Gift Horse

by Terri Farley

  “I mean, yes,” Sam said, and her edgy tone made Dad rise in his stirrups and squint.

  “They’re back.” Dad shook his head. “Samantha, here’s where you show what you’re made of. We’re going to chase those horses away from the hay and we’re going to make it darned unpleasant for them, so they don’t come back.”

  Sam didn’t ask what he meant. When he urged Jeep into a gallop, Ace followed.

  Leave now. Sam fixed her eyes on the horses, hoping they sensed her silent warning. He won’t hurt you if you go.

  The mustangs’ heads flew up. Hay dropped to the cold desert floor as they began backing, whirling, bumping cattle, and scattering along with them. The chaos was silent, almost like a pantomime. Only the hammering hooves of riders, bearing down on the animals, broke the winter calm.

  Then Dad gave a yipping call she hadn’t heard since that first cattle drive, when he was helping to turn a stampede. Did the cattle and horses mistake it for a coyote, or was it just a sound so alien that it scared them?

  Sam didn’t know that answer. But she did know that that stampede had been her fault, just as this confrontation was. She wasn’t being paranoid. She knew it was her fault, because there stood the Phantom. And he was holding his ground.

  Her moonlight-colored stallion was in disguise. Winter made him resemble a medieval unicorn. Silken hair fringed the underside of his head from chin to throat. Sunlight sparkled there as he jerked his head skyward, calling his mares to him.

  Zanzibar, go! Using the stallion’s secret name, Sam sent him all the urgency her thoughts could hold, but the horse had recognized her and he felt safe.

  He snorted and stamped. Ice splintered and flew like sparks from his hooves.

  He lowered his head and swept his muzzle just inches from the ground. Steam jetted from his nostrils and his brown eyes peered up at her. They flashed with mischief from behind his heavy forelock.

  They’d played this game when he was a colt. Blackie, she’d called him then, because he’d been night black with no socks, no star, no flash of white anywhere. The first time they’d played this game, a sweater she’d tied around her waist had loosened and dropped. With one swoop of his head and snap of his teeth, he’d plucked it from the ground and held it high.

  “We can’t play, boy,” she whispered to the stallion. “Not now.”

  She felt as if something heavy were crushing her chest. She knew how rare it was, to have a wild stallion for a friend. But if she played with him now, it would only make their parting worse.

  Pulling her gaze away from him, Sam realized Dad had galloped past the disturbed horses to regather the cattle. Quietly, holding Jeep to a flat-footed walk, he escorted them back to the hayracks. Maybe he’d leave the Phantom’s herd alone.

  “You’ve gotta go, boy,” Sam told the Phantom. “Now, while he’s busy.”

  But the stallion loved her voice.

  Snowflakes floated from his mane like confetti as he left his mares to prance forward and touch noses with Ace.

  He was so close. Sam’s fingers trembled. She could touch him if she wanted.

  But right now, he was exchanging snorts and nickers with Ace.

  The two horses were friends. Once they’d been companions on the high green mesas and white desert playas. Neither had forgotten.

  They were only quiet for a few seconds. The loud squeals, kicks, and nips following their greeting composed a ritual as old as horses. Because she’d felt it coming, Sam rode it out, easily.

  Suddenly, the Phantom froze in place, ears pointing past her.

  Leaning low on Jeep’s neck, Dad galloped at the mares. He had to have done it to draw the Phantom’s attention. Dad knew horses. He knew it was a challenge no stallion could ignore. The Phantom ran to meet him. Ears pinned, legs flying straight forward, then back, then straight, he closed the distance to his mares seconds before Jeep reached them.

  Head low in a snaking, herding motion, the Phantom nipped and slashed, teeth clacking, but never touching the fleeing mares. They ran for the cleft between the hills.

  For one second, a dappled mare seemed to guide the others. Sam hoped the Phantom had a new lead mare. But then the mare was surrounded by the other mustangs and Sam could tell it was the stallion’s fury, coming up behind, that kept them all running.

  Dad didn’t chase them far. No more than a quarter-mile into the chase, he turned Jeep in a slow curve to the left. The Appaloosa slowed as he approached Sam and Ace.

