by Terri Farley
“I am definitely getting kicked off this ranch,” Sam moaned.
A horse snorted and hooves skittered as Sam sat up.
Since Calico, Ginger, and Judge were just looking forlornly into their feed bins, Sam was pretty sure it had been the colt who’d stood close enough to her hammock to be disturbed by her movement.
“Hi, sweet pony,” Sam said, then clucked to the colt.
He faced away from her, black tail swishing. This was a change. He’d decided she wasn’t dangerous. He could turn his back on her and she probably wouldn’t leap on him like a predator.
This was progress, but the wrong kind. Sam watched the colt sidle closer to the old saddle horses. She and Dr. Scott had made a mistake. They’d felt sorry for the colt because he’d been separated from his herd, but as long as he had a herd, why should he bond with her?
“Calico, Ginger, Judge,” Sam called to the horses. They raised their heads, then swung them hopefully toward the barn and feed room. “If Mrs. Allen says it’s okay, it’s moving day for you three.”
Sam’s stomach growled, but she fed the horses first and gave them fresh water.
As she added strawberry-kiwi Kool-Aid to Pirate’s bucket, she noticed the colt watching. He blinked the white eyelashes of one eye and the sandy red ones on the other. It seemed to Sam that there was a rebuke in his expression.
“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “I know I’m not the one who usually does this. But it’s you and me, now, good boy. Dr. Scott isn’t here. I’m sorry.”
Once the horses were cared for, Sam hurried to Mrs. Allen’s house.
Click click. Pant pant. Snuffle snuffle.
Sam heard Imp and Angel at the door before she opened it. Once she was inside, the dogs’ flat little faces pressed against Sam’s legs and they slobbered on her shins.
“Nice to see you, too,” she said, making her way into the quiet kitchen.
Even though it was already seven o’clock, no one, except the dogs, was awake. Mrs. Allen wasn’t an early riser like Gram, or maybe she’d lain awake late last night, worrying over Gabe.
Sam poured herself a glass of milk and drank it while nibbling a granola bar from the box Mrs. Allen had brought with yesterday’s groceries. She also thought about moving Mrs. Allen’s saddle horses. She should ask permission, but she only had a few days with Pirate and, as Dallas had said one morning on the cattle drive, they were “burnin’ daylight.”
Sam threw each of the panting Boston bulldogs a piece of her granola bar, then wadded up the wrapper and threw it away.
“The worst thing that can happen,” she told the chewing dogs, “if I move the horses and she doesn’t want them in with the mustangs, is that she’ll make me move them back. Right?” she asked, but the dogs just gazed up at her, licking their lips.
Finding Calico’s bridle and slipping it on the pinto mare was easy. The tricky part was releasing the three older horses while keeping the colt penned.
He neighed frantically and darted randomly toward the gate and away from it, unsure whether he was more afraid of Sam or of being left alone.
“This will all work out in the end,” she promised the colt.
The two pintos and the old bay milled around until Sam snagged Calico’s reins and led her to a rock to mount.
She hadn’t ridden barefooted, in shorts, for a long time. She’d done it all the time as a little kid, but now Sam felt wobbly and unbalanced.
She clucked her tongue and started herding the horses toward the mustang pasture. It would be easier if someone had gone on ahead to open the gate, but she hoped the captive mustangs would shy away from all the activity long enough that she could open the gate and herd the saddle horses through without any wild horses escaping.
Inconsolable at being abandoned, Pirate neighed and raced along the fence. Back and forth he galloped, crying to the other horses to come back.
Hardening her heart, Sam told herself this was for his own good.
And what about the way she’d talked to Gabe last night? Had that been for his own good, too?
Sam tried to remember everything she knew about Gabe. Early in his hospitalization, Mrs. Allen had told Sam that Gabe shifted between being angry and so sad, it broke her heart. She mentioned that he regretted taking his legs for granted and listed things he thought he’d miss, like skateboarding, kicking a soccer ball, and running to class when he was tardy.
