by Terri Farley
“His name is not Fluffy,” Sam said.
“Sure it is,” Darrell said. “And before you ask me where he came from—I can’t tell you.”
“Why? Because then you’d have to…” Sam began sarcastically.
“No, really,” Darrell said seriously. “It wouldn’t be safe.”
The rooster’s crow had brought River Bend’s chickens crowding out for a look at this newcomer. Sam had no idea how Rusty, Gram’s rooster, would react.
“Darrell,” Sam began, shaking her head regretfully.
“You can’t say no without hearing his side of things,” Darrell insisted as if he and the rooster had talked things over before they arrived a River Bend. “Just listen while I tell you three things. Okay?”
“Go,” Sam snapped.
“Here’s the first thing. I know you’ve heard of people putting gaffs or spurs on—” Darrell broke off, and Sam wasn’t surprised. She must have looked confused, because she had no idea what he was talking about. “They’re like little tiny knives they attach to two roosters’ legs,” Darrell explained, “before they throw them at each other so they’ll fight. Then people bet on which one will be the winner.”
Sam had been scratched and pecked by hens unwilling to surrender eggs Gram had ordered her to gather. Those pecks and scratches hurt. She didn’t like imagining what damage roosters would do to each other if they were fighting for their lives—and armed with spurs.
“I sort of remember hearing about something like that,” Sam said. “But who’d do that around here?”
“I don’t know any names, but a few faces looked familiar. I’m not going to tell you where I found Fluffy, but there’s a little corner of Darton County with about thirty short A-frame shelters with roosters chained to ’em and every Saturday around midnight, guys bet on which rooster will peck the other’s eyes out.”
It had to be dangerous for Darrell to go skulking around such a bloody gathering in the dark. No wonder he had a bad reputation.
Sam tried not to be a wimp, but what was Darrell thinking? Whether he peeked furtively from the bushes, or stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the gamblers, it was no place for a teenager.
Actually, Sam thought with a sigh, she knew exactly what he’d been thinking. He’d rescued a creature that couldn’t help itself. It was weird that she and Darrell had that impulse in common.
“Poor roosters. That’s awful,” Sam said.
“That’s nothing,” Darrell corrected. “They usually fight to the death, or if they’re hurt too badly in the battle—”
“I don’t want to know,” Sam insisted. “It’s a terrible story, but if he’s a trained killer, he can’t stay here with Gram’s chickens.”
“Here’s the second thing,” Darrell said. “I heard one of the guys joking that Fluffy didn’t stand a chance ’cause he’s a lover, not a fighter.”
“Darrell,” Sam protested. There was so much wrong with this idea. Betting was illegal. Chicken fighting must be, too. Not to mention chicken-napping. But then she said, “It’s Saturday night. He would’ve been fighting in a couple of hours.”
“Yeah,” Darrell answered. “That’s why I had to break him out.”
“But”—Sam dropped her voice to a whisper—“you took him from guys who have to be horrible and violent if they’re making money off killing animals for ‘fun.’” Sam glanced at the rooster as he investigated the yard. “I don’t think they’re going to be real forgiving when they figure out what you did.”
“They won’t,” Darrell said confidently. Then, as if rethinking the possibility, he added, “And what are they going to find if they do?” Darrell held his hands up in mock innocence. “I won’t have the bird, if you help me out. I don’t have anywhere to keep Fluffy.”
“Will you quit calling him that?” Sam asked in frustration. “I’m not dumb. I know you’re just trying to make me sympathetic, and I already am, but—hey! Why aren’t you taking him to Jake?” Sam asked.
“That’s the first place they’d look,” Darrell said. “At my buddy’s house.”
Sam didn’t remind Darrell he’d just said the bad guys wouldn’t catch him. Instead, she glanced toward Darrell’s car as if answers lay there.
“You figure he could pose like a hood ornament?” Darrell joked.
“No.”
Sam tried to think of a solution, but the only thing that popped into her mind was how easily and generously Mrs. Allen had accepted the honey-colored mare. With fewer questions than Sam had just asked Darrell, Mrs. Allen had agreed to keep the horse and keep her a secret.
