Free The Buried Book by D. M. Pulley Page B

all.
    Wouldn’t that be nice? To not exist? To just up and vanish in the night? To fly away? My next life I want to be a bird. That’s assuming you get more than one, of course. Dear God, I sure hope I do.
    Wayne stopped to take a breath. “See what I mean? Just a bunch of girlie whatnot. You sure you want to read this mess?”
    Jasper just kept staring at the twisted-together words. His mother wanted to fly away. Maybe she’d finally gotten her wish.
    “Fine. It’s your funeral. See if you can do it. Try that one again.”
    Jasper spent the next hour reading and rereading the first two entries until he had a grasp on her penmanship.
    “Not bad, kid. Maybe you don’t have rocks for brains after all. You read the next one.”
    In a slow, faltering voice, Jasper sounded out the words.
    August 12, 1928
    Today was a terrible day. Papa was right. I’m worse than a headless chicken. Mr. Hoyt caught me in his barn. Mother’s always telling me not to go snooping where I’m not wanted, but I just had to see that new . . .
    “Colt,” Wayne interjected.
    . . . colt. Papa was talking all about it just the other day. Mr. Hoyt’s been trying to get the . . .
    “Neighbors.”
    . . . neighbors to invest in his new plan to breed racehorses. He says a single horse can fetch over $1,000. What a . . .
    “Schemer!”
    That’s what Papa called him, anyway. Of course, he decided it sounded too good to be true. I don’t think Papa believes in anything that doesn’t involve sweating yourself to death out in the sun, least of all horse racing. But imagine that! A $1,000 horse living just over the creek. I had to see it. It might’ve had golden hooves.
    Turns out he was just a normal sort of baby horse, all . . .
    “Wobbly.”
    . . . wobbly and skinny. I sat down next to him and stared him right in his big black eyes, looking for some sort of sign that he was something special. A $1,000 horse should look like something, but I didn’t see nothing but the reflection of my own dopey face, the poor thing. I couldn’t help but pet him. He was just a baby after all. What was Mr. Hoyt going to do when he found out this prize pony was nothing but a plain . . .
    “Quarter horse. Look at that—there’s a Q .”
    . . . quarter horse? All I could think running my hand down his flank was that he would never be worth more than the plow he’d pull. It made me want to love him. He was so smooth and soft, but under the skin something wild trembled. Maybe he had some racing in him. Or maybe he was just cold being all alone without his mama. I put my arms around him and tried to make him warm and still. It wasn’t his fault he was stuck in that barn. I felt so bad for him, I began dreaming up ways to help him escape.
    Right about then, Mr. Hoyt kicked in the barn door yelling, “Who’s in there, God . . .
    “Damn it!” Wayne raised his eyebrows and grinned, daring Jasper to cuss out loud.
    . . . damn it!”
    I must’ve lost my voice, because I just stood there dumb. He came stomping through, checking stalls until he found me with my arms wrapped around his new horse and pointed a double-barrel shotgun right at my head!
    “Wow!” Wayne piped in. “She’s lucky he didn’t shoot her. You don’t go messin’ around Old Hoyt’s place. He’s liable to kill you! Pop said he was robbed once, and that sort of thing leaves a mark.”
    Jasper thought about this for a minute before continuing.
    He looked so surprised to see me, you’d have thought I’d sprouted horns. “Don’t shoot! It’s just me, Mr. Hoyt. Althea.” I gave him a real stupid smile. Papa always said it was important to be a good neighbor. Doesn’t that include horses? I think so too, but Mr. Hoyt didn’t seem to agree. He just kept on staring at me down the barrel of his gun.
    “Who said you could be in here? What’re you doin’? Get away from him! When I tell your father about this, you’re gonna wish you’d had more sense! It ain’t