by Terri Farley
As Dr. Scott listened, Sam noticed his hands moved to rub the small of his back. Spending the night in a mudhole with a struggling yearling must have left him with some sore muscles.
“Heck Ballard let me know the location had been changed, since I said I’d show up, just in case anything unexpected happens,” Dr. Scott said. “Another four hours donated.”
He said it gruffly, to keep them from thinking he was easy to take advantage of, but Sam already knew the truth. Dr. Scott’s life revolved around animals and the people who cared about them.
“It sounds to me like you already do enough volunteer work,” Mrs. Allen said.
“This is worth doing. I encouraged Heck Ballard to get the funding for this training, especially for volunteers and their mounts.”
Sam figured she could keep the vet distracted from the barn by babbling about how she planned to ride in the training exercise, too, but then a faraway expression crept over Dr. Scott’s face.
“I was in Chicago once for a vet conference and a couple of us went down to watch a parade. Some fool planner hadn’t given a thought to marching the mounted police unit in front of a mountain man reenactment group.”
Sam could picture men costumed in fringed buckskins, moccasins, and fur caps swaggering down the street. She couldn’t figure out why it would be foolish to put them next to a group on horseback.
“Everything was just fine until the mountain men started shooting off their black powder rifles.”
Sam imagined the thunder and smell coming from behind….
“The horses had been trained to tolerate the sound of handguns, but this was a series of huge, echoing ka-booms. Two horses broke ranks. The crowd split and one of the horses got himself cornered at a bus stop, but the other one ran right into a power pole.”
Dr. Scott looked distant for a minute, then he finished, “He had to be put down. Right there, while his rider—a big tough-guy police sergeant—stood by crying like a baby.”
Dr. Scott scowled at the memory, then yawned once more.
“So that’s why you’re volunteering your Sunday to help out,” Mrs. Allen said. “I’m sure Heck appreciates it.”
“What’s four more hours?” Dr. Scott shrugged. “Overnight I’ll think about what kind of setup we’ll use to tend to your wild horses. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
As Sam watched Dr. Scott walk away, she wasn’t thinking about the story he’d told or the desensitization of police horses. She felt rescued—partly because he hadn’t discovered the mare and partly because Dr. Scott would be here again tomorrow. Just in case.
If the mare’s condition worsened overnight, Dr. Scott would be here to help.
Mrs. Allen’s tangerine-colored truck sped down the dirt road before dust from the vet’s vehicle had even settled.
For a few seconds, Sam savored the feeling of being alone with so many horses. She counted the mustangs, saddle horses, Ace, and the Phantom’s lead mare on her fingers. She was surrounded by nineteen horses.
Her gaze swept appreciatively over the ranch. She knew which horse she wanted to spend a little time alone with: the honey-colored mare.
Sam didn’t sneak into the barn. Scuffing her boots as she went, she gave the mare plenty of warning that she was coming. Before Sam had even crossed the barn’s threshold, the mare’s head whipped up from her investigation and her ivory mane swirled around her face. Tail switching from side to side, the mare watched Sam enter.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Sam crooned to the horse, and the mare’s ears flicked forward to listen.
Even though it was too hot for hugging, Sam had a strong desire to wrap her arms around the mare’s neck.
As if the horse read her mind, though, she backed quickly into a corner. She barely favored her bandaged leg, but she paid attention to Sam. Then, as if she suddenly felt trapped, the mare bolted forward, eyes rolling. For the first time since she’d entered the stall, the mare stared around wildly.
She had to be remembering her herd, Sam thought as the mare neighed loudly and longingly, then gave two short, wavering whinnies.
For the first time, Sam compared the mare to Dark Sunshine and sighed. Though she’d calmed down after Tempest’s birth, Sunny had never really adjusted to captivity. She always stared toward the Calico Mountains as if her heart still galloped with the wild ones, and Sam didn’t want this mare to pine away, too.
“Even if I get in trouble, I’ll take you back to him,” Sam vowed, and the mare seemed to understand.
When Sam got home, she’d been missed. But not in a good way.
