No Horse Wanted (8 page)

He finished the treat, and I looked at the
barn clock. It was five. I only had an hour before dinner and lots
of chores to do. “It’s time to eat, Twaziem. I’ll get everybody
fed.”

Leaving the stall, I carefully latched the
door behind me. Then I went down the aisle to get the hose. Water
came first before feed, and all of the horses needed their tubs
checked and filled. Because horses required so much liquid, Dad put
in huge plastic garbage cans, one for each stall. He thought they
were safer than automatic water basins that filled on their
own.

I started with Twaziem’s tub. It was only
half full, which meant he’d taken on about ten gallons of water
since yesterday. That was a good sign. Another one was the way he
ignored me and the hose. He didn’t even lift a hind foot, although
I stood behind him in the inside back corner of his stall. The bale
of hay in his manger took all of his attention. In spite of eating
most of the day, he still had about eight flakes left.

When I finished filling his water tub, I
turned off the nozzle. I dragged the hose from the stall and headed
toward Buster. His tub had hay and grain floating in it. I went for
the strainer, brought it back, and scooped stuff off the surface
before I ran water. Next, was Singer. As soon as I opened her door,
she jumped back. Personally, I found it hard to believe the hose
terrified her. I mean she saw it all the time. I was pretty sure
she faked it, but there was always the chance that she was truly
frightened. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m just here to take care of
you.”

After her, came Nitro. I was glad I didn’t
actually have to go inside with him. Dad put the water tub in the
front corner of the stall because the Thoroughbred had such an
intimidating personality. I watched him warily, hoping he wouldn’t
try to bite me. He pinned his ears back and glared at me, but kept
his distance. “You’re mean and evil,” I told him. “One day, I know
you’ll prove it to everybody else, and Dad will get rid of
you.”

Nitro snorted. He tossed his head and
narrowed pale blue eyes. When he stomped toward me, I shut off the
water and backed away. His tub was only three-quarters full, but
it’d have to do. I wasn’t taking the risk of being close to him any
longer. I coiled the hose and looked at the clock.
Five-fifteen.

I hurried toward the hay loft. I had to give
the horses their hay and grain, but I could take care of the cats
while I was in the loft. That would speed me up. They didn’t need
more water so I filled the other dish with dry food. I had to pet
them for a few minutes and cuddle each one. Then, I opened a can of
meat and split it onto the two plates. After that, I could drop a
bale of hay into the arena for the horses.

I dropped more hay into Twaziem’s manger at
five thirty-five. I still had to grain all four horses and feed the
pigs. Twenty-five minutes. How did Jack manage to do everything and
get to dinner on time? He must be a superhero. This was awful. I
knew I’d be late and Mom would demand to know why. Dad would point
out that I was too old to keep the entire family waiting. And of
course, I couldn’t go to the house and leave the animals to wait
for the rest of their suppers. That wouldn’t be fair.

It wasn’t the horses’ or the pigs’ fault that
I wasn’t as fast at chores as Jack. Maybe I should have limited
myself to the cats and horses, but the steers were the hardest to
do. They had to be brought up from the farthest pasture to the
closest one. Then, their water troughs had to be filled and so did
the hay racks. It took ages to feed them and milk the cow. That was
why I asked Jack to do it.

In the grain room, I filled four coffee cans
with feed, then picked up the first two. I wasn’t Jack and I
couldn’t carry all the cans at one time, the way he did. It took
two trips from the grain room to the stalls. First, I fed Buster
and Nitro, pouring feed into the grain boxes in their stalls, then
Singer and Twaziem. Back to lock up the grain before leaving the
barn, and I headed for the door, switching off the lights on my
way. I glanced at the clock.

Ten minutes till dinner. And I had to feed
the pigs. I hurried toward the concrete foundation that served as a
pen for the Berkshire hogs. I grabbed their bucket and went to the
covered barrel that held their mash. Dad always raised four pigs,
two for us and two to sell. That meant six trips between the large
container of soaked grain and the pen to fill their feed trough. I
checked their water. It didn’t need to be filled tonight.
Hurray!

