by Terri Farley
As Sam watched Lieutenant Preston, her worries floated away. He didn’t look like a detective who’d intuitively gravitate to the barn, fling open the door, and shout “Ah ha!” at the hidden mustang. He didn’t look worthy of the admiration in Jake’s voice, either. He was just an older man, standing there talking to Mrs. Allen.
Still in her saddle, Sam watched him as she would a wild animal. Something about him had made an impression on Jake, and that wasn’t easy to do. Then, Lieutenant Preston looked away from Mrs. Allen, toward Sam and Jen and Jake. Impatience flashed over him and he strode to meet them.
Dressed in shined shoes, khaki pants, and a short-sleeved blue shirt, he had a get-out-of-my-way walk. She would bet he could stride right through a riot and it would part around him. His eyes alone would make people step back. They sure didn’t fit with his boyish haircut. Ice blue and cold, those eyes should’ve been in the face of a gunfighter or a tundra wolf.
Let me out of here, Sam thought. She was sure he’d picked up her uneasiness just as Ace had. Her bay mustang tossed his head even though her reins hung loose to his bit. He sidestepped, glancing at the other horses, searching for the source of Sam’s worry. Then he stopped and his ears swiveled to point not at Darrell, who’d come to stand beside them, but at Lieutenant Preston.
As he drew closer, Sam thought the edge of his trimmed mustache looked sharp. She caught a scent that reminded her of Brynna’s uniforms when they’d just come from the dry cleaners. And he was watching her.
Of course he was.
The police could tell when someone was hiding something.
For a minute, Sam tried to convince herself he was only looking at her because she was mounted, but that wasn’t it. His eyes skimmed over Darrell, Jake, and Jen. Even though Darrell had a bad reputation and tough-guy swagger to match, even though Jake had the muscles and youngest brother chip-on-his-shoulder attitude, and Jen regarded everyone with the superior air of a genius, the lieutenant watched Sam.
“Samantha, this is Lieutenant Preston,” Mrs. Allen said proudly. Sam hadn’t even noticed she’d been trailing behind him. “Although he prefers not to be called lieutenant because he’s retired.”
Mrs. Allen’s smile said she thought the man’s modesty was magnificent.
“Hello, Mr.—” Sam began.
“Just Preston will do,” Lieutenant Preston said. He reached up and she reached down. His hand clasped hers so she couldn’t get away and his wolfish eyes watched hers so closely, he was probably counting her blinks. “Good to meet you.”
Liar, Sam thought.
Out loud, she said, “Thanks.”
As he released her hand, Sam wondered why she’d been born to attempt things that would lead to turmoil.
He shook Jen’s hand and said it was nice to meet her, too, but he glanced back at Sam. Had Sheriff Ballard said something about her, or did Preston know by looking at her that she was a troublemaker?
Sam strained to listen beyond her circle of friends, past the horses and riders, to the closed-up barn. Did the retired policeman hear something she didn’t? Like the hidden mare whinnying in despair?
But Sam heard nothing. At least, not yet.
Chapter Nine
Members of the volunteer posse warmed up their horses, walking or jogging them around the property, much to the interest of Mrs. Allen’s saddle horses. The pintos, Calico and Ginger, pressed their chests against the fence, nodding their heads. Judge, a big bay, paced along the fence line, stopping only to paw and snort at the trespassers.
The saddle horses weren’t the only ones to notice the commotion. Sam stared across the ranch yard, past Mrs. Allen’s house and garden to the pastured mustangs. Playing it safe, they veered close to the fences, snatched glimpses of the newcomers, then darted away—but not too far.
Her gaze wandered past the boundaries of Mrs. Allen’s ranch, toward the hot springs where she’d seen the Phantom three times. What if the stallion had been lingering there, plotting to round up his lead mare, then all this activity drove him away?
Settle down, Sam told herself, but she knew that wouldn’t happen. She recognized this anxious, paranoid feeling. It clamped around her like a sarcophagus any time she tried to lie. She knew it was wrong and her brain wouldn’t let her forget it.
When Sheriff Ballard and Preston motioned Jake, Jen, and Mrs. Allen over to them, Sam followed. She wasn’t sure exactly where she fit in here, but she went anyway.
