by Terri Farley
“This is some strong, crack-of-dawn coffee,” Mrs. Allen said, stifling a cough.
Jen twirled one braid impatiently, and Mrs. Allen laughed.
“You two love horses, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” Sam said, her voice overlapping Jen’s.
“And how do you feel about money?”
“Good if it’s mine, and embarrassingly jealous if it’s not,” Jen said, but a note of interest sharpened her voice.
“By the time you’ve taken a look at this”—with a broad smile, Mrs. Allen tapped the leather folder positioned on the kitchen table—“you’ll thank your lucky stars you got a head start over all the other riders in northern Nevada.”
Sam rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Jen dashed her bangs back from her glasses, as if seeing better would help.
Chuckling over the girls’ excitement, Mrs. Allen dipped her hand toward the kitchen table.
“How about we pull up some chairs and have a little conversation?” Mrs. Allen settled herself.
As soon as the girls had done the same, she withdrew a sheet from the leather folder and handed it to Jen.
“The Super Bowl of Horsemanship?” Jen read from a typed page.
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Allen said proudly. “Right here in your own backyard.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it,” Sam ventured. She didn’t want to sound ignorant about something to do with horses, but she really hadn’t.
“That’s because I just created it,” Mrs. Allen said. “And first prize is enough money to make your head spin.”
That wouldn’t take much, Sam thought. She’d love to buy a new saddle. The one she used looked just like what it was—a handed-down kid’s saddle. She’d been looking at tack catalogs, dreaming about a new one. Even though she’d earned some money of her own, Dad wouldn’t let her touch it until she was ready for college.
Sam scooted her chair closer so that she could read the typed page right-side-up.
“You created it. And you’re giving away a percentage of all the entry fees collected,” Jen read carefully. Then, she turned her head so that the kitchen light glinted on her glasses, making her look owlish. “What percentage?”
When Mrs. Allen busied herself with another cookie instead of answering, Jen focused on the typed sheet once more. “Let’s just see what we have to do to win.”
Sam knew that blurry tone of Jen’s. It was the same one her voice took on when she was studying.
Mrs. Allen leaned back and savored a butter cookie while Sam and Jen read silently.
The Super Bowl of Horsemanship required horse and rider to complete an “extreme” obstacle course like those used for training police horses. It would include loud noises, visual distractions, and surprises to test the horse’s confidence in his rider. After a short quarter mile of chaos, the race would cover seven miles of rough terrain.
Sam smiled as she studied the course map. She could already see herself winning. She knew every foot of sagebrush and alkali flat that made up the course.
Leaving from Deerpath Ranch, the race headed straight across the range for La Charla River. Once through the river, the trail turned south. It passed right by River Bend, then turned east at the Gold Dust Ranch. There, the racecourse crossed the river again, before running across War Drum Flats and back to the finish line at Deerpath Ranch.
A thrill of excitement tickled up Sam’s arms and legs. She wasn’t the best rider around, but she and Jen rode that territory all the time. Familiarity had to count for something, didn’t it?
So, why wasn’t Jen hooting with joy?
Sam stared at the map, wondering what she’d missed.
“What are these?” Sam asked, tapping a symbol on the map.
“Vet check points,” Mrs. Allen explained. “Dr. Scott—you know, that nice young veterinarian—helped plan the course. This is not an endurance race, because you wouldn’t have time to train for it.”
When Mrs. Allen pointed out the date printed on the sheet, Sam looked. It was only two weeks away, on the last weekend of spring break.
“Even though the race isn’t too demanding, Dr. Scott thought vets should check each horse twice.” Mrs. Allen held up two fingers. “Before the race and at the finish line. If the animals show the slightest sign of abuse, the riders will be disqualified.”
Sam nodded. “Good deal,” she said. “That’ll keep people like you-know-who from winning the race, but ruining a horse.”
“You needn’t spare Linc Slocum’s feelings on my account,” Mrs. Allen said with a sniff. “He doesn’t know a thing about keeping his horses safe and healthy.”