No one threw their arms around her and rejoiced that she’d come safely home.
“It’s about time you got here.”
Gram’s cranky greeting hit Sam as she opened the kitchen door and breathed the chemical fumes of oven cleaner.
“You cleaned the oven,” Sam began.
“Someone had to do it,” Gram complained.
“I’m here now,” Sam protested.
Gram knelt in front of the oven, wearing a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves as she scrubbed.
“I planned on doing it,” Sam added. “Do you want me to finish up?”
Gram shook her head and kept working, but somehow Sam thought she read a reprimand in Gram’s stiff back. For some reason, it seemed like the opposite of Mrs. Allen’s compliments.
If I had a few more helpers like you, Mrs. Allen had said. Or something like that. When the words had settled in, they’d not only made Sam happy she did something well, she wanted to do more for Mrs. Allen.
Musing for a few seconds as she watched Gram angle her arm to reach far into the oven, Sam decided she worked better for praise than guilt.
It really was something she should tell Gram, but what if she didn’t take it the right way?
Gram stood up from the job and began peeling off her gloves.
“There’s a note there from a girl at school. She wants you to call back.”
Sam picked up the note from the kitchen table and smiled.
Ally McClintock, the note said, wants to do something fun. Under that Gram had written Ally’s phone number.
Allison McClintock was the type teachers called “well-rounded” and popular girls like Rachel Slocum called “geek.” Ally wore long, gauzy skirts and her brownish-blond hair made a flyaway halo around her delicate face. She was on the school newspaper with Sam and she was a talented musician who assisted her father, the choir director at the Methodist church, by directing the children’s choir. Although socializing made her shy, Ally snapped up chances to perform with her guitar.
Sam didn’t blame her. Ally’s voice seemed too rich and strong to be coming from the throat of a high school student. Sam had heard Ally play at talent shows, school assemblies, and even the opening of a music store at Crane Crossing Mall, and each time she’d hoped someone would step forward and tell Ally she was going to be a star.
Ally’s creativity made Sam feel about as clever as a caveman and Ally was definitely not the sort to stand around whining, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?”
Whatever Ally had in mind would be fun.
Gram laid her yellow gloves on the kitchen counter, then gave Sam a considering look. “There’s plenty of other housework to do.”
Sam didn’t like the sound of that. She pushed Ally’s airy appeal aside. She’d call her later. Now, she had to fend off whatever super-chore Gram had in mind.
Gram didn’t care that Sam liked horsework, not housework. She’d been hoping to spend time with Tempest and Dark Sunshine, or on the phone with Jen, scheming how to do what was best for the Phantom’s lead mare.
“I know there is,” Sam admitted. “Let me think.” If she didn’t come up with a chore and jump on it right now, Gram would say something like “Pick up everything downstairs,” and that kind of job could last all day.
“Would you like me to dust all the furniture?” Sam suggested.
“No, but…” Gram looked surprised. “Thanks, honey.”
/> Sam knew better than to take Gram’s approval and run. Laziness would catch up with her by the end of the day and she might not be allowed to go back to Mrs. Allen’s tomorrow.
She ended up helping with laundry. As she pulled wet clothes from the washing machine and plopped them in a wicker basket, she told Gram about Mrs. Allen’s weariness, the Humane Society complaint, the police horse desensitization planned for tomorrow, and the part she, Jen, Jake, and Darrell would play in it.
“Trudy needs some help,” Gram said as Sam lifted the basket by both handles. “It’s nice of you kids to pitch in.”
“Well, I think Jen will do it. If she can’t, I might not be able to ride Ace….” Sam’s voice trailed off and she looked toward the phone, but Gram tilted her head to one side as if Sam were trying to get out of work. “But I’ll call her later.”
Sam had almost angled the basket out the door, when she said to Gram, “Did you know Dallas was going to be on the volunteer posse?”
“I’m not surprised,” Gram said. “He sounded downright jealous when I told him I’d been going into town to help out with the therapy horse program.”
“Hmmm,” Sam said, and then she continued on outside.
