Somewhere far off, a dog barked.
Libby eased around to the stable’s front door, slid it open by a foot—it creaked—and she slipped in, closing the door behind them. Mitts brushed alongside her leg, looking up at her with glowing amber eyes.
“Hi, Mitts,” she whispered. “Haven’t seen you in a few days.”
Except for a moonbeam cutting through the single window, the darkness in the stable was complete. The rich scent of hay and manure permeated the air.
“Thunderbird?” she whispered.
A rustle of straw, a snort, and then a nicker. She moved toward his stall. With a rumble, Thunderbird rose from his bed of straw and shook his coat. Libby inched closer and found him stretching his neck over his stall door. She pressed her face to his cheek, then flashed her light along his sides, his legs. His eye was still red. “We’re gettin’ you outta here.”
She went to the tackroom and found his bridle on the right wall. For now, that would have to do. She’d have to find a way to get oats, a salt lick, grooming supplies, and other things—later.
Quickly, she eased into his stall. Thunder shifted, backed up again uneasily. Libby waited calmly for him to step to her.
“Hurry,” said Griff. He tapped his fingers on the stall door.
“Hang on,” Libby whispered. Finally, Thunder inched closer, took the sugar cube she held in her palm, and let her stroke his neck, then slip a bridle on him. She led him down the walkway and out the barn’s back door to the pasture. Cincinnati and Two-Step watched from their stalls and nickered as they headed outside. She hated to separate them—horses were herd animals—but what else could she do?
In the paddock, Thunder shook his coat.
Libby had no idea how long she could keep Thunder safe. As long as necessary. That’s all she knew.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Clouds crossed the moon’s face. While Griff ran back for his bike at her house, Libby rode Thunder to the west end of the pasture. She unlatched the corner gate, held it wide with her foot, and rode out. Then she cut back along the north edge of Porter’s property, edged the pond and willows, and found the dirt path. Far off, a car rumbled; its lights swept over the hill, and it sped swiftly past, leaving cricket song in its wake.
Griff stood up from the weeds—a shadowy form—and combed his hand through his hair. “I’m right here,” he said. “Don’t trample me.” Then he rolled his bike from the weeds to the road’s shoulder.
Thunder snorted, flapping air hard through his nostrils, and shifted his feet uneasily.
“It’s okay,” Libby said, and patted the horse’s neck. “It’s just Griff.” Just Griff, she thought, as though they were old friends. Strangely, though she’d only known him a short time, she felt more at ease with him than with Emily and Rachel. It was if he accepted her just the way she was. He wasn’t waiting for her to measure up somehow. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty road, thankful no car lights were headed their way. “Ready?” she asked.
“Always.” Griff pushed his bike onto the road’s shoulder, hopped on, and began pedaling north along the road. Libby rode in the ditch, keeping pace alongside. She trusted Thunder to find his footing. The road curved, dipped, and climbed. They passed fields, the Bancroft feed store, and several driveways leading to newly constructed homes.
Stone-faced, cows ambled silently to a fence and watched.
“Don’t tell anyone you saw us,” Libby told them, and for the first time, she felt good. Good to know she was saving Thunder. Good to know that she’d stood up for what was right. But like water on hot pavement, the feeling quickly evaporated. Was she going against everything she’d been taught? Thou shalt not steal.
Libby glanced behind, expecting to see Porter’s truck or the police. “Griff,” she said, “once Thunder’s safe, we should go to the police. Tell them how Porter treats him, and you could back me up. You know, two against one. Maybe they’d let me care for Thunder, kind of like foster care, until Porter shapes up.”
“That’s a good one,” Griff said, and blew a whistle of air. “They’d never believe me.”
“Why not?”
“I stole a car once, that’s why.”
As if she’d cracked her head on a steel beam, Libby drew Thunder to an abrupt stop. She turned to look at Griff, who slowed down and straddled his bike. “You what?” she said.
“I was eleven,” Griff explained. “Angry at my skunk-drunk parents, so I took their keys and drove their station wagon into the lake.”
Libby didn’t know if she should be shocked, or laugh.
