Mustang Moon

by Terri Farley

  Sam felt a hot blush claim her face. Last week, she’d been the only one in school not spreading rumors about Linc Slocum.

  Very slowly, Sam tucked a lock of auburn hair behind one ear. She wasn’t feeling scared, she realized, just surprised by Rachel’s ambush.

  “I’m not gossiping about your dad,” Sam said.

  Rachel fluttered her rose-gold fingernails just inches from Sam’s cheek, as if shooing her away.

  “In fact,” Sam pressed on, “I’m kind of insulted you think I have nothing better to do than spend time thinking about your dad. If he didn’t keep showing up where I was, I wouldn’t even know him.”

  “It’s that horse.” Rachel shuddered. “He’s no different from all the others, I’m sure. They’re all dirty, smelly, and big enough to hurt you but so stupid they don’t realize it. If they had an ounce of intelligence, they’d realize they don’t have to carry people around on their filthy backs.”

  “This horse is wild, Rachel,” Jen interrupted.

  “So? This time my father’s obsessed with a wild horse. Before that it was spotted horses. Who cares? It’s his hobby.”

  Outside, a whistle shrilled as the teacher called the girls together.

  “Excuse me,” Sam said, slipping past Rachel.

  “There are no excuses for you, cowgirl,” Rachel snapped. “Just remember that.”

  During lunch, Rachel’s campaign drew even more attention. Instead of handing out paper badges or campaign buttons, Rachel passed out dollar bills. Stamped across George Washington’s face in hotpink ink were the words Rachel for Treasurer.

  Sam and Jen heard talk of the tactic, but Sam didn’t see it with her own eyes until she filed into journalism class and Daisy handed her a dollar.

  “Rachel would just love to have your vote,” Daisy gushed.

  Don’t react. Sam told herself. Don’t sneer or fling it back in her face.

  She managed to appear calm, but Sam couldn’t stop herself from thinking of Dad’s disappointment over the few cents per pound they hadn’t made on the cattle.

  She kept her feet moving away from Daisy, but Sam still pictured Gram brooding over each new batch of bills.

  Sam had almost reached her desk when Rachel squirmed into her path.

  “Here, cowgirl.” Rachel pressed another dollar into Sam’s hand. “You look like you could use an extra.”

  “Rachel, I’m pretty sure this is illegal.” RJay’s bellow was so well-timed, Sam wondered if the student editor had overheard Rachel’s insult. “From what I’ve heard,” he said, examining one of the bills, “you’re not going to like prison.”

  Rachel’s fingers went gliding through her hair as she gave a theatrical sigh. “As long as they have MTV and a decent manicurist, I’ll manage.”

  Sam didn’t want to laugh, but she did. Was it possible a decent human being lurked beneath that catty exterior? Probably not.

  She forgot about Rachel during the quiz on the weekend’s homework. Her fingers were aching from writing fast, when Mr. Blair called time.

  “Pass ’em up and listen,” Mr. Blair yelled above the complaints of those who hadn’t studied for the quiz. He put the papers aside and crossed his arms. “As students from last year know, we’ve got three cameras for staff use. Nikons donated by the Darton Review-Journal. Donated,” Mr. Blair emphasized, “but very expensive to replace.

  “Since last year’s staff only produced one decent photographer and he’s now editor in chief—” Mr. Blair paused as RJay bowed to nonexistent applause “—I’ll let new students try out as photographers.”

  Excitement rushed through Sam’s veins.

  “If you’re interested, check one out overnight, shoot one roll of film, then submit it to me and RJay. Impress us,” Mr. Blair hollered, “because we will decide whose work earns the right to keep the camera for the first semester.”

  Murmurs rustled as students turned to each other, but Sam didn’t talk. She focused on the plan forming in her imagination.

  “Class? One more thing. You’ll treat these cameras like delicate baby birds. Do not harm them in any way. Got that?

  “If they break, I won’t care whose fault it is.” Mr. Blair paced the front of the classroom, pointing at students during his tirade. “If your mama breaks it or your dog eats it or you, Miss Forster, get abducted by aliens—you pay the five hundred dollars to replace the camera.”

