can have today. Hank can’t give him any more. I don’t stop running until I’m in the barn, even though my chest heaves and I feel like hurling. “Hank!” I stumble, pick myself up, and stagger to the stallway.
“Kat?” Hank’s in front of Chestnut’s stall, inches from the feed trough. He’s holding the coffee can.
Nine
“Stop, Hank!” I scream. “Don’t feed Chestnut!” I’m panting so hard I have to bend over to catch my breath.
“Kat? What’s wrong with you? Should I get Mom?”
I shake my head. I still can’t breathe right, and my voice comes in puffs. “I just . . . had to stop you. You can’t feed Chestnut.”
“Look,” Hank says, “I don’t mind. Honest.” He shakes the coffee can.
“No!” I cry. I lunge for him and grab for the can. Only I miss. The can sails out of Hank’s hands and smashes into his chest, sending oats, bute, and molasses all over the new shirt Gram gave him.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts. He tries to brush off the sticky mixture, but it smears all over him.
“You can’t feed Chestnut . . . because I already did.” Tears are coming now, and I can’t stop them.
I watch his face as it sinks in. “I almost gave him two more pills,” Hank says. “I would have overdosed that pony.”
“I know,” I whisper. I’m shaking all over.
Hank starts to say something, then stops. He takes a deep breath. I have the feeling he’s praying, even though his eyes are wide-open. “Listen, Kat. This could have been bad.”
I nod. I know it could have been bad. I can’t even think what might have happened if Chestnut had gotten four pills so close together.
Hank is staring into the empty coffee can. I think we’re both imagining what could have happened, what almost did happen.
“It’s supposed to be my job,” I snap.
“I had no way of knowing you already fed Chestnut.” His voice is steady—kind even.
And it makes me feel worse. He’s right. I’m not mad at Hank. I’m mad at me. What was I thinking? That Hank could read my mind and know when I’ve fed the horse and when I haven’t?
“Maybe we better rethink this.”
“No!” I protest. “I can do it!”
“I know. And you did a great job. I’ve been using your molasses trick. Works like a charm.” He’s quiet a few seconds, then goes on. “But it’s too risky to leave it like this. I don’t know how else to handle it. I’m just saying that until you’re sure you’re better, maybe we shouldn’t both be feeding Chestnut the bute. We could get mixed up again.”
I start to argue. But he’s right. I can’t guarantee that I won’t be too sick to help. Then what?
Chestnut has to come first.
* * *
Tuesday I don’t even bother getting dressed until noon. I spend the first hour of daylight hurling into the toilet. Each round feels like I’m being pushed further and further away from becoming a Coolidge, from doing anything that would make me worth being a Coolidge.
Mom goes to the hospital, and Dad stays home with me. Nobody’s in the house when I finally come downstairs. I check my e-mail and find one from Winnie.
Hi, Kat!
Good to hear the molasses worked for you and Chestnut. And I’m sorry about the problem with the feeding schedules. I’ve been thinking of another way you could help Hank with the horses, though.
The best thing you can do with horses is watch them. Sounds simple, right? But it’s how I learned about horses. My mom and I used to observe mustangs in the wild a long time ago, before she died and Dad moved Lizzy and me to Ohio. Most of what I know about horses I’ve learned from watching them. Why don’t you watch the new horses, Kat? Take notes. Run them by me if you want to. You’ll end up helping Dakota and Hank more than you can imagine. How about it? Up for a Kat Horse Clinic?
Love, Winnie
I write her back and thank her. I don’t know if I can help the way Winnie thinks I can, but I’m definitely up for trying.
I figure I have
“Kat?” Hank’s in front of Chestnut’s stall, inches from the feed trough. He’s holding the coffee can.
Nine
“Stop, Hank!” I scream. “Don’t feed Chestnut!” I’m panting so hard I have to bend over to catch my breath.
“Kat? What’s wrong with you? Should I get Mom?”
I shake my head. I still can’t breathe right, and my voice comes in puffs. “I just . . . had to stop you. You can’t feed Chestnut.”
“Look,” Hank says, “I don’t mind. Honest.” He shakes the coffee can.
“No!” I cry. I lunge for him and grab for the can. Only I miss. The can sails out of Hank’s hands and smashes into his chest, sending oats, bute, and molasses all over the new shirt Gram gave him.
“What’s the matter with you?” he shouts. He tries to brush off the sticky mixture, but it smears all over him.
“You can’t feed Chestnut . . . because I already did.” Tears are coming now, and I can’t stop them.
I watch his face as it sinks in. “I almost gave him two more pills,” Hank says. “I would have overdosed that pony.”
“I know,” I whisper. I’m shaking all over.
Hank starts to say something, then stops. He takes a deep breath. I have the feeling he’s praying, even though his eyes are wide-open. “Listen, Kat. This could have been bad.”
I nod. I know it could have been bad. I can’t even think what might have happened if Chestnut had gotten four pills so close together.
Hank is staring into the empty coffee can. I think we’re both imagining what could have happened, what almost did happen.
“It’s supposed to be my job,” I snap.
“I had no way of knowing you already fed Chestnut.” His voice is steady—kind even.
And it makes me feel worse. He’s right. I’m not mad at Hank. I’m mad at me. What was I thinking? That Hank could read my mind and know when I’ve fed the horse and when I haven’t?
“Maybe we better rethink this.”
“No!” I protest. “I can do it!”
“I know. And you did a great job. I’ve been using your molasses trick. Works like a charm.” He’s quiet a few seconds, then goes on. “But it’s too risky to leave it like this. I don’t know how else to handle it. I’m just saying that until you’re sure you’re better, maybe we shouldn’t both be feeding Chestnut the bute. We could get mixed up again.”
I start to argue. But he’s right. I can’t guarantee that I won’t be too sick to help. Then what?
Chestnut has to come first.
* * *
Tuesday I don’t even bother getting dressed until noon. I spend the first hour of daylight hurling into the toilet. Each round feels like I’m being pushed further and further away from becoming a Coolidge, from doing anything that would make me worth being a Coolidge.
Mom goes to the hospital, and Dad stays home with me. Nobody’s in the house when I finally come downstairs. I check my e-mail and find one from Winnie.
Hi, Kat!
Good to hear the molasses worked for you and Chestnut. And I’m sorry about the problem with the feeding schedules. I’ve been thinking of another way you could help Hank with the horses, though.
The best thing you can do with horses is watch them. Sounds simple, right? But it’s how I learned about horses. My mom and I used to observe mustangs in the wild a long time ago, before she died and Dad moved Lizzy and me to Ohio. Most of what I know about horses I’ve learned from watching them. Why don’t you watch the new horses, Kat? Take notes. Run them by me if you want to. You’ll end up helping Dakota and Hank more than you can imagine. How about it? Up for a Kat Horse Clinic?
Love, Winnie
I write her back and thank her. I don’t know if I can help the way Winnie thinks I can, but I’m definitely up for trying.
I figure I have
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