Read Online Ruthless by Carolyn Lee Adams - Free Book Online

expressions are somber, strong, compassionate. They are here for me, and they understand.
    I think: I am not alone .
    And wake up.
    The moon is still low in the sky; the mud is still wet on my skin. My wounds feel the same as they ever did. Not much has changed. But I feel better for having had my dream-­hallucinationabout the other redheaded girls; I feel stronger, more able to think.
    What do I do now?
    My first thought is to continue heading west, away from the cabin. It’s natural instinct kicking in; it’s what makes sense to the part of me controlled by fear.
    But that’s not who I am. I win by taking risks. By standing out. Mom hates how I ride Tucker right past the judge as many times as possible in a class. She says it’s showboating and it’s tacky. Some judges don’t like it. Long ago, though, I decided I’d rather win being me than lose by playing it safe.
    So what would the classic Ruth Ann Carver move be? What would he not expect?
    Well, I think, I could steal his truck.

Five Years Ago
    IT’S HARD NOT TO FEEL small, taking in the warm-up ring. The most famous trainers riding the most valuable quarter horses are crammed in there, fighting for practice space.
    â€œI’ll be in this corner, okay?” her mother says.
    The girl nods obediently, with no intention of actually obeying. She hopes it looks like it’s the traffic that forces her to pick a spot in the opposite corner from where her mother is stationed.
    A competitor since age three, she doesn’t consider herself young and inexperienced. She feels she is a grizzled veteran of a thousand wars. Which is why she hasn’t let herself get too excited about the last two weeks, despite the glimpses of greatness her horse has given her. That was at home. Here, in the chaos of the Oklahoma City Fairgrounds, it may be a different story.
    She jogs her black gelding along the rail, letting his muscles come to life. Their routine is burned into her brain. Circles left, circles right, transitions from walk to jog to lope, then pushing him into an extended lope, his long strides eating up the ground like he’s hungry for dirt. Halt, back, side pass. Only a few times does she ask him for show-off moves, sliding stops and rollbacks and spins. No point in drilling a skill that’s already solid.
    With every movement, her horse is with her. More than with her, he is a part of her. All that is required is a thought, and then that thought comes to life in the form of perfect motion. She knows it’s her nervous system carry­ing those thoughts through her body, creating tiny movements her horse is reading. Knowing this doesn’t make it any less magic. Her horse is happy and she is happy and this is the one place in all the world where everything makes sense, everything is as it should be. She is in perfect control, and it is so pleasing to her, that sense of control, that sense of power.
    Satisfied with the practice, she asks her horse to halt. She gives him a pat and murmurs words of praise. Her focus released, she is now free to absorb what is around her, truly and completely. There is conflict. Conflict everywhere. Trainers riding horses too roughly. Trainers yelling at their clients. Horses pinning their ears in anger. It’s all wrong. Suffocatingly wrong. She’s seen plenty of bad riding in her life, but she thought here, at Worlds, it would be different. Instead, she is the one who is different from the rest. A sensation of disconnect and inadequacy weighs her down.
    The girl looks to the corner, to her mother, who gives her a double thumbs-up. She feels a swell of gratitude. Her mother may not bring in the big-money clients, but she’s a real horsewoman. Her mother has taught her right. The girl is proud she rides the way she does. It’s occurred to her before that this is what should be rewarded at horse shows, that her mother’s methods deserve recognition. Now the old thought