Griff’s eyes met Libby’s. Between nearly closed lips, he breathed, “What d’we do? Take off for the river?”
The officer studied Libby’s face. “And you. You’re a Roselli.”
Libby recognized the officer’s extra-thick white eyebrows under his cap. She knew him. Though he wasn’t often at the stable, he came in a few times every summer to get apples. He was Jolene’s father. “You two stay put,” he said. “Second thought, one of you can wait with the horses.” With a swirl of his forefinger, he motioned to Griff. “Slide down there and come with me. I’m making a few calls, and I’ve got a few questions—for both of you.”
Griff groaned, slid off Two-Step’s back, and handed Libby the reins. “We’re in trouble now,” he said. He looked up at Libby and gave her a quick salute. With a slight swagger, blond hair bobbing, he followed the officer to the police car. Casual. Cool. As if it were no big deal. The officer motioned to the back—Griff climbed in—and the officer climbed in the front, then pressed a receiver to his mouth.
Libby turned her gaze back to Cincinnati, and stared. It almost seemed that at any moment the mare would stir, rise to her legs and take off again. Libby’s body and brain felt rubbery, numb. Her breathing grew fast and shallow. She wanted the whole thing, like a bad dream, to stop.
Within minutes, brakes squeaking, a small car pulled up behind the squad car. Jolene sprang from her car, hair loose around the shoulders of her white tank top, and ran past the side of the bread truck. She fell to her knees beside Cincinnati’s head. “Poor baby … ” she cried. “Poor girl.” Slowly, she ran her hands along the horse’s side, then stroked the mare’s cheek. Finally, slowly, she rose, head bowed over the Arabian. She looked up at Libby. “I just came from the stable. Jim said the horses were inside—all dead. Now my dad calls me to come here. And here you are. Cincinnati’s”—her voice cracked—“dead. None of this makes … makes any sense.”
“I feel so bad,” Libby whispered, wishing the mare would breathe, move, anything but lie so abnormally still. Her face crumpled. “I tried to save her.”
Another police car rolled in. This time, Mr. Porter jumped from the passenger side. He spotted Libby, then eyed Griff in the backseat of the other squad car. “Well, that was quick,” he bellowed. “Caught the little sucker!” He glanced from the young policeman to Libby. “Told you to be careful who you hang out with, Lib. Sorry to learn you got caught up in this mess.”
“What?”
Porter walked calmly to Libby’s side and swiped a sideways glance at the downed mare. “I told the police about you stealing the horse yesterday. Now that they learned more about your friend, well, it’s pretty obvious.” He snapped a glance back at the first police car, where Griff still waited. “Seems your friend started the barn on fire. Got a call at Jack’s Place and came back home to see it like a damn torch.” He put his hands to his hips. “Thought the horses were killed, but I see you stole them.” Porter grabbed Thunder’s reins close beneath the bit and met her eyes. “Again.”
Inside Libby a volcano grew and climbed to its edges. “First, I didn’t start the fire,” she said. “You did. If I took the horses, it was only to protect them from you!”
The youngest officer stepped into the circle, studied Libby, and shifted his feet.
“See?” Porter said to the officer. “This is what I told you she’d say. She’s desperate,” he said, shaking his head sympathetically. “It’s okay, Libby. Don’t worry. Nobody will be too hard on you. Things are gonna work out.”
A rush of emotion rose to her eyes, but Libby bit her lip. She wasn’t going to cry—not now—and plunged ahead. “I’m … telling … the truth! You started the fire yourself. Griff and I—we both saw you!”
Porter pressed both hands flat toward her, as if holding back traffic. “Now, wait a holy second there. You’re making accusations you can’t possibly prove.”
“If we hadn’t been there to get the horses out, they all would have been killed—and you know it!”
Thunder pawed.