  By the time she could see Dad’s expression, Jeep had settled into a jog once more. Silently, Sam waited for Dad. As she sat there, her quiet hands and legs told Ace that everything was just fine. But her mind was a tangle of wild thoughts. The Phantom didn’t know he needed her, but he did.

  She thought again of the story she’d told Tinkerbell, about the lion and the mouse. She and the stallion shared a bond and he could use her help to keep his herd safe and healthy, even if he didn’t know it.

  But what would she say to Dad?

  They were both angry. They both believed they were right. They were both stubborn. What would be the point in talking?

  So they didn’t.

  Dad sent Jeep toward home. Head high, nostrils flared in exhilaration, Ace jogged beside him.

  Sam’s glance slid sideways to Dad. She wanted to believe he’d reached the same conclusion she had: there was nothing to talk about. But Dad’s darkly tanned face was carved with disappointment.

  Here’s where you show what you’re made of, he’d said, but she hadn’t ridden beside him, hadn’t chased the wild horses away from the hay, hadn’t chosen Dad over the Phantom.

  With a squeak of leather, Dad straightened in the saddle. His mouth flattened in a hard, straight line. His chin jerked up, eyelids lowered, and Sam knew she would pay for this decision.

  Two hours later, after they’d cooled and brushed their horses in total silence, Dad and Sam headed for the house.

  “I made an early dinner,” Gram said as Sam came in ahead of Dad.

  “And I,” Brynna added as she dangled a pink bakery box from its strings, “have chocolate cake from Clara’s Diner.”

  “I have business over at the Kenworthys’,” Dad said, leaning his head in the kitchen door. Each word was quieter, as if he were reconsidering.

  Maybe it was Gram’s crestfallen look, or the smell of hamburgers. Maybe it was the prospect of chocolate cake. Something changed Dad’s mind.

  “It can wait ’til we’ve eaten,” he said, then climbed the stairs to wash up without another word.

  “Were the cattle all right?” Gram asked, looking after him.

  “Just fine,” Sam said. “We found the heifers right away and got them back to winter pasture.”

  She didn’t see any reason to mention the mustangs.

  “Your father’s as touchy as every other creature around here,” Gram said, turning back to the stove. “Wonder what’s gotten into them all.”

  “Some people would blame it on the change in barometric pressure that comes along with a storm,” Brynna said. “But that doesn’t sound right to me.”

  Brynna was usually right about scientific things. This time she was definitely right. Dad’s bad mood had nothing to do with a change in the weather and everything to do with mustangs.

  But Sam kept quiet. Both women shrugged, and dinner was on the table in minutes. Hamburgers on yeasty homemade buns, home fries made from real potatoes, a green salad decorated with carrot curls, and chocolate cake for dessert was Sam’s all-time favorite meal. In spite of the tension that radiated off Dad, she enjoyed every bite because she’d just realized the Phantom wouldn’t be mad at her.

  The Phantom had seen Dad and Jeep as rivals for his herd. It was a challenge he, as a herd stallion, had faced often. He wouldn’t resent her, wouldn’t settle back into that awful confusion he’d felt after he’d been captured and forced to buck in the rodeo.

  Dad ate, nodding his appreciation at Gram, but he didn’t relax. His knuckles we
re white from gripping his fork way too tight. Sam knew it was because he was mad at her, because she wasn’t mad at the mustangs. Now she sort of wished he’d gone ahead over to the Kenworthys’ house.

  Still, Sam took silent advice from Gram, who’d learned to wait Dad out. He usually worked off anger by rearranging hay bales in the loft of the barn, or waxing his truck, or rubbing neat’s-foot oil into an old halter.

  So, Sam studied her fries, looking for the crunchiest one. She felt more and more confident that the day wouldn’t be a total disaster.

  But she hadn’t counted on Brynna.

  Brynna didn’t blurt out a question or demand to know what was wrong, but her curiosity was obvious. Twice, her eyes caught Sam’s. Both times, Sam had started to send some kind of signal, when she noticed Dad watching her and had to shrug as if nothing was wrong.

  If they could only get through dinner without a blowup, Dad would leave and have some thinking time in his truck. Sam would call Jen immediately or go up to her room and read the new mystery novel Aunt Sue had sent as an early Valentine’s Day gift. One thing she wouldn’t do was give Brynna and Gram a chance to pry the truth out of her.

