“But … ”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t be happy. No need to upset them.” He glanced behind him. Ruby was busy gathering apples and supplies. “And this morning—if you ever mention what you saw to Jolene, then I will have to talk with your parents.”
Libby didn’t say another word.
“Fair is fair,” he whispered, smiling. “And from now, unless you’re invited, stay away. Accidents happen.” He held out his hand, his eyes drilling into hers. “Okay?”
Libby looked at his hand and almost against her will, found herself lifting her own. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it hard, crunching her knuckles, then closed the deal with one word: “Good.”
“Got your things all ready,” Ruby called cheerily from the counter.
“Okay,” Mr. Porter said, turning and reaching for his wallet as he strode toward the counter. “What do I owe you, Ruby?”
Ka-klank-klang! The sound of a bike crashing to the ground came first, then the door swung open and Griff bolted in. He spotted Libby near the back and, eyes fixed on her, hurried straight by Ruby and Mr. Porter, then slid sideways across the polished wood floor toward her, nearly knocking her over. Libby tucked herself behind the butcher block. From his back pocket he whipped out a magazine, folded into quarters, and smacked it on the block. “We need to talk. I found this in his truck in town, parked outside the grocery store.”
Libby shook her head at him and mouthed, “Not now!”
Griff scrunched up his eyebrows, not getting it, and plowed forward. “Anyway, I think there’s something suspicious going on … ”
She put her finger to her lips.
He continued, “ … so if you’d let me in on what you think is happening over there at the … ”
She inched closer, and with her heel, stepped on Griff’s foot. Hard.
“Ouch! Hey, what’s your problem?” said Griffin.
“What’s going on back there?” Ruby called, using her retired schoolteacher voice. She’d taught high school English for a thousand years.
Griff spun around. Porter fixed a lukewarm smile on them. Ruby glared.
“Oh, nothin’,” Griff said.
“We were just joking around,” Libby added.
“Hey,” Mr. Porter said, “better not be giving Libby any trouble, young fella. She’s almost like a daughter to me. Right, Libby?”
Libby’s throat went dry as sun-baked sand. The way he twisted things, his sarcasm, made her sick.
“Looks like I left her speechless.” Then with a chuckle, Porter ducked through the door, bushel basket balanced on his shoulder.
Griff spotted the plate of sliced apples. “Hey, don’t mind if I do,” he said, dipping a slice in chocolate-caramel sauce. He popped it in his mouth.
Libby slammed the circular apple cutter through another red apple. White wedges fell away from the apple’s core. She thought of how she’d shaken Porter’s hand. It was almost as if she’d betrayed Thunder. Disgusted with herself, she set down the apple cutter and wiped her hand across the front of her bib overalls.
Griff tossed his head back and forth, humming. He grabbed another slice, dipped it, and held it midair, en route to his mouth. “So, do you want to hear what I have to tell you?” He crammed the apple slice in his mouth and mumbled, “It-might-bree-’portant.”
Libby glanced from Griff to the entry door window as the teal pickup backed away, then drove off. Maybe the apples were part of the way he twisted things. Had he really come for apples or just to warn her to stay away?
Ruby leaned against her counter and sighed. “He’s so nice,” she said. “Jolene should have her head examined, running off like that. Some other woman could just slip in while she’s gone if she’s not careful.”
“Nice?” Libby muttered. “He’s a jerk.”
The back room door swung wide and Dad strolled in. “Who are you calling a jerk? Not me—or a customer—I hope.”
“Well, he is,” Libby said, chin high. She found herself trembling.
“Who?” Her father stepped up to the block, rested his hand lightly on the back of Libby’s neck, under her ponytail. “Not this guy,” he asked with a smile, thumbing at Griff.
Griff rubbed his forehead and looked away.
“Mr. Porter,” Libby said.
At the counter, Ruby humphed.
“Oh, he’s a good man,” her dad said, grabbing an apple slice. “You’re just sore because of Thunderbird. So—who’s this?” Her father held out his hand. “I’m Libby’s dad. And you’re … ”
With the back of his hand, Griff wiped caramel off his chin, and cleaned his hand on his jeans. Then he shook hands. “Griff,” he said.
