Firefly

by Terri Farley

  “Yep, Raintree Road.” Brynna read a street sign and turned right. “This is it.”

  “Are you sure he keeps patients here?” Sam asked.

  “Positive,” Brynna said. “He told me his house sits on a double lot and qualifies for agricultural zoning by six square inches.”

  Sam joined in Brynna’s amusement. Dr. Glen Scott was exactly the kind of guy who’d measure his lot that closely, on his hands and knees if necessary, to get what he deserved.

  “He told me it’s the only yellow house on the block,” Brynna said.

  And there it was. The wooden house faced the street. A low white fence surrounded its tiny front yard, but there were no animals there.

  They drove down a long driveway and discovered that the backyard was totally different. A rooster crowed from a row of cages and Sam saw what she was pretty sure were rabbit hutches.

  Near the back of the property, Sam spotted a small corral and run-in shed. She didn’t see the colt, but a half-grown Holstein calf, randomly spotted with black and white, bawled a noisy greeting.

  “Glen must have very tolerant neighbors,” Brynna said.

  Sam was about to agree, when Dr. Scott leaned out the back door and motioned them inside. Brynna parked and set the emergency brake, then they headed for the vet’s back porch.

  Where’s Pirate? Sam wondered. She scanned the property, feeling as if miniature mice were gnawing her nerves. She was that worried.

  She kept looking for the young mustang, staring back over her shoulder as they climbed the concrete stairs, until she reached the door.

  When Sam entered the crowded kitchen, she was distracted by the three gray kittens streaking out of the room.

  The smell of burned toast lingered from breakfast, but the round kitchen table was bare and smeared with moisture, as if Dr. Scott had cleaned it for their arrival. The counters were clean, too, and empty except for a cage. The creaking sound must be coming from the white rat running on its wheel.

  Sam thought of a painting called The Peaceful Kingdom, or something like that. Dr. Scott’s kitchen was filled with creatures that were natural enemies—kittens, a rat, and…She peered into a decorative iron cage and discovered that it held a green parrot.

  The big bird clung to the cage bars with talons, tilting its head sideways to ask, “Wanna beer?”

  Sam and Brynna both caught their breaths with surprise as Dr. Scott corrected the parrot.

  “Cheer. Want a cheer?”

  By his patient tone, Sam guessed Dr. Scott had responded to the bird’s question hundreds of times.

  “He belongs to Mrs. Prizzo,” he explained.

  “The pastor at Bethany Church?” Brynna asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Scott said. “So you can see the problem. She’s had him since she was a girl and suddenly, with no encouragement, he’s added that phrase to his vocabulary. She thinks he must have picked it up from television. In any case, she loves the bird and called me because she can’t seem to cure him of this one bad habit. So I offered to give it a try.”

  “Are you making any progress?” Brynna asked.

  The parrot squawked, left the cage bars for his perch, and sidestepped as far away from them as he could. He muttered as he moved.

  “Cheer,” Dr. Scott corrected loudly, then looked at Sam and Brynna. “He thinks if he mumbles I won’t notice.”

  “Who’s this?” Sam asked, pointing at the white rat.

  “Francis,” Dr. Scott said. “He’s recovering from surgery to remove a bump from his tail.”

  A moo floated from the pen outside.

  “You sure have lots of animals,” Sam said.

  “They’re just patients,” Dr. Scott said firmly. “Which brings us to our problem.”

  “Our equine burn victim,” Brynna said. “I’ve been concerned about him.”

  “Wanna beer?”

  “Cheer!” Brynna and Dr. Scott corrected the bird together.

  “It’s time for the colt to go. Come take a look.” Dr. Scott started for the door, pausing to add, “Don’t let the kittens out. They’re orphans and they’d have no clue what to do in the yard.”

  Sam left the house first. The bay colt must have heard the kitchen door open, because he took a cautious step outside the run-in shed.

  Sam’s heart beat faster. The colt was moving normally, legs swinging with wild grace as he lifted his haltered head to get a better view of the humans.

  A startled snort said he’d identified them as strangers, then he ducked back into the shed.

