Mustang Moon

by Terri Farley

  Hammer left Sweetheart drinking from the pond. Some distance away, two other mares waited. Hotspot and an aged bay, whose head hung low, as if she were winded, made up the rest of Hammer’s harem.

  Neck arched, forelock tangled over his eyes, Hammer came at them, set on increasing his band.

  “Back off,” Sam shouted, but he was a wild thing, unafraid of human threats.

  His skin shivered. Her noise irritated him. Nothing more.

  Strawberry lunged. Sam had wrapped the reins around her hands. She held on, even when the small bones in her hand grated together. A muscle binding her arm to her shoulder stretched.

  Oh no. She must hang on, no matter what, but if her arm was pulled from her shoulder socket, her determination would count for nothing.

  Hammer came on. From the ground, his chest looked broad as the front of a car. She was all that stood between him and Strawberry. If he knocked her out of the way, his heavy hooves would trample her and he would take what he wanted.

  If she waved her arms, he’d shy. But she couldn’t take a hand from the reins. Strawberry was already dragging her around like a toy on a string. If Sam loosed her grip, the mare would be lost.

  Strawberry dodged behind Sam, and Hammer’s attitude changed. His ears flattened. His head lowered, swinging side to side, flinging froth on the dry desert floor.

  “Get back!” she shouted, but the blue stallion came on.

  He’d decided she was the enemy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  FOR AN INSTANT, Sam believed the thunder of hooves came from Strawberry. But the sound was all wrong and the pull to look back was irresistible.

  The Phantom galloped to Sam’s rescue. Head high, mane floating like white flame, he carved a half circle around her. With the whirlwind of his passing, Sam knew the Phantom had marked her as his. The explanation was hard to believe, but it was the only idea that made sense.

  He’d come running from the ridge before, blocking Hammer from stealing a single mare. This time, none of his mares were here. Only Sam.

  In Hammer’s eagerness to steal Strawberry, he’d forgotten to be watchful. His stride shortened at the sight of the other stallion. As he veered away from Sam, the Phantom flew after him.

  Sam hoped the fight would end as it had before. The Phantom pursued Hammer, nipping and slashing, herding the younger stallion away.

  At first he went.

  Proud of himself, the Phantom turned his back on Hammer. He settled into a fluid, carefree trot as he came back toward Sam.

  She couldn’t banish the fear she’d felt looking into Hammer’s eyes. The Phantom was faster, more experienced, and probably smarter, but Hammer was thicker, desperate for a band of his own. His neck had never known the touch of a girl’s hand. To the blue stallion, gentleness meant weakness.

  The Phantom trotted closer to Sam. His ears twitched at the sound of her voice.

  “Don’t underestimate him,” she muttered to the silver stallion. “Be ready, boy.”

  Maybe Hammer couldn’t bear the memory of his other humiliation. His hooves sprayed earth as he swung back with the agility of a cutting horse.

  The blue roan stopped long enough to scream a challenge. He held a grudge against the silver stallion, and this time he wouldn’t run.

  The Phantom wheeled around to face him.

  Sam held her breath. The mares turned as still as horses carved of stone. No birds warbled. The wind stopped.

  Sam wanted to throw rocks. She wanted to shout, to order her horse away from here. But the Phantom wasn’t her horse anymore.

  His neigh pierced the quiet, returning Hammer’s challenge. If the blue wanted a fight to the death, the Phantom would give it to him.

  As if guided by knights carrying lances, the stallions trotted forward. Their strides lengthened, flowing into a lope, a gallop, then all grace fell away.

  The stallions slammed together. In that first contact, they grappled to bite, to rip, to raise battering forelegs.

  Sam backed off, towing Strawberry away from the sounds and lunging bodies. Speed was the Phantom’s favorite weapon. He broke free of Hammer’s teeth, spun away, watched for an opening, then darted in to bite and retreat once more.

  What Hammer lacked in speed, he made up in weight. His massive shoulder clipped the Phantom’s. His muscled haunches launched deadly kicks.

  The two horses twisted in a haze of dust. Blood streaked their necks. Sweat marked them in dark swathes. Rage deepened their short neighs.