“You”—Preston’s clipped voice claimed Sam’s attention—“aren’t really part of our four-person riot. I’ll let you know if I need you.”
He didn’t sound rude, just efficient. She’d been dismissed to go hang out with the other riders. But curiosity kept her around, eavesdropping on what she would have been doing if she hadn’t wanted to be part of the class.
“Start slow and easy, then build up to true chaos,” Preston explained to her friends. “Jake got here first, so I’ve told him what I’d like to see you do. See him for assignments.”
Jake set his jaw.
Proud but uncomfortable, Sam thought, as Jake fixed his eyes on a spot a yard ahead of his boots and the others nodded and mumbled agreement.
When Preston, all businesslike and brisk despite the growing August heat, turned to Sheriff Ballard, Sam noticed how different they were on the outside.
With a droopy mustache, shaggy hair he’d likely cut himself, and alert eyes, Heck Ballard looked like an Old West sheriff, but Sam knew he was obsessed with technology. He loved anything that could be programmed, and she wondered what kind of computer advancement he’d sacrificed to pay for this horsemanship workshop.
But there were some things computers couldn’t do, Sam thought, like search the high desert for a downed aircraft or lost child. Sheriff Ballard knew those jobs could be done best from the back of a dependable horse.
As if he’d read her mind—a dangerous thing today—Sheriff Ballard clapped his hand on Ace’s shoulder and told Sam, “Glad I’ve got you on horseback. Wish I had a couple more just like you.”
Warmth washed over Sam at the sheriff’s appreciation.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, but Preston had focused on Sheriff Ballard’s words as if they weren’t a compliment, but a complaint.
“This group might not make up a big search party, but six is the ideal number for the class,” Preston said as he scanned the group on horseback. “What have we got, three women and three men?”
“Four men, if you count me and Jinx, and you’d better, since we aim to be your star pupils,” Sheriff Ballard joked. He glanced down at his clipboard again. Dragging his index finger past the names, he said, “All three women are experienced equestrians.”
Sam blushed again. She felt as proud as if she’d earned a blue ribbon.
“Dallas and I can hold our own—” He paused at Jen’s half-smothered laugh. “Mr. Martinez rides when he can. That goes for Dr. Yung, too. What those two lack in saddle time, they make up for with brains.
“As for horses,” the sheriff went on, “we’ve got good ones. Six geldings and a mare. Four bays, one sorrel, one black, and my grulla. Mostly Quarter Horse crosses and mustangs. All pretty much bomb-proof.”
Sam smiled. The first time she’d heard that expression, she hadn’t really understood. Now she knew it was an exaggeration for a horse so dependable it wouldn’t act up if a bomb exploded behind him.
“Bomb-proof? We’ll see about that,” Preston replied as if Sheriff Ballard had thrown down a dare.
Again, Sam noticed that Preston didn’t sound rude, just skeptical.
He probably had a right to doubt Sheriff Ballard’s claim.
After all, he was from the city and saw the horses and riders before him as ranch born and bred. Even Ace, born on the range, where he’d handled every natural challenge, from flash floods to being leaped over by one of his own kind, had encountered city sights and sounds that unnerved him.
Right now, for instance, Ace’s ears were pointed toward Jake and
Darrell as they hung a string of plastic ribbons between two trees.
To Sam, they looked kind of like those things that hung down in a drive-through car wash, but Ace had never seen one. He watched them stir in the faint, hot breeze, intent on figuring them out.
His curiosity was a good sign, Sam thought, but she wondered how her gelding would react if she rode him through the long, tickling strands.
As Sheriff Ballard mounted Jinx, Preston called to the other riders.
“Gather around. That’s it. Just bring your horses into a half circle around me.”
Sam watched as six other horses moved close. None nipped or kicked, although the black mare shot Teddy Bear an ear-flattened glare when his rider’s stirrup struck her rider’s.
Preston studied each horse and rider. He didn’t look a bit intimidated by his position afoot.
“I’m Preston,” he began, “formerly with the Fairfield Police Department near Los Angeles, California….”
