The Perfect Letter by Chris Harrison Page A

place, not a mermaid cove.”
    Leigh had been self-conscious all of a sudden about her damp T-shirt sticking to her skin, her dripping hair, the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. She folded her arms over her chest.
    When Ben’s training partner, Dale Tucker, had come around the other side of the truck, a little too close to her, Leigh took two steps back. He was a short man, shorter than Ben by at least a head, and looked Leigh up and down like a man used to judging the value of horseflesh. “My God,” he said. “We’ll have to keep an eye on this one,Ben. She looks like trouble. Rich trouble.” Then he’d winked. Leigh was taken aback—she wasn’t used to grown men speaking to her that way. Most of the grown men she’d known wouldn’t have dared.
    It was then that the rear door of the cab opened and a boy stepped out. She definitely did not remember her grandfather telling her the new trainer was bringing his son, and a teenage son to boot. She was sure she’d remember that part. He was tall—taller than she was, which was considerable—and his thin, wiry frame was tanned, probably from hours and hours helping his father in the barn before and after school. He had a thick shock of dark, wavy hair that curled over his ears, and dark blue eyes like his father. He looked around with a bored, almost angry expression, and she remembered being irritated immediately that he’d think anything or anyone here needed his approval. His father noticed her watching them and elbowed Jake in the ribs as if to say, Check that out .
    Jake looked at his feet and muttered something to his father she couldn’t hear. He kicked at the ground, raising the dust, and wrinkled his nose. He was looking over her grandfather’s gorgeous spread the way he might have looked at a rattlesnake near his boot, something to be wary of and avoid. Leigh heard him say something to his father, some plea for them to pack up and turn around. “Not on your life,” Ben said to his son. “Gift horses, son. This place is going to be the making of us, I guarantee it.”
    â€œIf what you mean is making us into hicks, then I believe you,” Jake had said, low but not low enough that she couldn’t hear.
    Leigh was immediately angry. Of course she knew a father’s career meant nothing to a boy who’d been uprooted from his friends and familiar life, but Wolf’s Head was everything in the world to her, and she’d decided, in that moment, to hate him. How could he not see that he’d entered paradise? she had thought. How could he not be grateful to be here? Who does he think he is, anyway?
    He looked over at her and shaded his eyes, grimacing, giving her a glimpse of his braces, flashing silver in the hot sun. So much for his mysterious good looks. She was relieved, actually, to see he wasn’t perfect. “You better watch those things, metal mouth,” she called to him. “You’re gonna sunburn your gums if you aren’t careful.”
    Jake had looked surprised at first, then settled into a look of practiced, unruffled calm—a look Leigh would grow to know well in the months and years to come. He looked her up and down—her wet hair, her damp clothes, fresh sunburn across her lightly freckled nose, and streaks of light in her dark hair. She was suddenly aware of how tall she was, how skinny and young she felt. “Look at this, a talking horse,” he said, almost to himself. “I didn’t know they had those in Texas, Pop. Why didn’t you tell me?”
    Cute and sharp. Too bad he was awful. “Better than a talking ass,” she said, and tossing her hair, she’d turned back to go into the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. She figured they would be enemies from then on, avoiding each other in the barn, at the pond, at school. Fine, she thought, if that’s the way he wants it, fine by