The Wild Path by Sarah R. Baughman

Author:Sarah R. Baughman [R. BAUGHMAN, SARAH]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Published: 2020-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

Sun glistens, turning leaves into gems: ruby, emerald, topaz. I try to keep up with Mr. Hamilton. He might be old, but he moves fast.

Dad waves at us from the entrance to the barn, and I jog over to meet him.

“How’d the interview go, kiddo?” He pulls me into a quick hug.

“It was really… interesting,” I say. Thoughts gather, rustling thick like leaves.

Dad claps Mr. Hamilton on the back. “Thanks for taking your time. Every once in a while I looked back and saw you two chatting through the screen. Looked like you had lots to discuss.”

“Claire is a great conversationalist,” Mr. Hamilton says. “She kept me on my toes.”

Dad smiles, but I can tell he’s holding in a laugh. I don’t blame him. I’m not sure anybody but Maya and Andy would call me a “conversationalist.” But with Mr. Hamilton, talking wasn’t so bad. Somehow all my wanting to know about Jack and the horses rested on the sparrows like a gentle hand and kept them quiet.

I twist the door latch open. The warm dark of this barn feels exactly like mine, and it smells the same too: like dry hay and sweet grain and sawdust gathered in piles.

“She’s not shy about some things,” I hear Dad telling Mr. Hamilton as I step inside and get my bearings. Instinctively I reach for a light switch on the wall, and a sticky yellow glow fills the barn.

On my right are two rows of stalls, dusty and gray, a concrete aisle running between. I glimpse what could definitely be a tack room at the end of the row of stalls, and is that a saddle horn, just visible inside the half-open door? There’s no milking parlor like I’d expect for cows, or chicken wire or cages for rabbits or anything else. This looks like a barn for horses.

It takes me a while to register what I see on the left, but as soon as I do, I have to catch my breath. It’s small for what it is, but there’s no mistaking: It’s a completely closed-in, weatherproof riding arena. A fence circles soft dirt, and I even think I can see the leftover prints of hooves, deep and shadowed.

Dad’s voice floats in behind me. “Can you imagine having one of these in the winter?” he asks.

A hot, sharp feeling works its way into my chest, like I wish Mr. Hamilton could lift his barn up and bring it to me or someone else who could fill it with the animals it was meant for.

All I can do is nod, and Dad squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe one day,” he says, but I hear how he swallows the last word down hard, and he looks quickly away. I guess he almost forgot what I wish weren’t true: that we’re not going to be needing an indoor riding arena. Without Sunny and Sam, we won’t even need the little outdoor one we have. It will sit empty, and if the roof doesn’t get

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