Wild Honey (7 page)

Held there by the vet's story, even though he'd stretched his Achilles tendons in preparation for running home, Jake crossed his arms and grunted as if he knew what was coming next.

“And she didn't?” Sam asked.

“Sure she did,” the vet snarled, “just an hour ago, after the colt had already revived and I'd slogged back to my truck to hear a message from yesterday that I”—Dr. Scott's voice grew louder with each word—“in my capacity as an inspector for the Humane Society—was supposed to pay a visit to Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary on an abuse complaint!”

Jake had tried to slip away unnoticed, but they all turned at the sound of his running shoes hitting the sandy soil as he jogged toward home. He gave a vague wave. Sam could tell he was glad to escape what was coming next.

“An abuse complaint.” Mrs. Allen pronounced the syllables as if she could hardly stand them on her tongue. “Well, you needn't have bothered.”

“Trudy, I didn't have a choice,” Dr. Scott said, flatly. “Even if I wanted to draw my own conclusions without driving out here, I couldn't. A rural vet just starting out is glad for extra contracts like I have with BLM and the Humane Society. I take the
extra training, do the extra work, and bank the salaries. That means I can take time to do a few things for free—like care for…” The vet snapped his fingers twice, as if the animal's name would magically come to him. “What did your grandson name our favorite mustang?”

“Firefly,” Mrs. Allen said, and her affection for the bay colt with the white patch over his eye showed in her smile.

“Right,” he said. Dr. Scott looked satisfied and relaxed, then his jaw dropped and his eyes closed in a yawn.

Dr. Scott had lavished weeks of care on the burned and traumatized colt and Firefly had responded to the kindness by bonding with Mrs. Allen's grandson and helping him pass through the bitterness that followed his terrible injury.

But Dr. Scott's enjoyment of the memory lasted only a few seconds.

“So, I've got this complaint of abuse and neglect, and I need to take a quick walk around now. All your horses are in that pen and the pasture, right?” Dr. Scott asked.

Mrs. Allen gave a wooden nod. Sam wondered if Mrs. Allen was insulted, or covering for the hidden horse which wasn't, technically, hers.

“Ace is in with Judge, and—”

The vet made a curt gesture to cut off her explanation.

“I saw him. I noticed most of the wild horses are
close in, on this end of the pasture. That's good.” He gave a loud sigh. “Look, I don't mean to be abrupt, but I'd like to get home, clean up, and grab a nap before the next crisis explodes.” Dr. Scott yawned again, then a corner of his mouth quirked up. “Truthfully, I don't think this will take long. I don't expect the complaint to pan out.”

“Go right ahead,” Mrs. Allen said, but the vet was already striding toward the pen where her three saddle horses dozed in the shade.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Allen asked Sam, “Do you want to go back inside? It's cooler there.”

She had to keep her eyes on that barn. She had to be ready to explain—she wasn't sure how—why she'd hidden a wild horse if Dr. Scott happened to find it.

“I can't,” Sam said.

“Neither can I,” Mrs. Allen replied, and the strain on her face told Sam the old woman had more at stake here than she did.

This time last year, Mrs. Allen's ranch had been a clutter of sagging fences, flapping shingles, and wandering horses. Depression had made her so rude and reclusive, word had spread through the ranching community that the artist-rancher had gone from being eccentric to downright peculiar.

“All we need now is for that stallion of yours to come sniffing around,” Mrs. Allen whispered.

“What?” Sam gasped.

“I don't expect he will, not during daylight, but many nights when I look out the window, he's down at the pasture gate, wandering back and forth as if he's lost something.”

“He did,” Sam said, thinking of Firefly. Then she shivered, imagining the stallion moving pale through the moonlight like a restless ghost.

“If you're thinking of Firefly, we both know he would have kicked that youngster out of the band before long. It's what herd stallions do with the young males.”

“But then why is he hanging around?” Sam asked.

“Samantha, why on earth would you ask me? I'm not the one who can read that stallion's mind.”

If only that were true,
Sam thought.

They remained in silence for so long, Sam's mind veered toward home. She really should phone and explain what was going on. She hadn't looked at the clock when they'd been indoors, but Mrs. Allen had said it was nearly noon when they'd finished doctoring the palomino. That must have been at least an hour ago. Someone would be wondering where she was.

“Do you think that mare is Firefly's mother?” Mrs. Allen asked.

“I've been thinking about that,” Sam admitted. “I keep going over the times I saw him with the Phantom's herd, but I never saw him paired up.
Mainly, he was just fooling around with the other colts.”