  Sam smiled at her journalism teacher. It didn’t matter that Mr. Blair had singled her out. Her idea was bubbling like a shaken soda—sweet and ready to explode.

  Mr. Blair’s glare swept the entire class. “You break it, you buy it. No excuses.”

  Sam’s nerves hummed with excitement. She’d be careful, all right, because one of those black and silver cameras would help her earn that reward money and prove to Linc Slocum the Phantom was not to blame.

  Shooting the test roll of film wasn’t easy. She took a few shots at school, but she was afraid they wouldn’t turn out. Only after Sam got the camera, did she realize photography wasn’t a simple point-and-shoot operation. There were shutter speeds to consider and focus to figure out.

  Sam was growling with frustration by the time she really listened to Gram’s suggestion.

  “Just call Maxine,” Gram said. “Maxine Ely is a talented photographer. Her work wins blue ribbons at the state fair and the Darton library has framed prints of her pictures hanging on the walls.”

  Sam bit her lip, listening, but too sheepish to do anything.

  “She’s Jake’s mother, for heaven’s sake, not just your history teacher,” Gram said. “She’s known you since you were in diapers.”

  “That doesn’t make it better, Gram.”

  But Sam’s determination to get the reward from Slocum won out over her fretting.

  Sam called.

  Three times. Each time, Mrs. Ely acted as if helping Sam was the highlight of her day. She must really like photography, Sam thought.

  And it was sort of exciting. Sam jogged from place to place on the ranch. She took a picture of Buddy trying to scratch her nose with a rear hoof, and one of a rusty hinge that had always looked too fancy for the gate. She gave up trying to make a portrait of Ace. The gelding was so friendly and curious, he kept nuzzling the lens.

  “You are too cute for your own good,” Sam said. She kissed his tender muzzle, then jogged toward the River Bend bridge, imagining the last picture she’d take before darkness fell.

  Sam’s last thoughts as she fell asleep were, as always, of the Phantom. In the sparkling mist of a dream, he ran toward her, ears cupped to hear her voice, dark eyes soft and filled with her face.

  Oh no. Sam sat up. She’d forgotten to call Brynna Olson.

  How stupid was she? Sam buried both hands in her short hair and pulled. Idiot. Nothing was more important than protecting him.

  Dad had gone to bed an hour ago. Sam listened intently. Was that the clink of a spoon on pottery? Hadn’t Gram said she might stir up a batch of sourdough bread and let it rise in the refrigerator overnight?

  Sam pattered down the stairs so fast, she was actually breathless when she came into the kitchen.

  “Did Dad call Brynna about Slocum’s posters and that ad?”

  Gram nodded. She pulled plastic wrap over the top of the bowl, then did it again, tighter.

  Sam nearly shouted in frustration until it hit her. This wasn’t going to be good news.

  “What?” Sam croaked.

  “Brynna left Sunday for Washington. She’ll be gone at least a week.” Gram paused to let that news sink in. “Wyatt spoke to her replacement, a gentleman from the BLM office in Las Vegas.”

  Las Vegas? Sam’s mind spun with flashes of neon lights and tuxedoed gamblers. She’d never been to Las Vegas. What she was thinking was probably unfair, because she was thinking Brynna’s replacement couldn’t possibly understand wild horses.

  “What did he say?” Sam heard her voice croak.

  Gram sighed, closed the refrigerator, the
n leaned against it. “He said it was ‘bothersome,’ but he was sure it was a difficulty that would blow over without his interference.”

  Sam couldn’t sleep. She resented the night, because she had to move fast.

  Without Brynna’s help, her plan might be the only thing between the Phantom and capture. She tossed and turned all night, picturing the stallion’s injured fetlock. If it made him slow, some cowboy could lasso him.

  She dreamed of Flick, the cowboy with the drooping handlebar mustache. He’d worked at Slocum’s Gold Dust Ranch before his temporary position at the Willow Springs Wild Horse Center. While working for the BLM, Flick had illegally roped the Phantom and Brynna had fired him. Flick had disappeared after that, but Slocum would know where to find him. Sam was sure of it.

  The next morning before classes began, Sam tracked down Mr. Blair and handed him the camera and the film.

