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the barn. Colt mounts his horse from the left, the way we learned in horsemanship. He lands on Bullet’s back with a thud.
    I bite my tongue to keep from telling him he needs to grab a bit of the mane from the base, along with the reins, in his left hand. And he should face the back of his horse and take hold of the cantle, or the back of the saddle, with his right hand. That way he could bounce on his right foot, with his left in the stirrup. That would help him spring into the saddle without thumping down so hard.
    I only know these things because I’ve been going to Mr. Harper’s horsemanship classes forever, long before I had my own horse. But today isn’t for the how-tos of horsemanship. It’s for the sheer joy of riding. That’s what Mr. Harper said when he invited us to his property for the trail ride.
    â€œLet’s go,” I say, reining Dream around.
    Colt and I ride side by side down our road. Our homes are the last two houses on this end of town. I love living out here, where our yards are the size of most people’s pastures.
    The gravel road turns to dirt. Wildflowers peek out from ditches on both sides. I spot tiny sweet clover. “Colt, do you remember when we used to pull out the purple from those clovers and try to taste the sugar?”
    He laughs. “You always claimed you could taste it, but I never did.”
    A cardinal zooms right in front of us, but neither horse shies at it. It’s like the birds are as excited about our trail ride as we are. We pass pastures of black-and-white cows. Before long, the only sounds are the clip-clop of hooves and the squeak of Colt’s leather saddle.
    â€œI heard from Larissa this morning,” Colt says.
    â€œWhat did she want?”
    â€œShe wanted me to come to her house and help with the blog instead of going on the trail ride.” Colt reaches down and pats Bullet. That’s one of the best things about Colt. He treats his horse like he’s a best friend. “I told her thanks, but no thanks.”
    â€œDid she say anything about the comments on her blog?” I know Larissa wrote those things. But my stomach still flips over just remembering that half a second when I thought somebody else wrote that comment.
    â€œI asked her about it. She acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about.” Colt glances at me. “But she did. She just didn’t want to admit we’re onto her.”
    I remember my nightmare. And for a second, worry creeps like a cockroach up the back of my neck.
    Neither of us says anything for a while.
    I shake off my nightmare and refuse to think about Larissa. I’m glad she’ll be home working on that blog of hers instead of riding on the trail with us. Larissa’s horse lives at K. C. Stables. Maybe she didn’t think it was worth the hassle of having somebody drive her horse to the Harpers’. Custer’s Darling Delight wouldn’t do so well on a trail ride anyway. He’s used to practice arenas, not forest trails.
    But I’m done thinking about Larissa.
    Colt is quiet, but I never worry about making small talk with him. That’s one of the best things about Colt and me, most of the time. We don’t have to be talking to know everything’s okay between us.
    â€œThis is my first trail ride,” Colt says when the Harpers’ stable appears in the distance.
    â€œMr. Harper took us on a trail ride for an hour last year, out at Brookfield,” I say. “But this one will be way better. And longer.”
    Colt reaches behind his saddle and pats his saddle bags. “That’s why I packed enough food for the whole day.”
    I stare at his saddle bags. I thought they were just decoration. “Um . . . I didn’t think about that. I haven’t packed anything.”
    â€œNo sweat.” Colt strokes Bullet again. “I made plenty of peanut butter sandwiches. I even made those apple-carrot