by Terri Farley
“Thought that was just a rumor.”
“I hope so.”
Slowly, as if he was fighting the pull of his own curiosity, Jake looked back toward Lost Canyon.
Let him look, Sam thought. He was jealous of Ryan and she didn’t blame him. Besides, if he was fretting over Ryan, he wouldn’t see her searching the Calico Mountains, hoping and fearing she’d see the Phantom.
All at once, her imagination bloomed with a thought darker than a nightmare.
“You said butchers,” she blurted. “What were you talking about?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Jake, do you know anything about…” Sam told herself not to be stupid. Saying it wouldn’t make it true, but the words stuck in her throat.
“About what?” Jake tilted his head back slightly so he could study her without the barrier of his hat brim. “Simmer down, Brat. Do I know anything about what?”
“Horsemeat dealers.”
“I know it’s illegal to sell wild horses, or stolen horses to ’em.”
“But are there any around here?”
“You’ve been out to the Mineral auction yards with Brynna, right? When you were looking for the rustlers who had mustangs?”
“No. I recognized the truck before we got out there,” Sam said.
She’d actually been glad to miss seeing the auction yards.
Sam didn’t know why she couldn’t—no matter how hard she tried—treat animals like lesser creatures. She didn’t think of them as pets, really, but she couldn’t help trying to understand what they were thinking. Maybe she’d spent too much time away from ranch life. Or maybe she’d inherited a soft heart from her city-bred mother.
“But, are you saying people take horses out there and sell them for—”
“Well, some folks don’t ask. But if you could see the stock that gets trucked in…” Jake sighed. “Scarred animals, lame ones, unbreakable crazy ones, and some that are just too old for work….” Jake’s voice trailed off, then came back softer than usual. “Those old ponies aren’t going to a retirement home, Samantha.”
“That’s awful,” Sam protested.
Ace jumped sideways, startled by her shout and the tension in her legs.
“Well, Jim McDonald, the brand inspector, keeps people from catching wild ones and selling ’em like they did in the old days. So don’t get into a tizzy about that.”
A tizzy. The words were so condescending, they made Sam mad. Mad enough not to talk for the rest of the ride.
When the River Bend bridge came into view, she expected Jake to ride on home, toward Three Ponies Ranch, but he turned Witch toward the bridge.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked, finally breaking her vow of silence.
“Ain’t you ever heard of Western hospitality?” Jake drawled.
“Don’t talk like…” Sam closed her lips. He’d done it on purpose to irritate her. Jake had such stupid guy ways of trying to snap her out of sadness.
As two sets of hooves clopped across the wooden planks, though, she had to ask.
“Why are you following me?”
“Just reporting for work, ma’am,” Jake said.
“There are no colts to break. Dad’s home. And Pepper and Ross are back from Idaho, so I don’t think Dallas needs you.”
“I’m insulted,” Jake said, but the half smile on his lips said he wasn’t anything of the kind. “You’ve overlooked the fact that I’ve got more than muscle power going for me. Got me a brain, too.” Jake tapped his temple with the index finger of his free hand.
Sam couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. Dad, Brynna, and Gram could handle anything Jake could. Except tracking, maybe, but she had the feeling he was talking about something else.
Jake obviously wanted her to beg for details.
Forget it. Out of habit, Sam tightened her reins, but she didn’t have to. Ace had already stopped at the hitching post where she tied him to unsaddle and brush him before putting him back in the barn.
Jake sat lazy in the saddle, watching her.
Sam’s patience lasted until she’d stripped off Ace’s saddle and draped the blanket over it to air.
“Okay, why do you think we need your pea-sized brain?”
Jake laughed. “They don’t, but you do.” Jake swept off his Stetson and made a bow. “Meet your new math tutor.”
“What?”
The Rhode Island Red hens squawked and fluttered, disturbed in their search for slow winter bugs by Sam’s screech. Blaze, the ever-watchful ranch dog, came trotting from the barn.
