“Whoa, pony, whoa!” he yelled.
I dodged through the woods, hiding behind one tree after the next, my heart beating so hard it pulsed against the fabric of my turtleneck. Joe must have been near the end of the lane for me to hear him so clearly. Caution said for me to wait until he was gone, but the sounds of scuffling boots and hooves, and of a metal gate slamming against a wooden post, kept me moving forward until I got behind the double chestnut tree. Peering between the two trunks, I had a clear view of the closest paddock.
Joe stood in the corner, his face tilted forward, his arms clasping the head of a red pony. “Easy, little fella, easy now,” he said, his voice calm and steady again.
Dust filtered down around them, coating Joe’s shirt like flour did to Mom’s hands when she used to bake, back when we had our own kitchen. The pony’s body was pressed firmly against the wooden fence. His creamy white tail twitched left and right, left and right, and his sides heaved with each breath. Joe cradled the pony’s head tightly against his own chest and rubbed a hand along the thick neck.
“Hush, little fella,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. This is your new home.”
After a few minutes of soothing talk and stroking his neck and shoulder, Joe unbuckled the halter and backed away, then moved calmly to the gate. He hung the halter on the post and trudged away up the hill. The pony’s head was raised on an arched neck, and his eyes stared toward the barn. He was frightened—and so beautiful the back of my knees went weak. I lowered myself to the ground and settled onto a pile of crisp leaves.
The pony’s ear flicked back at the noise. He flung his body around and glared at me through the trees, then blew a loud snort and stamped one hoof into the dirt. My breath caught. I simply could not look away. His face was the same mahogany red as the rest of his body. Dark, smoldering eyes watched me from under a silky, custard-colored forelock draping halfway down his face. His legs were braced, his body poised, and his tiny black-tipped ears curved forward.
In that brief instant, when the pony and I stared at each other, I knew he’d been taken from someplace he’d known as home. I recognized the look in his eye that said he didn’t understand, he didn’t know where he was, and my own troubled heart shared his burden. We were alike, this pony and I. We were kindred spirits. Something magnificent rose inside me—something poetic yet so real I could almost feel the weight of it in my hands, and I thought instantly of Mr. Frost’s poem “Fire and Ice.”
“Fire,” I whispered. “That’s your name. Fire.”
The magic was stolen by the sound of the men coming to collect the other horses from their fields. Fire whirled around and whinnied frantically as each horse was led away to the barn. Not one of them answered his call. When the last field was empty and he was the only horse left outside, Fire reared high, striking the air with both front hooves, then bolted across the paddock like a wild mustang. I crawled through dried grass to get closer and watched his muscles gather and stretch with each stride. His mane and tail streamed behind him, like flames licking the air. Just before colliding with the fence, he jammed his hooves into the dirt and skidded to a stop, his head held high and proud. Scanning the fields again, he hurled another call across the hills, this one still answered by silence.
My fingers touched the smooth skin of a small apple in my pocket. Wiping it shiny with my sleeve, I said his new name out loud.
“Fire!”
He startled and spun, spewing dust in a cloud around him. I waited for him to settle, then rolled the apple toward him in the dirt. His neck arched and he snorted, wide-eyed, sniffing when the apple stopped a few feet from his hooves. Without taking a bite, he studied me again with a look that seemed to say my companionship meant more to him than the offer of fruit. My whole heart melted.
By the time the lessons started on the far side of the barn, Fire had eaten both the apple and its core. He wandered from one side of the enclosure to the other, sniffing and exploring, and took a long drink from a trough of fresh water. Finally, he settled in and munched on the large flake of hay left for him by the shed. My mind was spinning with words and my heart was so full of new feelings, I knew I needed to capture them on paper, to make them mine forever.
“I have to go home, Fire,” I said, “but I’ll be back tomorrow. Promise.”
His ears flicked at my voice, but he kept his head down in the hay. I sprinted away, running back through the woods, thinking of Fire’s eyes in that instant we became friends and of all the words waiting to be brought to life on the pages of my notebook. Nearing the fork in the trail, I heard him whinny again, and I smiled. This time, I knew he was calling for me.
Eight
The next day in school, Ms. Fitzgerald caught me drawing pictures of Fire in the margin of my poetry notebook. I was supposed to be compiling a list of active verbs, but my mind was at Birchwood with Fire. She tapped the best drawing, the one where Fire was looking right at me.
“Beautiful poetry comes from the feelings I sense in your drawings.”
I covered the paper with my forearm. “Sorry. I guess I’m not in a list mood.”
“Yes, but what is poetry if not the use of beautiful words to express the feelings I see there? That’s all I’m asking for. Beautiful words.”
After school I checked in with Miss May, signed the new sheet, took a few mini carrots from the snack tray for Fire, then signed out again.
Library, I wrote.
Lie, I thought.
Since school had started, I was helping Linda at the library only a couple of hours during the week and most Saturday afternoons. Miss May didn’t know that, though, and Mom had never outright asked. I made sure Linda saw me enough so no red flag would alert her to say anything to Mom, but so I still got plenty of horse-farm time.
