My hands cling tightly to Bandit’s reins as we bound down the forest path, his swift hooves carrying us farther away from Juniper Ranch.
Galumph, galumph, ga—booooooooom.
Bandit’s ears swivel back, and he screeches to a halt. A deep rumble growls in the distance.
“Too much alfalfa again?” I whisper.
Bandit tosses his flaxen mane, clearly unimpressed by my joke.
“There’s no reason to be nervous, boy,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth.
I scan the ground around us with the flashlight my dad forced me to pack. (“Why do I need to bring a ginormous flashlight to summer camp when I already have a phone??” I’d whined. “You’ll thank me later, Willa,” he’d sighed. Ugh, please don’t tell him his dad-tuition was right!) Sweeping the beam of light across the trail, I search frantically for the hoofprints I
know must be nearby.
Bandit, my beloved steed for the summer, responds with an indignant
pfffffffft.
“Yes, I know we’re not supposed to leave camp. Especially after dark. Especially alone. Especially without telling anyone.
Especially—"
BAAA-BOOOOM!!
We both nearly leap out of our skin as a deafening clap of thunder rattles across the canyon. I feel the muscles in Bandit’s neck tense; he paws at the ground as his ears prick sharply forward, like a bull’s—all sure signs he’s about to spook. I lean forward to stroke his crest, trying to soothe him.
“Especially when a storm might be coming,” I breathe, attempting to sound calm. (Even though I absolutely, positively do
not feel calm!) I tuck my flashlight away, then steal a glance at the herd of clouds that are now stampeding across the full moon.
“Look, those thunderheads are still on the other side of the mountain,” I say, forcing my voice into a cheerful,
everything-is-totally-under-control register. “We’ve got plenty of time to find that horse and make it back safe and sound before—”
CRACK!!!
A burst of lightning explodes like fireworks above the canopy of pine trees that tower over us.
“Before anyone notices we’re gone,” I finish, swallowing hard. “Okay, so maybe the storm is getting a
teeny-tiny bit closer? Have I mentioned I am
not a meteorologist??”
I look down to see Bandit’s reins trembling in my clammy hands. It appears that
I am now the one who needs soothing. I take a deep breath of the suffocatingly heavy air, hoping to slow my galloping heart. Then I let out a
click-click to get him moving again.
But Bandit is no fool. He has zero interest in waiting around for the skies to open up. Centuries of instinct have taught him to be terrified of lightning. (He is also terrified of—in no particular order—butterflies, puddles, buckets, large hats, and any leaf that has the audacity to land in his path. But at the moment? We’re focused on the lightning.)
Bandit pulls hard at his reins, skittering sideways and attempting to make a U-turn back toward home.
“Come on, boy,” I grunt, nudging his ribs and battling him in a tug-of-war. “I know you want your bag of oats just as much as I want my midnight s’mores. But if we don’t move quickly, the storm will wash away those hoofprints—and our only chance of finding our friend!”
Bandit flings his head back longingly to the safety of camp and his cozy stall. But before he can bolt, we both hear the sickening, high-pitched squeal of a horse in the distance.
Heeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
“He’s in
serious danger!” I plead, my voice turning raspy as I fight the panic growing inside me. Then I look down and whisper, “And we may be his last chance.”
Copyright © 2025 by Carrie Seim; Illustrated by Steph Waldo. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
