“You’re spying on a guy watering flowers?” Griff whispered. He turned away, hands behind his head, and leaned back against the stones. “You need to learn to live a little more.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Libby said, watching the house.
“Try me.”
What would it hurt to fill him in? “Last night, he … ”
“Who’s ‘he’?”
“Mr. Porter.”
Remembering, Libby felt her chest fill with anger. “He kicked Thunder, my—well, I wish he was my horse. That was last night. And, well, it’s daytime now. He did away with the kittens, and … ” She realized she wasn’t making much sense. “I don’t know. I have this bad feeling. I owe it to Jolene to keep an eye on the horses—especially Thunder—even if her husband doesn’t want me coming around anymore. But right now, I don’t even know where Thunder is. He should be outside … with the others.”
Griff scrunched his lips, then asked, “Didn’t this place use to have a bunch of horses?”
Libby nodded. “Yeah, but they sold them off. The stable business didn’t work, I guess. Just before they sold the other horses, the Porters were fighting—something about a bank taking everything away if things didn’t change. That they could lose it all. Then Jolene—Mrs. Porter—left me a note. Said she was gone—maybe forever.”
“Maybe he made her write the note,” Griff said, eyes narrowing, “just like in a movie I saw once. He made her write it and then he killed her.” He chewed at the edge of this thumb, then continued. “It’s possible.”
“Uh … I don’t think so,” Libby said, but his idea traveled down her spine like an ice cube. She shivered, pushed away the thought, and studied the house. Mr. Porter was still inside. If she risked crossing the pasture in broad daylight and got caught … she didn’t want to think about it.
Her heart slammed in her chest, but she took a deep breath, and with all the calmness she could muster, faced Griff. “Wait here,” she said firmly, then held his gaze. “Desperate needs require desperate deeds.”
“What?”
“I mean, this will just take a second.”
“What will take just a second?
Without answering, Libby climbed over the stone wall, eased through the boards of the white fence, and, determined to see Thunder, darted like a rabbit across the Porters’ property toward the stable.
CHAPTER FIVE
Kicking up clods of dry manure, Libby raced toward the horses. Cincinnati and Two-Step swished their tails at black flies; they looked up from their hay mounds as she passed. Around the corner of the barn, out of view of the house, she paused to catch her breath. Slow her heart.
She glanced at the horses’ water bin. Empty.
Libby crawled through the paddock fence, then hurried to the stable’s back door. She squeezed the metal handle and stepped in.
For a moment, darkness blinded her, but gradually Libby’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Aromas of hay, manure, and horse sweat mixed together. She padded forward toward the shaft of light, which flowed into the walkway from the tack room’s window. Eighteen stalls, ten on the right, eight on the left—all empty—except for one. The stall next to the tack room. Thunderbird’s. His bulky form was in the shadows; he shifted uneasily.
“Thunder?” Libby whispered, stepping closer.
He nickered low and soft and shuffled in his straw.
She drew closer and raised her hand to touch the side of his face. But with a soft thudding of hooves over cedar chips, he backed himself into the darkness of his stall, blasting air from his nostrils. “Hey, boy,” she said, her voice wavering. “What’s up? It’s me!”
She undid the bolt on his stall. In the gray light, she could make out something different about him. His right eye was tinged red. She stepped closer, and again Thunder nervously backed away. She had to try something else. She remembered Jolene’s words. Wait. Horses are the most curious animals in the world. Let him come to you. She put out her hand, palm up, and instead of stepping toward him, she took a step back, away. “It’s me, Thunder. C’mon, you big lug, you know me.”
The Appaloosa shifted, took a step forward, and stopped. Libby waited. She studied his dark head, his eyes watching her. She held still. And it brought back the warm spring day when she first met him, kicking his back legs up as he raced around the pasture. She’d let him come to her then, too. Now Thunder walked up to her, nuzzled her hand, and licked her palm. Then he gently pushed his head into her chest, nearly squashing her against the stall’s door.