She remembered, again, that during their one phone call, she’d asked Gabe “What’s up?” and he’d answered, “Not me.” Although she’d felt stupid and insensitive at the time, now she could see that Gabe’s dark humor could help him get through this. Besides, she’d said lots worse things to him last night.
Whinnying wildly, taking snorting breaths in-between, Pirate continued to beg the other horses to come back.
“No one is going to sleep through this,” Sam told Calico.
Just then, Sam heard the squawk of the rusty gate. She glanced back over her shoulder in time to see Gabe making his way toward her.
Wait. Her breath caught for a minute. No, she was probably imagining it, probably just wishing it were true, but it looked as if he was putting more weight on his uncast leg.
It could be true, but it might not mean anything, either. Yesterday Gabe had mentioned he had limited mobility in that leg. The other leg was shattered, and hadn’t he said something about having a metal rod in it? But what did “limited mobility” mean? Was it okay for him to be putting more weight on that leg?
“What are you doing?” Gabe called after her now.
“Putting them in the other pasture so that I can work with the colt,” she said. Sam bit her lip. Gabe was following her anyway. Why shouldn’t she ask for his help? “Want to open that gate for me?”
She’d almost asked, Can you open that gate? but a flicker of understanding told her to let him decide. There was a second of hesitation while he made up his mind. Then Gabe said, “Sure.”
Sweat beaded his upper lip by the time he managed to open the bolt, avoid the jostling horses, and keep his crutches pressed under his arms.
“Thanks,” Sam said as she slipped off Calico’s bridle and gave the old mare a pat on the rump so she’d move off with the other horses.
Sam slipped through the gate and shot the bolt home, then turned to Gabe. “It was a lot easier with your help. Doing it alone, I might not have gotten them all through at once.”
He nodded, looking thoughtful as he stared at the mustangs.
“I’m sorry that, last night—”
“Forget about it,” Gabe told her.
“No, really…” She almost went on, but she caught a look in his eyes that she’d seen in Jake’s and Dad’s and Dallas’. He just didn’t want to rehash an emotional scene, so Sam swallowed her apology and told him about the captive mustangs.
Mrs. Allen had told him how she’d come to own the horses, but he’d never seen them before.
“That big liver chestnut—”
“And by that you mean ‘brown’?” Gabe asked.
“Well, yeah, dark brown. The one strutting over there is Roman. He thinks he’s the boss. I don’t see Belle and Faith, but see that black mare with the bright bay colt?”
“And by bay you mean brown?” Gabe teased again.
“A totally different shade of brown,” Sam insisted. “But, yeah. Those two are named Licorice and Windfall. That yellow dun,” Sam said, pointing, then added, “yellow, not brown, see her?—is named Fourteen and I don’t know if her baby has a name yet.”
“He doesn’t have a name.” Gabe’s voice was flat. “How come?”
“The colt?” Sam asked, but Gabe shook his head.
Could he mean the Phantom? Was he thinking of what he’d seen last night? But then Gabe clarified what he meant by jerking his head back toward the ranch yard.
“Oh. Him?” Sam gave herself time to think. Pirate’s wasn’t a secret name like the Phantom’s or Tempest’s. The colt had never heard it whispered,
and yet she was reluctant to share it. “No. Dr. Scott and I just figured it would be less confusing if we let his new owner choose a name.”
Gabe’s lips shifted sideways. He looked kind of disgusted.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Doesn’t it…not that I care. I mean, it’s not like he knows the other horses have names and he doesn’t. It’s just…it seems…” He shook his head. “Man, I need to wake up. I can’t even talk this morning.”
Sam wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily. “Seems like what?”
“Like if he mattered, he’d have a name.”
“Give him one,” Sam suggested. The words popped out of her mouth before she thought about them.
“No way. He’s not my horse. Do I look like a cowboy?”
“It was just an idea,” Sam said. “But hey, I’ve got to get to work with him. We only have a few days. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
“I skipped it,” Gabe said. “It’s not like I’m doing anything.”