I raced out the door and ran along the now familiar path toward Birchwood. As I got closer, I started listening for sounds that would reassure me Fire was still there. All day long I’d been worried he would be moved into the barn while I was at school. Then I’d have to figure out some other way to see him. That’s where my brain had locked up. Unless he was in the little paddock by the woods, I had no plan.
Just before the chestnut tree, I jolted to a stop. Fire was still there, but he wasn’t alone. Four girls were perched along the top rail of the fence, all of them wearing matching pink jackets—the kind with Birchwood Stables embroidered across the back. Jackets that said they belonged. Jackets I’d seen a thousand times, coveted a million, and silently wept over in my bunk above Mom.
It was Rikki, Sabrina, Jasmine, and Jade from history class, and from the Tuesday and Thursday group lessons. I quickly moved into the shadows and stifled a gasp. In all my mental ramblings during the day, in all my worries and fantasies and dreams and imaginings, not once had I considered that Fire might already belong to someone else.
Other than flattening his ears when one of the girls laughed too loud, Fire ignored them, his head down in a pile of hay. But something was different. Something had happened while I was gone. The afternoon before, his coat had shined like polished wood. Today, a layer of crusted dirt clung to his hairs. Streaks of dried sweat trailed down his legs, and his silky, cream-colored tail now hung in thick clumps—dark yellow and brown. Flecks of dust lingered in the silty afternoon sunlight.
“Look how adorable he is,” Rikki said.
“Too bad he’s too small for you to ride, Miss Basketball Star,” Jasmine said, pointing to Rikki’s long legs.
Sabrina flipped red braids over her shoulders. “He’s not too small for me, and he’s flashy, girls. Show-pony flashy and nothing less.”
She jumped down from the fence. Fire’s head jerked up when her feet hit the ground.
“Hey, pony, look, I have a treat,” Sabrina said, holding out her hand.
She took a step closer and Fire spooked, pinning himself into the corner. He flipped his tail and swung his head, teeth bared, in her direction.
“You shouldn’t be in there,” Jade said.
“I’m fine,” Sabrina answered. “I just want to pet him.”
Fire flattened his ears and cocked a back hoof like he was ready to take out her kneecap with a swift kick. Sabrina inched forward.
“Hi, little pony,” she said.
“Hey!” Behind the girls, Joe walked up beside a man I’d never seen before. “Get out of there!”
Sabrina jumped, then scrambled between the fence rails. “I’m sorry, Joe. I kind of just fell into the paddock, I didn’t mean—”
“You know the rules about new horses,” he said. “Leave them alone.”
“Yes, I do. We all know. I’m sorry,” she said.
“We didn’t mean anything bad,” Jasmine said.
The other man stood apart from Joe, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his face grim.
“Hi, Mike,” Rikki said to him in a fake-polite voice.
Mike nodded. “Rikki.”
Joe jerked his head toward the barn. “Go on, get ready for your lesson. Mike and I have things to discuss.”
“Who owns the new pony?” Jasmine asked.
“Did you not hear me? Go, please.”
Rikki looped one arm through Sabrina’s. “Okay, okay, we’re going,” she said.
The four of them pretended to canter away, the black letters on their pink jackets bobbing all the way up the lane. A stray leaf swept through the air over Fire, fluttering to the field beyond his paddock. I watched it twirl and float, its rusty color dancing against a sapphire sky, and wished my heart could float the same way. Then, maybe, I wouldn’t feel so alone when I watched those four friends together.
Mike and Joe propped their arms along the top rail of the fence and studied Fire.
“He’ll make a fancy show pony,” Joe said.
Mike scowled. “I still don’t understand why you spent my money to buy an untrained pony. It’ll be months before he’s ready to show, let alone sell.”
“I know, but he came through the sale and there was just something about him—”
Mike flipped his hand like he was shooing away a fly. “Go on with your soft-heart stuff. We’ve had this conversation too many times. This is a business, Joe. Think like a businessman. Profit and loss. How much do you think you can get for him?”
“Once he’s finished training, a couple of thousand. But if someone wants him when he’s still green, a thousand, easy.”
Mike smacked his palm against the fence. “Get to work on his training, then. Show me a profit so I understand why I still keep this place up and running.”
He walked away without even saying goodbye. A chill traveled down my spine. What did he mean?
Joe stretched a hand toward Fire with his palm up. The offer of friendship.
“Sorry about the ruckus today, little pony. The guys were trying to bring you inside. It’s going to get bitter cold tonight. Don’t you want a nice warm stall to sleep in?”
Fire laid his ears flat and curled his lip.
“Okay, okay,” Joe said. “I don’t blame you. I’ll go. But soon, pony, you and me, we’re gonna have to get along.”
He picked up a halter off the ground, hung it on the fence, and started toward the barn. I crossed out of the shadows, taking two quick steps toward the paddock, but I’d moved too soon. Joe spun back around. His eyes landed on me.
He knew I was there.
He would tell Mom.
Or Miss May.
If they found out I hadn’t told them I wasn’t going to the library every day, I’d be in trouble. Maybe Miss May would try to kick Mom and me out.
I’d never see Fire again.
