The Way Home by Becky Citra Page A

Summer, but she didn’t sound cross. “Jonah’s out in his workshop. I’ll tell him you’re here and then I hope you’ve got time for some iced tea and cookies.”
    â€œI’ll take you up on that,” said Oliver, “but
I think Tory here will burst if she doesn’t see old Lucky.”
    â€œHe’s in the barn with Patrick,” said Summer. “The wire cuts have mostly healed. Patrick’s looked after him all by himself. He’s been marvelous. He’s put ointment and new bandages on every day.”
    Tory could hear the pride in Summer’s voice. No one ever sounded like that when they talked about her . “Can I go see Lucky now?”
    A shadow passed over Summer’s face. “Of course, but, oh my, this is going to be hard for Patrick.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but I think I should. Patrick came to live with us four months ago. He didn’t talk, not one word.”
    Tory was shocked. Oliver had said Patrick was eleven. What kind of eleven-year-old didn’t talk? “Why?” she asked.
    â€œPatrick has been through a very bad time. But he’s healing, like Lucky.” Summer’s face broke into a smile. “That’s when Patrick started to talk to us, when he found your pony. I think Lucky opened up a door inside him that had been shut tight. And he’s been talking more and more.”
    â€œThat’s wonderful,” said Oliver. “It’s hard work being a foster parent.”
    â€œWe’re getting another foster child tomorrow,” said Summer. “We wouldn’t right now except it’s an emergency. Her name is Hilary. Her current foster home can’t keep her.”
    Tory fidgeted.
    â€œOff you go, Tory,” said Summer.
    She pointed out the way and Tory raced to the barn.

Chapter
Eighteen
    Lucky was standing in a stall, in a deep bed of clean straw. His front legs were wrapped in bandages right up to his knees. There was no sign of Patrick.
    â€œLucky!” cried Tory. Her throat closed up and tears burned behind her eyes. She opened the stall door and flung her arms around Lucky’s shaggy neck. The pony’s ears flickered back and forth and he nickered softly.
    Tory knelt down and inspected Lucky’s legs. The bandages were clean and white.
    She was impressed by how neatly and snugly they were wrapped. Summer was right – that boy, Patrick, had done a good job.
    Lucky nuzzled the back of Tory’s neck. She grinned, stood up and gave the pony another huge hug. “You’re going home today,” she told him. “You’re going home, Lucky.”
    Something stirred inside Tory – a little voice that reminded her. It was Lucky’s home. Not hers. She only had two more weeks and then she would be gone. Cathy had said that if she didn’t move too far away, she could come sometimes on the weekends and ride Lucky. But Tory knew it wouldn’t be the same. Besides, Cathy would probably forget that she had ever promised that.
    She blinked hard. I won’t think about that right now , she thought. I won’t ! Something in the corner of the stall caught her eye. The straw was pressed down, as if someone spent a lot of time sitting there, and there was a book with a bookmark in it. Tory wouldn’t have been interested except for the picture of a black horse on the cover.
    She stared in disbelief. It was Black Beauty ! The book was much older than the one in the store, and the cover wasn’t shiny. She picked it up and opened it to the first page. It was a jumble of words she couldn’t read. Just for a second, she wished she were a better reader. Then she told herself, fiercely, I don’t care!
    â€œWhat are you doing with my book?” said a cold voice.
    Tory looked up. A boy stood in the doorway of the stall, holding a handful of carrots that were still covered in dirt from the garden. He had brown