Mustang Moon

by Terri Farley

  Eyes on the vanishing sun, Sam hurried to the hedges. She dismounted, ground-tied Ace, and checked each tangle of blackberry bushes. No sign of Baby Huey.

  Angling her hand around the wicked thorns, Sam plucked one fat blue-black berry and popped it in her mouth. Oh, wow. Sam grabbed another one, closed her eyes and let the sweet juice fill her mouth. No wonder Baby Huey had been trapped so often.

  Sam had caught up her reins and started to mount when she spotted another possible hiding place.

  Ace hung back at the end of his reins as Sam peered into a cavelike opening in the hedges. No calf hid inside, but one might have fit. She couldn’t go in, but—

  All at once, Sam felt as if an icy finger had trailed down the nape of her neck. Shivering, she looked over her shoulder.

  No one was there, but someone was watching. Could it be Slocum? Not likely. And she’d seen all the cowhands ride in before she’d left the ranch. And neither Gram nor Dad would come after her. They knew she’d be home in time for dinner.

  Sam shrugged her shoulders so high, they nearly reached her ears. She felt cold. She studied Ace, but his eyes only scanned the terrain, showing no margin of white around the brown. He wasn’t frightened, then, but Ace wasn’t the most reliable watchdog. Sam wished she’d brought Blaze along.

  Sam felt better once she remounted. She thought of the roast beef sandwiches, homemade french fries, and fresh steamed peas Gram was making. And the cake.

  She also remembered she had to swap Sweetheart and Ace into the small corral and turn Buddy in with the horses. That could take a while, especially since she needed to be sure everyone got along. If they didn’t, more than feelings could get hurt.

  Sam urged Ace into a trot toward home. A rider was less vulnerable than a pedestrian. Afoot, she wasn’t very fast. On Ace, she’d be tough to catch.

  If she hadn’t been watching for the flowers, Sam might have missed the print. The flowers were a yellow smear, and the hoofmark, distorted by the mud, looked huge.

  Ace veered around the place and his pace stiffened. Sam knew a stallion had been watching her. Had it been the Phantom or the blue roan?

  Gram wakened Sam early.

  “Get up, sleepyhead,” Gram said. “Berries are sweeter if you pick before the sun warms them.”

  In the dark, Sam gathered eggs and filled water troughs for the horses and hens.

  In the barn corral, Ace and Sweetheart stood side by side, calm shadows against the graying sky. They looked like friends. Using her cold fingers more than her eyes, she inspected Ace for new wounds. She found none. As they’d hoped, the two horses were getting along just fine.

  Filled with relief, she forked hay to Sweetheart and Ace, then scattered the grainy feed called chick-scratch for the hens.

  The hens were making cautious, questioning clucks as Jake rode into the yard.

  Witch, Jake’s explosive black mare, looked like a dragon as she snorted hot breath into the chilly morning. Her roached mane stood up in a crest. Witch stood still as Jake dismounted. She fidgeted, though, as he tied her, not ready to stop, even though they’d loped at least five miles from Jake’s ranch.

  Jake gave Witch a pat, then turned toward Sam.

  “What a terrifyin’ sight,” Jake said, bumping his Stetson back and blinking as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Samantha Anne Forster doing work before sunup.”

  “I did it on the cattle drive every day,” Sam reminded him as they walked toward the kitchen. Side by side, she tried to match his steps. “I’ve been storing up sleep for school and—”

  “Biologically speaking, I don’t think you can store sleep,” Jake said.

  If she hadn’t been carrying a delicate cargo of eggs, Sam would’ve elbowed Jake. All her life he’d pretended to know more about everything than she did.

  “Besides,” Sam told him, “sleeping until seven as I usually do isn’t exactly a life of luxury.”

  Jake gave a skeptical grunt. He opened the kitchen door, nodded her through ahead of him, and took off his hat before entering.

  Gram looked up from washing dishes and frowned at the paltry number of eggs. Dad gave Sam and Jake a considering look before setting down his coffee cup.

  “Jake, I want you to take the morning off from working horses,” Dad said.

  Jake’s jaw dropped. Then he looked wary. No other chore came close to working horses. Jake believed he had the best job ever awarded to a teenager.

  “Unless you have an objection?” Dad said.

  Sam saw Jake’s chest expand, as if he wanted to spout off a dozen objections, but he said, “No, sir.”

  “Go pick some berries with Sam,” Dad encouraged him. “Work’ll wait and maybe Grace will convince you to stay for some of her cobbler.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Gram interrupted. “Leave Witch to spend the night and I’ll drive you home with a couple pies. With school starting and her classes to prepare for, your mom sure won’t have time to bake.”

  “So, if Gram’s going to please your mom and your stomach,” Sam said, “how can you say no?”

  “Never planned to,” Jake muttered.

  Gram didn’t give Jake time to change his mind. She handed them long baskets. “Fix these into the panniers on one of the pack saddles.”

  Sam felt that too-familiar uneasiness of not quite remembering something everyone assumed she knew. What were panniers and were the pack saddles in the tack room with all the other horse equipment?

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Jake nod. Reassured, Sam kept listening as Gram rattled off instructions.

  “Don’t get greedy,” she said. “Pick as many berries as you can, but if they’re green, leave them. Indian summer usually gives us a second harvest.”

  “Take Banjo,” Dad said. “Work some of the orneriness out of him.”

  In minutes, Jake had the pack saddle cinched onto Dad’s big stocky bay. Dad didn’t believe in coddling his favorites. If Banjo had enough energy to bully Ace, he could use it trudging along at the end of a rope, carrying berries on his back.

  Sam smiled and held Banjo’s head as Jake settled the baskets into side pockets on the pack saddle.

  “I like you fine,” she said to the Quarter horse. “But maybe you’ll think twice next time about beating up on Ace.”

  “Let’s go,” Jake said. And they did.

  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.”

  Chapter Five

  THE 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 opp
osite 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.