Ruthless Read Free Page B

to do with her. It’s a symbol of her mom’s failure to make a lasting success of her early triumphs. She should be a big-deal trainer by now, with big-deal clients and big-deal horses. Instead, all her students are local kids taking riding lessons on the weekends. Every year the horse side of the ranch loses money. Lots and lots of money.
    The girl understands all that.
    But she can’t help wishing that qualifying had been good enough. She’d allowed herself to hope that making it to Worlds as a twelve-year-old on a three-year-old horse would be enough to make them happy. It feels painfully naive in retrospect.
    The horse turns to look at the girl. He is big and sweet and compliant, but she’s been brushing the same spot on his shoulder for ten minutes, and his skin is irritated.
    â€œI’m sorry, Tucker,” the girl whispers. She shifts down a foot, turning her attention to his back, and he sighs, content once more.
    Even quieter, she whispers to herself, “Just go away, go away, go away.” She doesn’t need to be that quiet. They can’t hear her.

CHAPTER THREE
    NOW IS NO TIME TO hesitate and I don’t. I bolt away from the cabin, ignoring the pain in my pumping right arm, ignoring my churning stomach. Racing past the Wolfman, I risk a glance in his eyes and see nothing. Not surprise, not worry, not urgency, not even anger. They’re empty. Far emptier than any animal’s eyes. Those empty eyes, more than anything, frighten me into running faster. Faster than I ever thought I could run.
    And I’m fast.
    But something catches my foot.
    A root? Dear God, no, not a root. Did I trip on a root?
    I look back.
    No, my foot is in his hand. He’s flat out on his stomach; he worked for it, but still—how did he do that? How could such a big man move so fast? Bafflement gives way to raw terror as he pulls me to him.
    I start screaming no. I hear myself scream. Over and over again I scream no, but it’s like someone else is moving my mouth, making my voice box work. He tells me to shut up, but the words are from another world. He puts his hand over my mouth.
    The feel of his hand touching my face brings my mind and my brain back together, and I bite him. Hard.
    He grabs my throat with his other hand.
    With one finger pointing in my face, he says, “Stop.”
    I bite him again.
    â€œIf you don’t stop, I squeeze until you die.”
    He gives me a sample. He’s not wrong. He will squeeze until I die. I don’t even think it would be hard for him. Not on any level.
    â€œWill you stop?”
    I nod yes.
    He takes me by the nape of my neck and drags me toward his campfire. My face is shoved into leaf litter and black mountain soil as he fetches his steak, one-handed. The sounds of sizzling meat, clinking utensils, and tinfoil are strangely homey. He heaves me to my feet, and his strength overwhelms me yet again. I watch, feeling helpless, as he casually kicks dirt into the fire to snuff it out. How responsible of him.
    Once done, he pulls me back toward the cabin’s front door. I glance around as we walk. I see no signs of a real road anywhere nearby. No other houses. No sounds. There’s nothing here but forest, the moss-eaten cabin, and the old truck out front. Now that I can see it, I remember that truck. Peeling red paint, rust. Late-seventies Chevy.
    Wolfman undoes the barricade on the front door and shovesme into the cabin. Just as quick, he whirls me around to face the rudimentary kitchen. As I spin, I catch sight of something important. Keys hanging on a small nail next to the front window.
    In one smooth motion, he pushes me into a chair at the ­little kitchen table, sets down his steak, and picks up a gun. I wish with all my might I’d seen the gun before he picked it up. But I didn’t know it was there, hidden in the mountains of trash, and he moved so quickly. I lost my chance, and now I’m staring down the barrel of