"Absolutely," Trista said. "But let me pour it for you, Pennsylvania. You probably don't even know how to pump a keg." Emily watched as Trista pumped the keg handle a few times and let the beer filter slowly into her cup, producing almost no foam. "Thanks," Emily answered, taking a sip. Trista poured herself a beer and led Emily away from the line to one of the couches that lined the walls of the silo. "So, did your family just move here?" "I'm staying with my cousins for a little while." Emily pointed to Abby, who was dancing with a tall blond boy, and to Matt and John, who were smoking cigarettes with a petite redhead wearing a skintight pink sweater and skinny jeans. "You on a little vacation?" Trista asked, fluttering her eyelashes. Emily couldn't be sure, but it seemed like Trista was moving closer and closer to her on the couch. She was doing everything in her power not to touch Trista's long legs, which were dangling inches from her own. "Not exactly," she blurted out. "My parents kicked me out of the house because I couldn't live by their rules." Trista fiddled with the strap of her tan boots. "My mom's like that. She thinks I'm at a choir concert right now. Otherwise she never would've let me out." "I used to have to lie to my parents about going to parties too," Emily said, suddenly afraid she was going to start crying again. She tried to imagine what was happening at her house right now. Her family had probably gathered around the TV after dinner. Just her mom, her dad, and Carolyn, happily chatting among themselves, glad that Emily, the heathen, was gone. It hurt so much it made her feel nauseated. Trista glanced at Emily sympathetically, as if she sensed something was wrong. "So hey. Here's another one. If you were a party, what kind of party would you be?" "A surprise party," Emily blurted out. That seemed like the story of her life lately--one big surprise after another.

"Good one." Trista smiled. "I'd be a toga party." They smiled at each other for a long moment. There was something about Trista's heart-shaped face and wide, blue eyes that made Emily feel really...safe. Trista leaned forward, and so did Emily. It was almost like they were going to kiss, but then Trista bent down very slowly and fixed the strap on her shoe. "So why'd they send you here, anyway?" Trista asked when she sat back up. Emily took a huge swallow of beer. "Because they caught me kissing a girl," she blurted out. When Trista leaned back, her eyes wide, Emily thought she'd made a horrible mistake. Perhaps Trista was just being Midwestern friendly, and Emily had misinterpreted. But then, Trista broke into a coy smile. She moved her lips close to Emily's ear. "You totally wouldn't be a Tootsie Roll. If it were up to me, you'd be a red-hot candy heart." Emily's heart did three somersaults. Trista stood up and offered Emily her hand. Emily took it, and without a word, Trista led her to the dance floor and started dancing sexily to the music. The song changed to a fast one, and Trista squealed and started to jump around as if she were on a trampoline. Her energy was intoxicating. Emily felt like she could be goofy with Trista--not constantly poised and cool, as she always felt she had to behave around Maya. Maya. Emily stopped, breathing in the rank, humid silo air. Last night, she and Maya had said they loved each other. Were they still together, now that Emily was possibly permanently stuck here, amid all this corn and cow manure? Did this qualify as cheating? And what did it mean that Emily hadn't thought of her once tonight, until now? Trista's cell phone beeped. She stepped out of the circle of dancers and pulled it out of her pocket. "My stupid mom's texting me for like the gazillionth time tonight," she yelled over the music, shaking her head. A shock vibrated through Emily--any minute now, she'd probably be getting a text of her own. A always seemed to know when she was having naughty thoughts. Only, her cell phone...was in the swear jar. Emily let out a thrilled bleat of laughter. Her phone was in the swear jar. She was at a party in Iowa,

Abby squeezed Emily's arm. "The ratio of guys to girls here is four to one," she whispered. "So you'll totally hook up tonight. I always do." So Abby didn't know about Emily. "Oh. Great." Emily tried to smile. Abby winked and jumped out of the truck. Emily followed the others toward the silo. The air smelled like Clinique Happy perfume; hoppy, soapy beer; and dried grass. When she walked inside, she expected to see bales of hay, a farm animal or two, and perhaps a bare, unstable ladder that led to a freaky girl's bedroom, just like in The Ring. Instead, the silo had been cleared out and Christmas lights hung from the ceiling. Plush, plum-colored couches lined the walls, and Emily saw a turntable in the corner and a bunch of enormous kegs near the back. Abby, who'd already grabbed a beer, pulled a couple of guys toward Emily. Even in Rosewood, they would've been popular--they all had floppy hair, angular faces, and brilliant white teeth. "Brett, Todd, Xavi...this is my cousin Emily. She's from Pennsylvania." "Hi," Emily said, shaking the boys' hands. "Pennsylvania." The boys nodded appreciatively, as if Abby had said Emily was from Naughty Dirty Sex Land. As Abby wandered off with one of the boys, Emily made her way to the keg. She stood in line behind a blond couple who were grinding against each other. The DJ melted into Timbaland, whom everyone at Rosewood was into right now, too. Really, people in Iowa didn't seem that different from people at her school. The girls all wore denim skirts and wedge heels, and the guys wore oversize hoodies and baggy jeans, and seemed to be experimenting with facial hair. Emily wondered where all of them went to school, or if their parents homeschooled them as well. "Are you the new girl?" A tall, white-blond girl in a striped tunic and dark jeans stood behind her. She had the broad shoulders and powerful stance of a professional volleyball player, and four small earrings snaked up her left ear. But