The thought of losing Fire paralyzed me for the few seconds Joe and I stared at each other. But instead of chasing me off, he raised one hand, tipped his head, and walked steadily up the dirt road to the barn. He was gone.
Swirling leaves, the wooden fence, and a blue sky all melded together in front of me. Joe knew I was there with Fire and didn’t care. He’d made the other girls leave, but he let me stay. I didn’t know what that meant, but air filled my lungs again, and my heart beat steadily. I didn’t move until I heard his voice booming from the ring where he was teaching the Thursday afternoon lesson.
“Fire!”
The pony whirled around and snorted, nostrils flared, his neck arched, and his yellow forelock falling over his eyes.
“It’s me, Lizzie.”
I searched his face for some sign that he recognized me from yesterday. Some sign that he remembered, accepted, and trusted me. He studied me warily, every muscle tense, his ears flicking back and forth. Maybe it was too soon. Maybe I was expecting too much and he needed more time. He shook his head and slowly his body softened. He lifted one hoof from the ground and took a step, stopped, and watched me. I crossed the open area between the woods and fence, eased my hand through the rails, and opened my fingers. One tiny, wrinkled carrot lay in the center of my palm.
Red veins, as thin as sewing thread, spread inside his flared nostrils. His dark eyes shifted between my face and the sad carrot. He was deciding whether to trust me. Something as fragile as trust couldn’t be forced. I had to wait.
I would have waited a lifetime.
He took one more step and stopped.
I waited.
Another step.
Then another.
My arm started to ache. I braced it against the fence.
Finally, Fire stretched his neck out, lifted the carrot from my palm, and chewed with his eyes half closed. I didn’t move my arm for fear of startling him away. When he finished, he didn’t bolt; he didn’t lay his ears back or tense up. He lowered his head and sighed. Slowly, I laid trembling fingers against the side of his face. It was warm and familiar. It was like I’d held my hand against that very cheek a thousand times before. He had accepted me. He trusted me.
Somehow, some way, I had to come up with a plan to earn the money to buy him before someone else did. I had to make this pony mine.
“Lizzie?”
I opened my eyes. The room was black. Mom’s voice came from her bed below me. My face was wet. I’d been crying in my sleep.
“Hi.”
“You were sound asleep when I got home, so I didn’t wake you for dinner. Are you hungry?”
I thought of Fire and the way his muzzle tickled my skin when he took the carrot. I touched my palm in the dark, as if doing so could make me feel it again.
“No, I’m not hungry.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Miss May said you still go to the library every day. I was just wondering if you’d made any friends at school.”
“I like the library.”
Not a lie.
“I do, too. I just want you to be happy. Making friends will be a good thing.”
“Okay.”
I heard her sigh. “One more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Your dad wrote you another letter.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to see it? This is the third one.”
“No. He discarded us, so I discard his letters.”
All of a sudden, I thought of Joe and Mike talking about the thousand dollars to buy Fire and I bolted upright.
“Wait, Mom. Do you think he’d send money? I mean, it wouldn’t make me forgive him, but would he do that?”
“I have no idea. Do you want me to open it and check?”
If there was money, right that second I could start saving to buy Fire.
“Yes, please.”
I heard her tear the envelope open, then shuffle through papers.
“No money. I’m sorry.”
I flattened myself back against the pillow. “It’s not your fault. I should have known.”
“Do you want me to read what he wrote?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay. I love you, Lizzie. With all the parts of my heart and soul, I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom. I’m going back to sleep now.”
“We’re going to get our own place someday. As soon as we get back on our feet, okay? I promise.”
“Okay.”
And I’m going to find a way to earn money to buy Fire. I promise.
Nine
Friday dawned with drizzling rain soaking the earth. Bryce was absent from school, so for the first time, I used the purple plastic card to buy my lunch. I chose a veggie, fruit, and cheese tray, ate the cheese, then stuffed the carrots, celery, and apple slices into my backpack. Fire would love them. Rain or no rain, nothing would stop me from seeing him. After school, I pulled on my raincoat, jumped a puddle in the small stretch of backyard, and jogged through cold drizzle toward the farm, amazed by the changing look of the path I’d grown to love. The path that took me to my happy place. And now, to Fire.
For the past week, I’d been working on a poem about how everything in the woods behind Birchwood was adapting to the richest part of autumn—the way the air smelled musky instead of summer fresh, the sound drops of rain made when they dripped from naked limbs, the reshaping of the trees, and the whole feel of going from a summer that was vibrant and alive to a fall that was colorless, nearing sleep. I had shown the poem to Ms. Fitzgerald in English earlier in the day.
“This is lovely. Keep working, Lizzie,” she’d said. “When you’ve polished it up, with your permission I’d like to submit it to the high school newspaper. If they accept it, your poem automatically goes into a literary competition. You could win twenty-five dollars.”
My ears had perked up when she’d said twenty-five dollars. That amount wasn’t even three percent of what it would take to buy Fire. But it was twenty-five dollars closer than I was right then.
“What are the rules?”
“You just need to have it done by Thanksgiving,” Ms. Fitzgerald had said. “Can you do that?”
Four weeks. I had four weeks to get it right.
“When would I get the money?”
Lizzie Flying Solo Page 5