Free The Horsewoman by James Patterson

federales, ” he said.
    “They sound like bad guys in a movie,” she said.
    “They are much worse,” he said, “and not just putting people in danger here, but at Deeridge, and at Global right across the street.”
    Global was the annual dressage festival, an event that Daniel had always classified as horse dancing. Daniel had always preferred show jumping. Nothing was subjective. Clock and course. Get around fast, no rails down. He wished the world were as simple and as clear cut.
    “I’m an idiot,” Becky said now, “but I thought Dreamers like you were safe.”
    “So did we, once,” Daniel said. “But now it is as if the government keeps making up the laws as it goes along. And even though I have spent most of my life in America, I am still as undocumented as my parents were when they came here. We have to renew our DACA status every couple years, and mine is due. I just have to find the time.”
    Becky had told him once that she had studied the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals policy, known as DACA, in her political science class, and knew the bare bones of it, that it was intended to provide protections to people in the United States without immigration status, children brought to the country when they were young by undocumented immigrant parents.
    “Gotta admit,” Becky said, “I don’t think I could pass a test on the policy now.”
    “I’m not sure the politicians fighting about Dreamers could pass one, either,” Daniel said.
    By now they had walked through the archway of the International Arena, past the old-fashioned carousel, and were passing all the tents that sold saddlery and jewelry and clothing and leather goods and even paintings.
    “Do you have a lawyer?” Becky said.
    “I have spoken to an immigration lawyer in Fort Lauderdale, yes,” he said. “He told me what to do and what to say if the federales from ICE ever come looking for me at the barn or the show or even at my house with what they call their administrative warrants. You know ICE, right?”
    “I know what they do, just forget what it stands for,” Becky said.
    “Immigration and Customs Enforcement,” he said. “All undocumenteds live in constant fear of them. Now more than ever before.”
    He felt as if he were giving her a different kind of training now, about a subject that did have him living in constant fear, especially as ICE raids became more and more aggressive, and so often violent. He had spoken to Becky tonight about losing the horse, when he feared losing everything.
    “How can I help?” Becky said.
    The only sound they could hear now, other than their own voices, was an occasional security golf cart patrolling the barn area.
    “You can’t help,” he said. “Too much else has changed with the government and the courts since my parents brought me here. It is why they finally gave up and went back. My father said it would be his choice, not theirs.”
    Daniel looked around at the halo of lights shining over the International, the horse show that reminded him of a theme park after hours.
    “So what can you do?” Becky said.
    “The same thing I have been doing,” he said. “Watch and wait. And pray that the blue vests do not come and try to arrest me one day.”
    “Arrest you for what?” Becky said, her voice suddenly angry. “For being a good person?”
    He smiled.
    “For not being American enough,” he said. “Then they send me back to the other side of the wall.”
    “Grandmother has lawyers, too,” Becky said.
    “Mine told me that sometimes trying to stop the deportations feels to him like shouting at the ocean,” Daniel said.
    “Let me at least ask Grandmother, or Mom, to help,” Becky said.
    “No,” he said.
    It came out much sharper than he intended.
    “You have to promise me that you will keep this secret for me,” he said. “The fewer people talking about this and knowing about this the better.”
    He turned to look at her.
    “Promise,” he said.
    “I promise,” she