by Terri Farley
Was he dead? A tiny voice in Sam’s mind asked the awful question, but she’d never ask it out loud.
“He was conscious, when they brought him into the Denver hospital,” Mrs. Allen said, “but he couldn’t move his legs.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sam repeated, but her hands curled into fists of frustration.
She wanted to help, to do something. But what? Frozen with the awfulness of this, she thought of her own accident. She could have snapped her spine instead of fracturing her skull. And Jake had been crushed by a falling horse and only broken his leg. They’d both been lucky.
As they drove on, and the pointed roofline of Mrs. Allen’s lavender house came into view, Sam felt guilty for ever thinking it looked like a witch’s house. Now, the KEEP OUT sign was gone, the rose garden flourished, and the only magic that worked here was the love lavished on forgotten horses.
In the saddle horse corral, Ace trotted to the fence, eyes fixed on the truck, though Calico, Ginger, and Judge, Mrs. Allen’s horses, merely swished their tails in recognition.
“Please call when you find out how he is, okay?” Sam asked, before they climbed out of the truck. “And, Mrs. Allen, I don’t know what I can do to help, but—”
“Thanks, Sam.” Mrs. Allen said it in a dismissing way, like you would to a little kid.
“No, really,” Sam insisted. “I’m the one who got you into all this.” Sam gestured toward the wide fields that pastured the captive mustangs, then laid her hand on the older woman’s arm.
As she looked down at Sam’s hand, Mrs. Allen’s lip trembled.
“If you think of something, will you please ask me?” Sam added.
“I will,” Mrs. Allen promised. “Thank you, Samantha.”
This time, she sounded as if she meant it.
Ace took the bit as if he was eager to go home. As Sam folded her horse’s silky ears into the headstall on the split ear bridle, she reminded herself there was no need to hurry. She had plenty of time to get home. Besides, in this heat, it wouldn’t be smart to push Ace out of a jog, no matter how willing he was to run.
At least it was dry heat, Sam thought as she swung into the saddle. According to Dad, the humidity that came just before a storm was harder on horses.
“No humidity here,” Sam told Ace as they jogged away from Deerpath Ranch. “But there’s a hot springs over there somewhere, past the old tree house. I’ll take you there sometime, good boy.”
Ace’s ears flicked back to catch her words, but he kept trotting, as if he wanted to get past this part of the trip. The gait wasn’t his usual gentle jog; it was more stiff-legged and watchful.
Horse-high weeds stood on each side of the lane, and though Mrs. Allen had cleaned up a lot of her ranch, she’d missed this part. Yellow-white and dry, they didn’t move, because there was no wind.
“I don’t blame you,” Sam told Ace. “You can’t see through them.”
Maybe the Phantom was still around, Sam thought suddenly. She stood in her stirrups, trying to see past the weeds, but nothing was there.
Sam was about to let Ace lope for just a few yards, when a cicada chirped on her right. Ace shied and Sam snugged her reins. She couldn’t reward him by letting him lope now.
As soon as they crossed the highway and the bridge over the La Charla River, Ace relaxed. They were home.
The minute she opened the screen door and entered the kitchen, Sam told Gram about Mrs. Allen’s grandson. Frowning, with one hand covering her lips, Gram listened. Twice, she looked toward the phone, but made no move to dial.
“If she’s waiting for her daughter to phone,” Gram said, “I suppose my call can wait. It’s a terrible, helpless feeling not to be able to help a child you love.”
Gram kissed Sam’s cheek, then waved her hand in front of her nose.
“Gracious, Samantha. You smell like a horse. Why don’t you hustle upstairs, then shower and change?”
“Do I have time?” Sam asked. “The hens—”
“I’ll be glad to go see if we have eggs,” Gram said. “Better that than be cooped up in the car with all that horsehair.”
“I can take a hint,” Sam said.
When she came back downstairs, not only had Sam showered, she’d washed her hair and blow-dried it, and put on the outfit Gram had given her for her birthday, a short white skirt with matching sandals and a bright emerald-green shirt.
