by Terri Farley
But Sam knew she wasn’t mistaken. The muscles of the mare’s left front leg were bunched and shaking as if they’d held the extra load for hours. Or days.
Sam knew she had to inspect the mare’s injury if she expected to help. She let her shoulders droop. She took slow steps, moving closer until she was only a few feet away. Without moving her head, Sam lowered her eyes.
The mare’s leg was swollen. Just above her hoof, a fly buzzed around a black blend of crust and goo.
To get a better look at the wound, Sam bent her knees a fraction of an inch, then a full inch, watching the mare for reaction.
The wild horse did nothing until Ace squealed.
Sam had to look away from the mare.
Ace was all right, but he was staring upstream again, and suddenly Sam knew the honey-colored mare hadn’t been abandoned after all.
Moving through a tunnel of branches laden with gold leaves, parting the pollen, shadows and sunlight, the Phantom came toward her, striding down the river like a king.
Chapter Two
The mare’s agitated whinny rang in Sam’s ear.
From her squatting position, Sam looked up to see the palomino directing all of her attention at the Phantom. The human at her feet was forgotten.
Sniffing and tossing her head, the mare tried to move forward. She made two steps before her hoof drew up. Struggling for balance, she swayed. Sun glinted off the long gentle slant of her shoulder and Sam scooted back.
The mare didn’t fall, but only luck saved her. Sam reminded herself to stay alert. The horse could fall on her. She could be slammed to the earth or struck as the mare struggled to rise. And she’d be no help to the Phantom’s lead mare if she was injured, too.
The attempt to go meet the Phantom had hurt the palomino. Sam saw furrows above the mare’s dark-brown eyes. Pain and confusion warred in the horse’s mind. Should she listen to her pain or answer her yearning to be with the herd?
The mare’s second neigh soared like a scream. With her lips working and head tossing, she appealed to the Phantom for help, begging him not to leave her behind.
Poor girl, Sam thought, swallowing hard at the mare’s distress.
When she looked back toward the Phantom, Sam saw he was listening. He passed through the rest of the herd as they meandered along the creek. Some drank. Others stood in the shade. Though most of the mares acted immune to the lead mare’s neighs, a few stared into the rustling branches overhead and all of the foals moved with jerky, uncertain movements.
The Phantom approached with arched neck and prancing steps, his silken mane covering his neck like some kind of royal shawl, or a mantle of authority. He looked arrogant, set on taking over this shady creek-side territory, until he recognized Sam.
He gave a quick snort of inquiry.
What are you doing here? he seemed to ask, and she saw each of his senses sharpen to inspect the area again. Had she brought other humans? Ropes? Loud trucks and danger? Sensing no peril, he splashed across the creek.
Flicking his tail in annoyance, the Phantom came toward Sam. He splashed down the creek, then raised and lowered his head, telling her to back off.
In this crouch, Sam supposed she looked submissive and small as a foal and literally like an underling. But she couldn’t obey the stallion’s order to get lost. Any quick movements might send the lead mare shying and falling, damaging that leg even worse.
When Sam didn’t move, the Phantom repeated the movements with more energy, flinging a silver profusion of mane and forelock to underline his command.
When she still didn’t obey, he bolted forward. Droplets sprayed as he cut the distance between them in half and stepped from the creek to the bank.
Crouched between the stallion and the lead mare, Sam knew she was in danger. It might look to him as if she kept the mare from obeying his summons.
The stallion knew her. She’d raised him from a foal, but the accusing look he flashed her showed no hint of memory.
“Zanzibar,” Sam whispered, but the stallion pawed the creekbank, tossing spatters of mud.
It was what Brynna would call an aggressive display. Infuriated by the sight of the rope slung over her shoulder and her refusal to flee, he arched his neck until muscles rippled under his silver hide and his chin bumped his chest.
Keep your silly human friendship, the stallion signaled her.
The palomino was his and Sam had no part in his life as a herd stallion.
