Her sister looked at her, her eyes wide and strange.
“The horses . . .” she said. “Take Summer . . . He’s fastest. Get help.”
Emma stared at her. She imagined herself racing down to the pasture with a halter, the darks shadows of the horses in the field. She’d have no time to saddle up, but she knew Summer would neck-rein with his halter and lead. She saw herself leading him through the gate in the dark, then vaulting onto his back and galloping up the street to the Jacksons’, her fingers tangled in his mane.
It is what Jessie would do. That was why she had thought of it. Even now, out of her mind with pain, there was something in it that Jessie could revere: her sister and her trusted steed, galloping through the night in search of help. But Emma knew, even as the vision passed through