Finally, I was done. I turned and ran toward
the house. I was so late, and I just knew I’d get the lecture. It
wasn’t like I could wash my hands and go for dinner. Mom would
freak if I smelled like the barn, especially on Sunday. No, I
totally had to hit the shower first. Nobody had ever been this late
for a meal. Would I even get to eat before Dad chewed my ears?

I hated it when people got mad at me. Mom was
the worst. Dad talked a lot, but Mom remembered stuff and brought
it up later. I still heard stories of all the things I’d done as a
three-year-old, like throwing a new doll in the garbage and
demanding a puppy instead. There was no way Mom would ever forget
the time, ten years ago, that I put Cobbie in the laundry room
because he had a cold and I didn’t think he’d get better in the
barn.

I was only six then. Two years later when my
grandparents visited, they refused to come to the barn to see my
pony. Granted, Cobbie was half horse, but he was a pony to me. And
if they wouldn’t bring him a carrot, I’d ride him up to get one.
So, I rode him all the way up the steps to the back deck, into the
kitchen, through the living room and right up to the couch. He
definitely deserved a carrot for being so good about it.

Everybody started talking at once and
Grandfather began yelling like he was still in the Marines. All the
shouting made Cobbie nervous, and he took a dump on the new carpet.
I was sent to my room in disgrace while Jack led my pony back to
the barn. I wasn’t supposed to have any supper, but Felicia brought
me soup and sandwiches. She acted like it was a big joke and
promised me Cobbie got lots of carrots in his grain. I never forgot
the look on Dad’s face before he turned his back on me in disgust,
shoulders shaking.

He’d be just as mad tonight. I eased open the
door to the back porch and stopped when I saw Jack removing his
boots. Were we both late?

He glanced in my direction. “You better
hurry. Fifteen minutes till dinner.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about? It
was ten to six when I left the barn to feed the pigs.”

“Barn time,” Jack said. “Didn’t you realize I
set the clock fifteen minutes ahead? Otherwise, I’d always be late.
Grandma taught me that trick. Of course, she calls it bar time
because she’ll be in major trouble if her customers aren’t out the
door by two a.m. so she can close the tavern and not break the
liquor laws.”

“You mean I had fifteen extra minutes?” I
unlaced one boot and kicked it under the bench. “I almost had a
heart attack. I knew I’d be so late. Why didn’t you tell me before
you left to do the steers?”

“I thought you knew.” Jack opened the door to
the kitchen. “You’d better hurry, or you’ll be late for
supper.”

“You jerk.” I pulled off my other boot. “You
clown. You rotten creep.”

“Why are you picking on your brother,
Robbie?” Dad kept chopping vegetables for the salad. “What’s he
done now?”

I glared after Jack as he sauntered out of
the room, heading for his shower. “He didn’t tell me that he set
the barn clock ahead. I thought I was really late for dinner and
I’d be the first course.”

Dad laughed and grabbed a green pepper. He
pointed to the kitchen clock with his free hand. “Ten minutes and
you will be. Go, girl, go!”

“I am.” I hustled through the kitchen and
down the hall to my room.

We were all seated at the dining room table
and Dad had just started carving the roast chicken when Mom came in
from the den. “Felicia made good time. She’s safe and sound in
Pullman and is on her way to the stable to check Vinnie. She’ll
call again on Wednesday night.”

“That’s great,” Jack said. “I promised I’d
send her a video of Nitro and me at the Games Day next week. And
you’re going to email pictures of Twaziem, aren’t you, Robin?”

“Yes.” I filled half my plate with salad,
then passed the bowl to Dad. “I want him to gain more weight first.
Dr. Larry said I should use the tape and measure his weight every
week. Will you show me how to do it, Mom?”

“Sure, honey.” She eyed me and kept putting
brown rice on her plate. “Don’t you want your dad to do it? He’s
the one who gives the horses their shots.”

“Yes, but Twaz doesn’t like Jack, and Dad’s a
guy too. I don’t want either of them to get hurt, and Twaziem seems
to like me, you and Felicia better.”

“Interesting,” Mom said. “I hadn’t heard of a
horse practicing gender bias before. I wonder if Rocky has. You
should talk to her about it this week when you start lessons
again.”

Chapter Ten

Monday, September 16
^th
, 7:20 a.m.