  That’s a good sign, Sam thought. After two weeks with Dr. Scott, the mustang was at least curious about people. Hiding in the shed wasn’t that bad. She’d seen the colt’s sire throw himself against fence rails until he was injured and exhausted.

  “I’ll walk on ahead of you and put the salve on his burns,” Dr. Scott said. “If you stop here, you’ll get a better look at him. He’ll come to me and he’s beginning to understand leading, but he’s still pretty wild.”

  Sam stood with Brynna as Dr. Scott approached the corral at a brisk walk.

  “Here, baby,” he said in a voice higher than his normal tone.

  Moving with wary steps and alert ears, the colt came out to meet the vet.

  “He’s going to have great conformation,” Brynna said.

  Just now, the yearling colt looked gawky. His body had a long way to grow before catching up with his legs. He reminded Sam of Damon, a freshman boy she knew at school. His basketball teammates called him Damon the Destroyer, not just because of his ability to demoralize opposing teams but because the kid couldn’t cross a classroom without bumping into desks or tripping over feet—sometimes his own.

  Sam figured Damon was clumsy because he was as tall as a man but weighed less than most boys. And though he must be bruised from stumbling a lot, Damon was smooth and nimble when he was dribbling down the court to score.

  The colt probably had his full height, too. She’d bet he was close to fifteen hands high, a fine size for a mustang stallion.

  Could trauma have suppressed his appetite? Sam noticed how his bones poked against his coat at the same time she noticed what a beautiful color he was.

  “He’s a pretty bay, isn’t he?” Sam said to Brynna.

  “Dr. Scott thinks so. When I talked to him on the phone I was trying to fill out paperwork, and for coat color, he actually wanted to put red topaz.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something you’d say about ‘just a patient,’” Sam said. “And he called him baby.”

  Brynna nodded, but she didn’t comment on Dr. Scott’s obvious affection for the colt; she just said, “We decided he was a paint.”

  “Hmm,” Sam said, but she guessed he was, even though she didn’t see any white except the roughly starfish-shaped spot over his eye.

  “Look how quietly he’s standing,” Brynna said when even the vet’s upraised arms didn’t frighten the colt.

  The young horse protested by tossing his head and flaring his nostrils when the vet stood on tiptoe to apply the ointment, but he didn’t bolt or strike out. His movements seemed almost playful, reminding Sam of the first time she’d seen him.

  On Dad and Brynna’s wedding day, she’d been tracking down the Phantom’s herd, though she should have been home at River Bend, where Jake had been waiting to drive her to the church.

  She’d lost track of time as she watched the colt lead a troop of young horses in splashing mock battles in the desert lake at War Drum Flats. Then the snarl of a motorcycle passing on the highway had spooked the herd into running.

  That’s when the colt had panicked.

  Sam had let Ace run with the herd, but she wasn’t prepared for the colt’s sudden appearance beside them. Fear had interfered with the colt’s swift run and he’d crashed into the galloping gelding.

  Ace had tripped and Sam had fallen, but the herd had split around her. Even though she’d been scuffed and dusty, she’d been fine.

  Because of his distinctive
markings, Sam had recognized the colt within the Phantom’s herd each time she’d seen him. Most recently, she’d seen him race after a younger colt, when Linc Slocum’s hunting dogs threatened the mustangs. Just like a herd stallion, the yearling had tried to shield the roan filly from danger, even when one of the dogs had slashed a ribbon of bay hide from his off hind leg.

  The eye-patched colt was always bold and a little foolhardy, so she’d nicknamed him Pirate.

  “Let’s try taking a few steps closer,” Brynna said, and Sam couldn’t help but notice her stepmother’s professional tone. Was Brynna weighing the colt’s adoption prospects?

  One step closer turned out to be too many.

  “Nope,” Brynna said. As the colt shied fearfully, Brynna’s arm reached out to gently bar Sam from moving closer.

  When Brynna sighed, Sam said, “That proves he’s not blind in the eye near the burn. That’s good.”

  “It is,” Brynna said, but she didn’t sound enthusiastic.

