Mustang Moon (5 page)

 

On the way out, Sam echoed Jake's silence. They crossed the River Bend bridge, and all the time they
walked, Sam watched the Calico Mountains for a flicker of silver. At first the mountains were ink blue against the sky, but as the sun rose, their peaks glowed yellow, then gold.

The cattle had moved further down the river. Though a few lifted their heads to watch the humans, most took little notice. Humans on foot weren't a threat to their serene grazing.

By the time the mountaintops turned the color of orange marmalade, they'd reached the berry bushes. There'd been no sign of the Phantom.

They worked in silence for a while, eating berries as they picked. Sweet and tart at the same time, the berries tasted like summer. The thought made Sam think about school.

“Who am I going to hang around with?”

“What's that?” Jake blinked at her, as if she'd awakened him.

“At school,” Sam explained. “According to Gram, all the girls I was friends with are gone.”

“The Greens sold out and moved to Oregon before they went completely broke,” Jake agreed. “Linda Dennis's folks took jobs up at Lake Tahoe, running a fancy riding stable. And the Potters?” Jake shook his head. “Their spread near Darton's been subdivided for houses. Six per acre. It went for near a million dollars, I heard, so they could be living anywhere they want.”

Sam felt a pulse of loyalty for her elementary
school friends. “You can't blame them. This is a hard way to make a living.”

“No kidding?” Jake's voice oozed sarcasm, then he yelped. “Ow!”

She was tempted to tell Jake he'd gotten what he deserved. Pricking himself on a thorn after acting like such a big shot seemed like justice.

“So, I guess you can't answer my question.” Sam slipped another handful of berries into the basket. When an especially juicy one stuck to her palm, she ate it.

“How would I know who you'd hang around with, Brat?” Jake sucked the finger he'd stabbed.

Sam fanned her face. The sun was well up now, but she didn't take off her sweatshirt because she didn't want long scratches like the ones she'd seen on Dad yesterday.

She was fanning her collar to cool herself when Jake finally ventured an opinion.

“I don't see you with Rachel Slocum's crowd,” he said.

“Linc Slocum's daughter? You've got that right.”

“She's cute, really popular, and she dresses like girls on TV.” Jake listed those traits as if Sam might be swayed by them.

“So? With her dad, I can't think she'd be very nice. I know that's not fair, but—”

“She's nice to the right sort of people, and I doubt you'd qualify. Darrell calls her the ice queen.”

Sam paused in her picking.
I doubt you'd qualify
. She shouldn't let that remark bother her, but it did. She'd spent two years away at school in San Francisco. Wouldn't that impress the queen of Smalltown, Nevada?

Then the rest of Jake's sentence sunk in.

“Isn't Darrell the one who taught you how to disable the engine of Gram's car?” Sam asked.

She recalled Jake's head under the hood of the old Buick. Jake had pulled something loose, so the car wouldn't run. It had blocked the road and she'd beaten Slocum to the Willow Springs wild horse corrals.

Jake frowned. “Since you've got such a great memory, you should remember I told you Darrell isn't a guy you need to know.”

“So, why is he your friend?”

“That's different,” Jake said. “You just worry about what you're going to wear and how you're going to remember your locker combination. Freshmen are always late to class because they're out crying by their lockers, trying to get their books.”

Sam pictured herself in a long, empty hall. Since she'd never been good with numbers, she'd have to write the combination on her hand until she memorized it. She'd be all alone, too.

With the baskets nearly full, they'd started toward River Bend when Jake said, “Hey, you could hang around with Jen Kenworthy. Remember her?
Light hair, glasses, really smart?”

“Sure,” Sam said, “but I thought she was home schooled.”

“She was, for elementary school, but she started going to middle school in Darton about the time you left.”

Jake's brown face took on the guilty blankness it wore when he remembered her accident and his part in it.

“I thought they owned the Gold Dust,” Sam said, “but we stopped by there yesterday, and things had really changed.”

“They had to sell out, and Slocum made them a good offer. He paid off their debts and kept Jen's dad on as foreman. Anyway, she'll be at the bus stop.”

Just yesterday, Gram had pointed out the bus stop. She or Dad would drive Sam that far each morning, but Sam would have to walk the mile home after school.

Again, Sam's imagination went to work. She pictured herself standing there Monday morning, at sunrise, with Jen Kenworthy, a stranger.