I sat in the Commons with my mocha, stirring
it with the straw while I waited for Vicky. Talk about déjà vu—I’d
definitely been here before. Riding lessons? Come on. Get serious.
I had plenty to do. Mom and Dad had told me at dinner last night
that they’d agreed to pay me for A’s and B’s on my semester grades.
Whoopee! But, how was I supposed to study when I had cross-country
practice twice a week, a meet every Thursday for the next two
months, Twaziem to look after and now riding lessons on Wednesdays
and Saturdays?

“Okay, so what’s the emergency?” Vicky
plopped down in the seat across from me and actually grinned before
she saw the peppermint latte I’d brought her. “Wow, you’re the
best. And I love your parents. They can adopt me anytime.”

“Mom signed me up for riding lessons.” I
groaned. “Like I’m a little kid. She says I need to brush up my
skills so I can train Twaz next spring, as if I’ll actually keep
him. This was a rescue. I’ll find him a great home, but I don’t
want a horse.”

Vicky buried her head in her hands. “Here we
go again with all your dramas. Did you ever think the world doesn’t
turn around you, Robin?”

“No.” I sucked up some mocha. “I’m blonde and
beautiful, so of course it does. Do you ever get tired of always
being right, Vick?”

“No.” She took the cap off her cup and
sipped. She kept smiling. “In this down economy, I wouldn’t bet on
finding Twaziem a home, and you know your dad will want enough
money to pay him back for the rehabilitation. That will be major
bucks between the feed, the vet, the training, and your lessons,
which you wouldn’t have to take if you didn’t have him or me.”

“You?” I gaped at her. “What do my lessons
have to do with you?”

“Your mom called my mom and said that as long
as she had to take you to Shamrock for classes, she might as well
drop me to do my internship on Wednesdays and Saturdays. After all,
both moms want the same thing—for us to pass our sophomore year
with flying colors. And if you hang out with me academically, I
might be able to get you on the Honor Roll by Christmas.”

“No way.”

“Yes, way!” Vicky drank more coffee. “I
thought the Honor Roll thing was a bit over the top, but my mom
totally went for it.”

I shook my head. “I don’t believe it. My mom
is such a bitch. Who knew?”

“Well, you had to suspect it. No offense. I
mean, think about Felicia. She had to get it somewhere.”

We both cracked up. The warning bell rang and
we got up, grabbing our backpacks to head for English class.
Winding our way through the cafeteria, I asked, “So, is all right
in your world now?”

“Well, my internship is fine for the moment.
I just have to figure out cheer practice and the football games on
Fridays,” Vicky said, finishing her latte. “So far, Ms. Walker is
okay with me leaving early to pick up the kids at their school and
Chrissy from day care. But, when the squad starts getting ready for
regionals, all bets are off.”

“We have two months before that happens,” I
said, draining my mocha. “We’ll figure out something. Hey, maybe
your mom will hire a nanny.”

“Yes and Santa will bring me Clinton Anderson
for Christmas. I’d die to train with him and go to his
Academy.”

“You’d have to move to Texas, and Jack would
totally freak.”

“It’s Clinton Anderson,” Vicky said, dropping
her cup in the garbage. “Jack would go with me to learn everything
the guy knows about horses.”

“Sure, but you have to be eighteen,” I said,
tossing my cup, “and that’s two years away.”

“Okay, well maybe I’ll get the ‘Colt Starting
Videos’ this year. We can use them on Twaziem.”

I laughed. “Oh, he’ll love that.”

She always made me feel better, and I hoped
I’d done the same for her. We made it to English class and our
seats before the last bell rang. That was good since Mrs. Weaver
was a notorious hard grader and had a zero tolerance for life.
Gray-haired, gray eyes, she was older than dirt and looked like a
stumpy rock in her gray suit.

Silence reigned in the room as soon as the
bell pealed. She stood at her desk and waited until everyone looked
at her. “Some of you slackers haven’t turned in your letters of
intent for your Sophomore Project and you should be starting your
hours with your mentor this week. When I call your name, tell me
who your mentor is or where you’re planning to go.”

I cringed and ducked down in my seat. It
didn’t do much good.

She whipped through the first six letters of
the alphabet and got to me in what felt like a heartbeat. “Roberta
Gibson.”

“I’m here,” I said.