“Straight in. Deep. Parked it there. I know it was stupid. I had to go to juvenile court, the whole nine yards.”
She didn’t know what to say. What in the world was she doing out here in the middle of the night on this rescue mission—with this kid? A criminal? So much for the idea of turning to the police. They’d have to do this alone.
“Griff,” she asked, “if we get caught, would they send us to prison?”
“No … not an adult prison, anyway. A juvenile facility, maybe.”
“Thanks. Makes me feel a lot better,” she said, only slightly sarcastic. “When you drove that car in the lake, did the police come and take you away? I mean, what happened?”
Griff pushed down on his pedal and began again. Libby lifted Thunder’s reins and he resumed his steady pace through the ditch.
“Oh,” Griff said, “I was supposed to meet with my parents at the law enforcement center, but when the time came, they weren’t sober enough to show. So I just walked over by myself. One guy, I can’t remember his name now, he was actually pretty decent. I mean, he listened to me. Something my parents never did.”
“My parents don’t listen either,” Libby said. “I mean, they say I’m great and they don’t worry about me and all that, but they don’t really listen to me, or take me seriously. I tried to explain that if I didn’t buy Thunder soon, he’d be sold. That I want him more than anything. My dad just says, ‘oh, he might still be available next summer.’” She huffed. “They don’t get it. I wanted to tell them about the way Porter was treating Thunder, but … I didn’t bother. They’d think I was exaggerating so I could get him. They hear what they want to hear.”
“Yeah,” Griff said. “I know how it goes.”
In the distance, floodlights lit up the Smithen Orchard. As they neared the light, Thunder began to weave, sidestepping.
“Hey, fella,” Libby said. “It’s okay.”
Ahead, in the light, something silver shimmered in the grass. The breeze lifted it a foot in the air, then dropped it.
Thunder threw his head—spooked—and jumped sideways. In the same moment, Libby flew off Thunder’s back, and through dark nothingness. Her left foot hit the ground with a crunch, then arms spread, she landed facedown, flattened like a pancake. Her breath slammed from her lungs. “Oooof!”
“Hey, you okay?” Griff asked. “You flew like a monkey … ”
Libby struggled for air, but it felt like one of the horses was standing on her chest. Finally, she wheezed in a giant gulp. A warm breath touched the back of her neck. Her arms found Thunder’s familiar soft muzzle, then his warm neck. A numbing sharp pain surged through her foot, but she rose to her knees, and looked around. They were right under the floodlight’s wide beam. At the farmhouse across the road, the house lights were out. She rose to her right foot, steadied herself, and grabbed Thunder’s reins. He snorted again and eyed the fast-food wrapper on the ground.
“Libby?”
“I’m fine,” she managed, jaw clenched. Hot pain flooded her foot, but she hopped toward the next culvert, a metal round tube, and made Thunder stand below. “Stand,” she said, slipping his reins over his neck. Partly hopping, partly crawling, she hobbled up the short incline to the top of the culvert and stood nearly level with his back. “Easy,” she said. “Don’t take off, please.” She placed her hands on his withers, and with a wince, slowly swung her left leg and foot over his right side—the
only way she could manage—and was back on.
“Let’s bolt,” Griff urged, pressing down on his pedal. “Somebody might spot us.”
Libby pressed her knees lightly into Thunder’s sides. He swooshed rhythmically away from the light and through long grasses. Swoosh-a-woosh-woosh. They rode on through moist air. Within minutes, the pain in Libby’s foot grew unbearable, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, a sliver of sunlight pierced the charcoal shadows. The sun was already rising. They had to keep moving. From the weeds, a brown rabbit darted out and crossed the road. This time Thunder didn’t flinch.
Farther ahead, they passed a tiny house with toys scattered across its fenced front yard. Suddenly, from the house, barking erupted like artillery.
“Hope they keep that mutt inside,” Griff said, glancing over his shoulder.
Libby gripped her thighs harder around Thunder’s back. She followed Griff’s gaze.
A houselight flicked on and the front door opened. From the top step flew a German shepherd. A robed woman stepped out. “Oh, no! Get back here, Charger! Charger!” In a flash, the large dog shouldered through the open metal gate, feet churning gravel.