there was something very sweet and open about her round face, light blue eyes, and small, pretty lips. And unlike practically every other girl in the silo, she didn't have a guy's hands draped over her boobs. "Uh, yeah," Emily replied. "I just got here today." "And you're from Pennsylvania, right?" The girl pivoted back on her hips and appraised Emily carefully. "I was there once. We went to Harvard Square." "I think you mean Boston, in Massachusetts," Emily corrected her. "That's where Harvard is. Pennsylvania has Philadelphia. The Liberty Bell, Ben Franklin stuff, all that." "Oh." The girl's face fell. "I haven't been to Pennsylvania, then." She lowered her chin at Emily. "So. If you were candy, what kind would you be?" "Sorry?" Emily blinked. "Come on." The girl poked her. "Me, I'd be an M&M." "Why?" Emily asked. The girl lowered her eyes seductively. "Because I melt in your mouth, obviously." She poked Emily. "So how about you?" Emily shrugged. This was the strangest getting-to-know-you question anyone had ever asked her, but she kind of liked it. "I've never thought about it. A Tootsie Roll?" The girl violently shook her head. "You wouldn't be a Tootsie Roll. That looks like a big long poop. You'd be something way sexier than that." Emily breathed in very, very slowly. Was this girl flirting with her? "Um, I think I need to know your name before we talk about...sexy candy." The girl stuck out her hand. "I'm Trista." "Emily." As they shook, Trista spiraled her thumb around the inside of Emily's palm. She never took her eyes off Emily's face. Maybe this was just some sort of cultural Iowan way of saying hello. "Do you want a beer?" Emily sputtered, turning back for the keg.

Byron excused himself from the table and bounded off to Meredith's minuscule bathroom. After he turned on the bathroom's overhead fan, Meredith laid down her fork and looked squarely at Aria. "I know what you're thinking," she said evenly, rubbing her thumb along the pink spiderweb tattoo on her wrist. "You hate that your father's with me. But you'd better get used to it, Aria. Byron and I are going to be married as soon as your parents' divorce goes through." Aria accidentally swallowed an unchewed bite of noodles. She coughed up the broth, sputtering it all over the table. Meredith jumped back, her eyes wide. "Something you ate not agreeing with you?" she simpered. Aria looked away sharply, her throat burning. Something hadn't agreed with her, all right, but it wasn't the Wicked Witch's soup. 6 EMILY'S JUST A SWEET, INNOCENT MIDWESTERN GAL "Come on!" Abby urged, pulling Emily across the farmyard. The sun was sinking over the flat Iowa horizon, and all sorts of long-legged Midwestern bugs were coming out to play. Apparently, Emily, Abby, and Emily's two eldest boy cousins, Matt and John, were also going out to play. The four of them stopped at the edge of the road. John and Matt had both changed out of their plain white T-shirts and work pants into baggy jeans and T-shirts with beer slogans. Abby pulled at the bodice of her tube top and checked her lipstick in her little compact mirror. Emily, in the same jeans and swimming T-shirt she'd worn when she arrived, felt plain and underdressed--which was pretty much how she always felt back in Rosewood. Emily gazed over her shoulder at the farmhouse. All of its lights were off, but the dogs were still running crazily around the property, and the bad goat was still chained to the cattle guard, the bell around her neck clanging back and forth. It was a wonder Helene and Allen didn't put bells on their children. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she wondered aloud.