Was chicken-fighting illegal? Sam didn’t know, but taking in a wild horse was. It was a federal crime, but Mrs. Allen had trusted Sam not to do something “wrong” without a reason.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
“Excellent.”
“I don’t know how,” she said, glancing toward the house. She hadn’t turned on the porch light when she darted out, so if Gram and Dad or Brynna were looking this way, they probably couldn’t see what was going on. But what was she going to do with a rooster? Especially one that might—no matter what Darrell had overheard—have been trained to fight.
“You’ll think of something,” Darrell said. His hand jammed into his cavernous pocket and his car keys jingled. Then he squatted for a second and addressed the rooster. “Stay cool.”
Sam smiled. This kid was weird, but he had a good heart.
Darrell pushed back to his feet and strode toward his car. He hadn’t gone far when he turned back.
“Oh yeah, Forster,” Darrell called as if he’d just remembered. “Third thing.”
“Yeah?” she asked.
“Even if you’d said no to Fluffy, I would have helped with the noise-making tomorrow.”
Sam groaned, but she wasn’t really sorry for helping the doomed chicken.
“I have this killer piece of plastic pipe,” Darrell went on, “and when I blow into it, the sound’s just like a didgeridoo.”
“A what?”
“You know those Australian bush horns? Don’t you think that’d be perfect to test a horse’s nerves?”
“Or a human’s,” Sam said pointedly.
Darrell was chuckling when the front porch light flashed on. He froze.
“Samantha, who’s out there?” Gram called. “One of your friends?”
Darrell looked at Sam as if her answer held him in more suspense than it did Gram.
“Yeah,” Sam admitted. Then, as Darrell broke into a grin and jutted his thumb upward in approval, she added, “but he’s just leaving.”
“All right, dear,” Gram said, but before she closed the screen door, she asked, “Sam? Did I hear the rooster crowing? Whatever do you suppose has gotten into him?”
“Yeah, Sam?” Darrell whispered.
She set her jaw and tried to give him the same kind of threatening gaze he used on other people, but Darrell just chuckled and walked toward his car.
He’d almost reached it when he looked over his shoulder.
“Thanks, Forster,” he said. “You’re all right.”
Sam got up early the next morning. Excitement over the palomino mare and Ace’s introduction to desensitization had been buzzing in Sam’s head all night. She couldn’t have slept much longer.
It only took a few minutes to groom Ace and load him in the trailer next to Amigo, and Darrell and Jen arrived before Dallas was ready to go.
As they rode in the backseat of Darrell’s car, Sam noticed Jen’s fidgeting. She crossed her legs, jiggled her foot, uncrossed her legs, and polished the toe of one boot on the back of the other leg of her jeans.
Jen wanted to hear more about the honey-colored mare, but she was being patient, pretending fascination with each word Darrell said.
First, Darrell talked about the trip he and Jake had made to the junkyard the night before, looking for cool things to use as distractions in the class. Then, Sam and Darrell talked about the new chicken pen she and Gram had improvised, a
bout Fluffy settling in so quickly that he was already taking a dust bath when Darrell arrived that morning, and about Gram’s unexpected excitement over starting a second flock.
Only once had Jen’s eyes slid sideways to meet Sam’s, and still, Jen hadn’t uttered a word about the injured mare. But Sam could read her best friend’s mind, so she wasn’t surprised when Jen whispered, “I’m dying to see her,” as they arrived at Deerpath Ranch.
If Darrell heard, he didn’t care.
“Cool! Ely brought the fire truck,” Darrell said as he unloaded a big plastic bag full of clattering aluminum cans from the trunk of his car. Hauling it with him, he moved off noisily toward Jake and a table set up with coffee and doughnuts.
At last the girls could talk in private.
But when Sam spotted Mrs. Allen opening the wrought-iron gate that led to the garden path up to her house, she forgot what she’d been about to tell Jen.
Sam waved in greeting, but she was surprised that Mrs. Allen, who usually wore swirly skirts and cartwheel-sized hats around company, had dressed in a gray shirt and jeans so old they were white everywhere but the cobwebbing over Mrs. Allen’s knees.