Sam focused on the horses and barely kept herself from smooching to Tinkerbell, while the instructor droned through his introduction. Then he got to the interesting part.
“…on the street, then graduated to mounted patrol and stayed on there until January of this year. Then I took early retirement to pursue a personal interest—namely, the theft of my police horse, Officer Cha Cha Marengo.”
Everyone gasped. Sam looked down at Jen just as her friend looked up. They both shook their heads. Who would be stupid enough to steal a police horse?
“The clues I’m following have taken me to Washington, D.C., Rhode Island, Oregon, Arizona, and now, Darton, Nevada. Along the way I’ve been in touch with Sheriff Ballard, since it seems you’ve had a little horse thieving around these parts, too. None of that has much to do with you folks, except that the sheriff and I got to talking about this posse and he offered me a chance to teach you folks a bit about what I do best—train riders to teach their horses to be trustworthy.”
Officer Cha Cha Marengo. The name strummed like the notes of a Spanish guitar through Sam’s mind.
But when the group rustled with excitement, Sam only smiled automatically, because she was thinking about horse thieves. Preston had to be talking about Karl Mannix, the man who’d stolen Hotspot and her foal Shy Boots, but Sam couldn’t believe there was a connection.
Karl Mannix was a wimp. He seemed like the kind of thief who watched for an opportunity to make quick money, then jumped on it. Sam didn’t know where the Fairfield Police Department kept its horses, but she couldn’t believe Mannix would be gutsy enough to break in and steal one.
Preston cleared his throat, pulling Sam’s attention back, before he went on.
“I wish I had Honey—you don’t think I called her Cha Cha Marengo on the beat, do ya?—here to demonstrate for you. I never called on that horse to do anything she wouldn’t try, including dashing into a steel culvert—you know, one of those big ribbed water pipes?—only six feet tall and next to nothing in diameter.” He shook his head with a fond expression. “The felon hiding in there claimed he nearly went deaf from the hammering of her hooves coming after him, closer and closer. He swore he started to run, then he looked back over his shoulder and Honey’s eyes were glowing red. He also said she was snorting fire.
“Now, I don’t know that we can teach your mounts to do that, but today we’ll be desensitizing your horses to strange stuff. After that, with some shared trust, there’s no telling where you’ll go together.”
Sam reached through Ace’s coarse black mane to rub his warm neck. As if on cue, every rider gave his or her horse a pat, rewarding it for some achievement in its future, but Sam knew Ace had already given her more than any horse should be asked to give.
“Now that you all know who I am and why I’m here,” Preston said, “I’d like you folks to do the same, and don’t forget to say why you’ve volunteered for the posse. You can introduce your horse, too, if he’s too shy to speak up.”
Faint laughter was still subsiding as Katie Sterling began.
“I’m Katie Sterling and this is Tinkerbell,” she said, fingers toying with the unbraided lock of mane at the base of the horse’s gleaming neck. “As for why I’m here, well, my family owns Sterling Stables, and we raise Morgan performance horses and dabble in just about anything to do with equines. This community has been really good to us and, I don’t know,” she said, shrugging, “it’s just a way of giving back, a little, I guess.”
Sam felt like applauding when Katie finished.
Mr. Martinez must have felt the same way. Although he was a bank president, his reason for being there was almost the same as Katie’s. Teddy Bear underlined his rider’s comments by sticking his long, pink tongue out.
“This is Nightingale,” said the familiar-looking man on a black mare with two hind socks. “She’s half Arab and half Thoroughbred. I rent her from Sterling Stables and you may remember her as having the second fastest time in the claiming race in October.”
“Oh, yeah!” Sam said quietly, and others nodded as well, remembering the race in which the sheriff had won Jinx.
“As for me,” Nightingale’s rider continued, “I’m Peter Yung—”
“Doctor Peter Yung,” Sheriff Ballard added, and Sam remembered seeing the doctor in the first aid station at the rodeo during the summer.
“—I enjoy riding and I thought my skills might be of use to the sheriff’s department sometime when an ambulance isn’t at hand.”
For that, Dr. Yung got a small round of applause.
Then, it was Dallas’ turn.