“See?” she said, scratching him hard between the ears, just the way he liked it. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” She talked softly to him and scratched him under his chin and along his neck. As he settled, she studied his eye. A small spot of blood tinged the edge of his right eye, as if he’d banged his head on something. It didn’t seem to affect his vision. She’d have to tell Jo—
She caught herself. She’d have to handle it alone. Maybe there was something in the tack room for eye injuries.
She checked Thunder’s water bucket inside his stall. Also empty. From outside the stall, she filled it from the spigot, then returned with it. Thunder dipped his head into the bucket, slurping thirstily. On the outside of Thunder’s stall, hanging from a screw, was a crop—the stiff leather strap used to get a horse’s attention. Libby hated them, especially the way she saw one white-haired woman overuse it at a horse show. One wrong move and the horse got whacked on the rump, over and over and over.
Libby hurried to the tack room, where Jolene’s wooden desk was centered under a small paned window. On the right, English and Western saddles, bridles and bits lined the wall. The smell of leather, oiled and worn, filled the air. On the left were shelves of supplies: grooming buckets, each containing a curry-comb, a mane and tail comb, a hoof pick, and natural bristle brushes; Jolene had always encouraged her riders to groom the horses they rode, as she said, “to create stronger bonds.” On the top shelf were medical supplies: ointments for cracked hooves, salves for fungus growths, and liniment oil for sore muscles. Many times, Libby had applied the small yellow container of Blu-Kote to small cuts and scrapes—to promote healing and prevent infection—but it wasn’t for a horse’s eyes.
From behind her, Libby heard something, someone, coming. Her breath froze. The sliding stable door creaked open.
Her legs threatened to melt. Hide. She had to hide. She moved the rolling chair, dropped to her hands and knees, and scuttled under the oak library desk. She pushed her back against the sharp desk legs, trying to squeeze herself into a tiny ball, arms wrapped tightly around her legs.
The barn light flipped on. Footsteps. Slow and steady.
“Horses! I swear, that’s all she cared about.” A stall bolt opened. Ka-klunk.
“Come outta there, you stupid animal!”
There was shuffling of hooves. She heard the snap of a lead clip, twice.
“Stand there.”
Thunder’s loud snorts filled Libby’s ears.
“You and I,” Porter continued ominously. “We’re going to start seeing eye to eye, you got that?”
Whack! Crack! Whack!
The crop. Libby winced and closed her eyes tightly. Her heart slid from her chest.
Hooves thudded in the hard-packed dirt floor. Crack! Whack!
Stomach knotted, Libby couldn’t bear it.
Crack!
She scrambled from beneath the desk onto shaky legs and stumbled out of the tack room, only yards away from Porter. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice wavering.
Porter froze, his arm raised at Thunder’s head. With long lead ropes fastened to the rings on either side of the horse’s halter, Thunder was firmly cross-tied in the walkway between the stalls.
Hot tears brimmed in Libby’s eyes.
Porter lowered the crop, but held onto it at a right angle, like the end of a tennis racket, ready to smack. “This is my horse,” he said firmly. “And you don’t question how I handle my animals. You
got that, young lady?”
Thunder’s ears were pressed flat against his head. He strained away from Porter, the ropes taut.
“If Jolene were here,” Libby began, her voice wavery, “she wouldn’t let you treat—”
“Oh, well, if you know where she is, tell her to come home, will you please, and ask her to take care of her horses. You tell her that.”
Libby found herself nodding. If she were Jolene, she’d have left, too. She stared at Porter.
“Y’know, I’m really tired of seeing you around. Now get outta here,” Porter began. He unclipped the lead ropes, turned Thunder into his stall, and added, in a voice suddenly calmer, “Don’t make me press trespassing charges against you.”
Libby couldn’t move. Wanted to, but could not. She couldn’t turn her gaze from Thunder. If she could just go to him, press her face against his neck.
“Can’t you hear?”
Finally, her brain somehow connected with her body, and her legs worked. She pivoted in the dirt and bolted out the sliding door. Retracing her steps across the pasture to its north edge, she ran to where Griff waited.
