Wild Honey (9 page)

“I don't know,” Sam said.

She felt a little queasy. Sheriff Ballard was her friend and he trusted her, but it had only been two months since he'd warned her to quit thinking with her heart instead of her head. He'd told her flat out that people who did the wrong things for what they thought were the right reasons got into serious trouble.

And she was doing it again.

“We'll hurry,” Sam said, but just as she looked away from Sheriff Ballard, her eyes took in a man lining up pieces of lumber that he'd dragged into an arrangement like railroad tracks. Even though he wasn't in uniform, Sam would bet he was the policeman teaching the class. His manner was crisp as he directed Jake and Darrell in how to help.

“—distract and not terrify them…” he was saying.

Mrs. Allen approached the lawman almost shyly. Sam could tell she was offering to help, but the man continued to aim most of his requests to Jake.

Sam felt a twinge of resentment, but it didn't last.

Fine, she thought. Let Jake be the boss of everything. Mrs. Allen probably didn't care, and Sam had more important things to do. Besides, she wasn't eager to face two police officers when she had a questionable horse hidden just across the yard.

Jen matched Sam's steps as they cut across the ranch yard. Sam was relieved that Jen walked normally. There was none of the arms-circled-around-herself care and stiffness that had hampered her
friend's movements just days ago. Jen's recovery from being gored by a bull was almost complete.

Sam noticed the barn door was closed and nodded with satisfaction. Mrs. Allen would make a pretty good role model.

Sam shoved the barn door open about a foot, and Jen slipped in ahead of her.

A quick thud of hooves on straw drew Sam's eyes to the palomino mare. The movement in the box stall was like a swirl of sun.

“She's amazing,” Jen said as they walked farther into the dim barn. “Oh man, if we ever get our palomino breeding program back up—”

“Jen, she's wild,” Sam reprimanded her.

Jen considered the palomino for what felt like a full minute. “If you say so,” Jen said finally.

Why couldn't Jen see that everything about the mare—her ragged mane, rough coat, and the snarls in her tail—looked wild? She just happened to have a sweet temperament.

Jen used her index finger to push her glasses up her nose, then bent to study the front leg that the mare held just above her straw bedding.

“That swelling's really minor,” Jen said.

“It's gone down a lot,” Sam said.

“I won't try to touch her, but I bet there's not much heat there. It doesn't look infected,” Jen observed.

“I hope not,” Sam said on a sigh. “I want to turn
her loose as soon as I can.”

“Sam!”

Both girls gasped, but in an instant, they recognized Jake's voice, coming muffled through the barn door.

Quickly and quietly, Sam and Jen raced for the door. They sure didn't want him to open it. If the mare saw all those unfamiliar horses, she'd be certain to call to them.

Trying hard to keep her expression blank, Sam eased the door open an inch. “Yes?”

“Get out here or you're gonna be missed,” Jake snapped. “They're almost ready to start.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

Though she'd noticed Jen putting her hands on her hips at Jake's bossy tone, Sam didn't feel like fighting. Maybe later. Now, she wouldn't do a thing to attract attention to herself, because she was a terrible actress and a worse liar.

Jake didn't give her much room to emerge from the barn. She realized he'd stayed close on purpose when they bumped shoulders and he whispered, “How is she?”

Jake's broad shoulders had blocked the view through the open barn door, Sam realized, as she said, “Looks good.”

Jake nodded, and walked silently beside Sam and Jen.

He pretended not to hear Jen say, “How madden
ing is that? Just when I'm set to tell him he's a domineering jerk, he acts like he cares.”

Sam didn't have time to answer. As they entered the ranch yard, she realized Jake was right. Things were almost underway and she still hadn't saddled Ace.

“C'mon,” Jake said, leading them through the horses and trailers.

“Okay,” Sam said, then she blinked, recognizing Ace tied to a River Bend horse trailer. “Did Dallas saddle up Ace and Amigo?”

“Guess so,” Jake said.

As Sam scanned the ranch yard, she wondered if she'd ever get her fill of watching horses. She loved hearing their nickers and stamping, watching them back quickly from trailers or sidestep away from a raised saddle. Everything they did was wonderful to her.

“There's Jinx!”

Sam pointed out the gleaming grulla-bronze gelding tied to a Darton County Police Department horse trailer. The mustang was fast and beautiful. As Sheriff Ballard's horse, he'd left behind his days as a failed cow pony, bucking horse, and bad-luck charm. Now, he was mastering the skills of a police horse and he'd lead the volunteer posse.

Ace lunged to the end of his tie rope and kicked at the trailer when he saw Sam was distracted. The kick echoed.

“Ace!” Sam said. The horse didn't act the least bit chagrined as Sam climbed into the saddle and picked up her reins before unsnapping the tie rope.

Then, Sam saw another horse she knew and loved. “And Katie Sterling brought Tinkerbell!”

The mustang looked like a mahogany-brown Percheron. No one had expected a wild horse with draft blood to become the best jumper in the area. Schooling at Sterling Stables was helping him make a name for himself in the show ring, too.

Sam urged Ace closer, then shortened her reins.

Even though the two horses appeared to get along now, it hadn't always been like this. In the week Tinkerbell had spent at River Bend Ranch, Ace had shown his jealousy with flattened ears, kicks, and bites.

Now, Sam leaned from her saddle to pet Tinkerbell's neck. He nuzzled Sam in recognition. If anyone ever had to come looking for her, she hoped they'd ride Tinkerbell. For level-headed endurance and strength, she couldn't imagine a better horse.

“Teddy Bear's turning out fine,” Jake said as they passed a curly coated young horse ridden by Mr. Martinez, the Darton banker who'd hired Jake and Dad to school Teddy Bear.

“Don't be so humble,” Jen said as she strolled up. “Mr. Martinez told my Dad that you transformed that horse from a dangerous prankster to the perfect saddle horse.”

Jake shrugged off the compliment. “He's one of those Eureka County curlies. They're good horses.”

Jen didn't waste any more words insisting that Jake was a superb rider and trainer. Instead, she turned toward Sam.

“Those Eureka County horses really are pretty interesting,” Jen told Sam. “Mr. Martinez says they're descended from horses brought to Nevada by some Russian settlers. The wide-set eyes and curly coat,” Jen pointed as she talked, “are typical, but another thing that's really cool is they're hypoallergenic.”

“Really?” Sam asked. She remembered a friend in her middle school who'd been so allergic to fur-bearing animals that a single cat hair on someone's clothes could make her sick.

“That's what Mr. Martinez told us. In fact, he wants to keep Teddy Bear closer to home, instead of in Clara's pasture, because his son who's allergic to animals isn't allergic to Teddy Bear.”

“You need to meet Lieutenant Preston,” Jake interrupted, nodding across the ranch yard.

The man that Jake indicated looked young and lanky. His hair was parted on the side and combed down like a little boy dressed up for Sunday school. His ears kind of stuck out, too, like a little kid still growing into his body. Though the man's neatly combed hair was turning white, it had been black. It was the kind of hair Gram called salt and pepper.

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.

M
embers 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 Mrs. 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.”