“Well, shoot, there’s nothin’ fancy about me or why I’m here,” Dallas said. “I’m Dallas Green, foreman of Wyatt Forster’s River Bend Ranch. Since he got those two young cowhands ridin’ full time, Wyatt’s just not working me and Amigo hard enough. So, here we are.”
Sam felt her cheeks heat and redden as faces turned to her next.
“My name is Samantha Forster—”
“Speak up, darlin’, we can’t hear you!” Darrell called.
Everyone except Sam burst into laughter, but Sam was appalled.
Not that Darrell seemed to care how much he’d embarrassed her. He was high-fiving Jake with one hand and holding a megaphone in the other.
A megaphone? Sam had no idea where he’d gotten it, but she felt a little better as she imagined breaking it over his head.
“I’m Samantha Forster,” she started over again, more loudly. “My horse Ace is a mustang and he’s perfect for ranch work, but sometimes man-made things kind of freak him out.”
It wasn’t exactly what she meant to say, but when Sam heard a murmur of agreement, as if other ranch horses were the same, she decided she’d said enough. Besides, she wanted to save her energy for dismembering Darrell.
The last to speak was a rider in chaps and a pearl-snapped shirt. About Brynna’s age, the woman leaned her forearm on her saddle horn and introduced herself as Barbara Ridge and her horse as Laramie. “As for his breeding, all I know’s he’s quick and tough. As for why I’m here, it’s kinda personal—”
“You don’t have to—” Preston’s concerned tone startled Sam.
“But I want to,” Barbara Ridge cut him off. “You see, I have a son who’s—well, Freddy has Down syndrome and his judgment isn’t always the best. Not so long ago he was lost overnight. He’s fine,” she responded to the swell of concerned voices, “but there was no mounted posse to go out and find him.” The woman cleared her throat and her chin lifted. “To tell you the truth, I’ll do whatever it takes to spare another mother the torture of a night like the one I had, waiting for Freddy to come home.”
Preston let a moment of silence pass before rubbing his hands together.
“Perfect,” he said. “That’s what we’re all here for. By lunchtime, your horses should be learning that unfamiliar sights, sounds, and smells won’t usually hurt them. Smells are the trickiest, and since none of our chaos volunteers”—Preston gestured toward Jen, Jake, Darrell, and M
rs. Allen—“have brought llamas or a ferret on a leash, two things that unsettled my first equine partner, Tex, we’ll save the more exotic things for a second workshop.
“However,” his voice cracked over the squeaking of saddle leather and shifting hooves, “before we start doing crazy stuff, I’ll tell you a secret.”
Gooseflesh crept down Sam’s nape and over her arms. She wasn’t up for any more secrets.
In a low voice, Preston said, “The best way to desensitize a horse is to give it complete trust in you. Today, you won’t know what’s coming at you from one minute to the next any more than you would in a real-life search-and-rescue situation.
“Stay calm for your horse,” he ordered. “If you panic, so will he. Even though you’re volunteers and won’t be focused on law enforcement—you know, having bad guys trying to climb your saddle and take your gun—you might be riding in flood or fire. If you get ‘freaked out,’ as Miss Forster said, by a flaming branch falling across your path, or a minivan floating past on the La Charla River, your horse will do the same. He might not still be under your saddle by the time you get your wits about you, and he sure won’t be instantly responsive if he hears you panting and whimpering.”
“Stay cool,” Darrell said, just as he had to the rooster the night before.
“That’s about the size of it,” Preston said, and though he’d used a joking tone for his instructions, the volunteers were sobered by his real-life examples. For a minute, the only sound was that of Teddy rolling his bit.
After that, the desensitization process began. The horses took turns walking, trotting, and loping over crackling plastic tarps.
Ace did fine at a walk, leaving each hoof in place for a few seconds before lifting the next.
Teddy Bear reacted by hopping straight up in the air as if he’d stepped on something alive, so he had to repeat the exercise until he didn’t try to hurdle the plastic, swerve around it, or balk with his head lowered and feelings hurt.
Tinkerbell didn’t seem to notice the tarp beneath his bell-shaped hooves, but when Jake turned on the flashing lights and siren of the fire engine, the giant horse trembled.