The Way Home by Becky Citra Page B

tousled hair, a pale white face, and blazing dark eyes. His eyes were swollen and rimmed with red, as if he had been crying for a long time.
    Patrick.
    She dropped the book into the straw. She stared back at him, her heart thumping.
    He stepped into the stall. “What are you doing here?” he said.
    She swallowed. “I’ve come for Lucky.”
    â€œYou can’t have him.” His voice was low, like a whisper, and Tory thought she had heard wrong.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou can’t have him. He’s mine.”
    â€œNo he’s not!” said Tory.
    Two red spots appeared in Patrick’s cheeks. “I found him! I looked after him! He would have been dead if it wasn’t for me. You didn’t care about the fire. You didn’t care what happened to him. You just left him to die!”
    Tory’s mouth dropped open. It wasn’t true.
It was Oliver who had abandoned Lucky, not her. Anger flared inside her.
    â€œHow dare you!” she shouted. “How dare you say that! You don’t know. You weren’t there!”
    â€œGo!” said Patrick. “Now! I mean it! Get out of here! Just go!”
    He raised his arm and Tory thought he was going to fling the carrots at her. Or maybe even hit her. “ Go !”
    She sucked in her breath. Oliver would know what to do.
    She marched past Patrick, out of the stall.
    â€œI’ll be back!” she said.

Chapter
Nineteen
    Oliver was sitting on the porch with Summer and Jonah.
    â€œOliver—” began Tory.
    He frowned. “You’re interrupting.”
    Summer smiled. “Go inside the house and get yourself a juice box, Tory. Then bring it out here and you can have some cookies.”
    The house was very messy. In the living room there were newspapers scattered on the couch, a rubber bone and ball on the floor, mugs on the coffee table, and a pile of knitting in an armchair. Tory spotted the orange cat asleep on the windowsill, and she stroked his head carefully.
    She found the kitchen, got a juice box out of the fridge, and headed back through the living room. But she paused in the doorway to the porch.
    Cathy had once told her that it was a very bad habit of hers, standing in doorways and listening to people’s conversations. She said it was sneaky. But Tory knew that when adults lowered their voices, they were often talking about her. And sometimes that was the only way she could find out what was happening.
    She held her breath so they wouldn’t hear her. But this time, the adults weren’t talking about her. They were talking about Lucky.
    â€œHow would you feel if we left Lucky at your place?” Oliver asked.
    Tory felt as if she had been slammed in the chest. She squeezed her hands into fists.
    â€œFrom what you tell me, he’s made such a difference to Patrick,” Oliver went on. “I think it’s marvelous how Lucky has helped the boy talk again. They’ve obviously formed a bond. And we really have no need for the pony. My daughter, Julia, outgrew him years ago.”
    An icicle slid down Tory’s back. Me. What about me ? she thought.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Summer slowly.
    â€œIt would be a better home for him,” said Oliver. “We could consider it a loan. He’s neglected at our place. We have enough work with the show horses. To be honest, we don’t want Lucky.”
    â€œTory does,” said Jonah.
    Oliver sighed. “Tory does,” he agreed, “but she’s leaving, so it really doesn’t matter. And you say you have a little girl coming here tomorrow. She might like to have a pony too.”
    â€œWell,” said Summer, “even so, we wouldn't want Tory to be upset.”
    â€œYes,” said Jonah. “We'd feel better about it if Tory agrees.”
    Tory clenched her fists. Never, never , would she agree to leave Lucky with that horrible Patrick.
    She ran through the living room and out of the