Jolene’s father—the older officer—was suddenly at Porter’s elbow. Jolene walked closer, arms tight across her chest. She looked from Libby to Porter to her father. “Dad,” she said, her voice pained. “Twice before, Jim said that we’d be better off if the whole barn burned down.”
“Joking,” Porter snapped. “You don’t think I’d actually do something that stupid, do you?” He reached for his wife’s shoulder, but Jolene slipped from his grasp.
A V etched itself in her forehead and she raised her voice. “He said that money would be more useful than a barnful of horses.” She paused, her face tight. Her chin trembled. “I know Libby—and I believe her. Every word. The only thing that appears to be an accident tonight,” she said, tilting her chin toward the mare, “is this. And what a waste of a beautiful animal.”
“Hey, I was at Jack’s,” Porter said to the officers. “You just ask ‘em down there.” Panic crept into his face and settled in his eyes. He looked to Libby. “You tell them … you wanted Thunder, right … and … ”
Libby looked away.
Porter swore. “What a mess.”
Jolene’s father’s eyebrows rose up, then lowered. “Okay, let’s not go any further with this here. We’re going to need to get statements, so whatever else anyone wants to say can keep until we get back to the station, got it?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Libby rode Thunder, and Griff—who refused to sit for at least a week—walked alongside, leading Two-Step. In the early morning light, his face was smudged gray, his hair dulled to ash blond, but his eyes were blue as the sky. “Guess when it comes to riding, I’m a wimp, huh?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” Libby said, “you’re not a wimp. I mean, you got Two-Step out of the barn. You rode him and didn’t even fall off.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t bad, huh?”
Libby smiled at him.
The horses’ hooves beat a soft, steady rhythm on the damp shoulder. At the top of a hill, sunlight hit Libby’s face. She shaded her eyes with her hand. In the distance, the Mississippi wound like a silver snake between wetlands, sandbars, and tiny islands.
They passed the Porters’ driveway. The wooden Northwind Stables sign lay busted in half; apparently the fire engine hadn’t cleared under it. Beyond it, the barn was merely charred spindles rising above the ground. Nothing was left. And without the barn, the pasture had a wide gap in its fencing. For now, they’d have to bring the horses to Libby’s and tie them up outside. Something caught her eye.
Slinking through the grass, Mitts suddenly pounced, trapped an object between her white paws, then darted with it under the low, sweeping branches of the blue spruce.
“Oh—,” Libby said with a sigh. “She made it!” She wished the same were true of Cincinnati. Why did the little mare have to run off and get hit? It still didn’t seem possible that she was dead. Libby swallowed hard, her throat tight. She’d never forget her.
In silence, they rode to Libby’s driveway. A pigeon pecked in the gravel, then flapped into the oak branches. Her parents’ vehicle was parked beside Ruby’s blue Plymouth. Libby rode Thunder straight up to the house.
“Hey!” she called. “Mom? Dad? Anybody home?”
Her parents came through the front door. Mom tilted her head sideways, looking like she might cry. “Finally,” she burst out. “We’ve been just frantic since we heard, but the police said to stay here until you returned.”
“They called a while ago, though,” Dad added. “Filled us in and said you were on your way.” He shook his head. “From the sounds of it—and the way you two look—you’ve been through … ”
“A lot,” Griff said, patting Two-Step’s shoulder and looking into the bay’s dark eyes. “Isn’t that right, pal?”
Mom flashed a quizzical look at Griff, then stepped toward Thunder. She reached up and touched Libby’s arm. “Will you get down,” she whispered, “so I can give you a hug?”
Libby sm
iled. “Sure,” she said, “If you can get me another pair of crutches.”
By midday, the horses were back to their own pasture. Jolene, Libby’s dad, and Griff worked together to put up temporary fencing where the barn and adjoining fence boards had burned away. Libby watched from crutches, another rented pair from the drugstore.