She hadn’t been able to get all the paint off her knuckles, but no one would notice.
“You look nice, honey,” Dad said as Sam came into the kitchen.
“You, too,” Sam answered, but now she knew something was going on.
Dad wore tan slacks. Not jeans. The only time she could remember seeing him in pants other than jeans had been at his wedding to Brynna.
“Dad, is this a celebration, or…?”
He stared at the kitchen clock as if he hadn’t heard, then talked over her.
“’Bout time,” Dad said, then took Gram’s Buick keys from the hook by the kitchen door. “I’ll drive.”
When they arrived in Alkali, Brynna’s BLM truck was already parked outside Clara’s coffee shop.
As the bell on Clara’s front door clanged Sam’s passage into the aromas of hamburgers, French fries, and upside-down cake, she was more curious than hungry.
Brynna sat at one of Clara’s tables with a glass of ice water. She’d changed from her khaki uniform into a summer dress the color of peach ice cream. She was chewing her thumbnail.
“Hi!” Brynna bolted straight up from her seat as she spotted them.
Sam felt as if she were walking underwater as she approached the table. Something was about to happen, but what? Once they sat down, Clara came to their table with her order pad. Sam heard Dad order a fried shrimp dinner. Gram said she’d have the same, plus a pitcher of lemonade for them all to share. Then Brynna ordered soup and crackers.
In July, you didn’t eat soup and crackers unless you were sick.
Sam met Clara’s eyes and saw she was thinking the same thing. Then a slow smile claimed the old waitress’s lips.
“Sam?” Clara asked.
“Uh, how about the chef salad?”
“Good choice,” Clara said. Then, raising a hand toward her own face, she added, “Looks like you’ve been working outside. You’ve got some color in your cheeks.”
“She’s painting fence for Trudy Allen,” Dad said.
Sam’s confused thoughts made way for surprise as she heard the pride in Dad’s voice.
“Good for you,” Clara said. She gave a congratulatory nod, then slipped her pencil behind one ear. “I’ll be right back with that pitcher of lemonade.”
In the silence that followed Clara’s departure, Gram’s eyes met Dad’s across the table.
Now I’ll find out what’s going on, Sam thought, but suddenly she wondered if they’d brought her to dinner in public to tell her something that would have made her shout if she were at home. What if they thought her manners were too good to do that here? Did they think she would have calmed down by the time they arrived back at River Bend?
“Sam,” Dad began.
But suddenly, Sam didn’t want to hear what he was about to say.
“So, how are the horses doing in this heat?” Sam swiveled away from Dad to face Brynna.
Brynna knew Sam was talking about the mustangs at Willow Springs Wild Horse Center. “Fine. They’re doing just what they would in the wild. Resting up in what shade they can find during the hot part of the day. In fact, I’m glad all over again that we put the weanlings in the pen near the hay storage shelter.”
Sam pictured the wall of hay bales, higher than a house. It would cast a block of shade big enough to cool several corrals.
“They’re more active at night and early morning, though,” Brynna said, then sighed. “And we’ve been having some fights. Dr. Scott’s been treating kicks and bites every day.”
“They’re too crowded,” Sam suggested.
“Way too cr
owded,” Brynna confirmed. “I’ll be glad when our adoption auction has come and gone. Then, they’ll have more room to move around.”
Sam nodded. Although wild horses traveled in family herds, often dozing shoulder-to-shoulder or standing head-to-tail to whisk away flies plaguing each other, the desire to be close could vanish once they were confined with mustang strangers.
Many of the foals born to captive mares had been weaned and were ready to leave their mothers. Since most adopters wanted young horses because they believed they’d be easier to gentle, Brynna had scheduled an auction day for early August.
“Sam,” Dad’s voice cut across Sam’s thoughts, “Brynna and I have something to tell you.”
“Okay,” she said, in surrender.
Dad gave a quick glance around the coffee shop to see if anyone at other tables was eavesdropping. They weren’t, and Clara was busy, scooping ice into a glass pitcher.
“’Bout the beginning of next year, you’re going to have a new little sister or brother.”