She’s ready for work, Sam thought. Ready to take my place, so I can ride Ace in the training.
Should she feel guilty that Mrs. Allen was going to do a job the sheriff had originally planned for kids?
When Mrs. Allen returned her wave with a sly grin, Sam decided the answer was no. Not only wasn’t Mrs. Allen gloomy about the work that lay ahead, as clearly as if she’d spoken, Mrs. Allen was reminding Sam of the hidden horse and her part in concealing her.
Sam felt a conspiratorial thrill.
She knew she could trust Mrs. Allen to keep all the visitors from noticing as she slipped away with Jen.
“The posse’s just getting here,” Sam muttered, as she noticed the horse trailer from Sterling Stables and a plain brown one she didn’t recognize. “We can sneak into the barn and see her, if we’re really careful.”
“And really lucky,” Jen said. She nodded toward Sheriff Ballard. Using a clipboard, he seemed to be checking in the volunteer members of his posse. “Aren’t you supposed to be on that list?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said.
She felt a little queasy. Sheriff Ballard was her friend and he trusted her, but it had only been two months since he’d warned her to quit thinking with her heart instead of her head. He’d told her flat out that people who did the wrong things for what they thought were the right reasons got into serious trouble.
And she was doing it again.
“We’ll hurry,” Sam said, but just as she looked away from Sheriff Ballard, her eyes took in a man lining up pieces of lumber that he’d dragged into an arrangement like railroad tracks. Even though he wasn’t in uniform, Sam would bet he was the policeman teaching the class. His manner was crisp as he directed Jake and Darrell in how to help.
“—distract and not terrify them…” he was saying.
Mrs. Allen approached the lawman almost shyly. Sam could tell she was offering to help, but the man continued to aim most of his requests to Jake.
Sam felt a twinge of resentment, but it didn’t last.
Fine, she thought. Let Jake be the boss of everything. Mrs. Allen probably didn’t care, and Sam had more important things to do. Besides, she wasn’t eager to face two police officers when she had a questionable horse hidden just across the yard.
Jen matched Sam’s steps as they cut across the ranch yard. Sam was relieved that Jen walked normally. There was none of the arms-circled-around-herself care and stiffness that had hampered her friend’s movements just days ago. Jen’s recovery from being gored by a bull was almost complete.
Sam noticed the barn door was closed and nodded with satisfaction. Mrs. Allen would make a pretty good role model.
Sam shoved the barn door open about a foot, and Jen slipped in ahead of her.
A quick thud of hooves on straw drew Sam’s eyes to the palomino mare. The movement in the box stall was like a swirl of sun.
“She’s amazing,” Jen said as they walked farther into the dim barn. “Oh man, if we ever get our palomino breeding program back up—”
“Jen, she’s wild,” Sam reprimanded her.
Jen considered the palomino for what felt like a full minute. “If you say so,” Jen said finally.
Why couldn’t Jen see that everything about the mare—her ragged mane, rough coat, and the snarls in her tail—looked wild? She just happened to have a sweet temperament.
Jen used her index finger to push her glasses up her nose, then bent to study the front leg that the mare held just above her straw bedding.
“That swelling’s really minor,” Jen said.
“It’s gone down a lot,” Sam said.
“I won’t try to touch her, but I bet there’s not much heat there. It doesn’t look infected,” Jen observed.
“I hope not,” Sam said on a sigh. “I want to turn her loose as soon as I can.”
“Sam!”
Both girls gasped, but in an instant, they recognized Jake’s voice, coming muffled through the barn door.
Quickly and quietly, Sam and Jen raced for the door. They sure didn’t want him to open it. If the mare saw all those unfamiliar horses, she’d be certain to call to them.
Trying hard to keep her expression blank, Sam eased the door open an inch. “Yes?”
“Get out here or you’re gonna be missed,” Jake snapped. “They’re almost ready to start.”
“Okay,” Sam said.
Though she’d noticed Jen putting her hands on her hips at Jake’s bossy tone, Sam didn’t feel like fighting. Maybe later. Now, she wouldn’t do a thing to attract attention to herself, because she was a terrible actress and a worse liar.
