Mustang Moon

by Terri Farley

  “If you could follow me back to the ranch just to make sure I get there,” Slocum said, “I’d be awful grateful.”

  Did Linc Slocum hear Gram sigh in relief? Compared to being his chauffeur, it seemed like a fine idea.

  “I’d be glad to do that, Linc,” Gram said, “just so long as I get home in time to start dinner.”

  Uncertainty about his car didn’t slow Slocum down. At first, Gram tried to keep up, then she let him pull away.

  “Imagine replacing a car because its tires are old.” Gram chuckled, but she didn’t sound amused.

  Since Sam had returned home, Dad and Gram had made her sit through discussions of ranch finances. Sam found the talks boring, but she understood why Linc’s remark made Gram envious.

  They drove another couple miles.

  “We wanted to spend more,” Gram said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “On your school clothes.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Gram. Really.” Sam patted Gram’s arm, hoping her frown would disappear. “I haven’t even unpacked the box of stuff Aunt Sue mailed me.”

  Sam had left most of her school clothes in her room in San Francisco. Since the box had arrived, the weather had been stifling hot. The idea of trying on wool slacks and pullover sweaters was repulsive. “Besides,” Sam said, just in case Gram was thinking that would be a good way to end the day, “clothes aren’t a big deal to me.”

  Gram looked skeptical. “When you’re starting your first year of high school, clothes are important.”

  Was Gram trying to make her feel worse? Sam didn’t have time to worry about clothes or money, when the blue roan and the Phantom might harm each other. But Gram wouldn’t stop.

  “There’s a darn good reason we’re careful with our money.” Gram made a hushing movement when Sam tried to interrupt. “We won’t make much from fall cattle sales. Drought means sparse grass and that translates into thinner cattle. And, of course, we get paid by the pound.”

  Sam cringed inside, but she didn’t say a word.

  If her orphan calf, Buddy, hadn’t stepped into a pool of quicksand and had to be rescued, she’d be out on River Bend lands right now, fattening for market.

  Sam’s stomach twisted with nausea.

  It could still happen. Sam couldn’t make herself ask Dad if she could keep Buddy as a pet.

  “And of course there’s the BLM,” Gram went on. “It takes twenty acres to support a cow and her calf, so we have to use federal land to graze our stock. When they raise grazing fees for every cow who roams on land that’s not strictly River Bend—” Gram stopped talking. “I’m sorry, honey. It’s useless to complain and worse to be angry at Linc Slocum for having money.”

  Linc turned the Cadillac toward huge ornate iron gates. Beyond, Sam saw acres of pastures that looked almost neon green compared to the endless expanses of gray-green. In a desert state, water to keep things green didn’t come cheap.

  “I wonder how he made so much money,” Sam mused.

  “Honey, it wouldn’t be polite to ask.”

  Sam had hoped they’d see Slocum to his gate and leave, but as the big iron gates swung wide via remote control, Slocum beckoned them to follow. Gram did.

  The last time Sam had been on this property, the ranch had belonged to the Kenworthys. Lila and Jed Kenworthy were nice people with a daughter Jennifer, who was about her age. Sam hadn’t gone to school with her, though, because Jennifer’s mother had taught her at home.

  Gram’s Buick rolled through the soaring iron gates and into a Western wonderland. Flowers flanked the freshly paved road. White wooden fences marked off velvety pastures full of Black Angus and Dutch belted cattle, animals that were black in front and back, with a wide band of white fur around their middles.

  Gram nodded at the Dutch belted cattle.

  “Linc told your dad he bought a hundred head of them, because they reminded Rachel of Oreo cookies,” Gram said.

  Rachel, Sam remembered, was Slocum’s daughter. He’d mentioned buying her a dressage horse, though Jake had told Sam that Rachel was more interested in MTV and the latest color of nail polish than she was horses.

  There were plenty of horses on Slocum’s ranch. A herd of Shetland ponies scampered along the fence on the left. On the right, Sam saw a dozen lean-limbed horses that had to be racing Appaloosas.

  In the last pasture, a dozen assorted horses left off grazing. Tails swishing, grass dripping from their muzzles, they watched the car drive by. Sam would bet they were off-duty cow horses.

  A line of redwood hitching posts, polished and fitted with brass tie rings, led them further up the driveway.