What?
Sam’s mind spun. She turned toward Brynna again. This time, her stepmother was blushing.
“You’re going to have a baby?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Brynna nodded, blue eyes searching Sam’s, as if to silently ask how she felt.
How did she feel?
Sam tried to do an assessment like you would with someone who’d fallen off a horse. No bleeding, no broken bones, no obvious injuries. But her head seemed to wobble, dizzy with the strangeness of a new member coming into her family.
Gram grinned, clearly delighted, without a trace of surprise. As usual, Sam thought, she’d been the last to learn this secret.
Sam sighed in frustration and told herself she just felt left out. To feel jealous would be ridiculous.
Three sets of eyes watched, waiting for her reaction.
“Wow,” she said, and all three of them burst into laughter.
Sam joined in. Then, Clara arrived with the pitcher of lemonade, ice cubes tinkling as she poured.
Silently, Sam hoped, Please don’t let them do something silly like propose a toast.
She needed a chance to get used to this, before she told the world. Jen might understand, since she’d spent her life as an only child. Jake wouldn’t. As the youngest of six brothers, he’d always shared everything. He’d laugh at her shock.
Besides, he was the baby of his family. He wouldn’t know how it felt to have a new rival for—
Sam slammed a mental door on that thought and jerked her chin up in stubborn determination.
Dad would always like her best. And so would Gram.
“The beginning of next year?” Sam asked.
“The doctor says January seventeenth,” Brynna told her. “But I’ve done some reading. That date can be very approximate, especially with first babies.”
Trust Brynna to research this like the biologist she was.
Sam smiled. Brynna would learn every fact she could in preparation for such an event. Not Gram, though.
Gram leaned both arms on the table. “You’ll love being a big sister, Sam, even though it’s a lot of work….”
Work? Wait just a minute. This hadn’t been her decision. Why was Gram mentioning “big sister” and “work” in the same sentence?
“—worth every second when you hold that soft, sweet-smelling bundle—”
Oh, right. From what she’d heard of diapers, “sweet-smelling” did not describe a baby’s aroma.
“—in your arms and they look up into your face with utter trust.”
Gram looked like she might cry.
Dad’s mouth was set in a stubborn smile, but his eyes searched Sam’s, like Brynna’s had.
Sam knew she didn’t have to worry about Dad asking her to lay her feelings out for everyone to examine. Dad was a cowboy. Cowboys did what had to be done, no matter how they felt about it. He seemed to feel happy. Whether she was happy or not, he’d expect her to process this announcement, and accept it.
I can do that, Sam thought. She gave Dad a nod as Clara arrived, juggling the hot platters while Millie followed with Sam’s salad and a cracker basket.
The baby conversation was edged aside by eating. Then, Brynna brought up the BLM’s efforts to publicize the mustang auction online, and Sam was struck by an awful thought.
“After the baby’s born, you won’t stop working at Willow Springs, will you?” Sam asked.
In northern Nevada, Brynna was the best protector the wild horses had within the Bureau of Land Management. She wouldn’t desert them for a baby, would she?
“I plan to go back, Sam,” Brynna said, but there was something qualified and careful in her voice.
“You have to,” Sam insisted. “You’re the only one who really understands what the horses need.”
“Thanks, Sam, that’s sweet.”
Not sweet, Sam thought, panicked. It was a fact that made the difference between life and death for the mustangs.
Sam took a long drink of lemonade. She pulled the glass away when she felt the urge to grit her teeth on it.
Norman White had been the BLM official determined to destroy the horses Mrs. Allen had adopted. Twice, he’d taken over at Willow Springs when Brynna traveled.
Norman White thought of the horses as useless animals. No, even that wasn’t true. For him, the horses represented numbers. In his equation, mustangs equaled an unneeded expense for the federal government. Taxpayers shouldn’t waste money on saving wild horses.
“Oh my gosh, if Mr. White came back—”
“He won’t,” Brynna said. She broke a cracker in half with a satisfied snap. “He’s been promoted.”