  “I think he’s doing great,” Sam said, standing up for the young horse. “Two weeks ago, he was as wild as any horse in the Phantom’s band. Now he’s letting Dr. Scott touch his head. That’s incredible progress.”

  “He’s got some other issues,” Brynna said.

  Issues. For some reason, the word grated on Sam’s nerves.

  “Dr. Scott told me that the smoke damaged the colt’s lungs, that he might not be able to tolerate dust storms or icy winter weather.” Sam looked at the young horse who’d taken charge of all the other colts. He might have led a herd of his own one day, but not now. His days of freedom were over.

  “Captivity’s better than dying on the range, isn’t it?” she asked Brynna. “He’s pretty and smart and—”

  “He’s not so pretty anymore, Sam,” Brynna interrupted. “Look at him with your eyes instead of your memory.”

  Sam shook her head. “So what? He’s half gentled already. Dr. Scott said he’s almost learned to lead. Anyone who adopted him would be getting a bargain.”

  All at once, Sam heard the colt’s breathing grow louder. He staggered as if his legs had gone weak. His flanks darkened with sudden sweat. His ribs heaved over the rapid breaths swelling his lungs.

  “There,” Brynna said, but not with satisfaction. It was more like this reaction was something she’d been dreading.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Sam asked.

  As they watched, Dr. Scott backed away from the colt, but only as far as he had to move for safety.

  “It’s okay, baby,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

  When the colt remained oblivious, as if he could neither hear nor see the vet, Dr. Scott retreated step by slow step, until he reached the gate. Then he unlatched it without looking behind him, and backed through it.

  Wearily, the colt let his head hang as he panted. One hoof struck the dirt repeatedly.

  Settling his black-rimmed glasses into place and passing a hand over his hair, Dr. Scott finally reached them.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Sam asked.

  “He’s exhibiting all the signs of a horse in serious hyperthermia,” the vet said, frowning. “Lethargy, weakness, rapid breathing, and flared nostrils, but he doesn’t run a temperature. I’ve checked. He’s not really hyperthermic.”

  “Is he sick?” Sam asked, but Brynna’s question was louder.

  “How often does it happen?” Brynna asked.

  “Sometimes three times a day, sometimes not at all. This wasn’t a particularly bad episode. See?” Dr. Scott nodded at the pen.

  The colt shook his ears and looked around, as if he’d just awakened. If his coat hadn’t still been wet from nervous sweat, Sam thought it wouldn’t have been that hard to convince herself she’d imagined the incident.

  “He’s even hungry,” the vet said as the colt sniffed a wisp of hay. “I probably didn’t have to leave the corral.”

  “What does he do when it is a bad episode?” Sam asked, though part of her didn’t want to know.

  Dr. Scott cleared his throat before answering. “He rears, rolls his eyes, and bursts into full terror response as if some door in his memory has opened onto an inferno.”

  Dr. Scott shaded his eyes with one hand as he stared at the colt. He bit his lip and was silent for so long, Sam was unprepared when he went on.

  “And then,” Dr. Scott said, “he screams, as if he’s still burning.”

  Chapter Three

  Sam closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the awful images for the colt. She’d had nightmares after her fall and concussion, but the colt’s flashbacks to the fire would be a hundred times worse.

  “He’s having bad dreams,” Sam said, but Dr. Scott shook his head.

  “Not exactly. That would be understandable,” Dr. Scott said, “but generally speaking, at least in human terms, if you have nightmares while you’re wide awake, we call them hallucinations.”

  “A horse hallucinating?” Brynna asked. Her arms opened and her hands turned palms up, in disbelief. “Is that possible?”

  Dr. Scott pushed his black-rimmed glasses up his nose, clearly uncomfortable with the diagnosis. “I admit I’m no expert on horse psychosis, but can you think of another explanation for what you just saw? I’ve tried for two weeks, and I can’t.”

  Brynna stood quietly. Sam could almost see her logical stepmother reviewing the colt’s symptoms.

  He’d breathed quickly and loudly.

  He’d staggered on suddenly weak legs.

  He’d broken into a heavy sweat.

