by Terri Farley
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.”
Chapter Six
BRYNNA OLSON, direc
tor of the Willow Springs Wild Horse Center, wore a crisply pressed khaki uniform and a name tag. Her red hair was confined in a no-nonsense French braid. The only thing interfering with her professional appearance was the big bowl of blackberry cobbler centered before her.
“Hi, Samantha.” Miss Olson’s tone was warm but only for an instant. “Your grandmother says you’ve heard Mr. Slocum’s concerns about a mustang stallion trespassing on his property and stealing his mares.”
Miss Olson’s expression didn’t betray her feelings about the accusation, but Sam could guess what they were. After the Phantom’s capture, Miss Olson had watched the stallion’s untamed fury with the understanding of a horsewoman.
“There’s no way it was the Phantom.” Sam defended her horse by reflex. “What does Slocum—” Sam shook her head as Gram cleared her throat “—Mr. Slocum expect you to do?”
“I’m holding him off for now, but he wants action.” Miss Olson pushed her bowl aside, as if she’d lost her appetite. “Since I disqualified his application to adopt a wild horse, Mr. Slocum is unhappy. He doesn’t care for me and doesn’t respect my position with the federal government.”
Sam stared out the kitchen window, but she didn’t say what she was thinking.
Outside, rain dripped from the eaves of the white ranch house. Sam knew many ranchers distrusted the BLM. Ranch families were independent minded. They didn’t like government rules telling them how to live on land they’d ranched for generations.
Slocum despised the BLM for a different reason than most.
The rain increased, but it fell so slowly, Sam could almost count the drops. The sky was blue-gray, still deciding whether the storm had ended.
When Sam turned back to Miss Olson, the BLM official’s half smile said she didn’t expect Gram or Sam to defend her or the government agency. Besides, Sam was pretty sure Miss Olson could stand up for herself.
“Respect me or not, Mr. Slocum wants the BLM to catch the wild horse he feels is stalking his mares.”
“Are you going to do it?” Sam asked.
“We’re not convinced there is a renegade stallion,” Miss Olson said. “The teeth slashes on his mare could have come from any horse.
“He said she’d been wandering the range. Folks aren’t supposed to turn domestic stock out, but they do. Some escape or are stolen, too.” Miss Olson turned to Gram. “I had an e-mail this morning from one of our California offices. A valuable stallion is missing and presumed stolen. His owner’s frantic, hoping he’s on the loose.”
“Horse thieves even in these modern times,” Gram said, shaking her head.
Sam wished she could tell the stallion’s owner not to give up. After all, everyone had believed Blackie was gone for good.
“More than likely”—Miss Olson’s tone sharpened—“the sorrel was bitten by one of Slocum’s own horses.”
Sam nodded and kept her lips pressed together.
“Before we waste manpower setting a trap for a trespassing stallion that may not exist, Mr. Slocum has to give us some evidence he’s right.”
“Like tracks?” Sam asked.
“That would be a start,” Miss Olson said, “but there’s no shortage of unshod horses around here.”
Gram took a sip of her coffee, then frowned. Sam could see Gram was so intent on listening, she’d let her coffee grow cold.
“From what you’ve seen of the Phantom”—Miss Olson watched Sam with such intensity, Sam wanted to say no to whatever she asked—“would he enter an enclosed area like Slocum’s ranch?”
Sam stared at the tabletop. She pictured the remote-controlled iron gates, the grassy approach to the pens, ranch house, and mansion.
Up until today, Sam would have sworn Phantom wouldn’t enter such an area. But after he’d materialized out of nowhere to eye Hotspot, could she be sure?
“He’s never crossed the river,” Sam said. “The closest he’s come is halfway.”
Chills covered Sam’s arms as she thought of the beautiful stallion, silvered with moonlight, as he swam out to her. The Phantom remembered he’d once been her colt and he remembered his secret name.
Sam sighed. Though Miss Olson took the sound as sadness, she didn’t turn all sensitive and gooey. She merely agreed.
“Based on what I saw when he was in captivity, that stallion wouldn’t willingly enter any fenced area. He showed more resistance to confinement than I’ve witnessed in any mustang.”
“What will you do if Mr. Slocum comes up with some sort of evidence?” Gram asked.
Miss Olson looked thoughtful. She didn’t seem to notice she’d pressed her palms together and matched her fingers as she tapped them against her lips.
“We’re shorthanded because we lost Flick.”
The glance Miss Olson shot Sam asked if she remembered the cowboy who’d used his position with the BLM to capture the Phantom for Slocum. Sam nodded.