  Please let him win. Please, if it’s a fight to the death, let my horse live.

  Sam covered her lips, muffling sounds that might distract the Phantom. As she did, she realized she held only one of Strawberry’s reins. The mare wasn’t pulling, wasn’t looking. Neither was Hotspot or the bay. Was this what wild mares did? Wait for the victor to take over?

  Despite her efforts, Sam made a moan of distress, and the Phantom glanced her way. It was a terrible mistake.

  Hammer launched himself onto the Phantom’s hindquarters, and both stallions crashed down into a snapping tangle of sagebrush.

  No, no!

  Bleeding, Phantom fought free of the brush.

  Hammer shook his head, dizzied by the fall.

  Then, as if he’d been hoarding more strength, the Phantom attacked.

  Ears pinned hard against his neck, he rushed in, sprinted away. The blue stallion returned each charge, but the Phantom kept Hammer spinning, first this way, then that. Hammer didn’t get a second chance to crush the light-boned silver stallion.

  At last, staggering with weariness, the blue made a final effort. Hammer swung his massive head, trying to slam it against Phantom’s delicate face.

  He missed, the Phantom leaped past, and the effort cost the blue everything. He fell to his knees, beaten.

  Blood made jagged paths over the Phantom’s silver hide as he trotted around the beaten mustang. Phantom blared a victorious neigh, but Sam saw a stiffness, not yet a limp, in his gait.

  Would he kill Hammer? Sam bit her lip, thinking. She knew about the survival of the fittest. She knew if they were on some isolated wild horse island, it would be right for Hammer to die. The Phantom’s foals would be faster, smarter, stronger.

  But Nature wasn’t the boss on this range. Humans interfered with the wild scheme of things. Hammer’s herd might have been scattered by helicopters or run to death by kids on motorcycles. Hammer’s only crime was following his instinct to have mares of his own. He didn’t deserve to die.

  Hammer regained his feet. His ears flicked toward Hotspot and the old bay. Then, without a backward glance, he bolted to them. Sweetheart followed him.

  The silver stallion trembled with tension. Should he pursue the challenger or guard the ones he’d protected?

  Sam knew the answer. More fighting, even with a weakened enemy, could hurt her horse enough that another stallion might defy him and win.

  She didn’t expect the Phantom to understand why the battle must end. She only hoped he’d listen.

  “Zanzibar,” Sam whispered the horse’s secret name.

  The tired stallion didn’t look at her, but a soft nicker rumbled from him.

  “Sweet boy,” she said. After the fury and violence, no one would think her words made sense. But no one else could hear.

  Hammer led his mares up a trail and vanished.

  The silver stallion breathed deeply, searching for Hammer’s odor. When he could catch it no more, he turned to Sam.

  She fought back a cough. Dust stirred by the fighting horses still hung on the air, but she squinted through it, judging her horse.

  He liked to hear her talk. It soothed him, reminded him of the bond they’d forged in the warm stalls and lush pastures of River Bend Ranch. So, Sam talked.

  “Hey, boy,” she said. “Yeah, I hear Strawberry behind me and I see you looking, twitching your pretty ears. I think she’s had enough of stallions today.”

  Strawberry pulled, tugging Sam away from the Phantom, and
Sam released the single rein. It was a risk, but she had to move closer to the stallion.

  “There, good boy, good Zanzibar.”

  The Phantom’s nostrils fluttered, sucking in her scent. Once he’d been tricked by a sweater bearing her smell. Slocum had stolen the sweater and used the familiar scent to soothe the stallion. But no one could use the secret name to fool him, because no other soul on earth knew it.

  He scuffed forward. Used to the crisp clip of his hooves, Sam looked down. Crimson blood welled from his left rear fetlock. He favored it as he walked.

  “Hey, boy, does your leg hurt?” Sam kept talking as the Phantom approached. She wanted to bend and examine the wound, but she’d have better luck staying still. “You wouldn’t allow it, would you? You’d snort and tell me a big, strong mustang like you takes care of himself.”

  Sam’s fingers moved, wanting to touch him, and the stallion noticed. He braced for an instant, then realized he had nothing to fear. At last, she could feel the warmth of his battle-weary body radiating toward her. Sam lifted her hand.

