Every Wild Heart Read online

  “Someone sent me a strange text. And I’m not sure, but I might have just seen Jenny Long.”

  “Are you alone? Do you want me to come get you? Should I call the police?”

  I looked around at Kirke’s stretch of playing fields, the empty spot where the Mercedes had been parked. “No. I’m fine. Sorry to worry you, Roy. I’ll see you later today.”

  I probably should have called Tyler next to let him know about the latest developments with Nic, but as I got in my car I found myself dialing Corcoran Stables. I’d spoken with Denny for long chunks of time every day that week, but this was the first time that I was calling without the intention—or maybe, if I were being honest with myself, the pretense—of checking in on Nic. It was earlier than I usually called and I had no idea if he’d be at the barn. I was relieved when he picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Denny, it’s me. G.G.” I started the car and drove out of Kirke, switching the phone call to my car’s speakers.

  “Hey,” he said. “Nic isn’t here yet.”

  “I know—I just saw her at school, actually.” I told him that Nic now remembered trying to jump the tree, and that somehow her admission had led me to telling her that I would consider letting her ride again. “I don’t quite know how that happened,” I said. “But do you think she’s ready?”

  “Oh, G.G., I don’t think I should answer that one. Physically, she seems fine . . . but if you’re asking me to tell you that she won’t fall off again, I can’t. In fact, I’d be more comfortable assuring you that she will fall off again. Hopefully she’ll never have another serious accident—but if you ride, you fall. It’s part of it.” Denny paused. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

  Even though my heart sank at his words, I didn’t entirely mind hearing them. My life was full of people telling me what I wanted to hear. “Do you think there’s any chance Nic will decide riding just isn’t for her? Maybe take up knitting instead? I’m guessing avid knitters don’t often find themselves in comas.”

  Denny laughed. “Now I know what to get her for Christmas.”

  I told him about the prank that she’d pulled with the senior’s car.

  “But Nic doesn’t know how to drive, does she?”

  “No! So whether it’s on a horse or behind the wheel, she seems set on putting herself in harm’s way . . .” I trailed off, suddenly at a loss for words. “Sorry, Denny. I’m not sure why I called you. This isn’t your problem.”

  When Denny spoke, he’d sprinkled some grit into his voice. “Tell me everything, Caller,” he said, “starting with your name.”

  I smiled. “You’ve listened to my show.”

  “Everyone has listened to your show. You’re famous, G.G.”

  “For better or for worse,” I said, thinking of the threats I’d received.

  “You don’t like being famous?”

  “I like connecting with people. I like showing people their strengths on the days that they feel weak.”

  “But?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I was aware that there were few things more annoying than someone whining about the downside of success, so I’d decided long ago to keep my complaints to myself. “What about you? Do you like running the stables?”

  “Sure,” Denny said after a moment. “It’s what I always wanted to do . . .”

  “But?”

  “No, I was just thinking that it’s been surprising, actually. I wanted to run the place because I like working with horses, and this piece of land . . . it’s a place that lives inside of me, if you know what I mean. I belong to it. I learned every inch of it when I was a kid and I’ve never forgotten a single one. And if I didn’t take over the place when my parents retired, who knew what the next owner would do with the land? Develop it, probably. No more horses. No more kids learning to ride at Corcoran Stables.

  “Anyway,” Denny said, “that’s the part that has surprised me: the kids. Seeing how much most kids really want to work. Some of them come on days they don’t even have a lesson and ask what they can help with. They want a purpose. They want to feel like they’re making a difference, like they’re important. I guess I didn’t realize how universal that feeling was—and how young it starts—until I took over the stables.

  “And Nic, you know, is the best of the bunch. Your daughter is a hard worker.” I could tell that from Denny, this was particularly special praise. “And she really connects with the horses. You have to have both to be a good rider. You can’t be all drive and no compassion. You can’t do battle with a horse. Well, you can . . . and sadly, you can win. But that sort of victory makes you a bully, not a rider. To be a rider you need to be focused on a goal, but never so narrowly that it’s all you see. You can’t lose sight of the big picture.”