“Jake, won't you be at the bus stop?”

Jake stopped walking. He turned toward her with the superior, tomcat smile he saved for occasions he really wanted to lord over her.

“I ride in with my brother in his Blazer.”

Jake kept walking. So much for having an ally at Darton High School. Still, she couldn't give up.

“Couldn't I, maybe, ride with you? I wouldn't mind being squished.”

Jake laughed, as if she'd only be able to count on his support if her life depended on it.

“No way,” he said. “Freshmen take the bus.”

T
HE NAVY-BLUE
horse van, pin-striped in teal, glittered like a mirage. By the way it leaned to one side, the mirage had a flat tire.

DAVISON'S HORSE TRANSPORT
read the small script lettering on the door.
ESTABLISHED
1975.

Dressed in business clothes and a tie, the driver stood outside the horse van, consulting a clipboard.

“Almost made it,” he called out to them, smiling. “The Slocum place is only about five miles up the road, right?”

Sam and Jake glanced at each other, surprised a man with a flat tire appeared so composed.

“Right,” Sam answered. “Is Mr. Slocum getting a new horse?”

She knew he was. Slocum had mentioned a blue-blooded filly on her way from Florida. Sam couldn't see inside, and the van didn't shift from side to side like a horse trailer, but she heard muffled movements within.

If the horse van's inside matched its outside, the filly probably stood in a stall lighted by a crystal chandelier. Nothing but the best for Linc Slocum.

“You betcha,” the driver said. “His report on the terrain made me believe I'd be another two hours getting here. The road's a little rough but nothing like what he described. I've got time to fix this flat and still arrive early.”

Jake shifted from foot to foot, eager to get on his way.

“You kids wouldn't want to walk the filly around for a few minutes, would you? She'd probably like to stretch her legs.”

Banjo pulled against the lead rope and nickered toward the van. Jake didn't show the same curiosity.

“I've got to get back to work.” Jake's voice fell short of being rude, but Sam knew he didn't like being called a kid.

Jake was welcome to his pride, but there was no chance Sam would turn down the opportunity to be first to see Slocum's filly.

“I'll help,” Sam offered, and when Jake cleared his throat to protest, she added, “I'll see you back at the ranch, Jake.”

“Whatever,” he said, then gave a tug on Banjo's lead rope and walked away.

A flood of air-conditioning and an inquiring nicker accompanied the opening of the van's back doors.

Sam would bet her allowance the filly had the
bloodlines of a racing Appaloosa. From her cocoa brown head and neck to her milky body scattered with cocoa spots and barely visible striping on her hooves, the filly showed the best of her Appaloosa and Thoroughbred heritages.

On top of that, the filly's soft brown eyes, alert ears, and the way she crinkled her satiny neck to watch Sam and the driver showed she liked people.

“She's gorgeous.” Sam sighed. “You're sure she belongs to Linc Slocum?”

“‘Apache Hotspot,'” the driver read from his clipboard. “‘Two-year-old filly by Scat Cat out of Kachina Dancer, bred at the Spanish Moss Plantation in Longview, Florida.' Bought and paid for—” He opened a door inside the van to show a mini-apartment with champagne-colored carpet and tiled walls. “And I do mean
paid
for!”

“What's that?” Sam pointed inside the van, above a clean-scrubbed feed manger. “It looks like a video camera.”

“Closed-circuit TV,” the driver said, nodding. “I have a screen up front, so I can see what she's doing at any moment during our drive.”

“Wow,” Sam said.

With ease, the driver backed the Appaloosa from the van and handed her lead rope to Sam.

“Be out in a minute,” he said, ducking toward the mini-apartment. “Gonna put on a coverall, to change that tire.”

The Appaloosa was tall. Nearly sixteen hands, Sam guessed, and she moved with a spirited strength that made Sam keep both hands on the lead rope.

The Appaloosa scanned the open terrain and trembled. She stared at the flat, sage-dotted range, at the red-winged blackbirds balancing on tall grass, at the oatmeal colored hills clumped along the horizon. Clearly, Hotspot wasn't used to open spaces. Head held high, she neighed after Banjo.

Her neigh was like music. Heading home, Jake fought to keep Banjo moving in the opposite direction. As the filly neighed again, Sam knew she'd never heard anything like the melodious sound. Any horse within hearing distance would yearn to investigate.

