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A s tired as Adam was he forced himself to drink nearly a half-gallon of Clara Mae’s sweet tea before heading to the basement with Peter. Whenever he wanted to get out of the house before anyone else, it worked. His bladder would force him to get out of bed.

He had no idea what time it was, but his internal clock had been set at five a.m. for years — an early enough time to feed and visit the animals before school.

Even though he hadn’t had to do that for the past year or so — since Thomas sold off their entire livestock — he found that he still enjoyed waking up before the rest of the household.

After brushing his teeth and dressing in the work clothes Clara Mae had loaned him — she was adamant that if he didn’t get new duds (her words) she’d dock his pay — he threw his tied-together tennis shoes around his neck and headed to the stairs.

Peter cleared his throat. “Adam?”

“Yeah?” Adam turned to his brother, even though he couldn’t see him.

The basement was even darker than their cabin in the sticks.

Without the light of the clock radio, Adam had to feel his way to the bathroom.

Since he certainly didn’t want to drink a half-gallon of tea nightly, he’d have to get a clock so he wouldn’t oversleep.

Peter emitted an audible yawn. “Is it morning already?”

“Not yet. Go back to sleep. I’ll come get you in an hour or so.”

His brother groaned. “We gotta work on Saturdays and Sundays?”

Adam felt his way back to the bathroom and pulled the string for the overhead light.

Peter held up a hand, blocking the unwelcoming light.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Adam said, walking over to his brother’s cot and kneeling in front of him.

“If you enroll in high school here in Wasilla —” He lifted a finger when Peter’s mouth opened to argue.

“Before you object, there are only a few weeks left in this school year. I’ll work out a deal with Clara Mae.

You can work a few hours after school — if you want walking-around money, and then you can work through the summer. ”

Peter sighed. “What about you? Why don’t you have to go to school?”

“I’m eighteen, remember? When we save enough money — and confirm no one’s looking for us — we’ll go home. I’ll get my GED.”

“So I won’t have to work today?”

Adam resisted a laugh. The way Peter latched onto today reminded him of that biblical character who gave up his inheritance for a bowl of stew. “I’ll talk to Clara Mae. She seems like the kind of woman who’ll want you to finish high school.”

Peter rolled over.

He didn’t say he would go, but he didn’t say he wouldn’t, either. Adam could only hope Peter wouldn’t throw away a chance to finish high school.

Not that Adam didn’t want to finish his education — he did.

Though, if he were honest with himself, he didn’t know what else high school could teach him.

He’d already taken all of his core classes so his senior year would be a breeze.

Plus, he’d always envisioned running a search-and-rescue team, and right now, it looked like he was following in his father’s footsteps as a horse trainer.

High school wasn’t going to help with either of those careers.

Since Peter was done questioning him, Adam jogged up the steps.

In the mudroom — as Clara Mae called it — he tugged on the worn rubbers he’d used yesterday. He’d switch to his tennis shoes to ride Bolt.

His thoughts drifted to the wad of money stuffed in the backpack. Maybe he could use it to buy clothes and work boots for himself and Peter. But the idea soured fast. He wasn’t keeping a penny of that drug-tainted cash — he’d have to pay back anything he spent.

Then a worse idea crept in — what if the bills were marked? What if someone came looking for the money? He didn’t know much about drug dealers, but if movies like The French Connection were anything to go by, there was always someone higher up — someone who didn’t just let their money walk off.

Adam shook off the barrage of scenarios — his mom used to call him a worrywart.

Maybe it was just movie stuff. Bad guys didn’t hang around places like Falcon Run.

That was big-city business — Miami, New York…

Not some no-name patch of Alaska, where most of the homesteads didn’t even have running water, let alone a phone.

Pfft ! A phone .

Lala asking why Thomas hadn’t called her.

He could only hope she didn’t show up today.

Before leaving the house, Adam listened for signs of life upstairs or outside.

Nothing.

In fact, it was eerily quiet.

At home — his family’s cabin, he corrected himself, since Wasilla would be his and Peter’s home for a while — wind was a near-constant factor.

Falcon Run ran parallel with the Alaska Range, and the open valley and elevation shifts funneled cold air through the forest, creating gusty wind patterns — especially during winter and spring.

As silently as he could muster, he attempted to unlatch the dead bolt.

Nothing.

He pulled the knob toward him so the door lined up flush with the latch and tried again. The lock clicked into place with an audible clack .

