by Terri Farley
“Take found a dead mare on the range,” Sam explained to Jen. “She was a big beautiful paint that I’d seen just last week for the first time. Jen, she didn’t look at all sick then. Her coat was glossy. She was just prancing around. That’s what worries me. A horse could be sick and you might not even know it.”
“And they think it was disease,” Jen’s tone turned scientific. “What exactly?”
Dad called from the living room, “Time to go to bed, Sam.”
“But it’s vacation,” Sam protested, then lowered her voice to keep talking to Jen. “They’re not sure, but there were no marks on her.”
“It could be congenital, then,” Jen said thoughtfully. “Something she was born with. Like people, you know, who have a heart defect and except for that they’re healthy.”
Suddenly Dad was in the kitchen. “Vacation or not, it’s time for you to skedaddle. You can talk with Jen tomorrow.”
“Jen, I have to get off.” Sam made her tone pitiful. “And I can’t go to Nugget tomorrow until I do algebra—for two hours.”
Sam noticed Dad didn’t look the least bit apologetic. And he kept standing there.
“So,” Sam continued, “I’ll call you the instant I finish and we’ll start out at the same time.”
“I should leave right now,” Jen fretted. “What if she was in contact with that mare and it’s some condition that, with treatment—”
“Sam.” Dad’s voice was like a whiplash.
Sam turned away from him and cupped her hand over the space between the phone’s mouthpiece and her lips.
“There’s nothing you can do up there in the dark, idiot. It could be dangerous,” Sam whispered. She sneaked a peek at her father’s face. He wasn’t furious yet, but he was getting there. “I’ll call you first thing tomorrow.”
“Now.” Dad growled.
“Bye.”
Sam woke up struggling with her sheets.
She was swathed in them, wrapped tightly as a mummy. What had she been dreaming? Something that made her feel imprisoned and scared.
But it was just a dream. She kicked at the sheets tangled around her ankles and finally wiggled free.
Okay. She was in her room.
It was still dark. She blinked at her bedside clock, brought the numbers into focus, and saw that it was only four o’clock. Downstairs, she heard the heater click on. It must be cold, because Dad didn’t get up and turn it on until five-thirty.
Go to sleep, Sam told herself. Who but an idiot got up at four A.M. on the last Saturday of winter vacation? Not Sam Forster, that was for darn sure.
Sam closed her eyes again, but just for a minute.
In searing white light the clacking skeleton stallion that had chased her through her dreams suddenly reappeared on her closed eyelids. That nightmare image brought her fully awake. He wasn’t just after her. He was after the Phantom.
Her horse needed her.
She had to go to his valley. That’s what the dream was telling her. The Phantom and his herd were threatened by two dangers: the horsemeat dealers and disease.
Sam sat up, shivering. She kept the blankets draped around her as she pulled her legs up against her chest, and propped her chin on her knees.
What was that? She felt chills, as if she were being watched. She sensed, rather than heard, a repeated clack. But it wasn’t bones. Not a skeleton horse. It was the sound of a hoof on the wooden bridge to River Bend Ranch.
Sam leaned close to her window, eyes straining through the night. From this angle, she couldn’t see the entire bridge. The part she saw was empty.
The sound came again.
It’s him. It has to be him.
But it can’t be.
Sam jammed her feet into slippers. She’d need them in the freezing January night.
Never had the Phantom come to this side of the river. Was he looking for the pinto mare?
Please don’t let Dad hear me, she thought, sidestepping the creaky board in the hall. Or Gram, she thought, skipping every other step. Or Brynna.
No fair, she thought, tiptoeing down the last three stairs, another pair of ears to listen for every move I make.
When she reached the kitchen, Sam realized the clopping sound wasn’t that of advancing hooves. The Phantom—if it was him, and how could it not be?—was pawing at the bridge. Was he anxious? Impatient?
Sam held her breath and turned the doorknob to the right, millimeter by millimeter. It opened onto the porch.
The porch boards wore a thin frosting of snow. No way could she have gone out barefoot. Just the thought made her toes curl. She was so glad she’d put on slippers.