  Sam finally recognized a round pen similar to the one at home. An animal moved inside, but she couldn’t see through the closely placed rails.

  What Sam did not recognize was the structure up ahead. It was something she couldn’t possibly have forgotten.

  The road arrowed into a half circle marked off for parking. The ranch house Sam remembered had vanished, and a hill rose abruptly out of level ground. Atop the hill stood a mansion that looked like it belonged on a Southern plantation, not a ranch.

  Before Sam had a chance to comprehend the sight, Slocum appeared at Gram’s window once more.

  “You’re a horsewoman, Grace,” he said. “Would you mind looking at something and telling me what you think?”

  Neither Gram nor Sam could resist such an invitation.

  Slocum led the way to the round corral, opened the gate, and nodded them in before closing it.

  The mare was the red of a summer sunset. No more than fourteen hands high, she moved with deerlike quickness, trotting away. Her hooves floated in a haze of dust. With her shoulder pressed to the fence at the far side of the pen, the mare curved her neck and studied the unfamiliar humans.

  Slocum strolled toward the horse. Her sorrel skin shivered as if shaking off flies. When Slocum reached for her halter, the mare moved off. That’s when Sam noticed her flank was stamped with the River Bend brand.

  “Is she ours?” Sam whispered.

  Gram shook her head. “She was, but Wyatt sold Kitty to Jed Kenworthy right after”—Gram drew a breath—“your accident.”

  Sam’s hands covered her stomach as if she’d been socked. Princess Kitty. No wonder the mare looked familiar. She was Blackie’s mother.

  Why had Dad sold Kitty? Why would he sell a Quarter horse mare with super cow sense, who produced beautiful foals?

  Right after your accident, Gram had said. She couldn’t mean Dad had sold Kitty because she was Blackie’s dam, could she?

  Slocum quickened his steps, then he jogged, but the sorrel stayed a few steps ahead.

  “The marks on her haunches, Linc?” Gram called to Slocum. “Is that what you wanted me to see?”

  Puffing and out of breath, Slocum returned to stand beside them. “Yeah,” he said. “What do you think?”

  Sam recognized the marks at once. They were the same nips and teeth rakings she saw on Ace.

  “Do you think they’re claw scratches from a cougar?” Slocum asked.

  “Oh no,” Gram said. “They’re bites from another horse.”

  “That’s what Kenworthy said, too, but it’s strange. The mare was gone from the saddle horse pasture yesterday morning, then we heard her neighing from outside the front gate.” Slocum pointed toward the fancy iron entrance.

  Sam knew it was rare for a captive horse to leave guaranteed food and water, but it wasn’t unheard of.

  “We did turn out range horses for a few years, and I’ve no doubt they ran with the mustangs,” Gram said. “Maybe Kitty just took it into her head to try it again.”

  “That doesn’t explain the bites, now, does it?” Slocum’s tone turned mocking and his eyebrows arched.

  He clearly had an explanation in mind, but Gram refused to play along.

  “I guess you’ll never know,” Gram said.

  “But I do know. Kenworthy found strange hoofprints, unshod hoofprints, in t
he flower beds along the road.” With a triumphant laugh, Slocum turned toward Sam. “The Phantom came in here and tried to steal her.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Sam snapped. At Gram’s sharp intake of breath, Sam made a polite addition. “I’m sure you must be mistaken, Mr. Slocum.”

  “I tend to agree, Linc.” Gram shook her head. “I’ve lived here all my life. In sixty-five years, we’ve never had a wild stallion up near the house, unless we roped him and brought him in.”

  Oh yes, we have. Sam thought of the blue roan. He’d been after the Phantom’s mares today. And she’d seen him right outside the kitchen door, but if she said that, she’d be grounded.

  “I hate to contradict a lady,” Slocum said. “But I know for a fact that white stud’s been on River Bend property.”

  Sam suspected Slocum of lurking on the ridge above the River Bend at night, spying with binoculars. But Sam kept her lips pressed together hard, and lagged behind Gram and Slocum as they left the round pen.

  Gram was quiet, until they reached the Buick.

  “If you’re talking about the gray mustang,” Gram said, once more refusing to call him the Phantom, “I don’t think he’s been any closer than the river. Am I right, Samantha?”