By late August, Libby had shed her crutches. In a knee-high purple walking cast, she hobbled along the downtown sidewalk, a black permanent ink marker in her top bib pocket. Mom parked at the library, got out, and said, “I’ll meet you back here in an hour then?”
Libby nodded. “Yup.”
She had arranged to meet Griff at the Apple Muffin Cafe, a green-and-white house off Main Street that had been turned into a tiny restaurant. She walked half a block and passed a garden bright with red, orange, and purple zinnias. She’d spent the night with Emily and Rachel, eating popcorn and watching movies. It hadn’t been great. She couldn’t tell which, but either they’d changed or she had. And that was okay. They signed her cast, right beside Griff’s name. And for once, they actually listened to what she had to tell them—especially about the fire and Griff and how Porter might have to serve a few months of jail time.
Libby walked up the steps to the restaurant. Grabbing a piece of pie or a Coke together wasn’t exactly a date, but still, her heart started to speed up. She turned the handle of the paned door, stepped in, and saw Griff. He was sitting at a corner table on the front porch, framed by a bookcase of books, and was wearing a black top hat. He stood up, swept the hat off his head toward the ground, and bowed. “A pleasure,” he said in the tone of an elderly gentleman. But when Libby noticed his denim shorts and skinned knee, she couldn’t play along. She cracked up laughing.
Two women at the porch’s far table looked her way, paused from their discussion, and smiled. Griff stood on tiptoe and placed the hat back on the top shelf of the bookcase.
Jolene came out of the main dining area, her hair in tendrils around her face. Dark circles skimmed her eyes, but she smiled broadly. “Oh, my two favorite people,” she said, and set down green placemats and glasses of ice water. “What can I get you?”
Libby ordered “Grandma’s Own Apple Pie,” à la mode. And Griff ordered a cherry Coke float. When Jolene had a free moment, she returned. In shorts and sandals, she placed one hand over her hip and white apron. “Libby,” she said. “I finally found an owner for Thunder.”
Libby’s stomach fell three notches. It wasn’t that she had thought he could ever be hers—not really—but the more days that went by without someone wanting to buy him, the more days she had to ride him. To simply enjoy him. And with the Porters splitting and selling their property to a developer, it was only until the end of summer, anyway, before heavy equipment would come in and plow up the fields in five-acre plots for new houses. “Guess it’s called progress,” her father had said, “but I sure hate to see the land chopped up like that.”
“I took less for him than I’d first wanted,” Jolene continued. She glanced at the nearby table, chewed on the end of her pen, and looked back at Libby. “But his new owners will be perfect for him. I mean, they just adore him. And they’re going to let me board Two-Step there. That way I can still go riding, and Thunder will have another horse for company.”
Libby swallowed and nodded her head. “That’s good,” she said, but her voice was an unconvincing whisper.
Jolene drew closer, squatted beside Libby’s chair, and put her arm around Libby’s shoulder. “Sometime you and I could ride Two-Step together.”
“And Lib,” Griff said. “There’s a stable, y’know, about ten miles out of LaCrosse. Maybe we could ride over there.” He tapped the toes of her right foot with the toe of his boot. “If you want.”
Libby thought of going for regular trail rides. Slap down your money for the hour. Get on a horse, probably a fine horse, but one you didn’t really know. Clunk along, trot a few times, maybe canter once if the trail guide was feeling really generous, and then head back to the stable again. “Yeah,” she said, trying to smile. “Sure.”
Jolene squeezed Libby’s shoulder and stood. “They picked the horses up today,” she said softly. “Just as soon as it works out, I’ll call.” Then she headed into the main dining room.
Griff lifted his empty glass and straw to his lips.
Libby checked her watch. The hour had flown by. “Better go.” They each left money on the table, got up, and headed out the door. “Stop by sometime,” she said to Griff, who grabbed his bike from the side of the building.
“When do you get your cast off?” he asked.
“Two weeks—maybe four,” she said. “It’s killing me not to be able to swim or even bike. But I guess I’ll survive.” Then she headed back toward the library, found her mother inside, and caught a ride home.
