by Terri Farley
Miss Olson ordered Sam to sit down on the office stairs, until she decided whether to arrest her or award her a medal. Sam gave Miss Olson the purple pages, just in case they could sway things in her favor. The woman skimmed them, folded them into her pocket, but didn’t comment on Sam’s hours of work.
When Slocum finally staggered up to the porch outside the office, he was puffing from exertion, but doing his best to seem polite.
“Miss Olson,” Slocum took her hand in a meaty grip. “I hardly expected to see you again so soon. But it’s a pleasure, of course.” Slocum paused to breathe. “Excuse me,” he said, patting his chest. “I walked all the way up here. Some old clunker of a car broke down on the road and its driver neglected to pull over to the side.”
Slocum glared at Jake, then continued, “I hear you were able to recapture my horse.”
“Your horse?” Sam shot up from her seat on the porch. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Oh now, sugar,” Slocum said, hefting his belt so the trophy buckle dented his overhanging belly. “You’re not hoping that’s your little black colt all grown up and changed color, are you?” Slocum gave Miss Olson a just-us-adults smile, then studied Sam more closely. “What happened to your eye, Samantha? Didn’t sass Wyatt, did you?”
The insinuation that her father would hit her was like pouring gasoline on Sam’s already flaming anger.
“Unlike some people, my father never hurts anyone or anything,” Sam shouted. “And he”—she pointed toward the corral—“is not your horse.”
Miss Olson made a smoothing motion with her hands.
Jake tugged at her elbow.
“Fire coming out of your nostrils there, Brat,” Jake said quietly. “Take it easy. I think the law’s on your side.”
He probably meant Miss Olson, but she wasn’t “the law,” just a government representative. Still, the redhead’s icy expression said she was in control. Sam sat down.
“Miss Olson and I have already talked about the matter of the gray’s scar,” Slocum said.
Sam met Jake’s eyes. If Miss Olson had read Sam’s notes, she’d know how folks said Phantom had gotten that scar.
“And I told Mr. Slocum I couldn’t accept it as proof of ownership. If I could accept circumstantial evidence, I’d be inclined to award him to Samantha. She has an amazing link with that stallion.”
Sam tried to catch Miss Olson’s eye, to thank her for the compliment, but the woman didn’t seem interested.
“I suppose she demonstrated some of Jake Ely’s Indian mumbo jumbo,” Slocum scoffed.
Miss Olson left enough silence that even Slocum looked embarrassed. Then she went on.
“As a horsewoman, I was convinced by what I saw. It was better than a bill of sale. As a representative of the federal government, however, it’s not good enough.”
The redhead leaned against the porch railing with her arms crossed. Even then, her crisp uniform didn’t wrinkle. As always, Miss Olson looked detached, but something told Sam the woman was waiting for Slocum to stumble into a trap.
Sam decided to give him a push.
“Mr. Slocum, did you make the complaint about the Phantom?” Sam asked.
“A complaint? Must be some misunderstanding. I did call.” Slocum rocked back on his bootheels. “The horse was on my property, and I could’ve just put my rope on him—”
“Like you did before,” Sam nudged him to admit it.
“—but I wanted everything to be official, this time.”
This time. Bingo. Slocum had just admitted he’d caught the stallion before. Wasn’t that illegal?
Sam kept herself from looking at Miss Olson.
Slocum could go to jail for that. Sam was sure of it. She pressed her lips together. It wouldn’t do to crow with delight.
But Slocum wasn’t stupid. He turned shamefaced toward Miss Olson. “I used to have a cowboy who fancied himself a buckaroo. He caught the stallion, once.” Slocum looked down at his eel-skin boots and shook his head. “Tempted as I was, I wouldn’t keep him. After all, it’s against the law.”
Jake had heard enough. “Then how come you offered me two hundred bucks to track him down for you?”
“What are you talking about, Jake?” He winked at Miss Olson. “These kids.”
“They can really get some crazy ideas,” she said. “Still, I can’t help wondering why you didn’t report the harassment of a wild horse. That’s a prohibited act under the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act of 1971.”
