Wild Honey (8 page)

Clipping a wooden clothespin to one corner of a sheet, then smoothing it along the clothesline, Sam wished she was still at Deerpath Ranch.

When Belle and Faith had been in that stall, they hadn't been left alone for a minute. Now Jake was gone, Mrs. Allen was in town, and Sam was home, too. The injured lead mare was all alone in her captivity.

What if the mare looked at the wooden walls surrounding her and began pawing at boards? What if her struggles widened the cut they'd bandaged so carefully? Could she get a sliver in her chest if she tried to jump out of the stall? But she hadn't looked fearful.

Sam took a T-shirt from the laundry basket, fastened it in place, and wondered how the wild horse had come to know stalls. Picturing the mare's alert
ears and watchful eyes, Sam decided the horse not only hadn't acted confined and crazy, she hadn't even looked nervous. If Sam didn't know better, she'd think the mare looked relieved and almost at home.

Sam paused as she bent toward the laundry basket again.

Clues pointed toward the mare's domestication, but ever since Queen, the Phantom's first lead mare, had been taken in by the BLM, this honey-colored horse had helped lead the Phantom's herd. Sam knew that the mare was where she belonged.

 

Sam was finishing the dinner dishes, staring out the window over the sink, and half wondering why Dallas was standing on the porch outside the bunkhouse kind of expectantly, when it popped into her mind that no one had asked what had happened after she rode away from River Bend that morning.

They hadn't questioned her about the Phantom or asked what she thought had him stirred up.

Sam guessed that was a good thing, since she couldn't have told the truth about the palamino mare, but it was sort of ironic that Dad had refused to let her budge and Brynna had kept her straining like a dog on a leash until the sun came up, and neither of them had wondered what happened next.

Now Dad was dozing in front of the television, Gram was reading a seed catalogue, and Brynna was
spreading out even more maps on the kitchen table.

They'd all been interested in her plans for tomorrow. Dad had actually talked with Sheriff Ballard the other day about Lieutenant Preston, the man who'd conduct the training, and Dad thought the work would do Ace good. Brynna had told about a search party she'd ridden on once and the volunteers she'd nicknamed “thrusters”—people who pushed themselves to the front when a photographer appeared to show heroes who'd found a group of lost Boy Scouts.

When Sam had phoned Jen, she'd had to be vague about the mare's condition, but she'd managed to hint that Jen's advice had worked. And Jake turned out to be right about Jen and Silly.

“She's already bomb-proof enough,” Jen had said. “But Ace—and you have to swear you won't take this wrong, or I'll shut up now—”

“I know,” Sam had said. “He needs some work on confronting unusual stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jen had said, making Sam laugh.

That was another example of what a good friend Jen was, Sam thought. She'd offered a teeny crumb of criticism about Ace, but not in a mean way, and Sam found she could take it.

Now, with everyone else preoccupied, she could call Jen back and give her more details about tomorrow. She needed to call Ally, too. It was probably too late for whatever fun the other girl had had in mind
and Ally would be busy tomorrow, because it was Sunday. Still…

Sam was moving to retrieve the note with Ally's phone number on it when she heard tires hit the bridge that led into the ranch yard. A screech of brakes told her the driver had slowed suddenly. Then, sliding through the gray-purple dusk, a car pulled into the yard.

Looking from the kitchen window, Sam wondered if this was what Dallas had been waiting for.

She'd never seen the car before. It rolled jerkily into the yard, throbbing with the bass beat of music playing inside. Mostly emerald green with a white top, it might be one of those classic cars you saw in movies about the fifties. Or sixties.

The car stopped. The music ended. A heavy door opened and closed.

She didn't know the car, but she recognized the guy climbing out of it as Jake's friend Darrell. Dark, slicked-back hair and baggy pants told Sam it couldn't be anyone else.

She'd first heard Darrell's name the day Jake had disabled Gram's car by pulling some wires out from under the hood, making it into an immovable barricade on the road to Willow Springs Wild Horse Center, so that Linc Slocum couldn't drive past.

When Sam had gaped in amazement, Jake had told her his friend Darrell had taught him how to
do it. He'd added that Sam was not allowed to meet Darrell because he was kind of a rebel, but of course Sam met him at school.

He wasn't really a bad guy. But what was he doing here? And what did he have in that gunnysack?

S
am wiped her wet hands on her jeans and slipped out the front door. The door closed behind her. She saw Darrell tighten his grip on the sack as it rocked and swayed.

Now that she was closer, she was pretty sure the sack held something alive. Even so, despite the shifting and swaying gunnysack, Darrell walked as he did down the halls of Darton High. Weight back on his heels with his baggy pants billowing and his eyelids lowered to half-mast. He looked totally cool.

Once he opened his mouth, he'd start talking like a hard guy, as if he were risky to be around.

But he wasn't. Last year when she'd been searching small rodeos for the Phantom, she'd seen how
patiently Darrell took care of his unruly little cousin at a carnival.

Darrell had slipped her evidence to write an exposé for the school newspaper, too, and the principal had ended up nabbing Kris Cameron, one of the most popular guys in school, for forging passes to get his friends out of class. Not only that, Darrell had helped her make a hay drop for the wild horses during the snowiest part of winter.

“Hey Forster, you know how to keep a secret.”

It was a statement, not a question. Sam sucked in a cautious breath.

Should she turn and run? Moments like this had a nasty way of becoming turning points. And she only had about a fifty-fifty record of turning in the right direction.

The bag was definitely making a sound and she wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Two Rhode Island Red hens that had already scurried into their coop for the night peeked outside and gave cautious clucks.

Darrell shifted the sack to his other hand, then, looking dissatisfied, lifted it up and cradled it in his arms.

“Ow!” Darrell flinched as if whatever was in the bag had hurt him. Did it have teeth? Claws? A stinger?

“Hey man, don't peck your rescuer, know what I mean?” Darrell dangled the bag at eye level as if whatever lurked inside could read his glare.

You know how to keep a secret,
he'd said confidently. Before she agreed with him, though, she needed more information.

“Is the secret in the bag?” Sam asked.

“Shh,” Darrell said, then looked over both shoulders and back to her. “Yeah, you nailed it. The secret's in the bag and I'm here to make a little deal.” Darrell set the bag gently on the ground and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Ely tells me you need help raising a ruckus tomorrow.”

Darrell's habit of using everyone's last names could have made his sentence confusing. After all, there were six Ely brothers. But Sam had no doubt Darrell was talking about Jake.

“We're helping desensitize the volunteer posse horses tomorrow,” Sam admitted.

“'S what I mean,” Darrell said. He folded his arms with a sort of streetwise dignity. “You assist me and Fluffy. I'll assist you.”

Sam tried to listen to the voice in her brain that begged her to be sensible. She really tried not to be curious, but she couldn't help asking, “Fluffy?”

Darrell pointed at the shifting sack. “My man Fluffy needs a place to live.”

Sam knew that as soon as whatever was in the bag came out, she was sunk. She was so soft-hearted with animals that, just a day ago, she'd rescued a daddy longlegs spider by scooping it into a jar and delicately dumping it outside.

Darrell must have known what a pushover she was, because he moved quickly to release the creature from the bag.

Even in the dusky light, the rooster's feathers shone with a cinnamon and black gloss. His fountain of tail feathers glinted iridescent green and his red eyes glared at everything around him. He wasn't very big, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in fierceness. The rooster braced his thin legs apart, hooked his toenails into the dirt, and opened his beak in a challenging
cock-a-doodle-do
.

“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, about 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?”