  The stallion nuzzled it. The velvet of his muzzle and the prickle of his whiskers made Sam’s heart sing.

  “There’s my beauty, my Zanzibar.”

  Sam closed her eyes as the horse lifted his head and rested it on her shoulder.

  The stallion’s pulse beat in his throat, through her shirt, and Sam’s heart kept time with his.

  Magic. Sam wished time would stop. She would stand like this, wrapped in this haze of enchantment forever.

  Together, they heard the clink of a shod hoof on rock.

  She felt the weight of the Phantom’s head lift. By the time her eyes opened, he’d moved off a dozen yards.

  The gray snorted, staring across the flats. Sam followed his gaze, but she didn’t see a thing.

  When she looked back at the Phantom, no drowsiness showed in his eyes. No weariness marked his movements. In one long leap, he passed sage and piñon and glinting desert rocks. He took the hidden path up to the ridge, and then he vanished.

  Sam’s hands shook as she swung back into Strawberry’s saddle. The rider on the horizon had to be Jen.

  “Get a grip,” Sam scolded herself, but the mare’s ears swiveled to listen. “Not you, Strawberry. You’re doing fine, but you can’t breathe a word of this adventure to anyone, got it?”

  Thank goodness Jen had been too distant to see the Phantom. Sam just couldn’t explain. Not until she knew Jen a lot better.

  As Jen rode closer, Sam could tell why the palomino was named Silk Stockings. Her body shone dark gold except for front socks that reached her knees and emphasized her gait, making her look as if she were dancing.

  “Sorry I’m late,” called Jen.

  “No problem. I just got here,” Sam said. “Your mare is beautiful.”

  “Don’t flatter Silly. It goes straight to her empty head.” Jen didn’t stop the mare from rubbing her cheek against Sam’s leg. “See?”

  “I wouldn’t call you Silly if you were mine.” Sam laughed, petting the mare’s neck.

  “Oh yes, you would,” Jen said. “If not the first time she bucked you off at the horror of seeing a grasshopper, then you would when she dislocated your arm, shying at a paint chip on a fence.”

  At the reminder of Strawberry jerking her around like a rag doll, Sam rubbed her shoulder. Carrying a backpack tomorrow would ache.

  “That’s not Ace, I bet,” Jen said, eyes sweeping Sam’s mount.

  “No, this is Strawberry,” she admitted. “Ace…” Sam paused, but there was no point in hiding this information. Dad would report it to Brynna Olson tomorrow. “Got a little banged up last night.”

  “What happened?” Jen asked. Behind her glasses, Jen’s blue eyes were concerned.

  “The renegade stallion struck again and took Sweetheart, Gram’s mare. Ace tried to stop him.”

  “Oh wow. What did he—”

  “He got a couple bites that didn’t amount to much, but the stallion rammed him up into the corner of two fences and Ace hurt his chest.”

  “Poor guy,” Jen said, rubbing her own breastbone, but Sam saw Jen’s curiosity beyond her sympathy. “Did you see the stallion? Was it the Phantom?”

  “I saw him, and it wasn’t. It was a blue roan. He has draft blood for sure, and the Phantom looks like an Arab, you know?”

  “Of course, I don’t know,” Jen snapped in exasperation. “For most of my life, I thought he was a ghost story. Now, all of a sudden, everybody’s seeing him, blaming things on him and Linc Slocum thinks you’re a witch who can snap her fingers and have him appear.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Sam said. “Or I’d conjure up gold instead of wishing my dad could have gotten a loop on that blue stallion, so we’d be rich.”

  “I saw that ad, too. I’m dying for the money, but my parents think Slocum will be arrested before anyone can cash in on his offer.” Jen’s head bobbed from side to side as she considered that possibility. “Which wouldn’t be all bad, either.”

  Sam laughed. As the mares jogged along side by side, she decided she liked Jen’s sense of humor.

  “Do you think he’d believe me if I told him it wasn’t the Phantom?” Sam asked.

  “I’m no expert on Slocum psychology,” Jen said, “but I think he’d say something like, ‘You’d say anything to protect that stud.’”

