Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (best books to read for beginners .TXT) 📗

behind me, his harsh breath on my neck, but I didn’t turn. I kept staring into Father Vestille’s pleading eyes.

“I’m – sorry, Helena,” Father Vestille said.

“I would have come if I could.”

“But you couldn’t,” I finished. “Because you had to visit your other friends.”

“Helena, that is enough,” Papa growled.

As I held Father Vestille’s gaze, his lip quivered. I didn’t care. He should have been sorry.

So should Duke Laurent, for not making the King listen and send soldiers. So should Papa and Monsieur Leóne, for doing so little to stop the wolves themselves, and Mama for pretending everything would be all right. Why wouldn’t anyone do something? Francois was the only one willing to act, and now he was gone.

“Helena, we’re going home,” Papa said.

I didn’t turn to him. I just kept staring into Father Vestille’s sunken eyes. Then I whirled and 86

marched straight toward our wagon. “We don’t have a home.”

“Helena!” Papa shouted. His voice broke off as he started to call me again, and I knew Mama’s calming hand was on his arm.

I heard her speak gently to Father Vestille.

“Please forgive her, Father. She’s angry.”

I marched to the wagon, ready to knock aside anyone who stood in my way. Yes, I thought.

I’m angry.

87

10.

Crimson thundered across the grass,

kicking up dirt and fallen leaves as I pulled back on his reins for an abrupt halt. I had grown taller in the last eighteen months, to sit high in the saddle.

And I had ridden Crimson so much over the summer that I felt we could read each other’s minds. I barely needed to pull the reins anymore, in any direction, to tell him what I wanted him to do. “Watch this, Mama!”

From the front stoop, Mama looked up from her sewing. She cast another glance toward 88

the darkening forest, before returning her attention to me. Papa had been gone all day on his hunt.

“Turn!” I called, nudging Crimson’s flanks and tugging the reins to the left. Crimson spun in a dizzying circle. Once, twice, a third time. Then he stomped his front hooves to stop as I pulled back on the reins.

“Be careful, dear,” Mama said.

“I’m always careful. Watch this!” I nudged Crimson again and we charged at the sheep pen, kicking up dirt as we stopped abruptly at the edge of the gate. The sheep bleated in terror and nearly fell all over themselves. “Did you see that, Mama?

They’re hilarious!”

“Helena. Don’t scare the sheep.”

I frowned. What else was there for me to do? The horses and sheep were all fed and watered. And I had long since given up on learning how to sew. I would never have Mama’s patience.

But I had finally discovered something I could master.

I could ride.

For the first year since Francois was killed, Crimson and I had simply played, running back and forth in the yard. At times, he needed me to calm him, at the sound of a wolf’s howl. Not to calm his fears, but his rage, as he searched about the yard for the source of the sound, ready to charge after it. I coaxed him with pieces of apple or sugar at first, and he soon learned to calm at the sound of my voice.

Papa worried that it was too soon to saddle Crimson at the start of the summer, soon after my 89

ninth birthday. But Crimson was strong and seemed eager for it. When he saw the saddle in Papa’s hands, he stomped at the ground, then stayed steady and quiet as Papa fit him with it. As if he wanted me to ride him the way he had seen other visitors ride their horses.

We started slowly at first, as Papa led me in a circle around the meadow. Within two weeks, Crimson and I could ride on our own. Which we did every day, for the rest of the summer.

“Mama!” I called again as I climbed off the saddle.

She looked up.

I moved to Crimson’s right side and stuck my left foot in the stirrup. Then I grabbed the saddle’s horn and shouted, “Hah!” Crimson trotted toward the stoop as I