  “Sure,” Brynna said, with a quick nod. “It’s been awfully hot lately. The thermometer outside my office reached a hundred degrees yesterday. Since he’s not in the best health to begin with, he could be reacting to the temperature.”

  Then, as if Brynna was worried the vet would think she’d overstepped her expertise, she added, “But that must have occurred to you already.”

  “Of course, and there’s nothing I’d like better than to believe it. But wait until you see a full-blown attack,” Dr. Scott said, folding his arms. “It goes way beyond heat sensitivity.”

  They all stared at the horse as if he could explain.

  “What if—in his mind—he’s sort of connecting the fire’s heat with the temperature?” Sam gestured at the August air. “Maybe he’s forgotten he’d been hot before that—I mean, mustangs can’t spend much time thinking about the weather. He might remember, though, how hot he was in the fire.”

  “Maybe,” Dr. Scott said, but Sam could tell he wasn’t convinced.

  Then she remembered Dark Sunshine, not as the buckskin mare was now, but as she’d been a year ago.

  “She screamed,” Sam said slowly.

  “He,” Dr. Scott corrected before Sam could finish. “He’s a stud colt, Sam.”

  “I know. I was thinking about Dark Sunshine,” Sam told him. “When we first got her—”

  “Stole her, to be accurate,” Brynna said. She raised her eyebrows and gave a half smile, as if trying to lighten the mood. “Sam is quite an accomplished horse thief.”

  Sam didn’t answer her stepmother’s teasing. She was remembering Dark Sunshine’s days with the owner who’d bought her from her adopter. The buckskin mare had been abused and used as bait in traps for other mustangs. Each time she’d felt the safety of a herd surrounding her once more, the other horses had been taken away and sold, and she’d been left behind.

  It had been the mare’s haunting screams, echoing from Lost Canyon, that had led Sam and her best friend, Jen, to investigate. Eventually she’d learned that Dark Sunshine’s screams had started out as cries of loneliness, but they’d recurred whenever she was afraid.

  Only kind, consistent care had cured the mare. Sam hadn’t heard those awful neighs for months. Crossing her fingers, she hoped she never would again.

  “Why couldn’t horses get freaked out by bad memories?” she asked the vet. “People do, don’t they?”

  “I’m not saying they can’t,” Dr Scott�
�s tone hardened. “What I am saying is, this colt needs to move on.”

  That’s not fair, Sam thought.

  Here, the colt had medical attention, company, and affection. How could there be a better place for him to recover? Sure it was rude to point this all out to Dr. Scott, Sam thought as she watched the injured colt sniff along the calf’s furry back. But who else would speak for the young mustang?

  As she was trying to compose words that would really work, Sam stared at the vet with such intensity, he looked away.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Brynna said, trying to head off Sam’s argument.

  “So do I,” Dr. Scott said. “You think the colt belongs here. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Knowing how you feel about mustangs, I value that, but the timing’s all wrong. What this colt needs now is daily, hands-on care.”

  Both Brynna and Dr. Scott had just assumed they could read her mind. And they were right.

  “But you’re giving him that kind of care,” Sam said.

  “Sam,” Brynna cautioned. “A vet can’t fall in love with all of his patients.”

  Dr. Scott gave a short laugh. “Even if I could, pretty soon I’d run out of money.”

  Money. Why did it always have to be money? Sam wondered.

  “We’ve just about reached the limit of what BLM says I can spend on this colt,” Brynna said. A worried frown creased her forehead.

  “It’s not that. I’ll continue to treat him for free,” Dr. Scott said. “But what about my other patients—the horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and dogs I drive to see around here?”

  Frustration tightened Sam’s chest. River Bend’s animals had all benefited from Dr. Scott’s care. What if he’d refused to come when they needed him?

  “That colt’s reached a critical period in his recovery,” Dr. Scott said. “He’s almost well. I’ve given him all the vaccinations and vitamins he needs and I’m tapering off his antibiotics. I think danger of infection is passed, as long as I—” He broke off with a shake of his head. “No. As long as his new owner applies his ointment.”

  “Is he healthy enough to be adopted?” Brynna asked.