Hallowed: An Unearthly Novel by Cynthia Hand Page A

“Give it a rest.”

    “No.” Mr. Avery clears his throat. “That was your land, your grandfather’s legacy to you, that was everything you ever worked for, your truck, your trailer, your horse, all those odd jobs, scrimping and saving to be able to afford the rodeo fees, the gear, the gas for the truck. Years of backbreaking work, sweat and more sweat, hours of practice, and I will not give it a rest.”

    “Wait,” I say, still catching up. “It was the Palisades fire where they suspect arson?” Mr. Avery nods.

    So, not the fire Samjeeza started trying to flush out my mom and me out at Static Peak.
    The other fire. Someone deliberately started the other fire?

    “It doesn’t matter,” Tucker says offhandedly. “It’s over and done with. I’m grateful just to be alive.”

    So am I. And what I’m thinking in this moment is, How can I keep you that way?

    Later Tucker and I go out to the porch. We sit in the swing and rock. It’s cold, freezing actually, but neither of us seems to mind it. It’s too cloudy to see the stars. After we’ve been sitting there for a while, it starts to snow. We don’t go in. We lie there in the swing, swaying back and forth, our breath mingling as it rises in foggy puffs above our heads.

    “The sky is falling,” I whisper, watching the flakes drift with the wind.

    “Yeah,” he says. “It kind of looks that way.” He sits up in the swing to look into my face, and my heart starts pounding a mile a minute for no good reason.

    “Are you okay?” he asks. “You’ve been tense all week. What’s going on?” I stare up at him and think about losing him and my eyes suddenly brim with tears. And tears—any girl’s tears, but mine especially—really get to Tucker.

    “Hey,” he whispers, and instantly gathers me up in his arms. I sniffle against his shoulder for a few minutes, then get myself together and look up and try to smile.

    “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just stressed.”

    He frowns. “Angel stuff,” he says, not even as a question. He assumes, every time something’s weighing on me, it must be angel stuff.

    I wish I could tell him. But I can’t. Not without knowing for sure.

    I shake my head. “College stuff. I’m applying to Stanford, you know.” This is true. Even though I think it’s pretty far-fetched, even though I can’t drum up much enthusiasm for college, even Stanford, I’ve been applying.

    Tucker’s expression clears, like he suddenly understands everything perfectly. I’m upset because I am going to college and he’s staying here.

    “It’ll be okay,” he said. “We’ll make it work, wherever you end up, okay?”

    “Okay.”

    He hugs me again, his playful shoulder-squeeze hug. “Everything’s going to be all right, Carrots. You’ll see.”

    “How do you know so much?” I ask, only half playfully.

    He shrugs. Suddenly he frowns, cocks his head slightly to one side.

    “What is it?” I ask.

    He holds up a hand to quiet me. Listens for a minute. Then he lets out a breath. “I thought I heard something, that’s all.”

    “What?” I ask.

    “A horse. I thought I heard a horse.”

    “Oh, Tuck,” I say, hugging him tighter. “I’m sorry.”

    But then I think I hear something too. A rumbling kind of noise. Maybe hoofbeats.

    I listen for a few moments and still hear it, the steady rhythmic strike of something against the earth. Then the huff of air from a large moving animal, running, breathing heavy.

    My eyes meet Tucker’s. “I hear it too,” I tell him.

    We pop out of the swing, dash onto the front yard. I turn a slow circle in the yard, listening, as the sound gets closer.

    “That way,” I breathe, pointing toward the Tetons. Tucker starts running in that direction, leaps over a low fence. That’s when Midas breaks the tree line, running hard, sweat gleaming along his flanks. Tucker sees him and gives this great, joyous whoop. Midas neighs. I stand there and watch as Tucker and Midas meet each