by Terri Farley
The awful animals had been laughing at her, but they hadn’t been playing with Buddy. Although she’d examined the calf and found she wasn’t bleeding, Sam knew they would have kept up their in-and-out assaults until the confused calf gave up. Then they would have launched the final attack.
Sam stamped her boots on the wooden porch and flung open the kitchen door so hard it hit the wall.
Dad and Gram turned away from the stove.
“I hate coyotes.” Sam swallowed the quaver in her voice. “They tried to eat Buddy.”
Sam didn’t get the sympathy she expected.
“And whose fault is that?” Dad passed Sam a cup of hot cocoa and stood watching her.
“What do you mean?” Sam croaked, but she knew exactly what he meant.
“It’s a coyote’s job to feed her young and herself. Mostly she does that by killing old animals and weak ones.” Dad’s lecturing tone said he expected a response.
“I know,” she said.
“I don’t like losing cattle to coyotes, but some calves are orphaned and they become prey. The herd moves on, too fast for them to keep up and they starve, all alone. That makes a coyote kill almost merciful, don’t you think?”
Dad waited for Sam to nod.
“Mother Coyote doesn’t figure on human interference. She didn’t know this little one was yours. She never would have laid eyes on it, if you”—Dad stared at Sam—“hadn’t neglected that calf. So don’t go blaming the coyotes.”
Dad left. She heard him collapse into a recliner in the living room. Then came the drone of television news.
Sam couldn’t work up the energy to feel sorry for herself, or to pull out a chair and sit. She covered her face with her chilled hands, until Gram guided her to the table.
Gram placed a grilled cheese sandwich and a green teapot full of cocoa on the table before her.
Never in all her thirteen years had Sam heard her father string so many words together. Dad had chosen every one to prove she was irresponsible. And a disappointment.
If she added together all that had happened today, she should be too miserable to eat.
Sam closed her eyes and saw the horse fight at Willow Springs. Once more, she heard Slocum’s leering promise to get his hands on the Phantom. And she felt the helpless guilt of knowing she’d put Buddy in danger.
All the same, Sam was famished. She took a bite of the buttery, toasted sandwich, then sat back, chewing.
“Gram?”
Gram pulled up a chair and sat down. Breaking all her own rules, Gram put both elbows on the table and held her chin.
“Yes, Sam.”
“Do you think I’ll be grounded until I’m nineteen?”
“No, dear. I think your father was just shocked you’d do something so careless.”
“I thought you were on my side,” Sam mumbled.
“You know very well this isn’t about sides. Next time, your carelessness might hurt you.”
Sam wondered if the clock had stopped. It must be later than eight o’clock.
“You’ll never know how hard it was for him,” Gram took a shuddering breath. “For both of us, when you got hurt. For days, we waited to see if you’d be able to walk or talk again. He doesn’t want it to happen ever again.”
“Then why did he let me go out there—” Sam waved a hand toward the range. “Gram, it was creepy being out there all alone.”
“I’m sure you didn’t like it, but if you touched your dad’s coat, hanging on the back of the kitchen door,” Gram said, “you’d feel it’s still cold. You were never alone, Sam.”
Sam sagged against the chairback. Her body wanted sleep, but her mind kept chattering.
Gram reached across to pat Sam’s hand.
“Your father’s a pretty level-headed man. I think he’ll get over it.”
Gram had hardly finished speaking when Dad stormed back into the kitchen.
“And another thing,” he began. “If you aren’t mature enough to handle a six-week-old calf, what will you do with a mustang stallion?” Dad paced between the table and the refrigerator, then pointed his index finger at her. “The adoption is no longer open for discussion!”
This time, when he left the room, Dad clomped upstairs.
Gram and Sam exchanged shocked expressions. They both heard the echo of Gram saying Dad would soon “get over” Sam’s mistake.
“Then again,” Gram said, looking up as something—maybe a boot—hit Dad’s bedroom wall upstairs, “I might be wrong.”
Chapter Thirteen
LAY LOW.
After her near-disaster with Buddy, Sam could think of no other way to avoid her father’s anger.
For three days she did chores and kept her room neat. Without being asked she helped Gram in the kitchen and vegetable garden. She folded laundry.
At night Sam studied the mustang adoption application. If Slocum made one move toward adopting the Phantom, she’d try to stop him. Sam paid special attention to the section listing “prohibited acts.” If half of what she’d heard about Slocum was true, he was in big trouble.
Sam was a good student, and two weeks without classes made this kind of work exciting, even fun. She filled pages of the purple stationary Aunt Sue had given her with reasons Linc Slocum might be ineligible to adopt. She couldn’t wait to pass her research on to Miss Olson.
The opportunity probably wouldn’t come soon, because Dad hadn’t finished punishing her.
Yesterday when Dad told her to scrub out the watering trough, she’d done it. The backbreaking chore left her arms trembling, but she didn’t answer back when Dad took one look and sent her back to do it right.