Jake dismounted, ground-tied Witch, and rubbed his palms together like a soap opera villain. “You’re going to eat, sleep, and breathe algebra for the rest of vacation.”
This could not be true.
“Dad!” Sam ran toward the barn, yelling.
Algebra on school days was bad enough.
Before she reached the barn, Dallas, River Bend’s foreman, stepped into the doorway and pointed toward the house.
Sam swung around to run the other way. Jake was still laughing, watching her run around like one of those silly hens. She’d almost reached the house when the screen door opened and Dad stepped out onto the wooden porch.
A spicy aroma of chilies and eggs wafted from the house. Gram must be practicing what she’d learned during her vacation at a New Mexico cooking school. Sam’s stomach growled in anticipation, but food didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except her last few days of freedom.
“Dad,” Sam said, trying to catch her breath. “Jake says he’s my new math tutor.”
Dad drank from his steaming cup of coffee. He held it up longer than a sip warranted. He gazed over the rim and his eyes settled on Jake.
Once he’d swallowed, he asked, “When are you kids gonna outgrow teasing and tormenting each other?”
“Maybe never,” Sam said. “So he’s not telling the truth?”
“Well, yeah, he is.”
Sam put her hands on her hips in fury, then let them slide off. Never once had she won an argument with Dad by yelling. They were both too stubborn.
“Okay, I know I’m not doing that well in algebra. But you can help me. Or—Jen! Jen’s really good at math. She’s in the same classes as Jake and she’s only a freshman.”
“We thought you’d get more studyin’ done if you worked with Jake.”
Sam took a deep breath. That battle was lost. She tried to save her vacation.
“But not now, right? Not during vacation.”
Dad shifted his weight to one leg. He glanced toward the kitchen door behind him, as if he expected backup from someone inside.
Wait. We thought you’d get more studyin’ done…
We thought?
This was so simple, she should have figured it out at once. Her father wouldn’t do this to her. And even serious, school-is-your-highest-priority Gram had never suggested she ruin a vacation with algebra.
Neither Dad nor Gram would do it.
But Sam knew who would.
Chapter Five
The door opened behind Dad.
Brynna stepped out, pulling a black fleecy coat on over the khaki uniform that made her look like what she was: the director of the Bureau of Land Mangement’s Willow Springs Wild Horse corrals, the woman who’d backed down Linc Slocum and other bad guys, the one who’d helped save the Phantom twice.
She didn’t look like a traitor.
Maybe that was a traitor’s secret. First, she fooled you into thinking she was on your side.
“I’ll probably be late,” Brynna said, flipping her red French braid out of her coat collar. “I’m getting a late start, and there’ll be lots of things left undone while we were gone.”
Brynna perched on her tiptoes to give Dad’s cheek a kiss.
Dad’s free arm hugged her to him, but he nodded toward Sam as if Brynna needed a reminder that they weren’t alone.
Sam swallowed hard when Brynna turned toward her, grinning.
“Good m
orning,” she chirped.
Sam didn’t know what to say, so she glanced meaningfully at her watch. It was almost noon. Not that she cared if Brynna was late for work.
“Hi,” Sam managed, but she heard her own voice and knew she’d addressed Brynna with the same enthusiasm she’d use for a rattlesnake she found curled up in her boot.
“What’s up?” Brynna asked. Her voice was casual, but a frown line appeared between her blue eyes.
When Sam didn’t answer, Brynna glanced at Dad.
“Algebra,” Dad said.
“Oh, right.” Brynna sighed, looking relieved. She jingled the car keys in her coat pocket and crossed the porch. She leaned toward Sam as if she’d give her a peck on the cheek, too.
Sam glanced toward Jake. One hand rubbed the back of his neck as it did when he was uncomfortable. Jake hated scenes. Sam was pretty sure he’d thought everything was settled, or he wouldn’t have shown up.
By looking away, Sam had dodged Brynna’s kiss. She couldn’t really say if she’d done it on purpose, but Brynna stood close enough that Sam saw her disappointment.