  “Absolutely.” Sam tightened her hands into fists.

  “Well, we’ll see. We’ll certainly see.” Slocum nodded four times. “I’ve got expensive bloodstock on this ranch. My herd of Shetlands, Quarter horses, a couple Thoroughbreds, a Saddlebred, and a dressage horse, just to name a few.” Slocum let out a breath as if listing his possessions wearied him.

  “Kitty’s a good cow horse. You’re lucky she found her way back,” Gram said, sympathizing. “I know she was one of Wyatt’s favorites.”

  Slocum dismissed the mare with a wave of his hand. “I’ve got a blue-blooded Appaloosa filly on her way here from Florida, so I need to be extra watchful.”

  Sam had started opening the car door when she realized Slocum was watching her. It made her cold, as if she were being watched by a snake.

  “If a wild horse trespasses on my property, especially if he’s trying to steal my mares, I’ll get him declared a nuisance. You’re a smart girl, Samantha. You know what that is. A troublemaker.” He watched Sam, but she stayed frozen. “Once that’s done, BLM has to catch him.”

  Sam’s mouth was so dry she could barely pronounce the words. “And relocate him.”

  Slocum chuckled.

  “You might want to check your facts, little lady. BLM’s short of funds just now. They can’t be relocating nuisance animals or keeping them locked up and eating at government expense.

  “BLM can send that horse out of state for adoption, but that’s pretty pricey, too. No, when an animal’s already proven unmanageable, there’s only one financially sound solution. BLM can spend a nickel on a bullet and put that stallion down.”

  Chapter Four

  IT WAS NEARLY four o’clock when Gram’s car bumped back across the River Bend bridge and Sam heard her horse calling for their afternoon ride.

  Ace’s sorrowful neigh turned to joyous snorting as Sam climbed out of Gram’s car. No matter how full the days were on the ranch, Dad made sure Sam had time to ride.

  After two years in the city, Sam had to admit her horsemanship needed polish. Dad agreed, but he assured Sam her skills would come back with practice. If he noticed she was still a little nervous since the accident, he didn’t say a word.

  Sam ran to her room and piled her purchases on her bed. She changed into riding clothes and nearly reached the door before Gram caught her.

  “Sam, I know you’re in a hurry, but please check for eggs, first. They were downright sparse this morning.” Gram handed Sam a basket. “Wyatt’s been craving a yellow cake with brown-sugar frosting. With him so worried over stock prices, it’s the least I can do.”

  Sam took the egg basket and hurried to the door. She’d already fed the hens and checked their nests this morning, but fresh cake meant the delay was for a good cause.

  “Oh, and as long as you’re going,” Gram said, pulling a tin colander from a shelf, “pick us some sugar snap peas.”

  Sam didn’t growl aloud, but she wished she could. As the screen door slammed behind her, Ace’s nicker carried over the quiet ranch.

  She smooched in his direction and called, “Soon, boy.”

  River Bend’s garden provided enough food to last all winter long, with few trips to the grocery store in Darton. As summer tapered into fall harvest, Sam couldn’t go more than two hours without fetching and carrying baskets and colanders full of produce for Gram.

  It took forever. The cowboys had already ridden in, giving her tired waves, by the time Sam presented Gram with sugar snap peas and eggs.

  Sam jogged by the pasture on her way to the tack room. Ace had given up on her. He’d fallen to grazing again and didn’t even look up.

  Inside the barn, Sam heard the radio before she got to the tack room. It wasn’t playing music. She heard the rustle of newspaper pages and when she walked in, Sam could see Dad wasn’t reading the comics. Dad looked up to smile, but his index finger tapped his lips, hushing her. As the radio station from Reno gave the latest stock prices, he frowned.

  “Hey, girl,” he said, snapping the radio off. He pushed the newspaper aside, too, and rolled his shirtsleeves down to cover red scratches on his forearms. “Back from town?”

  “Yep,” Sam said. She took her saddle blanket from its perch and flung Ace’s bridle over her shoulder. “What did you do to your arms, Dad?”

  He shrugged. “Fool bull calf got himself stuck in the blackberries, down on the other side of the river.”

  “Ouch,” Sam said.