"It's fine," Abby answered, her hoop earrings swinging. "Mom and Dad go to bed at eight P.M. like clockwork. That's what happens when you wake up at four." "We've been doing this for months and haven't gotten caught once," Matt assured her. Suddenly, a silver pickup truck appeared on the horizon, dust kicking up in its wake. The truck rolled slowly up to the four of them and stopped. A hip-hop song Emily couldn't place wafted out, along with the strong smell of menthol cigarettes. A dark-haired, Noel Kahn look-alike waved to the cousins, then smiled at Emily. "Soooo...this is your cousin, huh?" "That's right," Abby said. "She's from Pennsylvania. Emily, this is Dyson." "Get in." Dyson patted the seat. Abby and Emily climbed in the front, and John and Matt climbed into the pickup bed. As they rolled off, Emily glanced once more at the farmhouse receding in the distance, an uneasy feeling gnawing at her. "So, what brings you to glamorous Addams?" Dyson clunkily shifted gears. Emily glanced at Abby. "My parents sent me." "They sent you away?" "Totally," Abby interrupted. "I heard you're a real badass, Emily." She looked at Dyson. "Emily lives on the edge." Emily stifled a laugh. The only rebellious thing she'd ever done in front of Abby was sneak an extra Oreo for dessert. She wondered if her cousins knew the truth of why her parents had banished her here. Probably not--lesbian was most likely a swear-jar word. Within minutes, they drove up an uneven path to a large, burnt-orange silo, and parked on the grass next to a car with a bumper sticker that read, I BRAKE FOR HOOTERS. Two pale boys rolled out of a red pickup and bumped fists with a couple beefy, towheaded boys climbing out of a black Dodge Ram. Emily smirked. She'd always thought using the word corn-fed to describe someone from Iowa was a clich? but right now, it was the only description that came to mind.

on such short notice." Aria shut her eyes. She missed Ezra's shabby little apartment, with its bathtub and thousands of books and map of the New York City subway system shower curtain. There were no roaches there, either--real or fake. "Honey?" Meredith's voice rang out from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready." Byron gave Aria a tight smile and turned for the kitchen. Aria figured she should follow. In the kitchen, Meredith was setting bowls at each of their plates. Thankfully, dinner wasn't gruel, but innocent-looking chicken soup. "I thought this would be best for my stomach," she admitted. "Meredith's been having some stomach issues," Byron explained. Aria turned to the window and smiled. Maybe she'd get lucky and Meredith would have somehow contracted the bubonic plague. "It's low-salt." Meredith punched Byron in the arm. "So it's good for you, too." Aria looked at her father curiously. Byron used to salt every single bite while it was on the fork. "Since when do you eat low-salt stuff?" "I have high blood pressure," Byron said, pointing to his heart. Aria wrinkled her nose. "No, you don't." "Yes, I do." Byron tucked his napkin into his collar. "I have for a while now." "But...but you've never eaten low-salt stuff before." "I'm a slave driver," Meredith insisted, scraping back a seat and sitting down. Meredith had positioned Aria at the head of the Wicked Witch cutout. Aria slid her bowl over to cover the witch's pea-green visage. "I keep him on a regimen," Meredith went on. "I make him take vitamins, too." Aria slumped, dread welling in her stomach. Meredith was already acting like Byron's wife, and he'd only lived with her for a month. Meredith pointed to Aria's hand. "Whatcha got there?" Aria stared down at her lap, realizing she was still holding the Shakespeare bobblehead Ezra had given her. "Oh. It's just...something from a friend."

"A friend who likes literature, I guess." Meredith reached out and made Shakespeare's head bob up and down. There was a tiny glint in her eye. Aria froze. Could Meredith know about Ezra? She glanced at Byron. Her father slurped his soup, oblivious. He wasn't reading at the table, something he constantly did at home. Had Byron seriously been unhappy at home? Did he honestly enjoy bug-painting, taxidermy-loving Meredith more than he loved Aria's sweet, kind, loving mother, Ella? And what made Byron think Aria could just sit idly by and accept this? "Oh, Meredith has a surprise for you," Byron piped up. "Every semester, she gets to take a class at Hollis for free. She says you can use this semester's credit to take a class instead." "That's right." Meredith passed the Hollis College continuing education course book to Aria. "Maybe you'd like to take one of the art classes I'm teaching?" Aria bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She'd rather have shards of glass permanently lodged in her throat than spend a single additional moment with Meredith. "Come on, pick a class," Byron urged. "You know you want to." So they were forcing her to do this? Aria whipped open the book. Maybe she could take something in German filmmaking, or microbiology, or Special Topics in Neglected Children and Maladjusted Family Behavior. Then something caught her eye. Mindless Art: Create uniquely crafted masterpieces in tune with your soul's needs, wants, and desires. Through sculpture and touch, students learn to depend less on their eyes and more on their inner selves. Aria circled the class with the gray ROCKS ROCK! Hollis geology department pencil she'd found wedged in the course book. The class definitely sounded kooky. It might even end up being like one of those Icelandic yoga classes where instead of stretching, Aria and the rest of the students danced with their eyes closed, making hawk noises. But she needed a little mindlessness right now. Plus, it was one of the few art classes that Meredith wasn't teaching. Which pretty much made it perfect.