“You look sad,” her mother said. Her window was rolled down and moist summer air spilled in, lifting her dark hair in tiny spikes as she drove.
Libby nodded, but didn’t answer. She gazed out her open window. Houses and neighborhoods blended into new developments, into farmlands and orchards. Swallows swooped down into the grassy ditch, then up over telephone lines. Graceful, unfettered. Libby swooped her hand up and down outside the car window, felt the wind’s pressure against her skin. She’d never had a chance to say good-bye to Thunder, or Two-Step. Maybe it was better that way. Still, there was a chance of seeing them again. Of course, it would all be different. She was glad they’d been in her life. Cincinnati, too. Memories, at least, were something no one could ever take away.
At her driveway, the car rolled in slowly. Libby let out her breath, trying to loosen the tightness building in her chest. First thing, she’d go to her room and have a good cry. Sometimes it was the only thing to do. Then she looked up.
A red horse trailer was parked outside the Apple Shed. The Northwind Stables horse trailer. Libby held her breath. The possibility flashed through her like lightning, but she dared not believe it.
“Well, what do you know,” her mother said, pulling up beside it, shifting into park, and turning the key off in the ignition. From the other side of the trailer, her father stepped out with a smile bigger than the moon itself.
Libby flew out of the car and hobbled as fast as her legs would take her to the back of the trailer. Two horse tails swished back and forth over the half-door. One rump was a sleek dark brown, the other one was spotted brown on white, a beautiful Appaloosa.
“Thunder?” she said, her voice squeaky. He turned his head toward her voice and nickered low in his usual greeting. She glanced at Dad. “But … I thought someone bought … we couldn’t afford … ”
“Well, it appears there’s a reward for reporting arson with your name on it,” he said. “That—and your mom and I dug a little into our savings. Things work out.”
Libby studied her father’s teasing smile, then tears rose to her eyes. She opened the back gate, flipped down the ramp, then hurried to the front of the trailer. She slipped in through the side door and backed each horse out, one at a time, lead ropes clamped to their halters. She walked the horses to the grass near the oaks.
Griff suddenly wheeled in on his bike. “Hey, what do you know?” He straddled the bar and winked at Libby, then smiled at her parents.
“You knew!” she nearly screamed. “Here, hold Two-Step for me.”
“You bet,” he said, dropping his bike to the ground. “Jolene thought you might need an extra hand till she got off work.”
Her parents stood side by side, smug as contented cats.
Libby stroked Thunder’s shoulder, studied his brown socks, gentle eyes, and spotted blanket. In a whisper, as if a full voice might shatter everything, she asked, “Does this mean … he’s really …?”
She stopped. Day by day, she’d earn the right to be his owner. She’d brush him daily, make sure he got regular exercise, and always supply him with good feed and clean water. She’d learn to listen to what he was trying to tell her. She’d be
kind. It would never be just about money. She circled the Appaloosa slowly, ran her fingers through his brown mane, and when he lifted his head, planted a kiss on the flat of his velvety nose. She drew a deep breath and spoke up. “He’s really mine?”
Eyes bright, her parents looked at one another, then Mom dipped her head into the crook of Dad’s shoulder. A light breeze carried the sweet smell of apples.
“Looks to me,” Griff said, “like he always was.”
MARY CASANOVA is the author of more than thirty books for young readers, ranging from picture books such as The Day Dirk Yeller Came to Town, Utterly Otterly Night, and One-Dog Canoe to novels, including Frozen (Minnesota, 2012). Her books are on many state reading lists and have received the American Library Association Notable Book Award and two Minnesota Book Awards, among other honors. She speaks frequently around the country at schools, readings, and libraries, and lives with her husband and three dogs in a turn-of-the-century house in Ranier, Minnesota, near the Canadian border.
Stealing Thunder (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 9