“I can’t leave,” Sam whispered. “She’s bleeding. You can chase off the coyotes or cougars that might smell it, but you can’t help her heal, and I can. Maybe.”
The Phantom drummed his front hooves, then lowered his head and snaked it in a herding movement he’d use for any mare or foal. And Sam knew what would happen if the mare or foal was slow to respond. If they were lucky, they’d see his bared teeth coming their way and get going.
Even though he’d never bitten her, Sam held her breath and then, as the Phantom’s head struck toward her like something primitive and mythical, a griffin or a fire-eyed snake, she curled her arms around herself, ducked her head, and hoped.
His hooves made the ground below her shake, and Sam knew he’d divided the distance between them in half again. He must be very close because, even curled up for safety, she could smell the clover sweetness of his breath.
In tiny fractions, Sam lifted her head, letting each vertebrae in her neck align so slowly that for minutes, her eyes saw only mud, the stallion’s hooves, and the wet hair curling above his fetlocks.
At last, she met his irritated gaze. His head was lowered and his eyes stared from no more than five feet away. Offended and huffing, the Phantom’s expression said he wouldn’t make more allowances for her simple human brain.
She’d received her last warning, so Sam stayed still though the muscles in her thighs quivered from crouching and her Achilles tendons stung. How long could her trembling toes grip the wet dirt and keep her balanced?
The creek’s prattle must have covered her frightened breaths, because the stallion backed off a step with a satisfied nod, but he hadn’t forgiven her. An iridescent blue-green dragonfly zipped past his nose and Ace’s shod hoof struck rock, but the stallion kept one delicate ear swiveled in Sam’s direction.
The Phantom was magnificent. Being this close to him was a gift, even if he was threatening her.
That’s crazy talk, Sam rebuked herself.
The stallion was wild. She couldn’t predict his actions. She could guess, but she’d been wrong before. She had to get out of this submissive position and beyond the reach of his hooves.
She’d be insane to risk another concussion or shattered bone on the chance that she could read the stallion’s mind.
But what should she do?
The mare decided for her, lurching three steps closer to the stallion. For an instant, Sam saw dried blood cracking, opening a red fissure over the wound. Then, the Phantom wheeled, moving after the mare. His tail sung through the air like a million mosquitoes and lashed Sam’s cheek.
Enough. Sam scrambled to her feet, backing off, but not running.
The Phantom cast one more look her way, rolling his eyes and jabbing his muzzle at Sam in a last command to leave the mare to him. He stalked off, assuming she’d obey.
Then, the Phantom lowered his head and sniffed his lead mare’s flank as if he didn’t recognize her. Next, the stallion inspected the blood running in rivulets over her hoof. The palomino shuddered and closed her eyes.
Was this the feeling people called feeling déjà vu? Sam had the sensation she’d seen this all happen before. Then, she realized it had.
The Phantom’s tiger dun lead mare had cracked her hoof. She’d been found alone on the playa and captured by the Bureau of Land Management, but the Phantom had seen her one last time after she’d been adopted and it had been just this sad.
Sam’s imagination swarmed with thousands of mustangs rounded up and jammed into trucks. One side of her mind argued s
he wouldn’t have Ace without the BLM’s adoption program, but the other half said horses like Blue, Tinkerbell, Dark Sunshine, and Jinx should still be living free.
If the BLM found this beautiful mare, she’d get the medical treatment she needed, and an adoptive home. But wasn’t her real home on the range with the Phantom?
The palomino stared across the creek at the other mares and lifted her hoof higher, as if she’d rejoin the others even if she had to do it on three legs.
The two horses couldn’t know what she was thinking, and Sam was grateful. As much as she wanted the mare to stay with the Phantom, she couldn’t let it happen. The mare wouldn’t be able to keep up with the herd. Her cries wouldn’t stop them from leaving her behind, but they’d alert predators. If the wound reopened, the scent of blood would lure them to her. An adult horse was dangerous prey, but instinct would tell them they only had to wait. Eventually, she’d be weak enough to attack.
