Wild Hearts Read Online Free

moving, it wasn’t easy finding the time to get my license. I loved running and biking, though, so driving wasn’t really high on my list anyway.
    â€œYou won’t get lost, will you?” she asked. She wiped down the counter with a cloth and sprayed Windex on the mirrors. Each time we moved into a new place, she cleaned no matter how sanitary things appeared. It was part of her routine to ease us into a new house. I liked that she used the same cleanser—so it made the house smell like home. I always lit candles,too—ones scented like roses and strawberries. Having familiar scents calmed me.
    I started for the door. “There’s not much town to get lost in.”
    Mom nodded. “Take your phone just in case.”
    She went back to cleaning the counter, and I left. When I opened the back door, Dad’s voice carried across the yard. “Are you kidding me?” he said into the phone. “Why weren’t these people handled before I got into town?” His free hand was balled into a fist. Then he saw me.
    Dad uncurled his fingers and waved at me. Or rather, he waved in my general direction. All his attention was on the phone call. I grabbed my yellow bike and headed down the gravelly driveway. Exploring a town solo was one of my favorite things about coming to a new place. I intended to soak up every second of Lost Springs.
    Â 

    CHAPTER THREE

    Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance.
    The crumbling road to town was almost deserted. There weren’t any houses even remotely close to our cabin, and when a solitary pickup truck passed me as I biked into town, the driver lifted three fingers from the steering wheel and tipped his hat to me. Three fingers? Not one or two? Did three mean something? If you flashed three fingers in a lot of the places I had lived, it would have been taken as a gang sign.
    In town, I passed a small post office—a wooden building with a tin roof that stretched into an overhang above the steps and small porch. A wooden sign, flapping gently in the breeze, said WATSON’S GROCERY STORE . The gravel parking lot was nearly empty, and attached to the grocery store was a smaller building. SPRING SUPPLY: SEED & FEED. Their parking lot was packed. Pickups with dogs in the truck beds were jammed into the crowded space. People trickled out of the store with burlap bags of what I assumed was feed for cattle and horses, bales of hay, and other unidentifiable farm supplies.
    I headed for the grocery store. Our usual ritual was to come to the new grocery store and shop together as a family, but maybe I could pick up a few things now and save Mom and Dad the trip.
    The grocery store was more like a market. Dozens of fruits and vegetables filled large bins, and smoky-smelling ham was suspended from the ceiling by twine in a corner of the store. Mom would probably buy out the fruit section when she saw all that Watson’s offered. I grabbed milk, bread, and a container of pre-sliced turkey and headed for the checkout. The
one-
lane checkout.
    â€œHi,” I said to the cashier, who looked about my age. She had chin-length black hair and, like, a hundred metal buttons with smiley faces, clovers, and other tiny pictures pinned to her uniform. “Ask me” was written on her name tag.
    â€œStocking up on travel food?” she asked as she rang up my items.
    â€œKind of,” I said, handing her cash. It was going to take a little getting used to how everyone knew everyone here. This was the smallest town we had ever lived in.
    â€œHope you’ve got a cooler for the milk. It’s going to get really warm tomorrow,” she said. “You’re one of the few tourists to shop here. Usually, everyone buys water and stuff from the vendor in the town center.”
    â€œActually, I’m living in Lost Springs for a while,” I said. “My dad has a job here.” I smiled at her. “I’m Brie Carter.”
    In