Katie and the Mustang #1 Read Free Page B

startled with the whip for rearing and then actually
whipped
for standing quietly, how would it ever figure out what Mr. Stevens wanted it to do?
    I stared at the Mustang horse. It looked more sad than angry now, standing as far back against the wall as it possibly could. I could see a long whip welt on its neck and another across its muzzle that was bleeding.
    “With any luck, he’ll settle until sunrise,” Mr. Stevens said.
    Hiram made a sound that could have been taken for anything—yes, no, or maybe so. Mr. Stevens raised the whip high over his head and slapped the lash across the stall rail. “You try to break down my barn like that again, and I’ll show you what for,” he said in a low, threatening voice. The Mustang lifted its head and flattened its ears.
    Mr. Stevens hung up the whip, and, before I had time to think, he was walking toward the door—toward
me
. I froze, sure he would see me any second.
    “I’ll get him another bucket of water,” I heard Hiram saying.
    Mr. Stevens turned. I ran a few steps into the dark, dodging around the wide trunk of the ash tree. When I peeked out, he was frowning. I shivered from the cold and my own nervousness.
    “No,” he said. “He knocked it over. Teach him a lesson. Don’t fill it until tomorrow night.”
    Hiram made another one of his yes-no-maybe-so sounds.
    Mr. Stevens stepped out the door, and I crouchedbehind the tree and waited until he had passed. Hiram was a few seconds behind him. I heard the barn door close, the hasps creaking under the weight. I sat pressed against the smooth gray bark, listening as Hiram’s heavy footsteps faded, veering off behind the house, headed back toward the shed where he slept. I heard the chickens rustle and cluck as Mr. Stevens passed them, heard the front door open and close.
    Then there was only the sound of frogs in the pond, croaking. One of the dogs yipped. I knew I should run for the back door. Now. I should have gone before Mr. Stevens had headed back toward the house. If he opened the door to the pantry where my pallet was and found it empty
.
.
.
But I didn’t run. I stood there, staring at the closed barn door.
    I bit my lip. It was Wednesday morning, even though it was still dark out. Was Mr. Stevens talking about not giving the horse any water until
Thursday
night? Two long days without water? I just couldn’t walk away. The poor horse was so skinny
.
.
.
and so scared and miserable.
    I could see the kitchen window over the lilacs.There was no light inside. Mrs. Stevens had probably gone back to bed when the shouting was over—and Mr. Stevens had put the lantern out.
    I shifted my weight back and forth, trying to decide. I might very well end up with another willow switching if they caught me outside without permission. But if they didn’t actually see me, I was safe. Hiram wouldn’t tell; he’d be glad the horse had gotten water after all. Hiram liked horses and cows and dogs and cats. He even liked pigs.
    There was a quiet nickering from inside the barn. I had heard other horses make that sound. The Stevenses’ plow team had been raised together—I don’t think they had ever been apart. When one of the broad-backed draft horses was out in the pasture, and the other in the barn for some reason, they nickered back and forth like that—a soft, hopeful questioning sound.
    I knew what it meant. The stallion was wondering if he had a friend anywhere nearby. I glanced once more at the house. I couldn’t see even the faintest candlelight through the windows. The dogs had all gone quiet. The crickets in the lilacs were starting back up.
    I bit my lip again. The Stevenses rarely checked on me once I was in the pantry and safely put to bed. If they hadn’t already, they most likely wouldn’t tonight. I counted to fifty. No one shouted from the house.
    Shivering again, I ran to the barn door and unlatched it. I pulled the door open just wide enough to slip inside. I didn’t want to light a lantern, but I had