Exhaling slowly, she crept out the door and onto the porch.
An owl hooted in the frosty night. The sound was so near, she expected to see a plume of breath.
If it wasn’t for Cougar, she’d leave the door open. It was a windless night. The door wouldn’t blow closed and alert the household to her absence.
If she closed it, they might hear.
If she didn’t, her tiny kitten could be lost or eaten by a coyote. Or an owl.
Sam pulled it closed. She didn’t hear a sound, but the silken rustling of wings told her the owl had heard.
The pawing had stopped. She had to hurry if she was going to see him.
She counted off ten more seconds. If Dad had heard her, he’d be down the stairs by now. She took two steps. Blaze didn’t bark from the bunkhouse, and that was good enough for her.
Only a few snowflakes were falling as Sam started down the driveway. Cold clamped on her neck and stabbed through her nightgown, but she kept moving. If the Phantom was on this side of the river, he was here for her.
Animals did ask for human help. Even Jake had admitted it on the night the Phantom had allowed her to poultice his injured leg. Why should there be any—
A splash stopped her thoughts. There he was!
A ghost in the night, tail streaming pale against the darkness, he headed for the river.
Don’t go! She could only shout the words inside her mind. Zanzibar, I’m here!
He’d reached the wild side of the river by the time she got to the near shore. La Charla rushed full and steady while the Phantom sped up and down the far bank.
What is it? she wanted to ask. The stallion’s frenzied gallop threw fresh snow into the air. He wheeled in a haze of icy crystals, then stopped. A cloud of hot breath swirled as he tossed his head in her direction.
What was he doing here alone? Had he left his herd, or had they gone ahead and he’d stayed behind with the dying mare?
I want to help you. The ache behind her breastbone turned into a sharp stab.
He was soundless, beautiful. He needed her.
When she did nothing, he turned—not toward the Calico Mountains, but south. He ran toward War Drum Flats.
Like a white feather blowing through snowflakes, he grew smaller and then he was gone.
Sam wrapped her arms around her ribs. He’d given up on her and vanished. Why did it feel like she was leaving him behind?
Taking careful steps, wishing for the rubber soled boots she kept for winter barn work, Sam recrossed the bridge.
Although she was sad, the white two-story house looked welcoming. With cold winding around her arms and legs, she longed to get back inside. And then she noticed a light upstairs. It hadn’t been on before. She was sure of it.
Unless she wanted to freeze, she had no choice. She climbed the porch steps, opened the kitchen door silently, and slid inside.
She stood inside the silent kitchen. There was no movement, no coffee on the stove. Dad hadn’t come down yet.
Without him to face, only one thing mattered.
She had to go to the Phantom. But how?
The Calico Mountains were covered with snow. They had been for weeks. But that wouldn’t matter if she took the tunnel that cut through the cliffs to the Phantom’s secret valley. Just the same, it was unlikely she could get permission to ride up there.
<
br /> Brynna already had her doing algebra and cleaning her room. What would she do if Sam disobeyed?
It wouldn’t be disobeying if she didn’t ask, but she hated the guilty feeling of sneaking.
She had to work out a plan. For that, she needed more information.
She could ask Dad, but he had little patience when she talked about mustangs. At best, he’d tell her they’d take care of themselves.
She could ask Jake, but he felt a lot like Dad. Besides, Jake didn’t trust her not to get hurt. He panicked each time she hinted she might do something risky. With Jake, it was better to tell him afterward.
So she had to ask Brynna.
Sam nodded. She’d get downstairs and talk with Brynna before she left for Willow Springs. Though Brynna was overdoing her new role as stepmother, she was a wild horse expert. She’d listen to Sam’s concerns about the horses and wouldn’t dismiss them as childish. After all, Brynna got paid to be paranoid about the mustangs’ safety.
Sam stared at the kitchen clock without seeing it. Overhead, she heard a tiny plop, then pinprick patters on the stairs. In the living room, she heard Cougar squeak.
