Gift Horse

by Terri Farley

  “Or a circus horse,” Dad said sarcastically. “But that’s all pretty unlikely, hon.”

  A slapping sound made the three of them look at the man with the shaved head. Sam had forgotten all about him, but he’d closed his notebook and fallen into step with Mr. Fairchild as they headed toward the small arena where the horses would be displayed for auction.

  “How about a private bid of three thousand dollars to take the whole lot off your hands?” he asked Mr. Fairchild. “It’ll save you time trying to get them down the chute and into the ring. You could be home having dinner before you know it.”

  Mr. Fairchild shook his head and Sam almost applauded. She was just a kid, but even she could see that the man had no concern for Mr. Fairchild’s dinner.

  “Don’t be greedy, Baldy,” Mr. Fairchild said. “I’ve got to give folks their fair chance to bid on these animals.”

  The bald man glanced pointedly at the men striding toward the parking lot and the trucks driving away from the auction yards. Dusk was falling and it looked like most people were on their way home.

  Why wasn’t “Baldy” going home? Sam wondered. And why would he bid on a show horse, a draft horse, a pony, and two old ranch horses? They were all so different. She supposed he might have a riding stable near Reno, where tourists rented horses by the hour. At least, that’s what she hoped.

  “How about six hundred on the big boy?” Baldy jerked his thumb toward Tinkerbell.

  “Sounds mighty appealing,” Mr. Fairchild said. “You might try that bid again in the ring.”

  The bald man was looking smug, as if he’d already won, when Mr. Fairchild introduced him to Sam and her dad.

  “This is Baldy Harris,” Mr. Fairchild said. “He buys for Dagdown Packing Company.”

  If Dad had straightened in shock or Baldy had looked self-conscious, Sam might have known immediately what that meant. In fact, it took a few seconds for her to realize Baldy bought horses for a slaughterhouse. And he wanted Tinkerbell.

  As a microphone-magnified voice boomed over the auction yards, announcing the horse sale was about to begin, Sam grabbed Dad’s hand. She clung to it as they found a seat in the almost empty bleachers. She held tighter still when the fat dun pony trotted into the ring with a rider.

  When Baldy plopped himself onto a bench two rows behind them, Sam squeezed Dad’s hand as she hadn’t done since she was a little kid. But then, she hadn’t felt this scared and helpless for a long, long time.

  Baldy bid a hundred dollars for the pony.

  “One hundred dollars,” the auctioneer repeated. “Anyone plan to give Baldy a little competition? One hundred dollars, but say, folks, you do understand how an auction works, don’t ya?”

  A few men chuckled and Sam realized that if the auctioneer called Baldy by name, he must do a lot of business here. The idea made her sick. She couldn’t help remembering what Dad had said about mustangs being sold for a nickel to fifty cents per pound.

  “One-ten,” a woman’s voice called out, and Sam turned to look. She was a middle-aged ranch woman. A mother, Sam would bet, trying to get that pony for her kids. Sam flashed her a supportive smile.

  As the woman grinned back, Baldy raised the bid to one hundred twenty-five dollars.

  How much did that pony weigh? Sam bit her bottom lip and shook her head. For once, she was glad to be bad in math. She didn’t want to think like Baldy.

  That lady was taking a long time to counter Baldy’s bid. Sam twisted to look at her, but she’d bent to look inside her purse.

  Have enough, Sam thought. Please have enough.

  When the woman sat up, her lips were set in a hard line.

  “One hundred thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents,” she called.

  “Sold!”

  Sam finally released Dad’s hand to clap as the woman walked past, smiling, to collect her pony. Sam wished she’d stay and buy the other horses, but at least she’d saved one.

  “Okay,” Sam muttered, and noticed Dad was flexing his fingers. “Sorry, Dad,” she said.

  “Don’t give it a thought. This isn’t a pretty business.”

  The chestnut mare was up next, and she must have thought she’d entered a show ring. Flawlessly, she moved from a walk to a trot to a fluid canter. The rider’s cues were invisible as she reversed, mane blowing like a golden flag. But as the mare passed, her eyes were terrified. She’s performing her heart out, Sam thought.