Well, what did Brynna expect? To just march in here and start changing things?
Sam felt justified and guilty at the same time. This stepmother thing wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought.
Once more, Brynna’s keys jingled.
“I’ll take care of it,” Dad said.
It? Now she was an it? Sam clenched her fists so tightly, she felt her fingernails against her palms.
“Thanks,” Brynna answered, then blew Dad a kiss.
Another kiss. How many did that make? Like, a dozen before she even got off the porch?
Brynna didn’t make another move to touch Sam, but she gave Ace a quick pat as she went striding toward the white BLM truck parked between Dad’s truck and Gram’s old yellow Buick.
Sam crossed her arms and looked up at Dad. Slowly, he came down the porch steps until they were nearly eye-to-eye.
“On the morning of the wedding, I stopped in town,” Dad began, and Sam knew this was going to be bad if it had been brewing that long. “I stopped by the post office and there was a notice from the school saying you were failing algebra.”
“They send those out to everybody,” Sam protested.
Dad splashed the last bit of his coffee on the dirt that would be a flowerbed, come spring. Then he gave Sam a skeptical look.
“Okay, not everybody,” Sam amended. “But it doesn’t mean I’m failing for sure.”
“Good, because this is high school you’re in now. If you fail at the semester, you’ll lose your credit. That means you’ll repeat algebra in summer school. And that’s all you’ll be doing, Samantha.”
Sam could actually feel the embarrassment. Her face flushed hot as if she’d opened an oven door. Dad was telling her she wouldn’t be working with cattle or horses or even with the HARP girls this summer, if she didn’t pull up her grade.
“But I can improve before the end of the semester. After we go back to school, I’ve still got two weeks,” Sam told him.
“We’re going to make it two and a half.” Dad brushed his hands together, then hung a thumb in one of his back pockets. “Every morning, before you go riding, you’ll spend two hours working on algebra. That doesn’t mean you skip your regular chores, either.”
“Two hours?” Sam gasped.
“At least two hours. Jake is here to go over whatever graded work you’ve got stashed in your backpack. He’ll do sort of a diagnosis and tell me if it should be more.”
“But Dad—”
“That’s it,” Dad said. “Go have yourself something to eat. Your gram’s apparently not gonna quit cooking until next Christmas, so help her out. Then get to work. After that, come on down to the barn. And wear your oldest sneakers. No boots for the chore I have in mind.”
Sam stared after Dad as he walked toward the barn. This ruined everything. How could she use the rest of vacation to save Jen from moving, if she was confined to the kitchen table with an algebra book?
Shaking her head in disbelief, Sam turned to Jake.
To his credit, Jake looked embarrassed for her.
He removed his hat and fanned himself with it, although the temperature was probably near freezing.
“C’mon Brat,” he said, and together they went indoors.
The kitchen smelled like pumpkin pie.
Gram turned from the stove so fast her denim skirt swirled and her gray hair, twisted and held up with a clip, threatened to break loose.
“Can I interest you two in some dessert, completely unencumbered by a meal?” Gram asked.
She didn’t wait for a response before pulling little pastry turnovers off a cookie sheet. She shook her fingers from the heat and put a plate of four on the kitchen table.
“These are pumpkin empanadas. They can cool while you run up and get your backpack,” Gram said. “For your second dessert course, I’m making sopapillas.”
She sounded too darn happy, Sam thought.
“This is a plot,” she muttered. “You’re all in on it, aren’t you?”
“Of course, dear,” Gram said.
Algebra went down better with a plate of dessert, Sam decided, later.
Together, she and Jake had finished off a platter of sopapillas, little pillows of fried dough drizzled with honey.
They’d eaten so many, Sam felt a little queasy, but they’d certainly sweetened Jake’s mood. By the time he’d finished sorting through her graded algebra papers, Jake told her that she wasn’t doomed to failure.
“I don’t think you’re that bad at it,” Jake said, tapping an “F” paper with a sticky index finger. “But I bet you’re not paying attention.”