Slowly, Sam eased her rope off over her head. As Sam’s fingers worked to open the loop in her rope, tears pricked at her eyes. She blinked, refusing to let them blur her vision. She had one chance to get this right.
The horses seemed to have forgotten her. The golden mare nuzzled the stallion’s mane. He backed slowly to face her. Their noses were nearly touching.
As Sam watched, the Phantom finished his good-bye. With each step the stallion took away from the mare, Sam took one closer. She was only a few feet away now. Her rope couldn’t miss.
The mare glanced at Sam, but her heart was following the Phantom and she hardly noticed when Sam held her breath, bit her lip, and flipped the rope over the mare’s neck.
As it tightened, the stallion swung his head in reprimand. His teeth were bared, but not at Sam—at the mare.
Stay here, his gesture said. The order was cruel, but it might save the palomino’s life.
He turned abruptly aside from the mare and left.
For a few hopeful seconds, Sam thought the parting was over.
Sun sifted through the leaves overhead, hunting out each silver dapple on the stallion’s gleaming hide. The Phantom ignored the mare’s whinny. He crossed a carpet of yellow leaves before walking into the creek and back to his band.
The mare stared after him, nostrils vibrating in a silent farewell.
And then she exploded.
With a squeal, the mare wrenched her neck sideways. The rope sizzled along Sam’s palms before she grabbed and held on. The mare tried to bolt, but her foreleg pulled up in pain. Her golden shoulders heaved forward and her neck arched as she rose in a half rear, but when she came down and tried to plant her forelegs to buck and frighten off the human who held the rope, the injured leg crumpled and she slammed to the ground on her right side.
Panting and braced, Sam kept her eyes on the honey-colored lead mare and her hands on the rope.
Eyes closed, ears pinned back, the mare lay on her side, snorting through flared nostrils. Sam knew the mustang heard the clatter of wild hooves moving off, walking aimlessly, then jogging slowly. The herd hesitated without a lead mare’s guidance.
The mare’s muscles tightened. Her chest heaved and her eyes opened with a look so white-rimmed and agitated, it could have been madness. The mare knew she was alone. She knew she couldn’t follow. Her legs thrashed briefly, running on air, and then she rested.
Sam chanced a single glance to make sure Ace had stayed ground-tied. Despite all the commotion, her loyal gelding stood only a few feet from where she’d left him.
When Sam looked back, the mare’s sad brown eyes were watching her.
“Poor girl,” Sam crooned. “I’ll get you back to them as soon as your leg’s well enough to travel. I promise.”
When the mare lurched to her feet, Sam instinctively held up her hands for protection. She was standing so close, and a horse not really in control of its body seemed twice as big.
But the mare didn’t hurt her. She didn’t even try to walk. Her head drooped and the loop around her neck loosened. She held her hoof clear of the ground.
Without meaning to, Sam offered her hand for the mare to sniff, but the horse squealed and tossed her head up. Before the horse could hurt herself by backing away, Sam let her hand drop back to her side and looked down at the mare’s wound.
Had Hotspot’s hoof opened that slash from just above the center of the pale hoof, around the pastern and halfway up the fetlock?
At least she thought it was a slash. Beneath the coagulated blood, she made out a reddish channel. In three days, it should have scabbed over, shouldn’t it? Maybe movement had kept that from happening, or the kick could have nicked a vein.
Sam gritted her teeth, realizing she didn’t know enough about horse anatomy to take an educated guess.
“I know we need warm water to clean you up,” Sam told the mare.
As if she realized the impossibility of that at Aspen Creek, the mare lowered her head and let her ears fall to each side.
“We’ll go where we can get some,” Sam said, and she could only think of one way to do that.
Sam decided she’d mount Ace. Now, while the wild horse was quiet and melancholy, was her best chance that the mare would follow him.
But where can I take her to tend that foot, then set her free? Sam wondered.
Home would be best, or Three Ponies Ranch, but Mrs. Allen’s ranch was not only closest, it was part of the Phantom’s territory.