“Figures,” Dad grumbled.
“He’s working full time in D.C. now, Sam. That means he won’t be in charge of Willow Springs. At least not directly.”
“That’s all well and good, for now,” Dad said, slicing off a bite of his fried shrimp. “But if they’ve moved him up the line, he’ll be makin’ decisions. Then you’ll have to abide by them and so will we.” Dad nodded at Gram and Sam. “And Norman White doesn’t know or care what it means to be a rancher fightin’ to make a livin’.”
“In fairness, that’s not what they pay him for,” Gram said. “He’s not particularly interested. And I guess he doesn’t see the value in letting wild horses run the range.” Gram sighed and looked down at her plate. “I guess some folks can’t appreciate anything without checking its price tag.”
“We need a troop of women like Trudy Allen in Washington,” Brynna said, picking up her soup spoon for the first time.
Remembering Mrs. Allen’s battle with Norman White, Sam stabbed a piece of cheddar cheese in her salad, then a piece of ham, and ate them both. Norman White hadn’t stood a chance. The wild horses couldn’t have a better advocate.
But that was another subject. Right now, she wanted Brynna’s promise to stay at Willow Springs where she could protect the mustangs.
Just then, the door to Clara’s jangled open.
“Why, Trudy,” Gram said, rising to her feet.
Dad pushed back from the table to stand as Mrs. Allen entered the coffee shop.
Her black skirt blew forward as if she’d been pushed through the door by the hot desert wind that spit sand around her, spattering the linoleum floor.
She struggled to close the screen door against the wind until Clara came to help. Then Mrs. Allen continued toward them.
“Sit back down, Grace. You, too, Wyatt,” Mrs. Allen said from halfway across the coffee shop. “I need some help, but you’re going to want to think before you say ‘yes.’”
Chapter Three
“What’s wrong?” Brynna whispered.
“Her grandson was in a car accident. A bad one,” Sam said quickly.
Brynna sucked in a breath. As she exhaled, the breath trembled.
Did Brynna already feel like a mother worrying over her child?
Dad had moved a chair over from another table. Mrs. Allen, her h
ands steadier than they’d been this afternoon, settled into it.
“Sam will have told you that Gabriel, my daughter Cynthia’s boy, was in a car accident.” Mrs. Allen barely paused at Gram and Brynna’s sympathetic sounds. “It’s not as bad as it could be. There’s no spinal cord damage.”
“Thank God,” Brynna said, closing her eyes for an instant.
“At least they don’t see any,” Mrs. Allen added. “They think it’s some sort of bruising, maybe, that’s keeping him from moving his legs…?” Mrs. Allen looked at Brynna, Dad, and Gram for their opinions, but they were too troubled to even guess.
“Heavens, I couldn’t follow everything I heard. I didn’t even talk with Cindy. It was a neighbor of hers that called me back and, I’m humiliated to say I only understood about half of what she told me.” Mrs. Allen shook her head. “But that’s why I need to be there for my daughter,” she added to Sam and Brynna. “Be there for her while she’s waiting.”
“The waiting is torture,” Gram agreed, “and it helps to have a hand to hold.”
“Tell us what we can do,” Brynna said.
Dad added, “You know you can count on us.”
Pride surged through Sam. All four members of her family wanted to help. In a land where help usually meant hard, physical labor, they were no idle offers, either.
“I have a flight out of Reno tomorrow morning. I don’t plan to be gone long, a week at most, but I’m hoping that since Sam knows the place, she can take over.”
Even though she was startled by the suggestion, Sam realized she wanted to do it. Spending time with Faith would be great and she wouldn’t be away from Tempest long enough for the filly to forget her lessons. Best of all, she’d be right in the midst of the Phantom’s territory.
“Trudy, Sam just turned fourteen years old,” Gram said.
“C’mon, Gracey, it only means feeding the horses and dogs.” Mrs. Allen’s tone reminded Sam that Gram and Mrs. Allen were friends. “Doesn’t she do that much at home?”
“Sure,” Dad said. “We left her to run the place during the cattle drive.”