She skimmed between the fence boards, scuttled over the stone wall, and slid down the mossy rocks to the ground. As she crouched down, tears rushed up unexpectedly.
CHAPTER SIX
Libby’s chest shuddered.
“What’s wrong?” Griff asked. He knelt beside her and lightly touched her shoulder. “Hey, did someone hurt you? Horse kick you? C’mon, you can tell me. What’s going on over there, anyway?”
“It’s just … ” Libby rubbed her arms across her eyes, then wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand. As suddenly her tears had started, they stopped. “He’s hurting Thunder,” she said. She drew a deep breath and exhaled. “I have to get home.” She gathered herself, brushed the back of her bib shorts with her hand, and without another word, hurried past the edge of the pond and down the path toward the road.
“Hey, wait up!” Griff called.
Libby reached into the weeds for her bike’s metal handlebars.
“Wait up. Did I say something wrong?” he called.
Then she pushed it to the road’s shoulder, hopped on, and pedaled. She left Griff standing there, calling after her. Her mind was jumbled, tangled as worms in a bait box. If she was much later in getting home, her parents would be filled with questions she couldn’t answer.
Her bike flew down the easy slope, and she forced herself to look straight ahead, to not glance at Northwind Stables. Not even a sideways look. She didn’t want to do anything to upset Porter more. He might treat Thunder even worse. Images of him hitting Thunder in the face with the crop ran through her mind. No wonder Thunder was acting strange.
A truck with wooden sideboards, labeled ROSELLI ORCHARDS, rumbled by Libby toward her driveway. Its driver, white-haired Mr. Wentzel, waved, hauling crates of freshly picked apples from their second orchard, a few miles to the northwest. The truck passed the Apple Shed, the red building where a handful of cars—locals and tourists—were parked outside. Most of the apples, however, were shipped off to grocery stores.
Outside the Apple Shed, Dad stood square as an ice block. His woven hat, the one he’d had since his missionary years in Guatemala with Mom, was tilted slightly forward. He was talking with the driver of a front-end loader. Both men waved as the truck pulled in and rounded the Apple Shed, heading to the packing plant.
Then her dad spotted her, smiling as broadly as his wave. “Hi, honey!”
Libby waved back, forced a smile. She veered away toward the house and garage, afraid he’d see her eyes and know she’d been crying. He was like that. He’d drop everything to make sure she was okay, to get a smile back on her face as quickly as possible. She put the bike away, grabbed an extra breath in the garage, then walked to meet her father.
He held a clipboard in the crook of one arm, and as she approached, opened the other arm toward her. “Mom said you disappeared.” He studied her face, which she tried to shield with a lowered glance. “Everything okay?”
Telling Dad would make things worse. Like the time she’d fallen off the monkey bars in first grade and sprained her arm. Her parents led the fight for safer playground equipment. Now, every recess, nobody could play on the monkey bars unless a playground aid dragged out the thick blue mat. The “dummy mat,” as kids called it. If she told him anything, he’d go have a talk with Porter. And Porter might not like that.
“I guess.”
“Good.” He paused. “Well, if you don’t mind, why don’t you give Ruby a hand? And don’t forget, I’m keeping track of your hours. You never know, maybe you can save up to buy Thunder.”
“But that would take me forever. He’s for sale now, Dad. I saw a man over there earlier today. What if he was there looking to buy a horse?” She felt tears building and bit the inside of her lip. He didn’t get it.
“At five thousand, he might still be for sale next summer.”
She shook her head slowly. Though she wanted Thunder more than anything, it would be better for him to be sold to a good home—and as soon as possible.
“Keep a positive attitude,” Dad said, patting her shoulder. “Things work out.” Then, whistling, he headed back to the packing building, where he slipped through the clear curtain of plastic slats, which the forklift could drive through.
Positive attitude. Things work out. His words dug under her skin.
Libby stole a backward glance down two rows of apple trees to the pasture, hoping to see Thunder at the fence, waiting for her. But—of course—he wasn’t there. Then she stepped under the Apple Shed’s overhanging roof, between pots of yellow begonias.