Hanging laundry was probably the best chore that didn’t involve horses. It definitely smelled better than oven cleaner.
Blaze, the ranch Border collie, had followed her to the clothesline, and now corridors of wet, flapping sheets kept them both cool.
“You’re no dummy, are you, boy?” Sam asked the panting dog, but then her thoughts changed direction and Sam found she could do the chore while she thought about the palomino mare.
Clipping a wooden clothespin to one corner of a sheet, then smoothing it along the clothesline, Sam wished she was still at Deerpath Ranch.
When Belle and Faith had been in that stall, they hadn’t been left alone for a minute. Now Jake was gone, Mrs. Allen was in town, and Sam was home, too. The injured lead mare was all alone in her captivity.
What if the mare looked at the wooden walls surrounding her and began pawing at boards? What if her struggles widened the cut they’d bandaged so carefully? Could she get a sliver in her chest if she tried to jump out of the stall? But she hadn’t looked fearful.
Sam took a T-shirt from the laundry basket, fastened it in place, and wondered how the wild horse had come to know stalls. Picturing the mare’s alert ears and watchful eyes, Sam decided the horse not only hadn’t acted confined and crazy, she hadn’t even looked nervous. If Sam didn’t know better, she’d think the mare looked relieved and almost at home.
Sam paused as she bent toward the laundry basket again.
Clues pointed toward the mare’s domestication, but ever since Queen, the Phantom’s first lead mare, had been taken in by the BLM, this honey-colored horse had helped lead the Phantom’s herd. Sam knew that the mare was where she belonged.
Sam was finishing the dinner dishes, staring out the window over the sink, and half wondering why Dallas was standing on the porch outside the bunkhouse kind of expectantly, when it popped into her mind that no one had asked what had happened after she rode away from River Bend that morning.
They hadn’t questioned her about the Phantom or asked what she thought had him stirred up.
Sam guessed that was a good thing, since she couldn’t have told the truth about the palamino mare, but it was sort of ironic that Dad had refused to let her budge and Brynna had kept her straining like a dog on a leash until the sun came up, and neither of them had wondered what happened next.
Now Dad was dozing in front of the television, Gram was reading a seed catalogue, and Brynna was spreading out even more maps on the kitchen table.
They’d all been interested in her plans for tomorrow. Dad had actually talked with Sheriff Ballard the other day about Lieutenant Preston, the man who’d conduct the training, and Dad thought the work would do Ace good. Brynna had told about a search party she’d ridden on once and the volunteers she’d nicknamed “thrusters”—people who pushed themselves to the front when a photographer appeared to show heroes who’d found a group of lost Boy Scouts.
When Sam had phoned Jen, she’d had to be vague about the mare’s condition, but she’d managed to hint that Jen’s advice had worked. And Jake turned out to be right about Jen and Silly.
“She’s already bomb-proof enough,” Jen had said. “But Ace—and you have to swear you won’t take this wrong, or I’ll shut up now—”
“I know,” Sam had said. “He needs some work on confronting unusual stuff.”
“Oh, yeah,” Jen had said, making Sam laugh.
That was another example of what a good friend Jen was, Sam thought. She’d offered a teeny crumb of criticism about Ace, but not in a mean way, and Sam found she could take it.
Now, with everyone else preoccupied, she could call Jen back and give her more details about tomorrow. She needed to call Ally, too. It was probably too late for whatever fun the other girl had had in mind and Ally would be busy tomorrow, because it was Sunday. Still…
Sam was moving to retrieve the note with Ally’s phone number on it when she heard tires hit the bridge that led into the ranch yard. A screech of brakes told her the driver had slowed suddenly. Then, sliding through the gray-purple dusk, a car pulled into the yard.
Looking from the kitchen window, Sam wondered if this was what Dallas had been waiting for.
She’d never seen the car before. It rolled jerkily into the yard, throbbing with the bass beat of music playing inside. Mostly emerald green with a white top, it might be one of those classic cars you saw in movies about the fifties. Or sixties.
The car stopped. The music ended. A heavy door opened and closed.