A shot of fear pierced Libby’s gut.
Thunder side-stepped, then bolted ahead, nearly flinging Libby backward, but she managed to regain her balance, lean forward, and hang on. Griff slammed on his pedals, swore, and propelled the bike faster down the road’s curving slope.
The dog’s bark was deep. It sounded as if it could swallow three pounds of horseflesh in one bite. He grew louder. Right behind Thunder. Libby inched her knees higher along Thunder’s sides and stole a quick backward look. Snapping, the dog’s teeth glinted only inches behind. Thunder lurched, and the dog yelped. Abruptly it dropped back. Its yelps turned to faint echoes.
After they reached the bottom of the hill and neared the top of the next, Libby moved her hand forward on the reins and gradually eased in, slowing Thunder to a canter. “Trot,” she said, her throat dusty dry, and he obeyed. She patted his sweaty neck, then wiped her hand on her jeans. “Oh … that was close.”
“Yeah, too close.” Halfway up the next rise, Griff paused, face red. “What do you think made the dog stop?”
“Thunder kicked him.”
Her foot throbbed. Almost there, she told herself.
At the crest, sun spilled over the horizon. It cast a pale light on the valley, a green rumpled blanket sloping toward the river.
With each plodding movement, the pain grew. As did the guilt. What was she doing? Thunder wasn’t hers. She was stealing. And Griff. A juvenile record. She swallowed hard. As if she had many good options. She pushed the nagging thoughts into the corner of her mind, gritted her teeth, and cantered Thunder the last half mile.
“Hey!” Griff called from behind.
At an unmarked gravel road, she waited for Griff to catch up, then they followed the narrower road along sandstone outcroppings to a wide stream. “Whoa,” Libby said, and let Thunder step from the road to drink. He slurped noisily.
“Y’know, we’re fugitives,” Griff said.
“What’dya mean?” Libby glanced down from Thunder’s back.
“Criminals. Running from the law.”
“We are not,” Libby stated. “We’re protecting Thunder.” When Thunder was done drinking, she turned him back onto the road and continued on. Griff followed. “Robin Hood and Fair Maid-what’s-her-name—rescuing a lowly horse,” he said, biking alongside.
Libby would have laughed, but she couldn’t.
Around the last bend, the road widened into a dead end beside a small wooden sign, lettered white: ROSELLI ORCHARDS. Beyond, grasses nearly swallowed a small farmhouse, which had lost its windows and doors. A sapling grew through its front porch boards. Behind it, a large wood-sided barn leaned wearily; on its crest sat a large tin cupola like a tarnished crown. Surrounding the barn, as far as the eye could see, grew row upon row of apple trees. Tire ruts marked the grasses. Beside a newer shed, empty wooden crates were stacked three deep.
“We have to hide him fast,” Libby said, “before the pickers show up.” Early morning was the best time to start picking, before the heat turned sweltering. Many times, Libby had worn a red cloth basket with shoulder straps and had filled it to brimming. She knew how to give each apple a quarter twist and then lift up so it dropped freely into her hand. She knew of blisters and branch scrapes and sore shoulders. If she was forced to flee with Thunder, she could always make money picking at orchards.
Griff took in the layout of the orchard. “Isn’t the barn kinda obvious?”
Libby slid off Thunder onto her good foot. Pain seared through her left one. She gripped Thunder’s reins, and hopping, made her way to the barn.
“Bet this place hasn’t been used for years,” Griff said.
Like loose ribs on a whale skeleton, a few side boards had fallen away from the building. Libby bit down on the soft inside of her lip. Until they came up with a better hiding spot, it would have to do.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Like cannon shots, cracks of thunder sounded. Beyond the western edge of the upper orchard, black clouds formed a massive wall. Wind combed through the grasses, hiding their recent path made by hooves and bike tires.
Outside the barn Thunder flattened his ears, but Libby held him firmly. As she did, Griff worked a stick under the door’s rusty lock until the whole thing pulled away from the weathered wood and thudded to the ground. Then he heaved the door open over grassy earth, let Libby and Thunder pass through, and pulled it shut behind them.