“And the college kids who were working for us are on their way back to school.” Miss Olson turned in her chair to watch the weather outside the window. “I should get back,” she said, standing, but her expression said she’d rather stay in Gram’s warm kitchen.
“Frankly, it’s hard to find people with the expertise to track and capture horses.” Miss Olson raised one eyebrow as she looked at Gram.
“I wish I could help,” Gram said, “but the only folks I know who are good at that sort of thing are Jake and Wyatt.”
Miss Olson looked sheepish, but she said, “It pays a lot more than you’d think.”
Gram made a considering sound, but Sam didn’t know why. Dad wouldn’t take a job with the BLM unless he was in danger of losing the ranch.
Money. Why did every conversation lead back to money?
Sam smoothed her hands over her hair. Even if Gram agreed to drive her into Darton to get her hair cut, it would cost something. If the Forster family couldn’t afford an extra pair of jeans, they couldn’t pay a stylist to snip her hair into a fashionable shape.
Sam was sure Gram had already forgotten her outburst as she’d come pounding downstairs. Apparently, Miss Olson hadn’t.
With her hand on the doorknob, Miss Olson stopped. She turned so quickly, her braid snapped from one side of her neck to the other.
“Well, shoot,” she said. “It’s too late to go back to Willow Springs now. Samantha, I might be able to help you out. When I was going to college, I was the dorm queen at cutting hair. If your grandmother doesn’t mind, I’d be glad to—” she searched for the right word “—even things up a little.”
“Miss Olson, that would be awfully nice of you,” Gram said. “And you’ll just have to stay for dinner.”
“I’d love to, if I didn’t have so many hungry animals waiting at home,” Miss Olson said. “But if Sam grabs a pair of sharp scissors and leads me to a mirror, I’ll see what I can do.”
By the time she’d dampened, combed, and snipped at Sam’s hair, Miss Olson’s voice had turned less formal.
“This is embarrassing to mention, but I liked it better a couple weeks ago when you called me Brynna.”
Sam’s brown eyes tried to catch the redhead’s blue ones in the mirror, but they only darted away.
“Okay,” Sam said.
Brynna worked along Sam’s neck for a minute before she spoke again. “And since you’re tuned in to the way wild horses think, I’d like your opinion of what’s going on with Slocum’s mare.”
Sam thought of the aggressive blue roan. She thought of the Phantom coming to see Hotspot. It wasn’t safe to mention either.
This time, Brynna did meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror. “Please, I’d like to get this cleared up as soon as possible,” she said. “If it’s a secret, I’ll take it to my grave.”
Brynna looked sincere. Sam could explain how the blue roan had swum the river, waded ashore, and trotted right up to the corral fence, but stubborness kept her quiet.
Brynna seemed nice enough, but Sam couldn’t shake off years of hearing that the BLM rarely wor
ked in the best interests of ranchers.
And yet Brynna had kept the Phantom free.
A knot of confusion tightened in Sam’s stomach. Maybe she should talk with Jake.
“Have you heard unexplained sounds, especially at night? Any sign of an intruder?”
“Gram thinks a skunk might be getting in the chicken coop,” Sam offered.
Brynna grumbled, but she kept combing and cutting. At last, Sam decided she could tell half the truth. After all, she’d been with Gram when the blue roan challenged the Phantom.
“On the way back from Darton, we saw the Phantom,” Sam said.
“You did? Where was that?” Brynna stayed calm, but Sam could tell she was hoping for a revelation.
“Near War Drum Flats,” Sam said. She’d bet Brynna was calculating how close that was to Slocum’s ranch. “He was running off a bachelor stallion trying to steal some of his mares.”
“Nothing unusual about that.” Brynna sounded disappointed.
“He’s a blue roan.”
Brynna shrugged. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, but—”
“About fourteen hands, with a hammer head,” Sam said, but Brynna didn’t take the hint.
“We’re looking for a mustang that doesn’t fear human habitation. That points to your colt.”
Sam stared blindly into the mirror, until Brynna touched her shoulder and asked, “So, what do you think of your hair?”
Sam studied her reflection. Her red-brown hair lay in neat, glossy wisps around her face, and her bangs were layered so they poufed up just a little.
It was a plain haircut that didn’t draw attention to itself, but it did make her eyes look bigger.
“Thanks, Brynna.” Sam touched the tendrils that curved against her neck. “It looks great.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Brynna said, heading toward the stairs, “but thanks.”
Sam walked Brynna downstairs and past Gram, who still wanted her to stay for dinner.
Sam grabbed her slicker and followed Brynna through the kitchen door. Outside, a fine rain came down, making a hissing sound. Tiny raindrops hit the dirt and bounced up like powdered sugar.