  “One hundred.”

  Sam turned. This time the voice belonged to a rancher who reminded her of Dad. He was a little heavier and he wore a straw hat instead of a felt one, but the bid surprised her. He had to know the mare was no working horse.

  Baldy bid five hundred dollars and there was silence, except for the graceful hooves striking the dirt floor as she cantered around once more.

  “Going,” the auctioneer’s voice warned.

  “Dad, I can’t believe it.” Sam gasped. “She’s so beautiful.”

  Sam tried not to cry, but it was such a pity.

  At the sound of boots, Sam scanned the stands. The rancher in the straw hat was leaving. “Going…”

  Over the microphone, a voice rang out again, but this time it didn’t belong to the auctioneer.

  “Five-fifty,” said Mr. Fairchild, crisply.

  Without wanting to, Sam turned to look at Baldy. He met her eyes and shrugged. Sam turned back around, wishing she hadn’t looked.

  Out of respect for Mr. Fairchild, it seemed, no one else made another bid and the auctioneer declared the mare sold.

  “He’ll get more from her in a private sale,” Dad told Sam. “But he can’t do it for all of ’em. You know that.”

  “I know,” Sam said. And she did understand, but when the two old ranch horses, the bay and the black, were sold outright to Baldy, Sam still felt sick. Was this their reward for a lifetime of hard work?

  And then came Tinkerbell.

  The man who’d ridden the chestnut led Tinkerbell into the ring. He had to stretch to keep one hand on the rope clipped under the bay’s chin, but the man had a knack with horses. Tinkerbell lifted his knees in a smooth trot. As the man ran to keep up, the big horse looked almost amused.

  “Two hundred,” Baldy called out.

  “Two-fifty,” said a young rancher in a plaid shirt. Unlike the others, he stood to make his bid.

  “Three hundred,” Baldy drawled lazily.

  “Four-fifty.” The young rancher had moved down the bleachers to stand beside the ring, as if pure want could win the horse for him.

  “Five hundred,” Baldy bid, then glanced at his notebook and, before the young rancher could make a counteroffer, added, “Oh shoot, make it six.”

  “Six hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I hear six-fifty?”

  Sam’s heart sank as the young rancher leaned forward on the arms he’d crossed on the top rail of the fence. He stared after Tinkerbell, then shook his head.

  He was just being sensible, Sam knew. She recognized the look of surrender on his face, because she’d seen it so often. A working rancher didn’t always get what he wanted, because the ranch always came first.

  “Going…”

  Even if Dad had allowed her to use her reward money, she couldn’t have outbid Baldy. He saw the big horse, who must weigh close to a ton, as pure profit.

  Sam covered her eyes with both hands. All she saw was a kind animal with the potential to do something grand.

  “Going…”

  Dad’s hand felt warm against Sam’s back, but she kept her eyes closed. She wanted to stay in the darkness behind her eyelids. She could hear the thud of the big animal’s hooves, but she didn’t have to watch his trusting performance.

  “Seven hundred,” said Mr. Fairchild’s crisp voice over the microphone.

  Sam looked up. Smiling through her tears, she stared in the direction of the announcer’s booth. It was Mr. Fairchild. No one had bid against him for the chestnut. Maybe it was a tradition to let him win. Maybe he’d save Tinker
bell and sell him later to someone who deserved him.

  “Eight hundred,” shouted Baldy.

  No! Sam rocked forward, head down, as if she’d been punched in the stomach. Tinkerbell had been so close to safety.

  Boots shifted in the wooden stands. Dad gave a surprised grunt and everyone turned to stare at the man from Dagdown Packing Company.

  “Bidding is closed at seven hundred dollars,” the auctioneer said stiffly.

  “I said eight hundred!” Baldy was standing now and his bare head had flushed red.

  “That was our last horse of the day,” the auctioneer went on, “and we at Mineral Auctions sure hope you folks will come back and see us next week.”

  “You wanna go see what Duke has in mind for that critter, I suppose,” Dad said. He rose, stretched, and together he and Sam left the bleachers and started toward the holding pen.