Yes, Sam thought.
Slocum only slowed down a minute, then answered, “I wanted to give the young man a chance.”
“Even though you knew the horse was bleeding.” Miss Olson pretended to wince. “That would count as negligence, another prohibited act.”
“Miss Olson, it’s not something I like to talk about, but you and I both know horses can bleed all day long and—”
“And you’d noticed the animal’s injuries were severe enough to scar.”
“If I’d thought he was suffering, dang it, I would have put him out of his misery,” Slocum snapped.
“Without permission of an authorized officer?” Miss Olson shook her head. “Another prohibited act.”
Snorting like a bull, Slocum dropped all pretense of cooperation. “Lady, you can take your prohibited acts and—”
“Go to court with them, Mr. Slocum?” Miss Olson smiled.
“In that adoption application, you can read that the commission of prohibited acts are punishable by a two-thousand-dollar fine or a year in prison. That’s for each offense.” Miss Olson pretended to calculate. “And how many are we up to now?”
“Three!” Sam said, counting the charges on her fingers. “Harassment, negligence, and destruction, right, Jake?”
“I’m no expert,” Jake said. He nodded toward Miss Olson.
“Mr. Slocum, until I have time to do a background check, I’m deferring your application to adopt a wild horse.”
Slocum sputtered. “You can’t—I’m gonna—When I—” He started three sentences and they all fizzled out. Finally, he shouted, “I have connections in Washington!”
“Do you?” Miss Olson looked bored. “The fact remains, you need to leave the premises, until you’re more relaxed.”
“I’m not leaving.” Slocum paced up and down. He glanced at Bale Thrower with a little concern, then got his courage up. “You’re not a cop, Olson, and you can’t make me.”
Bale Thrower and Clipboard walked a step closer. Jake crossed his arms, looking ready for a fight.
“I could make a citizen’s arrest.” Sam heard the words tumble from her lips and wondered where they’d come from.
When Slocum sneered, Miss Olson said, “I don’t think that will be necessary, Samantha. Hugh, perhaps you’d give Mr. Slocum a ride back to his car.”
So, the big man Sam had been thinking of as “Bale Thrower” was really named Hugh. He stepped forward with a grin. He’d obviously enjoyed this showdown with Slocum.
Frustrated, Slocum swept off his cowboy hat and hit it against his leg, as he’d seen real cowboys do. Then he pointed at Sam.
“This isn’t over, Samantha Forster.” He pulled his hat back on. “It is not over.”
Chapter Seventeen
IF SHE DIDN’T COUNT the time her first grade teacher had told her to stop reading storybooks during arithmetic or else, Sam had never been threatened by an adult.
Slocum’s threat had scared her. She was safe now, with Jake and Miss Olson standing by, but what about later?
Sam’s hands still shook after Miss Olson disappeared into her office with a promise of lunch.
“Citizen’s arrest, huh?”
“Shut up, Jake. It worked, didn’t it?” Sam gave him a shove.
Jake’s broad shoulders barely moved.
“No kidding, Brat. I was terrified.”
Sam giggled. The laughter felt good, but it only lasted until Miss Olson came back. She balanced a cell phone be
tween her cheek and shoulder and placed sodas and a box of crackers on the porch between Jake and Sam.
Miss Olson broke off her conversation for a moment. “Is your dad home?” she asked.
“No,” Sam said.
Shaking her head, Miss Olson turned away, still talking.
Sam didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she heard words like “stallion,” “local girl,” and “restraining order.”
Sam ate one saltine, then another. When she’d eaten half a dozen and sipped down half of her sugary soda, she felt better.
With a beep, Miss Olson folded her cell phone, strolled back to the porch, and sat near Sam and Jake.
“You outsmarted him, Samantha,” Miss Olson sounded pleased, but a cautious tone lingered in her voice.
“Please call me Sam,” she said. “When you say Samantha, it sounds like I’m in trouble.”
“You may be, but not from me.” Miss Olson extended her arm for a handshake. “I’ll call you Sam if you agree to call me Brynna.”