She didn’t know the car, but she recognized the guy climbing out of it as Jake’s friend Darrell. Dark, slicked-back hair and baggy pants told Sam it couldn’t be anyone else.
She’d first heard Darrell’s name the day Jake had disabled Gram’s car by pulling some wires out from under the hood, making it into an immovable barricade on the road to Willow Springs Wild Horse Center, so that Linc Slocum couldn’t drive past.
When Sam had gaped in amazement, Jake had told her his friend Darrell had taught him how to do it. He’d added that Sam was not allowed to meet Darrell because he was kind of a rebel, but of course Sam met him at school.
He wasn’t really a bad guy. But what was he doing here? And what did he have in that gunnysack?
Chapter Eight
Sam wiped her wet hands on her jeans and slipped out the front door. The door closed behind her. She saw Darrell tighten his grip on the sack as it rocked and swayed.
Now that she was closer, she was pretty sure the sack held something alive. Even so, despite the shifting and swaying gunnysack, Darrell walked as he did down the halls of Darton High. Weight back on his heels with his baggy pants billowing and his eyelids lowered to half-mast. He looked totally cool.
Once he opened his mouth, he’d start talking like a hard guy, as if he were risky to be around.
But he wasn’t. Last year when she’d been searching small rodeos for the Phantom, she’d seen how patiently Darrell took care of his unruly little cousin at a carnival.
Darrell had slipped her evidence to write an exposé for the school newspaper, too, and the principal had ended up nabbing Kris Cameron, one of the most popular guys in school, for forging passes to get his friends out of class. Not only that, Darrell had helped her make a hay drop for the wild horses during the snowiest part of winter.
“Hey Forster, you know how to keep a secret.”
It was a statement, not a question. Sam sucked in a cautious breath.
Should she turn and run? Moments like this had a nasty way of becoming turning points. And she only had about a fifty-fifty record of turning in the right direction.
The bag was definitely making a sound and she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. Two Rhode Island Red hens that had already scurried into their coop for the night peeked outside an
d gave cautious clucks.
Darrell shifted the sack to his other hand, then, looking dissatisfied, lifted it up and cradled it in his arms.
“Ow!” Darrell flinched as if whatever was in the bag had hurt him. Did it have teeth? Claws? A stinger?
“Hey man, don’t peck your rescuer, know what I mean?” Darrell dangled the bag at eye level as if whatever lurked inside could read his glare.
You know how to keep a secret, he’d said confidently. Before she agreed with him, though, she needed more information.
“Is the secret in the bag?” Sam asked.
“Shh,” Darrell said, then looked over both shoulders and back to her. “Yeah, you nailed it. The secret’s in the bag and I’m here to make a little deal.” Darrell set the bag gently on the ground and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Ely tells me you need help raising a ruckus tomorrow.”
Darrell’s habit of using everyone’s last names could have made his sentence confusing. After all, there were six Ely brothers. But Sam had no doubt Darrell was talking about Jake.
“We’re helping desensitize the volunteer posse horses tomorrow,” Sam admitted.
“’S what I mean,” Darrell said. He folded his arms with a sort of streetwise dignity. “You assist me and Fluffy. I’ll assist you.”
Sam tried to listen to the voice in her brain that begged her to be sensible. She really tried not to be curious, but she couldn’t help asking, “Fluffy?”
Darrell pointed at the shifting sack. “My man Fluffy needs a place to live.”
Sam knew that as soon as whatever was in the bag came out, she was sunk. She was so soft-hearted with animals that, just a day ago, she’d rescued a daddy longlegs spider by scooping it into a jar and delicately dumping it outside.
Darrell must have known what a pushover she was, because he moved quickly to release the creature from the bag.
Even in the dusky light, the rooster’s feathers shone with a cinnamon and black gloss. His fountain of tail feathers glinted iridescent green and his red eyes glared at everything around him. He wasn’t very big, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in fierceness. The rooster braced his thin legs apart, hooked his toenails into the dirt, and opened his beak in a challenging cock-a-doodle-do.