Sam could hear the clink of metal tools as the driver worked on the tire and hummed.

Hotspot skittered in an arc, trying to scan all the hills at once. The effect was like a dog winding its leash around its walker. Was the driver watching? Sam backed away from the horse, trying to guide the filly as if she were on a longe line.

“Hey, girl,” Sam said. “You're fine.”

She couldn't let the horse hurt herself. Wrapped for travel, Hotspot's slim legs looked even more delicate.

Sam was about to call the van driver and turn responsibility for the costly filly back to him, when Hotspot stopped. She flung her head so high, Sam stood on tiptoe to grip the rope beneath the filly's
chin. Her nostrils quivered with a sweet nicker.

Sam didn't have the Appaloosa's acute sense of smell nor the fine hearing that keeps horses ahead of predators, but she could feel the morning grow still around her.

Small stones rattled down the hillside. Sam stared until her eyes burned, knowing what she'd see if she was patient. At last, he appeared.

The Phantom didn't move. Like a statue carved of silver-flecked marble, he stood camouflaged against a granite boulder.

Hotspot gave a worried nicker. The filly from Florida had never seen a wild stallion. Her muscles bunched to run.

Sam wrapped the lead more tightly around her hand. If Hotspot bolted, Sam could use only her body as an anchor. Even that might be hopeless, since Sam couldn't tell if Hotspot was frightened or excited.

Still motionless, the Phantom studied the van, filly, and Sam. Finally, he decided to prance closer. The play of muscles seemed to polish his hide from the inside. The Phantom arched his neck until his chin bumped his chest. Dark eyes peered through the forelock cascading over his face.

Show-off
, Sam thought, but she didn't speak.

Since his rough capture, she'd only seen the Phantom once, when the blue roan stallion attempted to take the Phantom's mares.

Would Sam see the Phantom only when other
horses acted as bait?

Oh no! Sam's attention had wandered and the filly bolted. Sam settled into a crouch, keeping her weight low as the horse spun around her.

“What's up?” The driver slid from beneath the van, still holding a wrench.

“I—” Sam kept her back to the hillside.
Don't look behind me. There's no beautiful wild stallion, there
.

Sam swallowed, as the filly slowed.

Don't look
, she thought. How could she explain Hotspot's excitement without pointing out the Phantom?

She must think of something. If the driver saw the silver stallion, he'd surely mention him to Slocum. That would convince Slocum that the Phantom had slipped in and tried to steal Kitty.

Slocum was already worried that a renegade stallion would seek out his blue bloods. Tales of this encounter would only increase his worry.

Sam resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder. She kept her eyes on the driver. His frown faded as the filly calmed down. Sam did what she could to draw the rest of his attention.

“Wow!” Sam brushed dirt from her jeans. “I think all this open space scared her.” She stroked Hotspot's satiny neck. “Do you think that's possible?”

The filly sneezed at the dust she'd stirred, then struck out with one foreleg.

“Could be.” The driver walked closer, and Hotspot
extended her muzzle for rubbing.

“She seems fine, now,” Sam said.

Then, since the driver's attention was fixed on the filly, Sam sneaked a look at the hillside. Rocks. Dirt. Sagebrush. No Phantom.

A breath sighed through Sam's lips as she returned her attention to the Appaloosa. Again, she thought how suited this driver was to his job.

He let the filly lip his empty hand. He didn't seem to mind that she smeared him with horse spit.

“You're just a pet, aren't you?” He asked the horse. “I hope this Slocum knows how to treat a lady like you.”

Pictures of bloody spurs, cruel bits, and the Phantom's scar flashed through Sam's mind. What she hoped was that Slocum hadn't purchased this sweet filly for himself.

 

A thunderstorm ruined the last day of summer vacation.

Dad roused Sam early to ride out with the hands. He needed another pair of eyes to spot and chase all the cattle out of the canyons and draws. During droughts, storms like this could cause flash floods. Sudden rains filled low spots, overflowed them, then followed long valleys. When the water crested it created furious rivers. Each year, cattle drowned. They were safer on the flats, near the ranch. This year River Bend couldn't afford to lose even one.

In spite of the rolling booms of thunder, the rain was only a light sprinkle. The cattle stayed together and the job went fast. By eight o'clock in the morning, Sam stood on River Bend's front porch, peeling off her yellow slicker.