  Sam turned in the saddle. “Why—?”

  “I heard him say something like that to my dad. Slocum is convinced the Phantom was yours.”

  Was he? Jen didn’t ask, but the question vibrated in the air between them.

  Although it felt like telling a secret, Sam said, “I had a colt who ran away—”

  “Sam, everyone knows about your accident.”

  “Okay, well it might be my colt Blackie, all grown up.”

  “Slocum claims you were up at BLM’s Willow Springs holding pens, just riding that stallion around”—Jen spun her hand in the air—“like a carousel pony.”

  Sam’s bark of laughter scared both horses. “Riding him around?”

  Jen’s smile said she hadn’t really believed the story.

  “Wanna gallop?” she asked.

  Sam barely had time to nod.

  Jen’s palomino burst into a rollicking gallop, and Strawberry followed as if she’d been waiting for this all day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MONDAY MORNING, Darton High School was covered with campaign posters.

  “I don’t know why we don’t do these elections in the spring, like other high schools,” Jen grumbled as she and Sam entered the school. “Starting the year with a popularity contest doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “On the other hand,” Sam said, nudging her friend with an elbow, “you’re a freshman, so what do you know?”

  “How do I keep forgetting?” Jen asked, pretending to strike her forehead in frustration. She turned left toward her locker. “See you in gym.”

  “Bye.” Sam scanned the campaign posters as she walked to her own locker. The posters were much the same as those in her San Francisco middle school.

  The candidates’ appeals were painted on construction paper or butcher paper, sometimes decorated with glitter or clever slogans.

  Sam had almost reached her locker when a swarm of students blocked her way. They stared at something on the wall.

  Rachel Slocum’s campaign poster was different.

  Five minutes before the first class of the week, Rachel was already drawing a crowd. The banner looked like a glossy magazine page featuring four full-color photographs of Rachel. Though the poster was big as a double bed, Sam had to jostle through the crowd to see.

  Rachel as treasurer…will root for you promised hotpink script across a cheerleader-skirted Rachel leaping in the air. Rachel as treasurer…will shine for you said letters across homecoming queen Rachel, hair spilling in a coffee-brown waterfall down her back. Rachel as treasurer…will work for you showed her bent over a notebook, wearing glasses and a flattering l
ittle frown. The last picture, a computer-generated composite of real Rachel and towering stacks of cartooned gold coins and dollar bills, had students chuckling and pointing. Rachel as treasurer will save every time for you it pledged.

  “She’d know about money, all right,” a lanky boy said with grudging admiration.

  The first bell shattered Sam’s contemplation. She sprinted for her locker, dialed her combination, and tried to review her history homework. There was no reason to waste brain time on Rachel. But Sam would bet Rachel had recovered from her convenient Friday illness and those expensive posters were the price Linc Slocum had paid for embarrassing his little princess.

  Gym class was an all-grades torture session. Freshman had lockers next to juniors. Sophomores averted their eyes when they showered with seniors. Only luck gave Sam and Jen P.E. lockers in the same row.

  Now, they gossiped as they dressed for a one-mile jog followed by flag football.

  “The ranch was her mom’s dream,” Jen whispered as she pulled on green shorts. “Slocum just went along, at first. Then he got hooked by the”—Jen paused and a sly smile claimed her face—“charm of the Old West.”

  Sam glanced all around before she asked, “So, where’s the mom now? England? Really?”

  “She remarried, a baron or something, and lives on a horse farm outside Nottingham.”

  “Wow.” Sam gave a final tug to her tennis shoe laces. “So, when Rachel’s there, do you suppose she has tea with the Queen?”

  Jen sputtered with laughter. “You’re turning evil, Sam. I don’t think I’m a good influence on you.”

  The locker-room crowd had thinned by the time they bolted toward the athletic field.

  Rachel Slocum stood, framed in the doorway, waiting for them. Outside, Sam saw girls jogging around the track, ponytails bouncing, but Rachel didn’t seem to care if she was late.

  “If you keep gossiping about my dad, or do anything to damage my campaign,” Rachel said, “you’ll be a social outcast this fast.” Rachel snapped her fingers beneath Sam’s nose.