  “Overachiever, huh, Forster?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” she answered, but she could tell his gruff question had been a compliment.

  Mrs. Ely pulled her aside after history and made her promise to stop by after school and show her the pictures.

  “I don’t think Mr. Blair will have had time to develop them,” Sam said. “And I can’t miss the bus after school.”

  “Mr. Blair might surprise you. He’s in the school darkroom as much as he’s in class. And after school—”

  Mrs. Ely glanced over Sam’s shoulder for a second. Sam turned, too, and saw Rachel pretending to gather her books, though she was clearly eavesdropping.

  “—I can always give you a ride home,” Mrs. Ely continued, “if you miss your bus.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bring them, if I can,” Sam said.

  Her spirits soared as she hurried to her next class, even though Rachel pushed past her with a sour expression. Rachel always looked that way in history. After all, she was a sophomore taking a freshman class. She must have flunked last year.

  Sam had just swallowed the last of her peanut butter sandwich and walked toward the journalism classroom, when she saw Mr. Blair, waiting outside the door. Sam’s heart plummeted and she had to force her fingers out of the fists they had curled into.

  What stupid thing had she done? Left the lens cap on so that the entire roll of pictures turned out blank? Broken some mechanism she hadn’t even noticed?

  Her steps must have slowed, because Mr. Blair shouted down the hall. “Too late now, Forster.” His voice caused a dozen heads to turn and stare. “Come in and face the music.”

  Mr. Blair had used the school darkroom to develop and print the photographs that were now spread over a table in the back of the room. Those who’d arrived early were already looking at them, and Mr. Blair didn’t make them leave as he gave Sam an evaluation of her work.

  “This one shows evidence of nearly every mistake a beginner can make.” Mr. Blair tapped a picture Sam had taken of a reflection on a watering trough. “This is better, but you’ve got to read up on lens openings and shutter speeds.” His finger skimmed above a photograph of two Herefords at dusk.

  “Your people pictures are the best,” RJay said as he scooted one photo away from the others.

  Sam bit her lip in surprise. It was one of the after-school shots she’d taken before her telephone tutoring from Mrs. Ely. She’d lucked out on this one.

  In it, Ms. Santos was tapping at her computer keyboard with one hand, a telephone clamped between her ear and shoulder, smiling and beckoning a student into her office.

  “We’ll use this for the next issue,” RJay said, and Mr. Blair nodded.

  She felt dizzy, as if she hovered above the whole scene. Other students studied the photos and gave her sidelong glances that could have been admiration or amazement that she’d done something noteworthy.

  Maybe she had, and maybe it could help her save the Phantom.

  And then Mr. Blair held up the one photograph she’d wanted to erase as soon as she’d snapped it.

  In it, Rachel stood by one of her campaign posters. Her forced toothpaste-commercial smile looked just like her dad’s. One hand was perched on her hip and the other hand flicked out, the light caught on her glittering fingernails as she made a point to a bedraggled-looking freshman boy.

  “This one is priceless,” Mr. Blair said.

  Laughter sparked all around her, but Sam only felt the hot stare of Rachel’s eyes on the nape of her neck.

  RJay took the photograph from Mr. Blair and pretended to make up a caption for it. “‘In honor of my campaign, dahling, I’m wearing my new fuchsia-periwinkle nail enamel. So very chic, don’t you know.’”

  For a minute, Sam felt sick, but when she finally risked a look, Rachel was smiling. She was a better sport than Sam would have thought.

  “I think, Miss Forster, you should take the camera for another night and see if you can refine your touch with lighting,” Mr. Blair said. “Come back at the end of the day to pick it up.”

  When the last bell rang, Sam jumped from her seat and got to Mr. Blair’s classroom as quickly as she could. She didn’t have much time to get the camera and make it to the bus on time.

  Mr. Blair was waiting for her at his desk.

  “Try playing with the aperture,” he told her, “to alter your depth of field.”

  Sam glanced at the classroom clock. Jen would be saving her a seat on the bus. If she talked fast, she might have time to ask a few questions.

  Mr. Blair answered every question, then paused.

  “You seem awfully interested in shooting in low-light situations,” Mr. Blair said.

  Carefully Sam looped the camera strap over her neck.