  Sam knew their loyalties would be divided. Gram would think Dad was right to favor the cattle over the wild horses. Brynna would believe a balance should be reached.

  Halfway through his slice of cake, Dad put down his fork.

  Smiling, Brynna asked, “Ready to tell us what happened?”

  “What’s happened is, this cussed adopt-a-nag program doesn’t work.”

  Dad had to be talking about the BLM’s mustang adoption program. Didn’t he know the way he’d mentioned it sounded like a dare?

  Brynna lay her fork down as well. “Really?”

  Sam’s pulse beat hard in her wrists and temples. Brynna sounded entirely too calm. She should have jumped right into lecturing Dad about the adoption program.

  “You bring in a lot of young, good-looking horses and leave genetic duds out on the range,” Dad said.

  How could he say that when the Phantom and Moon and dozens of other beautiful horses still ran free?

  Brynna leaned back in her chair. She tossed the tail of her red braid back over one shoulder and crossed her arms. Clearly, she was unhappy, but she didn’t stop Dad.

  “Go on,” she told him.

  “Do you know I heard of a whole band of blind horses in Utah? I have to pay for every cow and calf that eats a blade of grass—or not, because cattle don’t paw out plant roots like horses—and those useless horses are out there running on public lands for free!” Dad pushed his chair away from the table. “There’s no sense in that.”

  Sam knew Brynna had a blind mustang mare named Penny she rode around the Willow Springs corrals. Brynna loved that mare, and Dad hadn’t shown very good judgment in bringing up blind horses.

  Brynna’s face matched her red hair. Was she holding her breath while Dad ranted? Why wasn’t Brynna saying anything? Was she so eager to avoid a fight with her new husband that she’d let him say whatever he wanted about the program she’d devoted most of her working life to building?

  I sure wouldn’t be quiet, Sam thought. Some things are worth standing up for.

  “Maybe we should have this talk in the other room while Sam does the dishes,” Gram suggested.

  That sounded good to Sam. If Brynna kept skirting the issue and being polite, Sam knew she’d defend the horses. And that wouldn’t work. Dad was already mad at her.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Dad said.

  Finally, Brynna spoke up.

  “Are you content to make up your mind without a civilized discussion?” Brynna asked Dad. Her tone was level.

  I could learn something from her, Sam thought. Brynna had a different approach than Gram, but she might just calm Dad down.

  Sam took another bite of cake, but she’d barely swallowed when Dad went off again.

  “I don’t need to discuss what I saw with my own eyes, and that was horses, driving cattle off from the hay I broke my back to sow, tend, and harvest.”

  “Driving them away?” Brynna asked.

  Sam guessed Dad thought that was what he’d seen, but he was wrong. Horses had been standing alongside cattle at one hayrack. At another, the cattle acted bored, as if they’d already eaten their fill.

  When Brynna’s eyes darted across the table, Sam shook her head.

  “Don’t go askin’ her,” Dad snapped. “A girl who’d—” He broke off, shaking his head.

  “Who’d what?” Gram demanded. “Wyatt?”

  “Let her explain, if she can,” Dad said. He stood, holding his napkin balled up in one fist. “’Cause I sure don’t understand it. I thought she was growin’ up, learnin’ to find solutions for things she wanted changed. Takin’ that photograph to prove the white stud wasn’t the one stealin’ mares, for instance. And helping to track him down at the rodeos, even convincing Trudy Allen to open that home for wild horses. But now, she thinks I should let them starve my cattle. I just don’t know.”

  Dad dropped the napkin on the table. He walked out, leaving the kitchen door open as he went onto the porch. Cold air wafted into the kitchen as he shrugged into his heavy coat.

  “One thing I do know,” he added, over his shoulder, “is why some ranchers guard their cattle with rifles.”

  Gram gasped.

  Brynna shot to her feet and rounded the table, motioning Sam and Gram to stay put.

  Sam stayed at the table, but her thoughts tumbled one over the other. Dad couldn’t mean that the way it sounded. She knew he’d never shoot a horse. All the same, he shouldn’t have said it.