Adam froze, peering over his shoulder for Clara Mae and her sparkling twin barrels. He had no idea what time it was, but Clara Mae was walking the property line before sunrise the previous morning. Maybe she not only took off Sunday from cooking, but also from patrolling the perimeter.

But he doubted it.

Clara Mae took pride in her ranch, which made him wonder again about the soiled wood chips left in the stalls and, worse, Bolt’s exposed ribs.

Although possible, he doubted Bolt had refused to eat.

Adam had learned early on that Bolt’s affections — partially — could be bought with a Granny Smith apple or sugar cube.

Adam inched open the door, then closed it with the same slow precision.

He scanned the ranch and the Talkeetna Mountains in the distance. The sun hadn’t officially risen, and yet soft golden light fringed the clouds where the mountain peaks met the sky. It was going to be another beautiful day.

Would the great weather mean that Lala would show up again? God, he hoped not.

Watching his back, Adam made his way to the stables.

Technically, he was breaking his father’s — and darn near every other Alaskan’s — number one rule: don’t go outside without a gun, preferably a high-powered rifle strapped to your side.

But no way was Adam going to be caught with that gun.

The first chance he got, he would drop it in a crevasse.

He trusted Bolt to steer clear of danger. If his horse caught the scent of a predator, he wouldn’t venture near the fence, which was good for Adam. And Bolt could ride like the wind.

The moment Adam stepped inside the barn, nearly all the horses snorted a good morning . Adam made it a point to greet them all, familiarizing himself with their quirks. He hadn’t met every horse yesterday, but darn near.

He stopped in front of a stall. The nameplate read: Buttercup . Brett had taken some horses to the walker, so Adam hadn’t seen them all. Then, he’d worked in the other stable for a large part of the day.

The Palomino Tennessee Walker lifted her golden head and stared at him.

She gave a full-body shake, her cream-colored mane fluttering like she was a model in one of Thomas’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues.

Thomas had laughed, telling Adam the photographers used giant fans to get that look.

And here, this stunning horse achieved it all on her own.

“ Buttercup ,” Adam whispered. “Are you Claire’s Buttercup?

Do you remember me?” He pulled a sugar cube from his pocket — meant for Bolt — and held out his hand.

The golden mare stepped forward, lowering her head over the stall like she’d been expecting him.

“Yeah, you do,” he murmured. “I helped train you for Claire.”

His eyes misted. Claire … He hadn’t seen her since right before his parents died. She’d simply stopped coming to school. Adam stroked Buttercup’s sleek muzzle. She was well groomed — better than some of the other horses he’d seen.

“I can’t believe you’re here. Did Claire’s father sell you?” he asked quietly, remembering how protective her dad had been — especially when questioning why Adam’s father allowed his son to ride bareback.

He offered another sugar cube, then combed through her silky mane with his fingers. “If there’s time, I’ll take you out for a ride, gorgeous.” A loud whinny came from the last stall. Adam laughed. “But right now, I hear Bolt. He’s a jealous booger.”

Adam passed the other stalls, checking on each, but he didn’t take the time to chat with any other horses. Bolt had treated him well yesterday — he didn’t want to give him a reason to throw him.

“Hey, boy!”

Bolt spun away from the stall door, huffing.

“I got you a treat.” Adam held up a sugar cube.

His stubborn boy eyed him for a few seconds before deciding to forgive him for fraternizing with Buttercup, Adam assumed.

Bolt ambled to the door and shoved his head forward.

Adam rewarded him with several sugar cubes. “Here you go, baby. Ready to ride?”

He grabbed just a lead rope again. Eventually, he’d saddle him up, but he wanted to earn Bolt’s trust — and fatten him up a bit — first.

* * *

Like the previous day, Bolt took Adam on an adventurous ride, turning mere seconds before Adam ended up in the woods. Bolt loved to run, and unlike Adam’s land in Falcon Run, Clara Mae’s ranch, with its wide-open acreage, gave the wild stang room to burn off energy.

As the sun crested the eastern peaks, Adam guided Bolt to the barn. “Come on, boy. Let’s cool you down before the hands show up.”

Back in Bolt’s stall, Adam reached for the leather satchel he found in the tack room. He used the curry comb to remove loose hairs and any briars. Then he grabbed the dandy brush. He used short flicking movements to whisk out any dirt. He pulled out the body brush next, which was Bolt’s favorite.