  She wanted to feel excited, but Baldy’s dark presence lurked behind her.

  Dad took longer strides than usual, and Sam was sure it was because he wanted to get her away from Baldy. The man was still shouting in the direction of the auctioneer’s box.

  “You can’t ignore my bid!” he yelled.

  But the auctioneer, who’d noticed the ranch woman’s quiet bid on the pony, pretended not to hear.

  “That’s right,” the auctioneer continued. “Every Thursday from ten ’til five, we’re glad to have you as our guests. Drive safe, now.”

  As the microphone clicked off, Baldy stormed toward the ring, looking furious. He paused when he came abreast of Sam and her dad. Sam shrank against Dad’s side, but just to get out of the man’s way.

  Baldy was only a sore loser. There was nothing scary about that.

  “I know what this is about,” Baldy said in a threatening tone.

  Dad stepped forward, making a wall between Sam and the man.

  “Then maybe you’d better tell me,” Dad said. His tone would sound lazy to anyone who didn’t know him, but Sam could tell Baldy had made a mistake.

  Dad was a protective father and Baldy’s harsh expression was enough to provoke his anger.

  Sam peered around Dad, trying to see Baldy’s reaction.

  He slapped his notebook against the side of his too-new jeans, and his eyes seemed to evaluate Dad in the same way he’d sized up the horses. Sam hoped the skinny man had figured out that Dad could snap him like a toothpick.

  Baldy didn’t look like he’d quite made up his mind about arguing, when he heard boots behind him and turned.

  Mr. Fairchild straightened his gabardine coat to sit just so on his shoulders as he approached.

  “We had a gentlemen’s agreement,” Baldy snapped.

  In the moment of silence, Sam remembered Baldy offering six hundred dollars for “the big boy” before the auction began. But Mr. Fairchild hadn’t really said yes, had he?

  “Guess that means I’m no gentleman,” Mr. Fairchild responded, but Sam could tell he was saying something about Baldy, not himself.

  “No, now, I’m not saying that.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  Baldy took a deep breath and shook his head. “Guess I’m saying I’ll see you next week, Duke. Same time, same place.” He started toward the parking lot, then stopped. “But I wanted that horse.”

  “If he’s back here in a month, we’ll talk,” Mr. Fairchild said.

  Sam felt another chill, which had nothing to do with the disappearance of the sun. The big horse wasn’t safe yet. A paralyzing cold gripped the back of her neck.

  “Fair enough,” Baldy answered, nodding.

  This time when he stamped toward the parking lot, he kept going.

  Sam didn’t watch him for long, because Mr. Fairchild turned toward her, rocked back a couple inches, and crossed his arms.

  “As for you, young lady,” he said, “I was mighty impressed with your little speech before the sales began. You weren’t able to negotiate much with your father, but I’m wondering if we can work something out.”

  Sam could tell his words were partly aimed at Dad.

  Dad took a deep breath, then released it in a sigh. When he didn’t interrupt, Mr. Fairchild went on. “I’d be willing to go in partners with you on preparing that big bay brute for sale to someone who might make something of him. Would you be willing to do that?”

  “Sure,” Sam said, but her head spun. How could this be happening?

  “First, I’ll need a little earnest money.” Mr. Fairchild rubbed his hands together. “You know what that is, don’t you?”

  “No sir,” Sam admitted, “I don’t.”

  “It means you give me enough cash, up front, so that I know you’re serious, and that you’ll keep your word.”

  To do what? Sam wondered, but she didn’t ask. If she gave Mr. Fairchild more time to think, and Dad time to recover from his surprise, things might change.

  “So reach down deep in that pocket of yours, young lady,” Mr. Fairchild said. “And hope you come up with something.”

  Chapter Four

  The auction yard lights came on suddenly, and Sam felt as if she were standing under a spotlight as she wiggled her fingers into her front right pocket. She knew exactly how much money was in her pocket. She hoped it would be enough.

  All week she’d been thinking of hazelnut hot chocolate, because she and Dad had been planning this drive and he’d promised to stop for the fancy drink if she paid for it. She’d brought a little extra money, too, because it was February and she’d hoped the coffee store would have the little Valentine conversation hearts Gram loved so much.