They shook. Brynna looked up at Jake’s grunt of discomfort.
“Something wrong, Mr. Ely?”
“Naw,” Jake said. “I just want to hear what kind of trouble Sam’s in.”
Brynna sighed. “Linc Slocum didn’t like Sam outsmarting him. He knows no one around here would take his part against her.”
“Unless he paid them,” Jake said. “Like he paid Flick.”
“Right,” Brynna said. “Wherever he came from, Slocum could buy what he wanted. In that way, he’s different from folks around here. They work for what they want.”
“Besides that, he’s sneaky,” Sam said.
“Right,” Brynna agreed. “Even though most Nevada ranchers can’t stand the BLM”—Brynna held her hand palm out to Sam and Jake as they shifted—“and we won’t discuss why—the fact remains they’re straightforward about their complaints. Slocum lied about the horse. When that didn’t work, he gave intimidation a try. And that failed, too.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt you, Sam, but I think it would be wise to make provisions for the stallion. Right away.”
Sam’s mind spun. What would be best for the Phantom?
“I bet Wyatt would let you adopt him, if we told him what happened,” Jake said.
“It’s a good thing he wasn’t here,” Sam said. She’d never seen Dad hurt anyone, but Sam could imagine him slugging Slocum for threatening her.
“Slocum’s approach would have been entirely different if Mr. Forster were here,” Brynna said, but she refused to be led off the topic. “The afternoon’s creeping away from us. We need to help that horse.”
Both Jake and Brynna stared at Sam, waiting. And that wasn’t the worst of it. The Phantom yearned for the open range and his herd. By placing his head upon her shoulder, he’d said he trusted her to help. If only she knew how.
Jake rubbed the back of his neck, frowning, but Brynna looked eager.
“Any suggestions?” Sam encouraged her.
“Just one, but I think it’s a winner.” Brynna drew a deep breath. “BLM doesn’t put all captured horses up for adoption. We release some because we think there’s little chance they’d find a home. Others”—Brynna paused—“we release to enrich existing herds.”
Jake must be following Brynna’s suggestion faster than she was, because Sam didn’t understand why Jake began reciting Blackie’s pedigree.
“His sire was pure mustang, but his dam is Princess Kitty, a running Quarter horse with Three Bars breeding on one side and King Leo on the other.”
Brynna and Jake stared at each other as if they were designing a conspiracy.
Slowly, Sam puzzled out Brynna’s idea, aloud. “So, you’re saying you—”
“The BLM,” Brynna corrected.
“Okay, the BLM could turn the Phantom loose? Because his colts and fillies would improve the wild herds, they’d set him free? Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Brynna said. “I’ve already checked with one of our wild horse specialists, and verified the gray’s herd is the only viable band in the Calico Mountains district. There are a few bachelor bands—young stallions who roam together without mares—but those stallions are small and scrubby. If they took over the gray’s herd, we’d end up with fewer adoptable horses.”
“Let’s do it,” Sam said. “Slocum won’t have a chance to cause any more trouble.”
Brynna didn’t look so sure, but she made a promise. “As long as I’m manager here, Slocum won’t get a single wild horse.”
“I hate to rain on your parade,” Jake said. “But we can’t just set him loose. Think of the fences between here and the mountains and,” he gestured, “the cars coming up that road.”
“It’s a long truck ride back to the Calicos, but we could trailer him there and release him,” Brynna suggested.
Sam imagined the tight, moving world within a horse trailer. The Phantom had fought the corral as if locked in a death match. Would he survive hours in a trailer?
Jake must have thought the same thing.
“If you could get him as far as Thread the Needle,” he suggested, “I bet he’d head downhill toward River Bend.”
In minutes, Brynna and Jake spun out a plan while Sam listened.
The stallion had been halterbroken as a foal. And the stallion trusted Ace.
After seeing Sam with the Phantom, Jake believed she could ride Ace and lead the stallion to Thread the Needle.
“I’ll go back for Ace,” Jake said. “I need to move Gram’s Buick, anyway.”