Sam spent two more hours scouring the metal. When she finished, it looked like Dad had bought it the day before. She didn’t expect any praise for her accomplishment and she didn’t get any. Still, Dad couldn’t conceal his surprise at how good it looked during his final inspection.
Now that Sam had changed the straw in Buddy’s stall, she laid down the pitchfork. Standing in the barn door, she glanced around. Everyone was busy outdoors, so Sam sneaked toward the house.
What she was about to do wasn’t wrong, but Dad might not like it. She wished she could ask Jake if he thought Dad would be mad if he discovered she’d called the Willow Springs Wild Horse Center.
But Jake wasn’t around. Sam hadn’t asked why or where, but her imagination had supplied lots of answers. Though Jake hadn’t caused her to put Buddy in the wrong pasture, maybe Dad thought he’d distracted her. Or Dad might have decided to save money by firing him.
She didn’t think he would fire Jake, but she hadn’t thought Dad could ever be so angry, either.
As she crossed the yard, Sam glanced toward the river. It was a reflex triggered by the fact that she hadn’t seen her silver stallion for four nights. Could the stallion know she’d made a big mistake and didn’t deserve his company?
Still, he deserved her protection and she’d give it to him, even if it meant defying Dad.
Inside, Sam heard only the refrigerator’s purr and the ticking of the kitchen clock. Two o’clock. Good timing, since the BLM office closed at four.
She’d dialed the number twice before. Each time, Sam had to erase her nerves with a pep talk and a reminder that Miss Olson had encouraged her to call.
The first time, Sam had called anonymously. She’d asked if any new horses had been rounded up. A voice she recognized as Miss Olson’s described the herd Sam had seen. Reassured that the Phantom was still free, Sam had hung up, satisfied.
Yesterday, when she still hadn’t seen the stallion, Sam had called again. Miss Olson’s answer was the same: no new horses.
It was getting easier to call, but this morning, she’d begun worrying over Flick. She knew he’d call Slocum the instant the Phantom was unloaded. Sam couldn’t take any chances.
She hadn’t figured out what she’d do if Miss Olson said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, we just brought in a splendid silvery gray stallion.”
> Sam just had to know.
She dialed and asked the usual question.
Instead of the usual answer, Miss Olson asked a question in return. “May I ask who’s calling?”
Sam’s hand gripped the telephone receiver and she blurted the truth. “This is Samantha Forster.”
“Hi Samantha, this is Brynna Olson. We met the other day.” She sounded as if she’d known the truth all along.
Sam glanced out the kitchen window. No one was headed this way. “Oh, hi,” she said, as casually as she could.
“You know, we don’t do much gathering this time of year,” Miss Olson said. “February through July are quiet months, unless there’s a problem horse or an emergency gather, like the one the other day. We try to hold off until August, so we don’t stress the spring foals.”
“That’s good,” Sam said. She was surprised by the BLM’s humanity. This also meant she had time to pass on what she had learned about Slocum.
“Samantha, is there a particular horse you’re waiting for? Because if there is—”
“No ma’am, of course not.” Sam looked out the window in time to see Gram stand and peel off her gardening gloves. “I’ve got to go now.” Gram began walking toward the house. “Thanks for the information.”
“But Samantha—”
“Bye.” Sam hung up, grabbed a glass, and jerked the ice tray from the refrigerator just as Gram came inside.
“Ice water?” Sam asked.
She hoped Gram couldn’t hear her pounding heart. Probably not, since Gram only washed her hands and asked if Sam would help make a sauce for the spareribs they’d barbecue for dinner.
When a white BLM truck rumbled over the bridge to River Bend at five o’clock, it was a complete surprise to everyone except Sam.
Work had ended earlier than it had to today, because Gram, for the first time in Sam’s memory, had made a miscalculation. Only after everyone quit chores to come in and clean up before dinner did Gram discover the barbecue fire had fizzled before the spareribs were cooked.
Since Pepper, Ross, and Dallas were already eating in their bunkhouse kitchen, and Sam and Dad had showered, there was no sense returning to work. So, Gram turned her mistake festive. She restarted the coals, then served tortilla chips, salsa, and lemonade on the front porch while they waited for the ribs to cook.
Before gobbling her own snack, Sam walked down to the ten-acre pasture to give Ace an apple. The little mustang had never been pampered, and he was beginning to like it.
That’s where she was when Miss Olson arrived.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sam saw Dad stand and shade his eyes. Her only hope was to get to Miss Olson before he did.
“Hi,” the redhead said as she slammed the truck door behind her. “Since you’re interested, I thought I’d drop by and do an informal preadoption inspection.”
Informal or not, the word inspection sounded official. Dad wouldn’t like it a bit.
With the apple still clutched in her hand, Sam rushed forward. “I can’t, you know, make any deals behind my dad’s back,” she whispered.
Miss Olson surprised her by laughing. Once more, Sam noticed the sun lines around her blue eyes.
“Even if you could hide a horse, you’d have to be eighteen to adopt.” Brynna followed Sam’s worried peek toward the porch.