ever met," he said. "So just...screw 'em, you know? You'll be fine." Ezra leaned down, sealing up boxes with clear packing tape. Aria backed out of the apartment in a daze, wondering why he'd suddenly turned all guidance counselor on her. It was like he was saying that he was the adult, with responsibilities and consequences, and she was just a kid, her whole life in front of her. Which was exactly what she didn't want to hear right then. "Aria! Welcome!" Meredith cried. She stood at the edge of the kitchen, wearing a black-and-white striped apron--which Aria was trying to imagine as a prison uniform--and a cow-shaped oven mitt covered her right hand. She was grinning like a shark about to swallow a minnow. Aria dragged in the last of the bags Sean had dumped at her feet last night and looked around. She knew Meredith had quirky taste--she was an artist, and taught classes at Hollis College, the same place where Byron was tenured--but Meredith's living room looked like a psychopath had decorated it. There was a dentist's chair in the corner, complete with a tray for all the instruments of torture. Meredith had covered a whole wall with pictures of eyeballs. She branded messages into wood as a form of artistic expression, and there was a big wood chunk across the mantel that said, BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP, BUT UGLY GOES CLEAN TO THE BONE. There was a large cutout of the Wicked Witch of the West pasted over the kitchen table. Aria was half tempted to point to it and say she hadn't known Meredith's mother was from Oz. Then she saw a raccoon in the corner and screamed. "Don't worry, don't worry," Meredith said quickly. "He's stuffed. I bought him at a taxidermy store in Philly." Aria wrinkled her nose. This place rivaled the M黷ter Museum of medical oddities in Philadelphia, which Aria's brother loved almost as much as the sex museums he'd visited in Europe. "Aria!" Byron appeared from behind a corner, wiping his hands on his jeans. Aria noted that he was wearing dark denim jeans with a belt and a soft gray sweater--maybe his usual uniform of a sweat-stained Sixers T-shirt and frayed plaid boxers wasn't good enough for Meredith. "Welcome!"

Aria grunted, hefting up her duffel again. When she sniffed the air, it smelled like a combination of burnt wood and Cream of Wheat. She eyed the pot on the stove suspiciously. Perhaps Meredith was cooking gruel, like an evil headmistress in a Dickens novel. "So let me show you your room." Byron grabbed Aria's hand. He led her down the hall to a large, square room that contained a few big chunks of wood, some branding irons, an enormous band saw, and welding tools. Aria assumed this was Meredith's studio--or the room where she finished off her victims. "This way," Byron said. He led her to a space in the corner of the studio that was separated from the rest of the room by a floral curtain. When he pushed the curtain back, he crowed, "Taa-daaa!" A twin bed and a dresser missing three of its drawers occupied a space only slightly larger than a shower stall. Byron had carried in her other suitcases earlier, but because there was no room on the floor, he'd piled them on the bed. There was one flat, yellowed pillow propped up against the headboard, and someone had balanced a tiny portable TV in the windowsill. There was a sticker on the top of it that said in old, faded, seventies lettering, SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A WELDER. Aria turned to Byron, feeling nauseated. "I have to sleep in Meredith's studio?" "She doesn't work at night," Byron said quickly. "And look! You have your own TV and your own fireplace!" He pointed to a huge brick monstrosity that took up most of the far wall. Most Old Hollis houses had fireplaces in every room because their central heating systems sucked. "You can make it cozy in here at night!" "Dad, I have no idea how to light a fireplace." Then Aria noticed a trail of cockroaches going from one corner of the ceiling to another. "Jesus!" she screamed, pointing at them and cowering behind Byron. "They're not real," Byron reassured her. "Meredith painted them. She's really personalized this place with an artistic touch." Aria felt like she was going to hyperventilate. "They look real to me!" Byron looked honestly surprised. "I thought you'd like this place. It was the best we could put together

Venters gasped in amazement.

As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters clung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.

The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western rise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened. The rims of the canyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.

It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south. Along the canyon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in thundering flight.

Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His head was high and twisted, in a most singular position for a running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shape clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strange position and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters's nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice.

Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of Wrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad. The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading down into the canyon.

"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shot once ...twice...the third time...four times...five! all wasted shots and precious seconds!

With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared the canyon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-like shape clinging to his neck!

There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant s silence.

Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away in distant echo, then silence unbroken.

Wrangle's race was run.

Then Venters sat down to rest and think.

Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he was compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close to the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and go down into the Pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.

He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into which the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes, and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting canyons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass. Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail, and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drove cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication at all that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had many holes to his burrow.

In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intended to make no move. The longer they rested the better, and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go over to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Instead he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters was overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star presently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook himself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the little pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but a drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more. Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.

The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and the canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and, taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come within roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up in disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he might be caught.