“You’re joking, right?” Sam asked. She looked at his forearms, tense with muscles where he gripped his crutches.
A trace of yesterday’s cockiness crossed his face, but Gabe just shrugged. In fact, Sam thought he made kind of a big deal of that shrug, as if he were flexing those muscles, too.
“So, are you just checking on my nutrition, or what?” he asked.
Sam shook her head. “I have to put the zinc oxide on the colt’s face and I’m not sure if he’ll let me.”
“The vet just said do it.”
“I know,” Sam said, puzzled. “But I don’t think he’s going to just stand still while I try it the first time,” Sam said. “And even though he’s got a halter on, he’s a big strong colt. I need a spotter.”
“What do you think I’m going to do if he tries to trample you?” Gabe demanded.
“Yell,” Sam said.
“Yell? Like ‘Shoo, you bad horsy’?”
“That ought to do it,” Sam said. “He’s still pretty spooky and, really, except for movie horses and stallions whose mares are threatened, horses don’t really charge that much.”
Sam tried to keep a smile from playing on her lips as she remembered the Phantom’s mock charge last night.
She wasn’t sure whether Gabe saw her expression or not. When Sam looked at him, leaning against the fence and rolling the tension from his shoulder, Gabe said, “He doesn’t look anything like that white stallion, does he?”
“Yeah he does,” Sam said firmly.
“Naw,” Gabe insisted, but his green eyes narrowed, studying the colt as if he hoped she was right.
So, even though there was no way to be certain, Sam said, “They’re father and son.”
“Wow,” Gabe said.
This time Sam couldn’t smother her smile. She wished Gabe hadn’t seen her with the Phantom, but it had given him a better of idea of the wildness Pirate had left behind.
Chapter Fourteen
“How long is this supposed to take?” Gabe asked.
For an hour, Sam had been trying to get close enough to touch the colt. The sun had risen above the horizon and Gabe pulled at the neck of his long-sleeved T-shirt.
“It depends,” Sam said. She kept walking after the colt, letting him think she was talking to him as they continued their dance of stop and watch, advance and retreat. She was closer than she’d been all morning when he bolted away. Again. “This could go on for days, but I don’t think it will.”
“Days?” Gabe asked. “Why?”
“All herd animals—pack animals, too, I think, like dogs—are looking for a leader. You just have to prove you’re the right one for the job. Some horses are harder to convince than others.”
“Yeah? So how do they tell if you’re the right one?” Gabe sounded sarcastic.
Sam wasn’t surprised that Gabe sounded skeptical. Dallas, River Bend’s foreman, still resisted these ideas, too, and he’d worked with horses his entire life.
“Some people say that in the wild, the lead horse is the one that can make other horses move,” Sam said. She was picturing the Phantom herding his mares and thinking of Queen, who’d been his lead mare, until she noticed Pirate paid closer attention to her when Gabe was directly behind her. “Hmm.”
“What?” Gabe said, batting at the wave of dust the colt had raised as he bolted away. Gabe coughed, then muttered something about someone burning off nearby fields before he made a rolling gesture with his hand, so she’d keep explaining.
“I think it makes more sense, that a horse obeys a human if he—the horse, that is—doesn’t get scared or hurt trying to do what that human asks him to do,” Sam said.
“Like a good coach,” Gabe said.
Sam hadn’t been sure Gabe really cared, but at least he was paying attention.
“This guy,” Sam said, and when she pointed at Pirate, he began circling the pen at a trot, “wasn’t very high in his herd hierarchy, so what Dr. Scott said, about him being almost halter broken, makes sense.
“But Dark Sunshine, a buckskin mustang who’s sort of mine, not only spent some time with the Phantom as a lead mare, but she’s had some bad treatment by humans. She barely trusts anyone, and she’s not completely halter broken even now.”
“How long have you had her?” Gabe asked in a dreading tone.
“About a year,” Sam said, but she ignored Gabe’s groan, because she’d just seen what she was waiting for.
