Immediately his wonderful voice ceased. His lips pressed together, and his eyes took on a hard slant. Snorting, the horse drew back from him. "What are you doing in there?" he said, voice cracking and face going red. "Get out. You're not even supposed to be here when the stable hands are gone."
"Neither are you," I said, scrambling up and clutching the horse blanket to me as I backed to the wall. My heart pounded when he opened the gate, sliding in and latching it behind him, fumbling the first time because of his cast. I'd be willing to bet Stanley had broken Trent's hand to put him at a disadvantage for the rest of the summer. What a goober.
Trent was in new jeans and brand-new riding boots. I thought of my own nasty sneakers, and I flushed. Trent was rich. His dad owned the camp. Everyone knew it.
"They're looking for you," he said, mocking me. "You are in so much trouble."
The horse tossed his head, feet moving restlessly between us, and I put a hand on him to remind him not to step on me. "I can be in here if I want," I said, chin high.
Trent's white eyebrows drew together, but when the horse snorted and laid his ears back, he looked away, quieting the animal. "This is my horse," he said cockily. The cast on his hand made it hard for him to close his fingers on the horse's halter, but the animal was docile enough.
"I don't see your name on it," I said, then flushed when Trent pointed at the plaque behind me. "Oh," I said, edging away. Okay. It was his horse. Must be nice, not only having your own horse, but being rich enough to truck him up to summer camp for you.
The horse's ears flicked, and from the other wing of the stables, Stanley's voice echoed. "You need some help getting the bit in, lazy ass? Tighten that girth? Give you a leg up? Or does boy wonder think he can do it one-handed?"
Scared, I backed up. Trent was a brat, but Stanley was a bully with a mean streak.
Trent's expression soured. Glancing at me, he shouted, "I can saddle a horse with my teeth faster than you with both hands. I'll see you out there."
I swallowed hard, not caring if Trent knew I was afraid of Stanley. A feeling of gratitude pulled me from the wall. My eyes dropped to his broken hand. "Are you okay?"
Reaching up to a high shelf, Trent brought down a wood-handled hoof pick and stuck it in a back pocket. "What do you care?"
"I never said I did," I said, arms over my middle. I wanted out, but he was in the way.
Trent looked at me. "You're a crybaby. You've been crying. Your eyes are red."
I wiped the back of my hand on my face. He knew why I was crying, too, the brat. "So? I'm twelve. What's your excuse?"
He shifted from the gate and I bolted for it, leaving it open because he was coming out, too, his horse clopping loudly. "I thought you were in eighth grade," he said, his voice confused.
The bright square of sunlight beckoned, thirty feet away, but I lingered in the cool shadow. "I am," I said, holding my elbow and shifting awkwardly. "I skipped a couple of grades. Homeschooled. You know... sick and everything. I'll be thirteen next month."
Thirteen, and dumber than a stone. I could see why Jasmine liked him. He was rich, nice looking, and he had his own horse. But if you were so unsure of yourself that you let your friends hurt you, then you were stupid.
Trent didn't bother to tie his horse's halter rope to the post like we'd been told to do, and I watched him check the gelding's hooves, tucking the pick in his pocket instead of putting it away. Letting the last foot drop, Trent looked at the bridle rack, then shoved the rope dangling from his horse's halter at me.
"Hold him," he said curtly, and I dropped back a step.
"I am not your servant," I said hotly. "Tie him off yourself."
Trent's fingers twitched. "I'm not going to tie him off if you're just standing there," he said, voice soft but determined. "Hold the rope while I bridle him."
"No!" I exclaimed, arms wrapped around my middle, refusing to take the rope.