She felt a kind of relief as she lifted him into her arms, then covered him with the knitted blanket Gram kept folded along the back of the couch.
“Stay where it’s cozy,” Sam told him, though he’d turned into just a bulge moving under the blanket. “I’ll be in the kitchen doing algebra forever, so you’re not going to miss anything.”
Cougar disentangled himself from the blanket. He stretched, arched his back, then opened his mouth in a pink, complaining yawn.
“You don’t know how easy you have it,” Sam said as she scooped the kitten up and held him under her chin. “You could be living out in the cold, dodging coyotes.”
Cougar’s purr rumbled in denial, as if no one would make such a cute creature fend for itself.
It was just too cold to sit in the kitchen in her nightgown. Sam ran upstairs, slipped out of her chilled slippers, and dressed in boots, jeans, and a soft red flannel shirt.
As she came back downstairs, Sam could smell the coffee Dad had made before going outside. How had he slipped down the stairs without her hearing?
Wow. Maybe she’d inherited her stealth from him, because it was a sure thing if Dad had heard her, he wouldn’t be quiet about it.
Sam made herself a cup of real cocoa, following the directions on the can. She heated just enough milk for one, in a small saucepan, then measured out the dark brown cocoa powder and sugar. It always seemed weird that you put in a pinch of salt, but Gram said it was a step you shouldn’t skip.
When she poured in a bit of hot milk, the mixture looked like fudge. Oh, yum. Sam was more than ready by the time her drink was finished.
Carrying her cup, she settled at the kitchen table, surrounded by lined paper and her algebra textbook. She took up a freshly sharpened pencil and began her work. From outside there came the tinkle and crunch of Dad breaking the ice on Blaze’s water bowl and the horses’ troughs. It had been a cold night.
She had puzzled through six problems and finished her cocoa when Gram came downstairs.
“Already hard at it, I see,” Gram said, kissing Sam’s disheveled auburn hair. “Good for you.”
“Thanks,” Sam said. Even though it seemed like she’d been up forever, she was pleased at Gram’s approval and her twinge of guilt was soothed by the fact that she really was working. “I’ve got to go meet Jen and work on our project.”
Gram placed a black iron skillet on the stove to preheat. She ran water into a kettle and took down a cork-stoppered jar full of oatmeal. Then she turned to Sam.
“Are you going back up to Nugget?” Gram asked.
“We’ve got that project for Mrs. Ely’s class,” Sam said absently. This math problem was trickier than the others. She wrote down the page and problem numbers, then glanced up when she noticed there was no sound but the sizzle of melting shortening Gram had scooped into the black skillet. Sam considered Gram’s frowning expression. “What?”
“It’s all nonsense, of course, based on people who are too careless to watch what they’re doing, but you know that old town’s supposed to be haunted.”
Well, they do call it a ghost town, Sam thought. But Gram would take that as sarcasm, so Sam didn’t blurt the first thing that came into her mind. Instead, she asked Gram the question she’d been thinking about yesterday.
“Is that why I’ve never been there? Mrs. Ely says it’s a historically significant settlement.”
Gram turned off the water she’d been running over some potatoes and dried them before she answered.
“I suppose she’s right. It’s been there since the Civil War,” Gram said. Her chopping knife flew through the potatoes, and she began layering them into the black skillet. “And most of the ‘otherworldly’ stories could be explained away.”
“Like what?” Sam shivered, but she wanted to know.
Gram spent a long time mincing onions and flinging them in with the potatoes before she answered.
“Like ghosts of people who lived there long ago, and spirits of those that went back in our time, looking for wealth someone had left behind.”
It had never occurred to Sam that there might still be gold up there. That would be incredible. She could be rich. She and Jen could both be rich. That’d put an end to talk about Jen moving. She could simply buy the ranch back from Slocum.
Sam thought of drilling a second well so Dad would quit worrying about water. Instead, if he wanted to contemplate water at all, he could climb into the hot tub in his bedroom suite, or swim in the pool Sam would build.
But wait. Had Gram just said people had died while looking for that left-behind gold? And their spirits…
“People haven’t really seen ghosts, though, right?” she asked.