“I know what I’m talking about,” Libby said sourly, anger threatening a meltdown. “He is a jerk. I hate him.”
“Hey, now. Hate’s a pretty strong word, Libby. You shouldn’t feel that way. You might dislike someone, but … ”
“Oh, please … ” Libby couldn’t, wouldn’t, stay around to hear the rest, about how we’re called to love everybody, to see the best in everybody. She didn’t care. Her hate for Porter glowed as hot as white coals. “I gotta get out of here!” she cried, and fled toward the entry door. She paused and glanced behind her. “Griff, c’mon.” He followed. Left in his wake was her father, standing dumbstruck. Libby couldn’t remember ever walking away from him before, having the last word. A pang of guilt swept through her.
She didn’t turn back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Libby aimed for the oak trees in front of her house and the wide circle of shade beneath, where a robin hopped, cocking its head at the ground. Griff followed a few steps behind her. As they neared the tree, the robin, its amber breast speckled with dark spots, flew off. Libby dropped cross-legged to the grass. She rested her elbows on her knees and propped her chin on folded hands. “So what were you trying to tell me?”
“This,” Griff said. He opened the magazine, Horse and Rider, set it in between them, and stretched out on the grass.
“That’s the magazine Jolene gets.” Libby shrugged. “I’ve read it lots of times. Is this what you stole from his truck?”
“Borrowed,” Griff corrected her. “I just borrowed it.” He glanced up, hesitated, then met her eyes. “Listen, I don’t steal.”
“Oh,” Libby said.
He flipped to the middle of the magazine.
Libby read the title aloud. “Horse Accidents: When You Have to Contact Your Insurance Company.” With the article was an illustration of a horse lying on its side, a car and an alarmed driver in the background. The horse had just been hit. Libby’s stomach knotted. “That’s real cheery,” she said, “but … um … what does this have to do with—”
“Does Mr. Porter read this magazine regularly?”
“No, I don’t think so. They’re always stacked next to Jolene’s desk. Horses have always been her thing. He’s more into drowning kittens, that kind of thing,” she said sourly.
“I don’t get it.”
“Sorry. It’s a joke. Black humor.” Libby gazed up at billowy clouds. A puff of smoke curled from a dragon’s snout. She watched the shape disappear, then turned to Griff again.
He leaned into his elbows and slid his palms back along his head, revealing his white forehead.
“Don’t do that,” Libby said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. You look better with your hair down.”
“Oh yeah?” His blue eyes lit up and a smile crinkled the edge of his mouth. “You think I’m handsome?”
He’d caught her. “No, I didn’t say that.”
With a smug grin, Griff turned his attention to the magazine. “Okay, I found it on the front seat, and your Mr. Porter was reading it—”
“He’s not ‘my’ Mr. Porter.”
“Whatever.” Griff crossed his legs in the air behind him and tapped the worn edges of his leather boots together. “He must have been reading it pretty carefully, because the pages were creased open. A
nyway, I figured I didn’t have anything else to do, so I biked over to the library.” The LaCrescent Public Library was only a mile from the orchard, downhill and just off of Main Street. “And I got on the Internet—jeez, I miss my computer at home—and looked up insurance and claims and horses and stuff, and that’s what this is all about. A person pays insurance so that if an accident happens, they get paid something.” He stared at Libby, as if trying to win a case in a courtroom. “But they have to prove there was an accident.”
Libby leaned forward and whispered. “He used the crop on Thunder’s face. I mean, a crop should never be used like that. That explains why Thunder’s been so jumpy and why there’s blood in one of his eyes. Does that kind of thing count as an accident?”
Griff shook his head, wrinkled his lower lip. “Uh, well, when it comes to collecting money, I think the horse has to be dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yeah, a serious accident. Listen,” Griff pressed, “that guy, that Mr. Porter, there’s something about him.”