Gradually, Libby’s eyes adjusted to the near darkness. The barn smelled stale. Libby’s nose itched from the layers of dust. Plink-tink-tink. Rain danced on the roof. One-legged, Libby hopped ahead, leading Thunder.
Cobwebs feathered corners. A cement platform ran through the barn’s center with steel pipes—a cow stanchion—and old horse harnesses hung on one wall. In the back of the barn, beside two stalls, she dropped the reins. “Stand,” she said.
One stall held the remains of an old tractor. Libby hopped into the other stall, pulled out a broken spindle chair from the earth floor, then turned Thunder in. “You’ll be okay here,” she said, patting his neck. She found a hook outside the stall gate.
Lightning crackled overhead and glowed outside the small barn windows. Thunder shook his mane, trotted a tight circle in his new stall, then pawed repeatedly at the floor. The storm rattled the barn, and wind whistled through the side boards.
“This barn gonna hold together?” Griff asked, one hand on a barn post opposite the stalls. Rain pounded down. “So how are you going to feed him?” Griff asked, then let out a long yawn. “We’ll, what, come back later with oats and stuff?”
Libby shook her head, then nodded. She was having a hard time concentrating. She dropped into the chair beside Thunder’s new stall. “I’ve gotta sit,” she whined. “My foot’s killing me!” Of course they’d find a way to feed Thunder. And water him. They could do this. They’d find a way. She kept her chin high, then suddenly lashed out. “Hey, I haven’t thought all this through yet! Why are you expecting me to have all the answers right away? I mean, we just got here.”
“Whoa,” Griff said, pushing his palm to his white forehead. “We’ll figure it out.” He looked toward the loft and the small wooden steps leading up. “Think there’s a nice bed of straw up there for sleeping?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Libby said. “If you don’t mind falling through the boards.”
Griff walked closer to Thunder and rested his foot on a stall board. “Hey, Lib. Thunder’s bleeding.”
“Where?” She didn’t move from her chair.
“Halfway up his right thigh,” Griff said. “Blood’s dripping. That dog must have bitten him.”
Libby looked through the boards. “Jeez.” Blood dripped from a nasty gash on Thunder’s leg. Why hadn’t she noticed it? She pulled off her right tennis shoe, then her left, which was incredibly tight. As she remove
d it, she nearly cried out. Then she eased off her socks and tied the ends together. “Here,” she said to Griff. “Tie this around his leg … to get the bleeding to stop.”
“But won’t he … ”
“Just act calm.”
She watched Griff pat Thunder’s rump, then tie the socks around his leg. “Yeah, that’s good,” she said. “It’s a quick fix, but a vet should look at it.”
“Yeah, like you’re going to get a vet out here,” Griff said, head cocked. “I don’t mean to be negative, but … ”
Libby couldn’t answer. A vet should look at it. Or at a minimum, she needed to put an antiseptic on it to prevent infection. Vets. How was she going to get a vet to look at Thunder’s wound? And who would pay? Hoof picks. Grooming equipment. Feed. There was so much she couldn’t think through. Her brain was like an overloaded washing machine, clunking off-center. She smelled of horse sweat, her hands were grimy, and her hair felt dirty, clinging to the top of her head. A hot bath and sleep and no pain, that’s what she wanted. She glanced down at her bare feet in the gray light. Her left foot had ballooned. Doubled in size.
“Uh, Griff,” she said.
“Yeah?”
She drew a deep breath, hoping to stay strong, but it came out in a whine. Her chin trembled. “My foot hurts really bad.”
“Let me take a look at it,” Griff said.
Wind gusted suddenly into the barn. A voice threaded its way behind it. “Here you are.”
In the grayness of the barn, it took a moment to focus on the form, but Libby knew the molasses voice instantly. She froze. Along her temple, a vein throbbed.
White shirt dirt-streaked, black hair rumpled, Porter walked steadily toward them with a fixed smile—slowly, carefully—as if with any luck, he might catch a pair of wild rabbits with his bare hands.
Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 6