Wild Hearts by Jessica Burkhart

these horses enough for saving my brother. My dad feels the same way. That’s a large part of the reason why he reacted the way he did the day before yesterday—he feels it’s important to speak up on their behalf.”
    I looked over the herd again. The horses had a hold on him—something almost otherworldly. I hadn’t understood his connection to the horses before. But now I could see the way looking at the herd lit up his face. Soon I would be partly to blame for taking that away.

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Never walk when you can ride. And never stand when you can sit.
    I unwrapped the fluffy white towel and dropped it onto the wooden deck chair. It was barely sixty degrees outside, but the hot tub sounded perfect. I adjusted my turquoise bikini strap and stepped into the warm water. I lowered myself onto the seat, and water came up to my earlobes.
    I’d spent the last three days working at Dad’s job site. The starts of his jobs were always busiest—I’d been working from eight or nine in the morning to well after the sun set. Dad prided himself on finishing jobs ahead of schedule, and, with the rocky beginning here aside, this job was going well. Most of it. Dad had been a little shady about two phone calls that he got every day at ten a.m. and two p.m. He always stepped outside and when he came back in, the look on his face scared me enough to stay quiet.
    I’d gotten brave one day and sneaked Dad’s phone over to the card table between us. The phone rang and I lunged for it.Dad snapped at me to leave the phone alone. Every morning, there had been two or three people standing beside Dad’s trailer with signs. Brody had offered to handle them from now on and Dad had agreed. I was glad—Brody was level-headed and could talk the protestors into leaving.
    My fingers were about to press the jet button, when Mom’s voice carried over the yard from her phone conversation. “Are you sure it’s safe?” Mom said into the phone. “Don’t lie to me.” She paused and I strained to hear more. “Let Brody handle it, then. Is there someone else to take over? A job isn’t worth . . .” Her voice trailed off and I couldn’t hear her anymore. She put the phone in the back pocket of her jeans and returned to her garden. I started to call out to her, but changed my mind. She would tell me if it was serious.
    I closed my eyes for a minute, grateful for the warm water relaxing my muscles. No more thinking about protestors. I wanted to think about things besides business today.
    Mom had decided to start her first garden. We’d never had one before—it had never made sense to do one, since by the time the garden would bloom, we would move and someone else would get to enjoy the flowers.
    But Mom decided to go for it this time, and planned to document the garden’s growth and turn it into a photojournalism piece.
    Photography was her first love, but she wanted to take writing classes to pen articles to accompany all her photos. She had tried talking me into a writing or photography class this summer. She knew I felt lost and wanted to find my “thing.” Mygut told me I wasn’t going to find what I was looking for in a classroom.
    Yesterday, during a break from working for Dad, I’d met Mom in town. Together, we had shopped for garden supplies. Everyone had looked at us, but no one had approached Mom or me. No one except the older woman who owned the store. She introduced herself to us and helped Mom find everything she needed for her garden. After a pleasant experience in town, I think Mom felt much better about me going into town by myself.
    The sound of a hawk overhead jerked me out of my thoughts. I looked down at Mom and grinned. She was intently reading a bulb packet and muttering to herself. She stuck her hand in the hole she had dug, pulled out the bulb and turned it over. Like that poor plant had a chance of growing upside