  “Which is what?” I asked, perhaps a bit breathlessly. Denny’s voice, pouring out from the speakers, had settled around me like a blanket. The freeway traffic, as though in deference to our conversation, was remarkably light, the usually maddening drive almost peaceful.

  “The big picture is the partnership. It’s finding a way to make the horse whole, and the rider whole, so they can be even greater together. The rider can’t be so fixated on pushing the horse that he forgets to push himself.” Denny paused. “I’m talking a lot. Sorry. I don’t usually do that. Ever, really.”

  I laughed. “Occupational hazard, for me.” I’d learned years earlier that there was something about talking on the phone that encouraged confidence—there was a sense of remove as well as an intimacy. It was the reason my listeners called in to my show and spilled their secret desires and lifelong regrets. It was why after hearing my voice on the radio night after night, some listeners came to believe that I was their best friend or their lover . . . or someone worth passionately hating.

  “Maybe you should write a book,” I told Denny. “Zen and the Art of Horseback Riding.” I was only partly joking. He’d discovered something true, something good, a stalk of wisdom that grew completely organically within the life he’d chosen to live, and through teaching he’d found a way to share it with his corner of the world.

  “That could be a problem. I’m not always so Zen.”

  “I have trouble believing that.” I’d seen Denny gruff and grumbling, but never truly mad. There was something grounded about him; it was difficult to imagine how anything could knock him off balance.

  “It’s true,” he said. “Right now I’m torn up over an abused horse that I took in thinking that I could turn her around. I’m not getting through to her. She doesn’t trust anyone, and she’s injured a few of my workers. She’s one thousand pounds of angry. I can’t have a horse like that at Corcoran, but the idea of sending her away . . .”

  “You feel like you’re failing her.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe this is one of those times that you were talking about . . . when you need to focus on the big picture. And the big picture isn’t just this particular horse, right? It’s the safety of all the kids and the workers and the other horses. It’s the whole of Corcoran Stables.”

  “Right.” Denny cleared his throat. “Okay, your turn. It’s only fair. What keeps you up at night?”

  “Nic,” I said easily. “Worrying about her safety. Worrying that the life I’ve chosen has made hers harder than it needs to be.”

  “Really?” Denny sounded surprised. “But Nic is thriving! She’s an amazing kid. And strong. Patti Smith would sing something here about how you’ve given that kid a pretty big banquet of love to feed on.”

  I blinked away the tears that sprang to my eyes. I’d spent so many years fielding comments from teachers about how shy Nic was—teachers who mislabeled her as an unengaged student—that I felt incredibly moved to know that Denny knew her—accepted her, admired her, loved her—as I did. I’d known Denny most of my life, but we’d only a week earlier begun having conversations that lasted more than a minute or two. Still, I couldn’t deny the connection, the level of comfort th
at seemed to exist between us, ready to be tapped into if we chose to turn toward it, toward each other.

  “I guess there’s something else that keeps me up at night, too,” I said, slowly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the woman who plays Gail Gideon on the radio. She’s me . . . but there’s more to me, too. She’s the Gail Gideon everyone expects. It can feel . . .”

  “Tiresome?”

  “Predictable. And confining.” I’d never told anyone this before. Immediately, I felt a sliver of regret. Complaining chafed. I was a problem solver, not a whiner. And there were so many silver linings to my work that even the darkest clouds glowed.

  “But,” I said, “I love having fans. I’m not afraid to admit that fans make me feel good about myself. I didn’t get a lot of positive feedback as a kid.” I thought about all of the crazy stunts I’d pulled as a teenager, the things that I could not imagine confessing to my daughter. “Then again, I wasn’t the easiest kid to love.”

  “I knew you as a kid so now I know you’re lying.”

  “I promise I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, Denny.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ve wandered into the wrong lake, G.G.”