  Brynna didn’t look so understanding anymore. Not only was her face flushed, her neck was red all the way down into the collar of her khaki uniform shirt.

  “I don’t want to hear about rifles. We’re not there yet,” Brynna told Dad. “When we are, you let me know and something will be done. Until then? You know a few mouthfuls of hay aren’t worth doing jail time.”

  Was that a threat? Sam didn’t think so, but part of Brynna’s job as an employee of the U.S. government was assuring no one harmed or harassed wild horses. Maybe she was just reminding him.

  Dad left the porch. The screen door didn’t slam behind him. He didn’t turn on the yard lights, but Sam heard his boots take each sure step.

  Sam watched Brynna bite her lip. Clearly, she wanted to go after him, but she didn’t. She knew he was wrong.

  Sam listened. The soles of Dad’s boots crunched on the gravel driveway as he headed for his truck, and then he stopped.

  “Samantha.” Dad didn’t yell, but she heard him quite clearly.

  Brynna stepped out of Sam’s way. As she moved after Dad, Sam almost stumbled on Cougar.

  “No way,” she muttered. She grabbed up the kitten. “I’m not letting you out there to be coyote bait.”

  As she shut the kitten on the other side of the screen door, Sam heard something else. A single set of hoofbeats.

  What if Ace…? What if the Phantom…?

  Before she could imagine much of anything, Sam stepped into the dark ranch yard and gasped.

  Tinkerbell had returned.

  Chapter Twelve

  Not only had Tinkerbell returned, he was inside the ten-acre pasture.

  Inside?

  “What’s he doing here?” Sam asked. “How did he get in?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Dad said.

  By this time, Gram and Brynna had joined them.

  “He sure looks proud of himself,” Gram said, as the big horse hung his head over the fence to be petted. “Should we call Mr. Martinez?”

  “Time enough for that in the morning,” Dad said. “It’s not like the horse is bought and paid for. Martinez may change his mind if this gelding won’t stay put.”

  Oh, no. Mr. Martinez had to keep him.

  Suddenly, Sam felt sick. Just last night she’d been wishing Mr. Martinez didn’t want Tinkerbell. Be careful what you wish for; you j
ust might get it. Sam didn’t know where she’d heard that saying, but now it made awful sense.

  She’d wished to have Tinkerbell back and here he was. But if no one else wanted him and he had to go back up for auction, she knew Baldy Harris would be there to bid on him for the Dagdown Packing Company.

  “If he’s come all that way on his own, he’s run about fifteen miles,” Dad said, taking his truck keys from his pocket. “Might want to bring him out and look him over.”

  Sam watched Dad walk to his truck, but her mind was already suggesting ways Tinkerbell could have hurt himself. He could have abraded his legs by leaping over wooden fence rails. He could have pulled a tendon from overuse and if he fell, he could be peppered with gravel bruises from rough terrain. That injury to his poll could have been aggravated by a fifteen-mile run, too.

  As Dad drove away, Sam stood at the gate to the ten-acre corral. She’d seen a horse in pain before, and Tinkerbell didn’t have that look. But dusk could hide all kinds of injuries. She needed to get him inside the barn, under the lights.

  As she unbolted the gate, Tinkerbell’s head lifted. He watched her with a hopeful look. Sam felt flattered. Maybe she was part of what brought him back to River Bend.

  Tinkerbell came right through the gate, nuzzled Sam’s neck, and stood still while Brynna snapped a lead rope on his halter.

  “Is he shod?” she asked as they walked toward the barn.

  Sam’s mind replayed the moments in the barn with Dad, when she’d cleaned the gelding’s huge hooves. “Yes, why?”

  “I was always taught you didn’t turn out a shod horse in a halter, because he might use a hind leg to scratch his face, catch his hoof, go down, and break a leg.” Brynna paused. Together, she and Sam stared at the massive animal. To perform such an action, he’d have to be a contortionist. “On the other hand,” Brynna went on, “I don’t think he’d try that, do you?”

  As they reached the barn door, Tinkerbell stopped.

  Brynna smooched to the horse and gave the lead rope a tug. “C’mon, big boy.”

  The gelding stayed put.

  “Did something happen in there yesterday?” Brynna asked.