The colt stopped. His shoulders, neck, and head loosened and he walked a few steps in her direction.
“That’s my good boy,” Sam crooned.
Quick as she could, she opened the tube of zinc oxide and let the colt catch the familiar scent. Instead of trying to grab his halter and confine him, she inched up to the young horse and lightly covered his burns with the cream.
He trembled at her touch and his legs shook, ready to carry him away, but he stood long enough that she finished. Then she stepped back. The colt did the same, bobbing his head.
“That’s it for now,” Sam said. “You were a good boy.”
“Why not keep going? Clip on that lead rope thing?” Gabe whispered. “You had him doing exactly what you wanted.”
Sam opened the gate, slipped through, and stood beside Gabe.
“He’s a baby,” Sam said. “And I wouldn’t have worked him as long as I did if I hadn’t had to get that sunscreen on him for his own good. Besides, it’s always best to stop when the horse has done something right, not when you give up in frustration.”
“Makes sense,” Gabe said.
They both turned, then, at the sound of the wrought-iron gate.
“Do you think that just needs oil?” Gabe asked.
“I have no idea, but it looks like your grandmother’s delivering breakfast.”
Sam was right. Mrs. Allen carried a pink plastic bowl that held little silver pouches, napkins, and paper cups full of orange juice.
“Breakfast burritos,” she announced. “Formerly frozen and not nearly as good as what Grace would whip up,” Mrs. Allen said to Sam.
“They’re delicious,” Sam said, chewing the first spicy bite. “I didn’t know I was so hungry.”
At first Sam thought Mrs. Allen was frowning because a stiff breeze threatened to snatch the paper napkins away. But then Sam noticed that though she’d finished nearly half of the burrito and most of her juice, Gabe’s burrito and juice still sat on the tray.
Of course he couldn’t hold himself upright and eat and drink at the same time, Sam thought. The complications just kept coming.
“Gabe,” Mrs. Allen said. “Let me help you.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” His voice was tight. Still, Sam noticed he wasn’t looking at the tray, but at the colt.
Pirate’s knees buckled, though his head was raised and his eyes rolled white.
“Oh my heavens, what’s wrong?” Mrs. Allen asked.
The colt’s red coat had turned dark along his flanks.
Sweat, Sam th
ought. She’d seen this before.
“He has these—spells.”
“I know that’s what Brynna said.” Mrs. Allen sounded worried, as if this looked worse than what she’d expected.
Pirate’s knees straightened. His mane lifted on a hot wind and his nostrils flared, closed, and flared again. His lips moved anxiously as if he would tell them what was wrong.
Froth gathered in the corners of his mouth. He took a few stuttering steps, then staggered.
“He’s scared to death.” Gabe barely choked the words out.
He was right.
Panic overwhelmed the colt, sending him bolting into the fence. When it held under his assault, he swerved, hooves scrabbling for traction and failing because of the sharpness of his turn.
He slammed flat down on his side. His slender legs flailed, determined to rise and escape whatever terrified him. He lurched upright and his ears flopped, one back, the other to the side.
“He’s not supposed to overheat. Where’s the hose?” Gabe asked his grandmother. She pointed, and he looked at Sam. “We’re supposed to wet him down.”
Sam started toward the hose. She turned the water on and the sudden splattering caught the colt’s attention.
“Wait,” Sam said. “I think—”
The colt’s shaking slowed to a quiver. He swung his head from side to side as if shuddering from the touch of cobwebs.
He stared at the water and his heaving breaths quieted.
“Mrs. Allen, can I have this?” Sam reached for the plastic bowl without taking her eyes from the colt.
“Of course.” Mrs. Allen grabbed everything from the bowl and held it steady while Sam filled it with water.
“The scraper’s still in that box,” Gabe said. “And the sponge. Is that what you’re going to do? Sponge down those big veins the vet talked about?”
“If he’ll let me,” Sam said. She gathered the sponge and bowl and returned to the corral.
The colt shied and paced to the far side of the corral, then loosed a worried neigh to the other horses.