  I laughed. Whatever fear I’d felt upon seeing that text and the Jenny Long lookalike had washed away.

  “Hey,” he said. “What are you up to on Saturday night? I’m planning to make some mediocre spaghetti. I’d love to share it with you.”

  “Mediocre spaghetti sounds amazing,” I said, because oddly, it really did. But I was having dinner with Lev Curtain from ZoneTV on Saturday night. “Unfortunately I have plans already.”

  “How about Sunday then?”

  “Nic comes back on Sunday after spending the weekend with her father. Since I work nights during the week, it will be our only dinner together for two weeks.”

  “Right. No problem.”

  “It’s not that—”

  “No, really, G.G., I totally understand.”

  I had the sense that he did understand, but was disappointed nonetheless. I was disappointed, too, and frankly didn’t want either of us to give up quite so easily. With my schedule, if I was going to date someone, we needed to think out of the dinner-date box.

  “What about lunch?” I said. “People eat spaghetti for lunch, don’t they?”

  “I’d eat it for breakfast if I could. I’m showing that mare I was talking about earlier to a trainer on Saturday so that won’t work . . . but how about noon on Sunday?”

  “Perfect,” I said. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, I realized that I was beaming.

  It was only after I hung up with Denny that I began to question whether dating my daughter’s beloved riding teacher, a man she saw more often than she saw her actual father, was really going to be so perfect after all.

  Chapter 14

  That afternoon Nic was reading in a window seat in the library when Lucas slid onto the cushioned bench beside her.

  “So,” he said. “What’s the word? Are you being shipped off to military school?”

  “Fat chance,” Nic answered. “My mom would never let me be shipped off anywhere. She needs to monitor my every move.”

  “Tell her they have microchips for that these days.” He put his hand on her neck. “She could slip one right here, just below your skin. My cousin had one put in her dog.”

  “Seriously, I think she’d love nothing more.” Nic closed her book. “I have in-school detention.”

  “Not bad. What about me?” Nic heard a tremor of anxiety in his voice.

  “I didn’t tell them you were with me.”

  Lucas raised his eyebrows.

  “You really thought I’d tell on you?” She was a little hurt. Also, she still felt the warmth of his fingers where he’d touched her neck. When she lifted her hand to feel the spot, her hair fell in front of her face.

  “I didn’t think you would.” He brushed her hair away so he could look at her. He smiled. “I owe you.”

  Nic looked at Lucas, the Clyde to her Bonnie. She thought about how she’d felt when she saw him pull his car into the spot that Angel Bully usually took. A new plan was forming. It would have to wait a couple of days, though—she’d be at her father’s house in Marin all weekend. And when she returned to her mother’s she’d have to find some way to get rid of Irene, the babysitter who had been staying with her again while her mother was at work. But she’d find a way.

  “You owe me, huh?” she said to Lucas, and smiled.

  “WHAT IS GOING on with you and Lucas Holt?” Lila asked later that day. “I saw you guys sitting together in the library, looking very cozy.”

  “I like him,” Nic said. “I kind of think . . . he gets me.”

  “Wait a minute! Did you guys hook up?”

  Nic blushed. “We kissed.”

  “Holy shit, Nic! You’re making out with the hottest senior in school! First, you stole Hunter Nolan’s car, and now you’re banging Lucas Holt—”

  “Oh my God, Lila!” Nic shook her head and laughed. “We kissed. That’s all.”

  “Om shalom,” Lila said, long and low, impressed. “Go on with your bad self, Nicola Clement. That’s all I have to say to that. And by the by,” she added, “I hope you realize that the Lurk is going to have a field day with this.” She took out her phone as though she thought something must have been popping up on the Lurk’s Instagram feed even as they stood there.

  Nic felt a wave of worry. She didn’t want anything posted about her and Lucas being together. It could get back to the teachers or Mrs. Tyson and then someone would figure out that he was the boy Mr. Towne had seen with her in Angel Bully’s car. Lucas had seemed pretty desperate not to be found out; Nic suspected his mother wasn’t as forgiving as hers.