“That’s because he still hasn’t figured out that they aren’t cars,” Jen grumbled. “If my dad weren’t his foreman, I don’t know what would happen to Linc’s horses.”
“I’ll tell you,” Mrs. Allen said. “If that big beautiful Champ he rides should ever decide to run away from home, he can come to my house.”
They all nodded and reached for more cookies, as if sealing a pact.
“Wait,” Jen said, as her eyes returned to the rules. “Number three is a weird rule.”
“It’s my favorite,” Mrs. Allen said.
Sam read rule three aloud. “‘Competitor must be part of a co-ed team…’?”
“A male and a female,” Mrs. Allen clarified, as if Sam weren’t very bright.
“I know what it means!” she said, exasperated. “But—”
“Keep reading, Sam,” Jen said as she skimmed ahead.
“‘Together, each team rides the course side by side’!”
“The entire course?” Jen asked. “You couldn’t divide it up so that each rider had, say, 3.4 miles—”
“No, Jennifer. Side by side. But you don’t have to hold hands.”
“Good thing,” Jen said. “If you were riding with someone stubborn as a rock, like Jake Ely, and you fell while you were winning…” Jen rolled her eyes.
“You might get your arm dislocated from your shoulder socket,” Sam said.
“Are you kidding?” Jen asked. “He’d just keep galloping and expect you to keep up!”
Although she laughed, Sam pictured herself galloping beside Jake. They would absolutely win, if he rode Witch and she rode the Phantom. She could see it as if it were a movie. Black legs would stretch to keep up with white. Milky tail would stream just ahead of midnight-black tail as they sped across the range, leaving all the other riders so far behind, their shouts of dismay would fade into silence.
But the whole idea was impossible. No one could know, ever, that she’d ridden the Phantom.
“That particular rule is what will keep my race from becoming a free-for-all,” Mrs. Allen said. “A man and woman, or”—she paused and smiled meaningfully—“girl and boy, will have to travel at the speed of the weaker partner. The two who are most evenly matched will win.”
“It’s a great idea,” Sam admitted, as her hopes deflated.
There was no way she and Jake would ride together. Even without the Phantom.
Jake’s riding ability was ten times better than hers. And Jake, as the youngest of six brothers, longed for a truck all his own. The prize money would put him lots closer to buying one, so he couldn’t make a decision based on friendship. He’d be foolish to take her as his partner.
He’d be better off riding with Jen. Of course they didn’t get along, but that wouldn’t matter. Jen and Jake were both stubborn and determined. If the reward was something they both wanted, they’d work toward the goal together.
Sam sighed. Of course she could still enter. There were other boys she could ride with, right?
Her logical mind just couldn’t come up with anyone. Ryan Slocum, the polished horseman from England, deserved a better partner. Pepper, who could spin a loop with his lariat and actually ride Nike through it, had to know a real cowgirl who could keep up with him. Of course, there was always Dad. Or was there? With a chance at all that pri
ze money, he’d probably want Brynna by his side.
Sam crossed her arms and stared at the piece of paper as if the name she sought would bob to the surface in bold print.
Apparently Jen hadn’t veered off on the partner tangent the way Sam had, because she was still studying the sheet.
“And it’s a benefit for the sanctuary,” Jen read.
“To tell you the truth, girls, I made a serious error, starting the sanctuary in such a hurry. Oh, not in adopting those horses,” she said, smiling. “But I wasn’t very organized about it. I pretty much let my heart rule my head, and now I’m trying to catch up. You know the indoor arena I was building?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s going to be so cool. You can…” Sam faltered. “Was?”
“I heard that you lost it in the earthquake,” Jen said sympathetically. “Clara at the diner told my dad,” she added to Sam. “Five point one on the Richter scale is no little jiggle. It could have smashed everything around here into toothpicks.”
“Thanks for the scientific analysis, dear,” Mrs. Allen said.
She didn’t sound sarcastic, so Sam had to ask the question she’d been asking neighbors since the earthquake. “Mrs. Allen, did your dogs know the earthquake was coming?”