“They claim to,” Gram said, shrugging. “But what they saw could’ve been vapor over the hot springs or gas from the mines. You want to be careful of that, in fact,” Gram warned. “Poisonous gas is real. When Wyatt was a child, five little boys—his classmates—were playing hide-and-seek there, and died from mine gas poisoning.”
Sam thought a minute. She and Jen had been so interested in the lost palomino, they hadn’t investigated the gold mines that had given birth to Nugget. She guessed it was a good thing.
“Probably that’s as much to blame for why folks around here don’t poke around Nugget as often as outsiders do. Vacationers and such seem fascinated by it. But you’re a sensible Nevada girl, Samantha. So keep your wits about you while you’re exploring.”
Sam went back to her work. It wasn’t so bad when she could look forward to oatmeal and fried potatoes for breakfast and a ride with Jen. Every school day should be like this.
“Since you’re working so hard, I’ll bring in the eggs this morning,” Gram said. She let the curtain drop from looking out the window.
Sam liked that idea a lot. She didn’t want to leave the warm kitchen, but fair was fair. “Wait, Gram. Dad said I still had to do my usual chores.”
“I know that,” she said. “But from the looks of it, he’s already fed the stock. That’s one of your chores. Besides, he means for you to clean Ace and Sweetheart’s stalls and throw in some fresh straw. And do the same for the run-in shed down at the other end of the ten-acre pasture. With this cold weather, they’re spending more time under cover.”
“Okay,” Sam said. It wasn’t the most fun part of being a horse owner, but it wasn’t very hard.
“He wants you to scrub a couple of buckets, too, but that’s work that would be better done once it warms up a little,” Gram said, grabbing the egg basket from its place on top of the refrigerator. “No sense washing them to have them ice up on you.”
Gram closed the door behind her and Sam had just turned back to her work when Brynna came into the kitchen.
It was going to take a while to get used to seeing Brynna, BLM executive, wearing a black-and-green plaid bathrobe with
her hair streaming loose down her back.
But she wasn’t Brynna Olson anymore. She was Brynna Forster now, and she had every right to be in the kitchen of River Bend Ranch.
“Coffee,” Brynna muttered. She took a blue pottery mug down from the cupboard. She poured, sipped, and sighed, then her eyes popped open. “How are you?” she asked Sam.
“As good as anyone doing algebra can be,” Sam replied.
“I know it was my—I mean our—idea, but isn’t it a little early for homework?”
“I woke up when it was still dark,” Sam said. She considered telling Brynna about her disturbing dreams, but she didn’t want to go off on a tangent. “And I decided to get this out of the way so I can go meet Jen at Nugget.”
“Okay,” Brynna said, but clearly she wasn’t paying attention. She lifted the lid on the oatmeal, gave it a stir, then grabbed a carton from the refrigerator and added a stream of milk.
Sam’s lips opened to tell her to stop, but she closed them. Gram was awfully fussy about cooking, but maybe Brynna knew what she was doing.
“I wanted to ask you about the horsemeat dealers,” Sam said, and Brynna turned so quickly, a lock of red hair spun out and over her shoulder.
“What about them?”
“Are there any?”
Brynna put the lid back on the oatmeal and lifted the one on the frying potatoes before she answered. “We keep getting reports there are, that they’re stalking mustangs. I know that with mad cow disease in Europe, consumption of beef is down, but if they’re coming here to buy, they’re not getting wild horses. The brand inspector keeps close watch for mustangs at the auctions.”
Sam realized she’d been chewing the eraser on her pencil while Brynna talked. She put it down on the table, still not satisfied the Phantom was safe.
“If you need something to worry about, make it that mare,” Brynna said, and then gasped at her own insensitivity. “That was the wrong thing to say.” Brynna put down her coffee cup and covered one of Sam’s hands with one of her own. “I didn’t mean you should be worrying. I’m sorry. I know you’re concerned for the Phantom and his band.”
“I know that for a few days, she ran with his band,” Sam said.