  “What’s on there?” she asked, taking the phone from a startled Lila.

  “Oh, nothing new.”

  The Lurk hadn’t posted anything since the photograph of Bridget swimming from the day before. Seeing that post again made Nic’s blood boil anew. She remembered the girl’s tears in the bathroom, the sweet way she’d asked how Nic was feeling even as she cried.

  “Ugh,” Nic said, tossing the phone back at her friend. “Those pictures make me sick!”

  Lila looked down at her phone, surprised. “The Lurk really hasn’t been that bad lately. Could be worse.”

  THAT AFTERNOON, WHILE Denny was helping the hands turn out the horses from the lower barn, Nic slipped into Peach’s stall. After five days of this, the horse no longer snapped her teeth or even pressed her ears back against her head when Nic approached. Peach still watched her closely, but the trust growing between them felt as solid as a bridge that Nic crossed each afternoon.

  But the horse still lashed out at anyone else who came near her, and Nic knew that Denny was trying to find her a new home. She didn’t know exactly why Peach had chosen to trust her and not Denny or even Javi, both of whom easily established relationships with most of the horses that came through the barn. Nic wondered if maybe whatever abuse Peach had experienced, she’d suffered at the hand of a man. Maybe only a girl could save her.

  That afternoon, for the first time, Peach let Nic lean against her. Nic draped her arms over the horse’s back, imitating the weight of a saddle. She breathed in the horse’s smell. She took in the power of the horse, her huge, solid body, her scars, her majestic neck and beautiful head, her long, lovely eyelashes. In her mind, she told Peach that she would not see her for two days while she was at her father’s, but that she would be back on Monday. Peach pressed her muzzle against Nic’s arm and released slow, warm, calm breaths that dampened Nic’s skin.

  As Roy drove Nic home, she sank deep into the backseat. She felt overwhelmed with gratitude for Peach, for the honor of their bond, for the courage that it took for her to accept an offer of kindness.

  An offer of kindness.

  Nic sat up, pulled her phone from her bag and downloaded the Instagram app. The reason that people felt emboldened online was that it was very hard to c
atch someone who could not be seen. Perhaps, she thought, if used in the right way, anonymity could be a good thing.

  She hesitated for only a moment before setting up her own Instagram account. The twinge of guilt that she felt was slight. Her mother had asked her not to sign up for social media because she worried about Nic’s safety, but Nic didn’t plan to use Instagram as a place to share personal photographs or information. The whole point would be for her to be anonymous. Still, it was another secret. Two weeks ago, Nic had told her mom everything. Now she was sneaking into Peach’s stall, driving cars, kissing a seventeen-year-old boy, and signing up for an Instagram account when her mom had explicitly asked her not to join any social media.

  Username?

  Nic thought, then typed “KirkeKudos.”

  She felt Roy’s glance in the rearview mirror. “How’s it going back there?” he asked.

  “Great,” she answered. “Just working on a school project.” It wasn’t a lie—not even a white lie. She flashed Roy a smile.

  “On your phone?”

  Though he seemed more curious than suspicious, Nic didn’t trust herself to do more than nod. Had her mother told Roy that Nic wasn’t allowed on social media? Nic made her best attempt to seem innocently busy. She felt Roy’s gaze a beat longer before he returned his attention to the road.

  They’d received their school directories just that morning. All day, kids had complained about their photographs. The murmured chorus of self-loathing had bothered Nic. She still thought that her own school photograph made her resemble a vampire, but the fact was that she had very pale skin and she might as well accept it and move on. Now, she pulled the directory from her backpack and flipped through it until she landed on Bridget’s page. She took a picture of the girl’s photograph with her phone and uploaded it to the new KirkeKudos account. She studied the photograph, then began to type a caption for it.

  Bridget: Your kindness and your integrity give you a beautiful glow that warms all who know you. You are disciplined, powerful, and you dream big. We see you, Bridget, and we think you rock. Kudos.