Gloom settled over Sam. As they waited, sweating, Sam longed to be the horse psychic that people thought she was.

If the Phantom returned to Deerpath Ranch looking for one of his colts, what would he do for a lead mare?

He'd left the palomino when he knew she'd slow down the rest of the herd, but what if he came back without the others?

Hooves thudded and a sharp neigh cut across the hot afternoon. Sam and Mrs. Allen turned to see Dr. Scott being pursued by Roman, the liver-chestnut gelding who'd appointed himself leader of the adopted herd.

Dr. Scott vaulted over the pasture fence and walked toward them. When he came near enough that his voice could be heard, he called out, “Trudy, we'd better have a talk.”

“Y
ou know, there's an odd glare on those cottonwood leaves that's making me a little dizzy,” Mrs. Allen whispered to Sam as the vet approached.

Sam steadied the old woman's arm, then retrieved the maroon baseball cap from Mrs. Allen's back pocket. She shook out the crumpled cap until it was pretty much its original shape, then handed it to her.

While Mrs. Allen hooked the cap over the back of her head, then tugged it down to shade her eyes, Sam looked up at the trees. She searched for sunbeams of unusual brightness. She didn't see any. Maybe overwork had made Mrs. Allen light-headed.

“You wouldn't have to work so hard if we could
get some kids to volunteer help with the horses,” Sam said. “They'd love it, you'd—”

“Need liability insurance,” Mrs. Allen muttered.

“That doesn't matter,” Sam said, though she didn't know what liability insurance was.

“It does if someone got hurt and her parents sued me. I'd lose everything.”

Sam couldn't believe anyone would sue Mrs. Allen. She was spending her nights, days, and money taking care of wild horses. If you were going to sue someone, wouldn't you go after someone who deserved it?

“Well, no one can do all this work alone,” Sam said.

“Probably won't matter, once Glen gets done with me.” Mrs. Allen hurried the end of her sentence as the vet reached them.

Looking hot and frustrated, Dr. Scott wiped his wrist over his forehead.

“I've done nothing to deserve the looks you two are giving me,” the young vet said. “You're shrinking away from me like I'm—I don't know what. A hooded executioner holding an axe?”

“No…” Sam drew the word out as if he were being silly.

“Of course not,” Mrs. Allen added.

“Here's what my inspection report will say,” Dr. Scott began. “Your horses have enough food and water. I saw no sunken backs, protruding hip bones,
or ribs indicating they're starving or malnourished, and no potbellies indicating worms.”

Sam smiled, but she was so afraid the vet would start toward the barn, her lips kind of jerked.

Dr. Scott took a breath and held up his hand to stall off interruptions. “Most of their coats look okay, not dull with hunks of hair coming out, indicating mineral deficiencies.”

Mrs. Allen gave a quick nod as if she'd never had a single doubt.

“However,” the vet raised his voice and eyebrows, “they're wandering around a soft pasture, not galloping over lava beds, so their feet could use some work. I'm guessing half of 'em need their teeth floated, too, but this was just a quick visual inspection. I haven't done a hands-on exam for any of them since just before you adopted them from Willow Springs.”

“But the bottom line,” Mrs. Allen said, “is that you're not going to recommend the Humane Society close me down.”

“No, but I will suggest that any time you take in a horse, you get a photo of it on day one, and a letter from the vet on scene testifying to the condition of the animal,” Dr. Scott said. “If I hadn't seen those horses before you adopted them, I might have some questions.”

“I get it,” Sam said. “If Mrs. Allen takes in a horse in bad condition—”

“Someone could say she's to blame. In fact, I bet that's how the complaint came about. Someone who's used to seeing blanketed, stabled horses thought this bunch had been neglected.

“And one more recommendation,” Dr. Scott continued. “It would make my job, and the farrier's, a lot easier if you'd try to handle those horses once in a while. Brush 'em and pick up their feet or do something to convince them it's okay to be touched.”

Mrs. Allen nodded adamantly, but Sam heard the defeated tsk of her tongue. When Dr. Scott put it that way, it made perfect sense, but where would the extra time come from? And was Mrs. Allen really in shape to hand-gentle wild horses?

“Maybe, after tomorrow's hoopla…” Mrs. Allen's voice trailed off.

“The police horse desensitization?” Dr. Scott asked.

Sam flinched. How could he know?

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Allen said. Then she shook her head. “I will never get over what a small town this is. I just found out about it this morning and I'm—how would you put it?—hostessing it.”

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.