This time tomorrow, she'd be walking into her first high school class. Sam hung her slicker on a hook and wondered if she'd like Darton High.

She slicked back her damp hair and wished she could shake dry like Blaze.

Sam noticed Gram standing near the counter, regarding the half-full egg basket.

“Thanks for taking care of the chickens, Gram,” she said.

“You're welcome, but I'll tell you, Samantha, something's wrong. Six eggs for fourteen hens is just not normal.” Gram shook her head and scooped a serving of warm blackberry cobbler from a square ceramic pan.

“Oh, yum.” Sam watched Gram drizzle fresh cream over the top. Sam took the bowl of cobbler, even though she'd eaten so much pie last night that she'd vowed not to touch another blackberry until next summer.

“Have you seen any tracks around the chicken coop?” Gram asked. “Skunk or raccoon tracks? Blaze would wake us if a coyote was getting in.”

Sam didn't admit she hadn't thought to search out tracks. “Maybe the hens are sick,” she said. “Or getting old.”

Sam hesitated to make such suggestions, since Dad insisted every creature on the ranch needed to contribute.

“It's a sad fact that when chickens get sick, they usually die,” Gram said. “There's rarely time to call the vet. And those are young hens. Many times, Wyatt's said he won't run a home for old chickens.”

A thunderclap rattled the windows. Sam looked out to the big pasture, suddenly worried for her orphan calf. She spotted Buddy instantly. She was running, jumping, and landing in mud puddles for the sheer fun of making a splash.

Still, Sam bit her lip with worry. If Dad wouldn't run a home for old chickens, he probably wouldn't run one for pet calves. Sam half turned toward Gram, then lost her nerve. She just couldn't ask.

Just the same, Gram met her eyes.

“No way you can put it off any longer,” Gram said.

Sam's heart vaulted up. The final bit of cobbler wobbled on the spoon, then fell back into the bowl with a plop.

“This mess”—Gram gestured toward rain rivulets on the windows—“probably won't let up until late afternoon, and then you'll want to ride. You'd better get upstairs and try on those clothes from Aunt Sue.”

Gram couldn't have picked a more effective way to get Sam moving. For one horribly long second, she'd thought Gram wanted to discuss Buddy's future as a beefsteak.

“Yep, you're right,” Sam said, rinsing her bowl at the sink. “I'll get up there and try on every single thing.”

“Call me if you need help making any decisions,” Gram called after her, but Sam was fleet with relief, and barely heard.

 

At the end of an hour, Sam had no doubt she'd grown since coming home. All her jeans were too short. In fact, only one pair of pants fit.

Sam frowned at the gray cords she couldn't remember choosing. She guessed she'd have to learn to like them.

Most of her blouses were snug in the shoulders, maybe because she'd developed muscles lifting hay bales, carrying saddles, and juggling her squirming calf.

She had an almost-new, hippie-style skirt she'd bought in San Francisco, but she couldn't imagine wearing it to school in Darton.

Sam stood in front of the mirror on the back of her bedroom door. The skirt was crinkly and dark green. Maybe she could wear it for a holiday party, but she couldn't remember anything more festive than going to Christmas Eve service at the Methodist church in Darton.

Sam gave the mirror a more intent look. She liked her slightly wider shoulders, new height, and general fitness. She was glad her waist curved in and she had a chest that was
there
but not to an embarrassing extent.

She hated her hair. Sam leaned close to the mirror
and made a face. Instead of making her look older, it made her look ready for Halloween.

That hair would ruin her first day of school, no matter what she wore.

Unless…

Sam took a strand of damp hair and pulled it straight. It reached just below her cheekbone. Gram probably wouldn't approve. Jake's reaction didn't bear imagining. Dad, on the other hand, might not holler if she cut it again.

Sam held her breath and squinted her eyes at the mirror. A new start and a new look.

Gram had said to call if she had trouble making any decisions, but Sam didn't. She walked downstairs, pretending she had a short, boyish cut.

Maybe, she thought with each step. Just maybe.

By the time she reached the kitchen, Sam had made up her mind. The announcement burst from her lips, almost without her permission, “I hate this weird hair and I'm chopping it off!”

“All right, dear,” Gram said. She sat at the kitchen table, across from a younger woman with a long red braid. “But first you might say hello to our guest. You remember Miss Olson from the BLM, don't you? She's come to talk with you about that mustang you call the Phantom.”