Every horse on River Bend had acted strange before the earthquake. Popcorn, Ace, and Sweetheart had been the most unsettled, except for Tinkerbell, the sweet, draft-cross mustang Sam had been lucky enough to rescue from a slaughterhouse.
“No, they didn’t,” Mrs. Allen answered. “I heard most everyone’s animals acted odd the week before.” Mrs. Allen frowned. “I even asked Dr. Scott about it, and do you know what that young man had the nerve to say?”
Sam and Jen both shook their heads.
“He said that driving around with me had…oh, how did he put it? It was not complimentary.” Mrs. Allen’s index finger tapped her temple. “Oh, yes. He said riding with me had ‘knocked their early warning systems out of whack’!”
Sam couldn’t help giggling, even when Mrs. Allen gave her a quelling look.
“But the point is,” Mrs. Allen raised her voice, “the arena wasn’t insured.”
Sam bit her lower lip. A month ago, she would have ignored this talk of insurance. It had been no big deal, simply something adults complained about, until the earthquake. Now, she understood. Gram and Dad had congratulated each other and thanked heaven they’d kept up the insurance payments on River Bend, even during the hard times. Because now, the insurance company was paying to rebuild the barn.
Sam watched as Mrs. Allen pretended to be very busy brushing cookie crumbs from her sweater.
Everyone thought old Mrs. Allen was rich, but was she? Sam’s mind circled back to the question Mrs. Allen had ignored before.
“Will the prize money be very much?” Sam blurted.
“Very smooth, Sam,” Jen said, grimacing.
Sam felt a hot blush cover her face.
“I need enough to keep construction going until my next check from the gallery in New York,” Mrs. Allen explained, not looking nearly as embarrassed as Sam felt.
Mrs. Allen still hadn’t spelled out how much prize money they’d be racing for, but Sam gave up. It would be rude to keep pressing her.
In the moment of uneasy silence, Sam’s kitten, Cougar, now a leggy “adolescent,” padded into the kitchen.
“Mew?” he asked, walking away from his water bowl to sniff Blaze’s empty dog food dish before vaulting into Sam’s lap and making himself comfortable.
Mrs. Allen slid the typed sheet across the table, then put it back inside the leather folder. “You think it’s all right, then? Good enough to have flyers made?”
“I think everyone in the county will want to do it,” Jen said. “I’m already wondering who I’ll get to ride with me.”
“Me too,” Sam admitted, and for an instant her eyes met Jen’s.
She looked away. She hated the feeling that flashed between them.
She and Jen were best friends, not competitors. They couldn’t be. Jen was a much better rider. She didn’t fear going too fast, or jumping or falling. Once Jen mounted a horse, she belonged there.
The Super Bowl of Horsemanship. Sam imagined a booming voice reading tall golden letters. If she rode in it, no one would think she was afraid. If she won, everyone would forget her accident. She might forget, too.
“I’ll post the flyers at Clara’s Diner and the general store there in Alkali,” Mrs. Allen began.
“What about Crane Crossing Mall?” Sam said. “There’s a bulletin board at the Western wear store—”
“Tully’s,” Jen put in.
Mrs. Allen nodded, stood, and swooped the folder up from the table.
“I’ll drop a copy at the Darton Review Journal,” she said, walking toward the door. “Who knows? They might want to do a newspaper story on it.”
The girls followed her outside, but they stopped when they saw a black horse tethered next to Silly.
It was Witch, but Jake was nowhere in sight.
“Hey, Witchy,” Sam said.
The black mare flattened her ears and glared in a way that indicated she didn’t appreciate the nickname.
She’ll eat you alive, Jake had warned her once, so Sam kept her hands to herself and stared at Witch’s bridle.
Witch wore a mushroom-brown split-ear headstall. Faint feathers were etched on the leather. Sam recognized it at once. She’d given it to Jake on his sixteenth birthday, months ago, and paid for it with her own money. That was the last time Dad had allowed her to spend more than a few dollars.
That fact and the sudden creak of Mrs. Allen’s truck door made Sam think of something.