  “I am, sort of,” she admitted. Sam checked the clock and saw she had no time for half-true explanations.

  She couldn’t tell anyone about her plan to take pictures of the thieving blue roan.

  “Thanks for the help,” Sam said and hurried away.

  With the camera around her neck, she didn’t dare run, but the smell of diesel fumes from the idling buses made her walk in long strides.

  Sam would have made it to the bus, if Mrs. Ely hadn’t leaned from her classroom door.

  “Come tell me,” she said.

  Sam couldn’t resist telling Mrs. Ely how much her advice had helped.

  “He loved them,” Sam said. “Well, except—”

  A desk moved in the front row of the empty classroom. What was Rachel doing here again?

  Mrs. Ely followed Sam’s glance. “Rachel thinks a pen might have rolled out of her backpack during class, so she’s searching for it.”

  Bent to look under a desk, Rachel flashed a lopsided grin.

  “Got it,” Rachel said, but she didn’t leave.

  “So, you’re in a hurry and don’t have the photographs with you,” Mrs. Ely summed up the situation. “I’ll let you run, but first there’s a photography book you should have. I want you to borrow my copy, but it’s up there.” Mrs. Ely rushed across the classroom to a soaring bookcase crammed with books. She pointed to the top shelf. “I think you can reach it better than I can.”

  Sam smiled. It was funny being taller than her teacher. It would only take a minute.

  “Okay,” she said. Carefully, Sam removed the camera from around her neck. She looked around for a place to put it. Mrs. Ely’s desk was sort of a mess.

  “I’ll hold it for you,” Rachel offered.

  Sam’s hands tightened on the camera. She told herself her paranoia was just plain childish. She handed the camera to Rachel and went to stand beside her teacher.

  “It is kind of high,” she said, standing on tiptoe.

  Sam’s index finger locked on the book’s spine, and it plummeted to the floor. An apology was forming on Sam’s lips when she heard the sound.

  Metal slammed against tile. A fraction of a second later, there came the tinkling of glass.

  Without meaning to, Sam covered her ears. She didn’t have to turn around to identify the sound. She’d just heard the shattering of her dream
s.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “SAMANTHA, OH MY gosh.” Rachel’s hands covered her mouth in mock horror. “There must have been something slippery on it. That camera just slid right through my hands.”

  Rachel’s eyes showed no sympathy as she looked at Sam and shrugged. “Wow, you know what Mr. Blair said. Those cameras cost five hundred dollars and if it’s checked out to you, it’s your problem. No matter what.”

  Mrs. Ely had already picked up the camera. She turned it carefully, looking through the viewfinder.

  “Ta-ta until tomorrow,” Rachel chirped, and her perfume lingered in the room like a taunt.

  Rachel had broken the camera. Sam knew it, and by her jerky movements, Mrs. Ely knew it, too. But their certainty wouldn’t matter to Mr. Blair. You break it, you buy it. No excuses.

  This is what it feels like to be in shock, Sam thought. She took the camera from Mrs. Ely and wandered down the empty hall.

  No buses remained outside Darton High School. The only moving vehicle was Rachel’s baby-blue Mercedes-Benz.

  Sam stood there, priming herself to refuse Rachel’s offer of a ride home. She had dropped the camera on purpose. It would feel good to refuse to even be in the same car with her.

  When Rachel drove off without a backward look, Sam felt her backpack’s weight would drag her to her knees. She could call Gram or Dad to come get her, but then she’d have to tell them about the camera even sooner.

  A sigh lifted her chest and gusted out. How could she pay for the camera? She loved her life at River Bend, but there were no luxuries to give up.

  In a single swoop, Rachel had robbed her of Mr. Blair’s respect, Gram and Dad’s approval, the Phantom’s rescue, and money. Lots of money.

  “I suppose those useless sons of mine are long gone.” Mrs. Ely was suddenly beside Sam. Mrs. Ely wore fresh red lipstick and her blond curls bounced as she scanned the parking lot and jingled her car keys. “They’re more fun, but I have a nicer car.”

  Sam stared at Mrs. Ely, knowing she should say something.

  “Come with me,” the teacher said, and beckoned Sam toward a green sedan.