Sam bit her lip, wondering if she could convince the old lady not to tell anyone about the injured palomino. After all, she was in the business of rescuing horses, not reporting them to the BLM, like Brynna.
But that cut…
Sam considered it, dubiously. The mare needed care, but there was no way Sam could count on Dr. Scott to keep the mare a secret. He was on a monthly salary from BLM to care for the captive mustangs.
But wait! Jen wanted to be a vet. And if Sam could trust Jen with her life—and she knew she could—she could trust her with this mare’s freedom, too.
That was the best she could do: get the mare to Deerpath Ranch and call Jen.
With that decision made and the rope resting in her fingers, Sam hurried. An infection could be spreading up the mare’s leg and into her system while Sam put off her next move. She knew a shortcut to Deerpath Ranch, but it meant crossing the creek here, then back across in about half an hour.
Sam took a bold step closer. The mare’s eyes opened wider, but she barely flinched when Sam pulled the loop snug. The horse tossed her creamy forelock back from her eyes and yanked against the rope.
Digging her bare heels into the dirt, Sam braced herself. Any minute, the mare could take off. Sam pictured herself skiing through the mud at the end of her own lariat.
She tightened her fingers into fists around the rope, but nothing happened. The mare was no more skittish than Dark Sunshine.
The mare not only tolerated the rope, she didn’t startle or spook at a human voice.
What was going on? Was the mare sicker than she looked? Had she simply lost the will to fight?
A breeze blew and dry aspen leaves applauded overhead, reminding Sam that it was autumn. Soon, the Phantom and his herd would leave for their wintering spot and this mare should go with them, even if she couldn’t lead, because there was no way in the world she could keep this mustang secret until next spring.
She didn’t have time to puzzle everything out right here and now.
“Okay baby, let’s take a few easy steps.”
The mare responded to the rope’s pressure by walking gingerly, then taking a three-legged hop.
“We’ll just go over and get Ace,” she explained, “and you can follow him downhill to Mrs. Allen’s.”
As she walked after Sam, the mare’s head bobbed downward on the left side, as if that would help her balance.
“There you go. No need to giddy up too fast,” Sam said.
She couldn’t help thinking how weird it was that the Phantom’s lead mare acted almost domesticated.
/> Forget about it, Sam ordered herself. She didn’t have to touch the mare’s swollen leg to know it was hot and painful. The sooner she got it washed, treated, and bandaged, the sooner the mare could catch up with the Phantom. Then she’d be herself again.
“And I promise you, beauty,” Sam said, “if you want to go back to the wild, you’re going.”
Sam and the honey-colored mare were halfway across the creek when the horse stopped, nearly jerking Sam off her freezing feet.
The mare gave a loud, relieved sigh. Her shoulders shifted forward and her head sagged almost to the water’s surface.
“Does that cold water feel good?” Sam asked through nearly chattering teeth.
If the creek flow cooled the horse’s wounded flesh, Sam guessed she could just stand here and shiver for a little while.
After all, she remembered the times she’d applied ice packs or even a plastic bag of frozen vegetables to her basketball injuries. She couldn’t help sympathizing with the mare, even though her own feet felt like blocks of ice and then, after a few minutes, like big numb lumps where her shins entered the water.
“It’s getting cleaner,” Sam said as the water swirled around the mare’s legs. But it would just get dirty again by the time she reached Mrs. Allen’s barn and the first aide kit she kept inside. Mentally, Sam sorted through the things she’d brought with her. What could she use to pad and protect the mare’s injury?
“Socks!” Sam said, and when the mare shied, she resolved to stop talking.
Along with her binoculars and a granola bar, she had a pair of fresh socks in her saddlebag. They were wool, and they might be scratchy against the open wound, but not if she ripped a piece off her shirt and tied it over the wound before she wrapped the sock on.
Suddenly, the mare lurched toward shore and Sam hurried to keep up.
“Careful, careful,” Sam cautioned the horse. One slip caused by that weak front leg and they could both go down. It was unlikely they’d drown, but it sure wouldn’t be much fun.