming, Dad had gone to his office in Laramie six days a week, but I couldn’t remember saying good-bye to him even once. I think he left before I got up in the morning. Sometimes he came back after I’d gone to bed. Even if we did say good-bye, I don’t think we ever hugged. And after Mom’s accident, I know we didn’t. Dad and I barely touched, apologizing for it when we did.

But things were getting better.

“Be there in a minute, Catman!” I ran back to Dad. I’m short, and Dad’s tall, so with him kneeling before the cold-a-wave, our heads were even. I hugged him. His curly, black hair scratched my cheek. “Bye, Dad.”

Dad sat back on his heels. The corners of his mouth curled up, and his Adam’s apple jerked. “Bye, Winnie. Thanks.”

I turned and ran to the Barker van, grateful for the chilly wind on my face.

“Where’s Lizzy?” Mark Barker demanded as I climbed into the middle seat next to Catman. Mark is seven and a coltlike version of his stocky dad. Mr. Barker used to play football for Ashland University, where he and Mrs. Barker teach now.

I had to step over Mark’s chocolate Lab and Johnny’s black-and-tan coon dog, both strapped into little dog seat belts on the floor, Dad’s invention. William’s collie and Luke’s Chihuahua barked from the backseat. Barker had rescued strays and trained one for each of his brothers.

Johnny, Luke, and William, the three youngest Barkers, fired questions at me like it was my fault Lizzy wasn’t there.

“Guys!” Mrs. Barker called back. She and Granny Barker took up the front seat, with Matthew in between them. Mrs. Barker was the designated driver of the Barkers’ yellow van, which looked more like a school bus. She’s tall, with short, black hair and a deeper brown skin than most of her kids. “I think what you gentlemen meant to say was ‘Hello, Winnie and Catman. Glad
you’re
here.’” She grinned at us in the rearview mirror, and I caught her winking at her husband in the backseat.

Sometimes I try to imagine what breeds people would be if they turned into horses. Mrs. Barker might be a graceful Tennessee Walker. Mr. Barker would make a good-natured Percheron. The boys are wild Mustangs, except for Barker, who’s a steady Morgan.

“So tell me about Barker’s act,” I asked as we left Ashland, heading south.

Mr. Barker leaned forward, where he was wedged between kid car seats. “Eddy’s a clown!”

“A dog-trainer clown!” Mark added, pride pouring out of each word. “And he’s using Irene!” He stroked his Lab.

“And Chico!” Luke shouted.

“Macho gonna be star!” four-year-old Johnny announced. He glanced at William, the only Barker younger than he is. “William’s dog, too!”

“Congratulations!” I couldn’t help envying the Barker kids, with
two
great parents. I shook it off and turned to Matthew. At age nine, he’s the only Barker who doesn’t have a permanent smile. His bulldog was the only absent Barker dog. “Where’s Bull, Matthew?”

Matthew Barker remained face-front, arms crossed.

The car grew silent.

“Matthew’s dog . . . has a mind of his own,” Mr. Barker offered. “I’m sure he’ll come around before the Ashland circus. This has all happened rather fast. Two clowns got the flu. Trixie, the main trick dog, just had puppies. So the Colonel asked Barker to fill in, probably to get on Granny’s good side.”

Catman leaned in. “The Colonel digs Granny Barker.”

Granny Barker kept staring out the window as if she didn’t even hear the rest of us. Barker said that sometimes she probably doesn’t know what’s going on around her. But most of the time, she takes it in. And when she
does
decide to talk, it’s always something worth waiting for.

Mrs. Barker sighed. “I don’t think Trixie’s owner, Jimmy Something-or-other, is too happy about Eddy’s stepping in.”

“Jimmy Green
Dinglehopper,
” Catman said.

We drove through Loudonville to the fairgrounds and parked in the makeshift lot. The van doors slid open, and the Barker boys and their dogs scrambled out.

“We need to get these dogs to Barker!” Mr. Barker shouted, struggling to hold on to two-year-old William with one hand and Underdog’s leash with the other. “Catman, Winnie, we’ll see you inside!”

I climbed out Catman’s door. A huge red-and-white-striped tent billowed in the distance. On the top waved a small yellow flag with
Circus
in white letters, as if anybody couldn’t tell by the smell of peanuts and cotton candy and the sounds of organ-grinder music and throngs of laughing spectators.

“Funky, huh?” Catman whispered.

We weaved through crowds swarming the midway, past food stands on wheels, their lids propped up.

Catman cut over to a group of trailers. At the end of the row an elephant groaned, then flipped straw onto its back. Two men in gladiator costumes dashed by us. A muscular woman in a sequined bathing suit yelled at a man who would have made a tough Welsh Cob pony.

Catman walked straight to a group of lion cages on wheels. “Neat-o. These cats are happening.”

Two of the lions stopped their growling and paw-swatting to stare at Catman.

I took a deep breath of lions and sawdust and . . .
horse!