“Mrs. Allen?” she called after her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but how much is the entry fee?”
“Uh-oh,” Jen said. She began shaking her head, amazed she’d forgotten to ask such an obvious question.
“Oh, did I forget to write that in there?” Mrs. Allen tsked her tongue. “Well, my goodness, I guess I’ll have to add one more teeny line at the bottom of my flyer.” Mrs. Allen watched the girls carefully as she announced, “It will be one hundred dollars per team.”
Sam was too surprised to gasp. She heard Jen moan, but neither of them could think of what to say.
Sam and Jen stared after the tangerine-colored truck as it bumped over the bridge, then hit the gravel and fishtailed like a bucking bronc.
“That’s a lot of money,” Jen said, finally.
“Yes, it is,” Sam said, but determination was gathering in her.
If she won this race, she’d earn something more important than money. Sam braced both hands against the hitching rail. She gripped it so hard, her nails bit into the wood. If she won, she’d show Dad she was a good rider, one he didn’t need to watch over every minute.
“It’s a whole lot,” Sam admitted. “But that’s not going to stop me.”
Chapter Three
As the crunch of Mrs. Allen’s tires faded, Jen shrugged.
“I don’t know why I’m even thinking about that race. It’s pretty unlikely a hundred-dollar bill will just flutter out of the sky and into my hand.”
“I bet your partner could pay,” Sam hinted as her eyes locked onto Jen’s and held them.
“You’re crazy,” Jen said. She threw one white-blond braid over her shoulder, turned away from Sam, and paid a lot of attention to making sure the stirrup on her saddle was centered on the leather.
“You know who I’m talking about,” Sam said.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what kind of warped ideas are in your twisted mind,” Jen said, smoothing her fingers between Silly’s cinch and her palomino belly. “And I don’t want to know.”
“Ryan Slocum,” Sam said before Jen could cover her ears.
To give her friend time to cool down, Sam strode toward the round corral to catch Ace.
“Remind me why I started hanging around with you,” Jen shouted after her. “Because I sure can’t remember.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam called back.
Jen had had a crush on Rachel Slocum’s twin from the first time he’d knocked on her door to say a mountain lion was eating a nearby buffet. Jen said the way Ryan’s sleek coffee-colored hair got messy as he rode made her want to brush it off his forehead. Sam didn’t understand that at all.
She agreed that Ryan’s British accent was sort of cool, but it didn’t give her the goose bumps Jen reported.
Could that be because Ryan was a Slocum? Sam tried not to be judgmental. It wasn’t Ryan’s fault he’d been born into that family. And he had proven himself more trustworthy than his father Linc and twin Rachel. But he’d also kept Golden Rose, a horse that didn’t belong to him, captive in a nearby ghost town instead of reporting her to the sheriff.
Jen knew that as well as Sam did—after all, Golden Rose belonged to the Kenworthys—but she apparently didn’t think about it much.
Sam led Ace back to the hitching rail and tied him by his halter rope. While Ace and Silly snorted and touched noses, expressing pleasure at seeing each other, Sam watched Jen.
“Well? Am I right?” she asked, finally. “Wouldn’t he be the perfect partner for you?”
“I wish,” Jen said, sighing.
“It’s only obvious you guys should ride together,” Sam said matter-of-factly. She gave Ace a quick brushing, then threw on his saddle blanket.
“Right,” Jen said. “But he could pick someone better.”
“Like who?” Sam asked. She lifted her saddle into place, knowing her words weren’t flattery. She couldn’t think of a better girl rider than Jen.
“Like you,” Jen suggested.
“Oh, yeah,” Sam said. She tried to laugh, but couldn’t. “I fall off and get trampled about once a month. I’m sure that’s just what any guy looks for in a riding partner. Someone he’ll have to spend extra minutes on, peeling up off the desert floor.”
Eyes closed, Jen shook her head, blocking out Sam’s words.
“You’re a good enough rider to do this,” Jen persisted.
“Good enough to finish, maybe, but not to win.” Sam took a breath, then she confessed, “My dad thinks I’m hopeless.”