“It’s so boring,” Sam moaned, but Jake’s face said he wasn’t sympathetic. “So what are you going to tell Dad?”
“Two hours should be enough.”
Sam rocked in her chair. This wasn’t the best news Jake could have given her. Or the worst.
She could keep her mind on algebra two hours a day. She stared at the clock on the whitewashed kitchen wall. If she got up at her normal time and got all her chores done early, two hours would mean it was only about ten o’clock.
The ride to Nugget wouldn’t take more than an hour. She and Jen could work together on their project at the same time they tried to catch Golden Rose.
Jake was asking her something about an integer, but the ticking of the kitchen clock reminded Sam of hooves. Careful hooves. A watchful horse…
“How could we tell if someone was stalking the Phantom’s herd for horsemeat?”
Jake pushed back his chair. “That’s what’s getting you in trouble. Not concentrating. Do this,” Jake said, tapping a list he’d made for her. “And I’ll check it day after tomorrow. Now, I’m out of here.”
“Is he paying you for this?” Sam said, following Jake to the door.
He flashed her a white smile as he lifted his black Stetson from a front porch hook, but he didn’t answer.
“To come make fun of me and eat Gram’s cooking?”
“You bet,” Jake said.
As the door closed behind him, Sam remembered one of Linc Slocum’s dopey Western sayings. It suited Jake perfectly.
He looked as happy as a dog with two tails to wag.
“You’re going to be jogging the pasture,” Dad told Sam when she arrived in the barn. “In weather like this, the horses get lazy. I want you to go out and jog outside the fence line of the ten-acre pasture and get them stirred up.”
“From outside, I can’t exactly chase them,” Sam said.
“You won’t have to,” Dad said. “They’ll chase you. It’s the herd instinct.”
“Are you sure?” Sam asked.
“Never seen it fail,” Dad said. “’Course, there’s other work to be done.”
Dad glanced toward the feed room. There was an awful closet in there, full of everything that wouldn’t fit elsewhere. They called it Blackbeard’s Closet. She
guessed it was named for Blackbeard the pirate, because Bluebeard’s closet was in a legend about some guy who kept the bodies of his curious wives in his closet.
So, Blackbeard’s closet was better, but for months, Dad had been threatening her with “straightening” it.
“Oh no,” Sam said. Holding her hands up like a shield, she started backing toward the barn door.
“Make sure Buff gets a good workout,” Dad said. “He’s carryin’ a little extra girth he could do without and I don’t think I’m gonna get to him today.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
Buffalo was a dark-brown River Bend gelding who’d been in town for the summer. About twelve years old, with thick hair and the temperament of a pet, he could herd cattle and baby-sit young riders. When a friend of Gram’s asked if River Bend would rent her a horse for her grandchildren’s summer visit, Dad had trailered Buff into town and asked only that they keep him healthy and well fed in exchange.
Sam sprinted toward the corral before Dad could give her something else to do, and five minutes later, she’d decided this was her favorite chore on the ranch.
The ground was dry, covered with sparse grass. Though the air was still cold, dusk hadn’t settled in yet and the sky was bright.
There were eight horses in the ten-acre pasture right now, six saddle horses and two mustangs-in-training for the Horse and Rider Assistance Program. Ace and Sweetheart brought the count of the home herd to ten horses, and Sam had no doubt they’d be jealous as soon as the other horses began running.
Dark Sunshine and Popcorn, the two mustangs, marked her arrival before any of the other horses. The buckskin mare and albino gelding stood shoulder to shoulder, with their heads held high and ears pricked to catch Sam’s sounds. If this scheme of Dad’s really worked, she’d bet the mustangs would be first to join her herd.
Sam jiggled the gate to get all the horses’ attention and Buff took notice of her, too. He trotted a few steps closer and gave a low nicker.
“No treats for you, boy,” Sam said, and the brown gelding swished his tail as if he were insulted.
She made sure the gate was closed and latched.
“Here goes,” she said.