“Yeah, like all nice on the outside,” Libby said, pulling a blade of grass from the ground and sticking the white stem in her mouth. “He does all these live-remotes on the radio for girls’ basketball, which no one bothered to cover before, and he manages to do special interviews with celebrities. Ruby’s in love with him, thinks he’s a dream. Well, he gives me the creeps.”
She picked up the magazine and read to herself: “No one wants to consider the possibility that their beloved horse could fall victim to a fatal accident; however, life deals unexpected blows.” She read further. “To be prepared, always videotape your horse. Without photos, videotape, and records, it might be difficult to convince an insurance company of your horse’s full market value … ”
She stopped. “You know, Mr. Porter doesn’t remember to even water the horses. He’s not the type to read up on them. He just wants to get rid of the horses and … ”
Griff’s eyes met hers, and Libby sensed she could trust him.
She told him about how she’d gone riding in the moonlight and how Mr. Porter had kicked Thunder’s belly. She looked to Griff. “So, if Mr. Porter was studying this article … ” She could feel herself circling closer. “What I mean is, you’re wondering if maybe he’s thinking of … of faking some kind of accident … to collect insurance money?”
“Maybe,” Griff said. “It’s possible.”
Libby paused, remembering a comment once from her mother: “They must be better at saving than we are,” she’d said when Jolene had described their new hot tub.
“They’re always buying new stuff,” Libby said. “Did you see that horse trailer?”
“Thought it was a fire engine,” Griff said with a wry smile. “How could I miss it?”
Suddenly, a steely awareness filled her. She scratched nervously at her ankle. If what Griff was hinting at was true, then they had to come up with a plan to prevent an “accident” from happening. And fast. But her head was empty.
She felt a warm trickle on her ankle and looked down. A small bead of blood formed on her skin where she’d scratched. With her thumb she wiped the blood onto the grass, then pressed against the spot to get it to stop. She thought of Thunder’s blood-tinged eye and the way she’d seen Porter use the crop. A wave of dread washed over her. She had to protect Thunder. She had to find a way to keep him safe.
CHAPTER NINE
“I gotta go,” Griff said, checking his watch. He then scrambled to his feet. “If I don’t get the lawn mowed, then it’s … ” He made a slashing motion with his finger across his throat.
“Griff,” Libby asked, stalling him. “Hey … um … why are you in a foster home, anyway?”
“Mmmm … ” Griff shook his head, looked up into the oak, then said, “Guess I’d rather not say. Maybe later.”
If he didn’t want to say, that was fine. Maybe it wasn’t any of her business. Still, she felt put off. Magazine in hand, she stood. “So … what do you think we should do?”
“I don’t know. Call me. We can talk about it.”
“But … ” She wasn’t in the habit of calling boys. “I don’t know your—”
“It’s under Wheeler—Jerod and Beth. But don’t call past ten or it’s—you know … ” He motioned at his neck again. Then they headed to where his bike lay on the ground outside the Apple Shed. As Griff rode off, Libby trudged inside the house.
At supper, hoping to avoid conversation, Libby brought a book to the table (Black Beauty, by Anna Sewell, which she’d read twice already). She filled the tortilla with shredded chicken, lettuce, tomatoes, salsa, and sour cream, then folded it—bottom up, sides over—and held it in her hands. With every bite, she turned her head to read, but the tortilla slipped apart, its contents dropping to her blue plate.
“Maybe you should give up reading,” her mom said, “at least for a few moments. Besides, I’d like to hear about your day. I was stuck fixing that old John Deere on the north orchard all day. Hardly saw you.”
“There’s not much to say,” Libby said, keeping her eyes on the open page. Normally she’d sail through the story, but today she just couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about Thunder. She stared out the sliding glass door, hoping to see the pasture, but rows of apple trees blocked her view. Was Thunder’s life going to be the same as Black Beauty’s, a series of abuse and bad owners? Owners that would never care for him the way she could?
“Libby?” Dad asked. “Libby. You okay?”