I peered past the cages, beyond the circus tent, to a long rectangular tent. I could just make out the sign:
Menagerie Tent.
A horse whinnied, and out of the tent stepped the most gorgeous black stallion I’d ever seen. His long, black mane flowed over a thick, arched neck. On his back sat a kid I guessed to be older than Catman. His wavy, black hair matched his stallion’s. He was riding English-style in a red-and-gold uniform. He lifted his hat, and the powerful stallion tipped his nose to the ground in a grand bow.

“Catman . . . that horse . . .” My voice, which always sounds a little hoarse, came out a croak.

Suddenly the stallion bucked. His rider grabbed for the saddle and missed. The horse bucked again, and the boy flew off. The black stallion exploded into a gallop.

Someone screamed.

People scrambled out of the horse’s path.

I stayed planted in the runway and watched as the most powerful stallion I’d ever seen came barreling straight at me.

“Winnie!” I heard Catman shout, but I kept my gaze on the racing stallion. Dust rose in clouds. The thudding of hooves grew louder.

I was ready to dive out of the way if I had to. But what I read in the black’s eyes was fear. “Easy, fella,” I cooed, trying to make my voice sound like a nicker.

I thought the stallion slowed a little. But still, he kept coming.

I raised my arms out at my sides. He dropped into a canter a few yards from me.

“Get out of the way!” someone shouted.

The stallion slid to a stop a foot in front of me. He snorted and tossed his head, saying,
Are you sure it’s safe? I’m ready to get out of here if it’s not.

I inched toward him. He quivered. I blew into his nostrils, saying,
You can trust me.

His nostrils flared in and out. Then he blew back, honoring me with a horse greeting.

I reached up and stroked his neck. From a distance I’d pegged him as an Andalusian, a regal Spanish breed. Now I could see he was probably a Morgan, the biggest, most powerful Morgan I’d ever seen.

“Man,” Catman muttered, moving in beside me. He shook his head, and I could see that the normally cool Catman had beads of sweat on his forehead.

The tall, dark-haired rider came running up to us. “I can’t believe Midnight did that! Thank you!” He did a double take of Catman. “Catman, who is this brave person?” He picked up his horse’s reins.

“Winnie, Ramon,” Catman said, pronouncing the name so it rhymed with
alone.

Ramon shook my hand. “Ramon is my show name, but I prefer it to Raymond, my real name. And this bad boy is Midnight Mystery.” He stroked the stallion’s coal-black forehead. “Thanks again, Winnie.”

Ramon had a muscled build and might have been an Andalusian if he’d been a horse. “Are
you
okay?” I hated how gravelly my voice sounded.

“Sure.” He turned to his horse. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into Midnight. I’ve always been able to count on him. Now, when it’s more important than ever, he gets crazy on me.”

“What’s up, man?” Catman asked.

“You know my Russian cossack act?” Ramon asked. “Clyde Beatty Cole Brothers Circus, a
real
three-ring circus, is looking for a cossack act to tour with them next year. They’re sending out a scout for our last performance. I’ve dreamed about working with them! And not just because they pay better and draw solid crowds.” He laughed, showing perfect white teeth. Then the smile dissolved. “But it’s not going to happen if Midnight keeps this up. My last two performances were terrible.”

“You need Winnie,” Catman said. “She fixes problem horses.”

My cheeks felt on fire.

Ramon smiled at me. “I may have to take you up on that. I’d do anything to ride for that circus! My mom used to be their lead act.”

“How old are you?” I couldn’t believe I’d asked it out loud.

Note to self: Keep your big mouth shut!

“I mean, don’t you go to school?” I asked.

Note to self: READ your notes to self.

But Ramon didn’t look at me like I was the stupidest show on earth. “I’m 17, but thanks to the slave driver who homeschools me—” he grinned at Catman—“the honorable Colonel Coolidge, I’ll finish high school in June. So I’d be free to travel with the Beatty Show.” His eyes sparkled when he talked about his dream.

“Ramon!” a stern voice bellowed over all the other noise.

“Speak of the Colonel . . . thanks again, Winnie. See you later.” Ramon left with Midnight, and Catman and I headed to the Big Top.

“Why doesn’t Ramon’s mother homeschool him?” I asked as we dodged a camel led by a woman in a red gown.

“She died,” Catman explained.

I stopped walking. “What happened?”

Catman kept moving, so I had to scramble to catch him. “Circus accident.”

Ramon’s mother had starred in the big circus, and now he wanted to star there too. I understood. “What about Ramon’s dad?”

“Died before Ramon was born. Ramon lived with his grandmother, Florence, who had a high-wire act. After Great-Gran Coolidge died, the Colonel met Flo. They got married in the Moscow Circus.”

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose
both
of my parents.

“When Flo left both of them, the Colonel unofficially adopted Ramon. Ramon was only 10, and they’ve traveled with the circus ever since.”