  Sam slipped the five-dollar bill and two ones out of her pocket and held them for a few seconds. She still had weeks to buy the Valentine candy for Gram.

  Sam extended the money toward Mr. Fairchild.

  “I don’t know if this shows how earnest I am,” Sam said. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

  Mr. Fairchild took the wrinkled bills and smoothed them out.

  “What do you think of this plan?” he asked. “In four weeks you will have sold the horse so we can split the profit, or he comes back here and we’ll see what we can get for him in his improved condition.” Mr. Fairchild turned to Dad. “Is four weeks fair, Wyatt, with school and her other chores?”

  “Four weeks is about right,” Dad said, slowly. “Spring’s a busy time for us, and her mare will be near to foaling time.”

  Her mare. Sam had never heard Dad refer to Dark Sunshine that way. She felt her smile grow, even though they were discussing something serious.

  “Is Samantha responsible enough to come through on what she promised?” Mr. Fairchild asked.

  It could have been a condescending question, but it didn’t sound that way.

  Dad studied her almost as if she were a stranger. “If Sam says she’ll do it, she will,” he said finally, and Sam stood a little taller.

  “Well then, partner,” Mr. Fairchild said, shaking her hand. “It’s a deal. Come on over to the office so I can write you a check for feed and such.”

  All of a sudden, she remembered Mike and Ike, the men who’d been so rough and uncaring to Tinkerbell.

  “But what about the men who brought him here?” Sam asked.

  “Mike and Ike?” Mr. Fairchild met Dad’s eyes. Sam saw them exchange a look of contempt. “Shoot, they were in too much of a hurry to stick around and see what their gelding would bring. I bought the horse outright. Paid those boys a flat fee of eight hundred dollars and they were happy as fleas in a doghouse.”

  It would be easy to sell the draft horse for more than eight hundred dollars, wouldn’t it?

  “Baldy would give me fifty cents a pound for him. About a thousand dollars. So anything over that’s pure profit, and we’ll split it.”

  Could she sell him for that much? Dad’s Banjo had sold for four times that, but he’d been a prizewinning cutting horse. Sam gnawed at her lower lip. She could do it, if she could figure out what Tinkerbell’s talents were.

  As they followed
Mr. Fairchild to his office, Sam noticed Dad wasn’t saying much. That wasn’t unusual, but this didn’t feel like a comfortable silence. The ride home could be a lot more pleasant if she had a buyer in mind.

  Jake liked his horses fast and quick-tempered, like his black mare Witch, so Tinkerbell was definitely not for him.

  Jen rode a flighty mare named Silk Stockings, and even if she’d wanted Tinkerbell, her family probably couldn’t afford him. They’d just discovered Golden Rose, their long-lost palomino mare. Though they’d been delighted to find her, the mare was an additional expense. So, they wouldn’t want another mouth to feed. Especially—Sam looked back at the draft horse’s huge silhouette—one that would eat so much.

  The Slocum family had the money, Sam admitted to herself. Linc Slocum was the richest man in this part of Nevada and his Gold Dust Ranch was stocked with livestock from Brahma bulls to purebred Shetland ponies. A draft horse would fit in just fine. He might try riding Tinkerbell himself. But when she thought of the sharp-rowelled spurs he wore, Sam shook her head.

  It was a sure thing his daughter Rachel wouldn’t be interested. After all, the bay wasn’t stylish. Rachel cared more for fashion and nail polish than she did for any creature, especially horses, which she considered dirty and indistinguishable.

  But Rachel’s twin, Ryan, was another story.

  Yeah, Sam thought. Ryan! He had lots of money and he loved horses. When she’d seen Ryan riding Sky Ranger just last week, she’d been impressed by his skill.

  According to his father, Ryan had ridden jumpers in England. Some riders competed in heavy hunter classes, just as she’d told Dad. But it wasn’t likely Tinkerbell could launch his massive body over a mud puddle, let alone a jump.

  Still, he was as gentle as a big dog. He might learn to do almost anything.