As Sam worked the coiled car part out of her pocket and handed it to Jake, Brynna stared at it, confused.
“I don’t want to know,” Brynna said, when Sam started to explain.
“Wyatt’s sure to be back with the trailer by the time I get there,” Jake said. “Do we need anything besides Ace and a lead rope?”
“I’ve got plenty of rope,” Brynna said. “It’d be best if Sam started working him with the halter, right now.”
Things were moving too fast. Sam wasn’t sure the stallion would recall his halter training. Even if he did, why should he obey?
Sam watched Jake leave. Then, gingerly, she touched her cheekbone. It hurt. And her brain felt like mush. She was probably just tired. Once she slipped back into the Phantom’s pen, she’d probably remember how to think like a horse.
There was only one way to find out.
With a soft rope halter and lead, Sam walked to the Phantom’s pen. The stallion stood opposite the gate, body hugging the fence. His ears flicked at the sound of the gate opening. Otherwise, he didn’t move.
Sam entered the corral. He ignored her.
“Hey boy,” she crooned, but for each step she took closer, the stallion moved a step away. He must have listened for each footfall, because he never looked at Sam.
Sam talked and talked. After a while, she spoke not to the stallion, but to Brynna.
“You’re an expert. Tell me, why do people want wild horses?”
“Some want to help them, of course—”
“No, I mean, you’ve read all the old West stories,” Sam said. “For hundreds of years, people have wanted wild horses.”
“They look at a wild horse and see beauty, spirit—”
“And they can’t wait to take it away,” Sam interrupted.
She saw the new rope burns on the stallion’s neck and realized he wouldn’t willingly let her halter him. But what else could she do?
For two hours, Sam followed the stallion around the enclosure. He never broke into a run, never battered the rails as he had before, and never gave a sign that he heard her speak his secret name.
At last, Sam sat down with her back against the fence. The position was dangerous and she knew it. If the stallion decided to charge, she couldn’t move fast enough to escape. But trust must run two ways. Maybe he’d come to her.
A shiver ran over the stallion’s body. Keeping his head turned her way, he edged toward the water bucket, lowered his head and
drank deeply. His eyes remained fixed on Sam and she realized they weren’t brown and lively, now, but black and questioning.
The stallion hadn’t given up hope. He was waiting for her to understand.
She watched every twitch of muscle, every movement of his lips, every shifting of his weight from leg to leg. Even when Dad and Jake arrived, she didn’t stop.
“I do not believe what I’m seeing,” Dad’s voice was low and furious. “Tell me that is not my daughter in a pen—sitting in a pen with a wild stallion.”
Brynna answered, but Sam blocked out their conversation. She kept watching the Phantom. It seemed the water had revitalized him.
“Okay,” she said softly to the stallion. “Okay, I’m getting it.”
And then he made sure she understood.
Tossing his mane and forelock in fanfare, the stallion lifted his muzzle and pranced toward the fence. He gazed toward the mountains and uttered a neigh of longing.
Hooves stamped in the confinement of the River Bend horse trailer and Ace answered with a short burst of whinnies.
In spite of the danger, in spite of what Dad and Jake and Brynna might say, Sam knew what she must do. She walked toward the gate.
“Our idea’s not going to work,” Sam said, closing the corral gate behind her.
“You are testing my patience, Sam,” Dad said, but his arm draped over her like a bird’s sheltering wing.
Sam hugged him back, but didn’t let the warmth of Dad’s welcome slow her down.
“When Flick and the other guy dragged the Phantom in here, cross-tied, they—I don’t know, traumatized him, I think. He’s not going to let me halter him or pony him with Ace. And he won’t go into the trailer. But I know what will work.”
“I’m listening,” Jake said, but his thumbs were in his jeans pockets and he looked at the dirt, not her.
Sam’s stomach dropped away, as if she were rising in a fast elevator, before she said, “We wait until dark.”
“Oh, no,” Dad crossed his arms.
“I don’t know why, but he trusts me more in the dark,” she said. “Then Ace and I run toward Thread the Needle, and start down the hillside toward River Bend. Just like we were going to, only—”