Inside, rows of slanted wood shelves held bushel baskets, labeled from Paula Red, Beacon, Wealty, to McIntosh, Cortland, and Delicious.
A few customers milled about; the early season didn’t keep them away. They sampled cut apples and dipped them in dishes of caramel sauce. They tasted Wildborough honey, which came from the valley, and apple butter. And along with sparkling apple cider, they bought apple-shaped cutting boards, apple stationery, apple bathroom scents, and apple muffin mixes.
Libby restocked shelves from the back storage room, helped customers weigh apples, fill baskets, whatever was needed.
Ruby Cather, who had to be in her seventies and lived in a tiny house in town, worked the cash register. She talked without stopping, bobbing her honey-colored hair like a chicken. “Real nice open house you had for your daughter,” she said to one woman. “Oh, he’s that way, Doris,” she said to another, “but what do you expect? He’s a Mclnness.” She’d guess what kind of apples people would pick out. “Oh, I figured you were a Cortland man,” she said to one young man, who didn’t say a word in reply. Even with tourists, she managed to joke about the weather or a bit of current news, and she’d be laughing well after customers stepped out the door.
Libby’s mom stopped in. “Hi, Ruby,” she said, passing the counter and walking up to Libby. “I’m glad you made it,” she said, hands on her hips.
Libby avoided her mother’s eyes.
“Saw you come in on your bike. Didn’t I ask you to … ”
“I biked over to the willows,” Libby said, choosing to be partially honest. She didn’t have to tell her mom everything. “I was trying to check on Thunder.” She looked up at her mother, wishing she could tell her how she’d snuck inside and saw Thunder cross-tied.
Tapping her lip with her forefinger, her mother said, “Fair enough. Next time, if you have plans other than what we’ve suggested, you better clue me in.” She paused. “Or you’ll be grounded. Understand?”
Libby nodded. “Okay.” Then her mother left.
A few hours passed, and Libby’s stomach grumbled. At the butcher block, halfway down the main aisle, she brought down her round apple slicer on another Paula Red, then set it on a plate for customers to sample.
As Libby popped an apple slice in her mouth, Ruby chimed, “Hello there! How’s our favorite r
adio announcer today?”
Libby glanced up. A cold wave passed through her.
At the counter stood Mr. Porter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
White shirt sleeves rolled up, denim jeans hugging his lanky legs, Mr. Porter smiled broadly. “Couldn’t be better. And you, Ruby, you’re looking lovely today.”
Ruby waved away his compliment. “Heavens.” But her face tinted. “So, Jim, may I help you with something?”
“Lookin’ for some good apples,” he said. “Want to bake a pie. Whatd’ya recommend?”
Libby kept her head down and cut another apple, but from the corner of her eye she could see questions working through Ruby’s head. Baking a pie—did that mean he was truly a bachelor now? For a rare moment, Ruby struggled for words. In the past few days, she’d wondered out loud about Jolene’s sudden disappearance. “Pretty flighty, if you ask me,” she’d said.
Finally, Ruby found her tongue. “Well, you’ll want something a little tart,” she said. “Right now, we just have two varieties to choose from … and I’d say you’ll want Paula Reds … that’s my bet.”
“Whatever you say, Ruby. I’m putty in your hands. And spices, tell me what I need.” He eyed the shelf of spices behind the counter. “I’m a greenhorn at this, but thought, heck, time to try something new.”
Gag. Libby couldn’t believe it. What a phony. He could sure turn on the charm when he wanted to. But Libby knew better.
Then he spotted her, and with a twitch of a smile, he walked along the creaky wooden floor to where she was standing. Libby inched backward, her thoughts racing. Wasn’t there something she needed to get from the stockroom, a shelf that needed filling? But her legs were anchors.
“Hi, Libby,” Mr. Porter said. His stiff cologne cut into the apple-scented air. He stepped closer, towering over her. He bent his head, his face only a foot from her own, and spoke rapidly in a whisper. “Hey, about last night—and this morning. Don’t you worry. I’m not going to say a word to your parents about your being out so late at night and trespassing on private property.”
Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 3