Jake didn’t give her much room to emerge from the barn. She realized he’d stayed close on purpose when they bumped shoulders and he whispered, “How is she?”
Jake’s broad shoulders had blocked the view through the open barn door, Sam realized, as she said, “Looks good.”
Jake nodded, and walked silently beside Sam and Jen.
He pretended not to hear Jen say, “How maddening is that? Just when I’m set to tell him he’s a domineering jerk, he acts like he cares.”
Sam didn’t have time to answer. As they entered the ranch yard, she realized Jake was right. Things were almost underway and she still hadn’t saddled Ace.
“C’mon,” Jake said, leading them through the horses and trailers.
“Okay,” Sam said, then she blinked, recognizing Ace tied to a River Bend horse trailer. “Did Dallas saddle up Ace and Amigo?”
“Guess so,” Jake said.
As Sam scanned the ranch yard, she wondered if she’d ever get her fill of watching horses. She loved hearing their nickers and stamping, watching them back quickly from trailers or sidestep away from a raised saddle. Everything they did was wonderful to her.
“There’s Jinx!”
Sam pointed out the gleaming grulla-bronze gelding tied to a Darton County Police Department horse trailer. The mustang was fast and beautiful. As Sheriff Ballard’s horse, he’d left behind his days as a failed cow pony, bucking horse, and bad-luck charm. Now, he was mastering the skills of a police horse and he’d lead the volunteer posse.
Ace lunged to the end of his tie rope and kicked at the trailer when he saw Sam was distracted. The kick echoed.
“Ace!” Sam said. The horse didn’t act the least bit chagrined as Sam climbed into the saddle and picked up her reins before unsnapping the tie rope.
Then, Sam saw another horse she knew and loved. “And Katie Sterling brought Tinkerbell!”
The mustang looked like a mahogany-brown Percheron. No one had expected a wild horse with draft blood to become the best jumper in the area. Schooling at Sterling Stables was helping him make a name for himself in the show ring, too.
Sam urged Ace closer, then shortened her reins.
Even though the two horses appear
ed to get along now, it hadn’t always been like this. In the week Tinkerbell had spent at River Bend Ranch, Ace had shown his jealousy with flattened ears, kicks, and bites.
Now, Sam leaned from her saddle to pet Tinkerbell’s neck. He nuzzled Sam in recognition. If anyone ever had to come looking for her, she hoped they’d ride Tinkerbell. For level-headed endurance and strength, she couldn’t imagine a better horse.
“Teddy Bear’s turning out fine,” Jake said as they passed a curly coated young horse ridden by Mr. Martinez, the Darton banker who’d hired Jake and Dad to school Teddy Bear.
“Don’t be so humble,” Jen said as she strolled up. “Mr. Martinez told my Dad that you transformed that horse from a dangerous prankster to the perfect saddle horse.”
Jake shrugged off the compliment. “He’s one of those Eureka County curlies. They’re good horses.”
Jen didn’t waste any more words insisting that Jake was a superb rider and trainer. Instead, she turned toward Sam.
“Those Eureka County horses really are pretty interesting,” Jen told Sam. “Mr. Martinez says they’re descended from horses brought to Nevada by some Russian settlers. The wide-set eyes and curly coat,” Jen pointed as she talked, “are typical, but another thing that’s really cool is they’re hypoallergenic.”
“Really?” Sam asked. She remembered a friend in her middle school who’d been so allergic to fur-bearing animals that a single cat hair on someone’s clothes could make her sick.
“That’s what Mr. Martinez told us. In fact, he wants to keep Teddy Bear closer to home, instead of in Clara’s pasture, because his son who’s allergic to animals isn’t allergic to Teddy Bear.”
“You need to meet Lieutenant Preston,” Jake interrupted, nodding across the ranch yard.
The man that Jake indicated looked young and lanky. His hair was parted on the side and combed down like a little boy dressed up for Sunday school. His ears kind of stuck out, too, like a little kid still growing into his body. Though the man’s neatly combed hair was turning white, it had been black. It was the kind of hair Gram called salt and pepper.