Libby glanced at her father, whose fork hung halfway between his fruit plate and his mouth.
Libby couldn’t answer. Her throat was tight with emotion. She picked up her book and pushed back her chair. “I’m not hungry,” she managed. Then she headed upstairs—two steps at a time—flopped herself on her bed, and curled into a ball.
For a long time, she stared absently at the horses on her dresser. All she wanted was to return to a week ago, to the time before Jolene had left. When she could see Thunderbird anytime she wanted. It made her crazy. Angry.
She reached for her dresser and hiked up the volume of her clock radio. If she was going to start crying, she didn’t want her parents to hear. The country station came on with a countdown of the week’s top hits. They were on number twenty-seven. (Emily and Rachel hated country, but it had grown on Libby; it was the only station Jolene allowed at the stable.) It would be a few hours by the time they reached number one. Libby closed her eyes, but in her mind all she could see were red spots, like swirling molten lava, as she poured over the day’s events. She had to tell her parents about Mr. Porter.
Between the eighteenth and seventeenth top songs, a familiar voice came over the radio to read a public service announcement. A country singer talked about the nationwide problem of domestic abuse. “No one should ever be abused,” he said. “If you, or someone you love, has been the victim of abuse, please call the National Abuse Hotline. Someone will be there, waiting to take your call.” And then the message was followed by Mr. Porter’s voice, adding more information: “If you’re the victim of abuse,” came his butterscotch-smooth voice, “please call the national abuse hotline or contact our regional shelter. That number is … ”
The station returned to the countdown of hottest hits. Libby stared at the radio. Had she heard right? Mr. Porter had just been part of a public service announcement about domestic abuse. Domestic abuse, she knew, was about what happened in a home or family. Still, in her mind, animal abuse was pretty much the same thing. Abuse was abuse, wasn’t it?
Libby pulled back her comforter and without changing, slipped under it. Who would believe her if she accused Porter of abusing Thunder? No one.
Anger boiled up in her.
At him.
And at Jolene, for not staying and sticking up for the horses. For abandoning them—and Libby.
She rolled to her side, closed her eyes, and let waves of warm darkness sweep over her. Soon she was drifting—riding with Jolene on a wide prairie. Wind blew through golden
grasses and through their hair. “Let’s race!” called Jolene, fiery-red hair and face aglow. Their horses galloped, hooves soundless over earth. Prairie gave way to dark and tangled woods. They plummeted downhill and Libby yanked back on the reins, but her horse wouldn’t stop. Her horse flew, jumping logs, bit clamped in its teeth, indifferent to her pulling on its reins. Finally, Libby’s horse jolted to a stop at the edge of a ridge. Below was a dark swamp, thick with algae. In it, Thunder and Jolene struggled, trying to stay above water.
“Libby! Get help!” came Jolene’s voice, desperate. Scared.
Libby looked around for a vine, a rope, anything to toss to them. When she returned her gaze, she saw Thunder’s brown muzzle slip below the surface, then Jolene’s hand. Algae swirled, covering the dark circle where they’d disappeared.
From deep within Libby, a wail rose up. “Nooooo!” She felt a vast darkness filling her. She sobbed, her chest aching.
Suddenly a hand was on her shoulder. Someone trying to console her. Libby pushed the hand away.
“Libby?” It was Mom’s voice. “Libby, it’s okay. You were dreaming.”
Libby slowly opened her eyes. Tears flowed. Her chest still carried grief, a sense of deep loss. “Oh … ” she said, sitting up and letting her mother hug her. “It was just so … so real.”
“What was it about?”
Emotion cut off Libby’s voice. She shook her head.
“With the good life you have,” Mom said reassuringly, “there’s no need for bad dreams, right? Your life is full of blessings. So much to be thankful for.”
Libby felt herself bristle. She turned her head away.
“Anyway, it was just a dream,” Mom said soothingly. She reached to Libby’s dresser, then handed her a tissue. “Maybe you’re getting sick.” She put her palm to Libby’s forehead. “You’re not burning up. No fever. Still … ”
Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 4