  “Range cattle have no sense once we bring them to summer pasture,” Dad mused. “They know how to find water and graze, how to kick cougars and coyotes, but give ’em something simple as a hedge full of stickers, and they only see the sweet berries. One calf—Pepper calls him Baby Huey—just won’t learn. His little pink nose is all cut up.”

  Sam made a humming sound as she backed out the door balancing her saddle. She hoped it sounded like an interested hum, but not too interested. The sun showed a copper edge above the hills, hinting she should have been loping away by now.

  “But Baby Huey won’t be our problem for long,” Dad said, turning back to his newspaper.

  As if they’d suddenly frozen, Sam’s hands clamped on the saddle. If Baby Huey, a spring calf, was old enough to be sold for beef, so was Buddy.

  “He won’t be going to market, right?” Sam asked.

  Dad gave an impatient shake of his head. “Bull calf auction,” he said.

  Gram, or even Jake, might have picked up on Sam’s hint, but Dad didn’t. Instead, he came up with another chore.

  “As long as you’re riding out, check for Baby Huey. Then, I’m counting on you to put Ace and Sweetheart—”

  “I remember,” Sam interrupted, even though she’d almost forgotten. “But how do I recognize Baby Huey?”

  Dad stared at Sam as if she’d asked how to tell a horse from a handsaw.

  “He’s bigger than the other calves, but, for crying out loud, Sam, if you see any calves tangled in the blackberry bushes,” Dad snapped, “yank ’em out!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oh, the joys of country living, Sam grumbled to herself. At Aunt Sue’s house in San Francisco, she’d only had to make her bed and set the table. On a cleaning day, she might have had to dust the piano and feed the goldfish, too.

  Ace’s nicker made Sam look up. Her bay gelding had braved the teeth and heels of other horses to sidle toward the gate. Before she could open it, he nuzzled her neck, tickling her with whiskers and his grass-sweet breath.

  “And that,” Sam said, kissing a muzzle so dainty it could sip from a teacup, “is why I don’t live in San Francisco.”

  Once astride Ace, Sam felt free.

  She kept her reins taut. Though Ace was a cow pony, used to working on loose reins, he felt tight b
eneath her. Sam had learned her lesson. When Ace felt restless and ready to run, she didn’t dare let her mind wander. Bucking was Ace’s favorite way to make her pay attention to him.

  After they’d crossed the bridge and headed north, she would let him run. When he’d settled down, they would check the blackberry bushes for cattle.

  Finally, Sam leaned forward, firmed her legs, and gave Ace’s ribs a tap of her heels. Even though she’d braced for Ace’s sudden lunge forward, Sam grabbed the saddle horn.

  No! Darn it. She only scolded herself for a second. Then, as Ace settled into a smooth run, she relaxed, swaying in the saddle as if she’d been born to it. Which she had.

  His pace lulled her. Sam breathed a summer wind scented with pine, sun-yellowed grass, and an edge of evening cold. The ground underfoot slanted down into a damp hollow thick with coarse grass. A few yellow flowers no bigger than raindrops clustered together. She’d bet an underground spring ran just under the surface here.

  Wings fluttered and a sage hen burst from the grass, right beneath Ace’s nose. Hands steady on the reins, Sam didn’t panic. I trust you, Ace. Her thought matched the quick stutter step that interrupted Ace’s run. As Sam caught her breath, Ace swung back into a gallop. Head level, he watched the cattle that were now about a block away.

  Sam slowed Ace to a jog, then a walk, and finally reined him to a stop. As Sam praised Ace by rubbing his neck, a group of white-faced Hereford calves wearing the River Bend brand sighted them. They ran bawling, brown tails straight up, to their mothers.

  They were only pretending to be afraid. The calves bumped each other, detoured around a rock, then kicked their heels skyward. The calves had been around riders for weeks. They weren’t a bit scared. They were playing.

  Buddy would love to romp with these calves, but their fun might not last long. Some bull calves would be sold as soon as Dad found a buyer paying top price. This time next year, all the males would be on their way to market. Sam watched the calves scatter and rejoin a herd of about thirty cows.

  Buddy wasn’t unhappy at the ranch. Sam served as her mama, although now that she usually munched grass instead of taking a bottle, mothering mostly meant rubbing Buddy’s bony head. Buddy didn’t lack for playmates, either. She chased Blaze, the ranch dog, with the same zigzag silliness these calves were showing.