“He doesn’t miss much,” Sam admitted. “And he’s dead set against adopting a mustang.”
“What about your pal, there?” Brynna nodded toward Ace.
Sam saw the little bay had followed her. He stretched his neck over the fence, showing the freeze mark beneath his mane. He extended his head and fluttered his lips, begging for the apple.
“That’s Ace.”
“He’s one of ours, though, right?”
“No.” Sam’s anger flared. “Ace is mine.”
Miss Olson was quiet long enough to retuck her uniform shirt into her khaki pants. Sam felt embarrassed. Just the same, Sam would not apologize to a woman who worked for an agency that not only leeched away Dad’s money with high grazing fees, but could end the Phantom’s freedom in an afternoon.
“I meant, he’s a mustang the BLM brought in from the range.” Miss Olson turned her head, moving her lips as if she were reading the white hairs in Ace’s freeze mark. “Clearly, since he’s been captive for two and a half years, he belongs to your family.”
Sam’s curiosity nearly got the better of her, but she would not ask how to read the mishmash of angles that composed the freeze mark.
“Who gentled him? You?” Miss Olson watched Ace grab the apple in one chomp.
“No, not me. I don’t know who did,” Sam said.
She knew it had been Jake, but the less this woman knew, the better.
Ace nodded as if he agreed, so Sam didn’t mention he was a prime cutting horse, too.
Up and down went Ace’s Arab-shaped head, and he drooled as he enjoyed the apple.
“Most of them make the transition quite well, if people take the time to understand it’s hard shifting from freedom to captivity.”
“If you know that, why do you trap them? Those helicopters, trucks, and pens must cost thousands of dollars—”
“Millions, actually.” Miss Olson folded her arms along the top rail to watch the other horses.
“So why do you do it?” Sam found the woman’s composure obnoxious. “Just to make them miserable?”
Finally, the redhead stood back and met Sam’s eyes.
“Number one, they’d die of dehydration. The range has too little water for ranchers’ cattle and native wildlife, let alone horses with no natural predators.
“Number two,” she drew a breath and ticked off a finger for another argument, “they’d starve, because of the competition for graze.
“Number three—and this isn’t nice, but you look like a girl who appreciates the truth—the BLM is charged with protecting free-roaming horses from folks who want them dead.”
Brynna Olson’s argument had been so passionate, Sam almost didn’t hear her father’s boots crunch the gravel on the driveway.
As Sam watched him approach, she felt the tension of the argument drain away. She was pretty sure he’d drive Brynna Olsen off his land.
“You ladies having a squabble?” Dad asked.
Oh no, Sam thought. Would this get her into more trouble?
“More of a political discussion,” said Miss Olson.
Dad’s prickly attitude stayed focused on Miss Olson. “So, did we pass?”
“This wasn’t,” Miss Olson’s voice faltered, “I mean, since you haven’t applied for adoption…”
Any minute, Miss Olson might give away their secret conversations.
“But if it was an official inspection, would we pass?” Dad asked.
“Looks like it,” Miss Olson’s poise returned as she looked at the ranch with a professional eye. “Your facilities are adequate. Sufficient exercise space, shelter, good drainage. Is that fence six feet tall?” She pointed toward the round pen where Jake worked young horses.
“Yep.”
Brynna smiled as Ace nibbled the collar of Sam’s fresh blue tee shirt. “You’d probably pass, if you decided to apply.”
Sam thought of the folded sheets of purple paper in her room. This was a perfect opportunity to tell what she knew, but she felt sheepish. Sam considered Miss Olson’s pressed uniform and the sharp way she’d rattled off the reasons mustangs were gathered. Would Miss Olson think Sam was trying to tell her how to do her job?
Before Sam could puzzle out the possibilities, Gram’s voice carried from the porch.
“Wyatt?”
Sam could tell Gram was reminding Dad of something.
Dad looked awkward as he asked, “Miss Olson, would you like to stay for dinner?”
Sam almost chuckled. That had to be Gram’s idea. Dad would never invite a BLM employee to sit at their table.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal,” Miss Olson said.
“You didn’
t. Our barbecue fire fizzled.” Sam stopped talking when she met her dad’s eyes.
Miss Olson looked at her watch. “I couldn’t, really.”
Dad didn’t press her, only shook hands and thanked her for stopping by before leaving Sam to walk Brynna back to her truck.
Looking at the woman’s neat braid, Sam wished again that she hadn’t cut her long hair. Sam had hacked it off so she wouldn’t look like the kid who’d left River Bend ranch. How childish was that?
But she was done acting like a kid. It was time to ask Miss Olson for hard facts.
“What kind of emergency made you round up that last herd?”
The woman wet her lips in confusion, then remembered this afternoon’s conversation. “Dust pneumonia,” she answered. “The herd was in a severe drought area.”
Sam thought of the wild horse valley, knee-deep in grass. The Phantom was safe there, but he ranged over a wide area, as he’d shown her by coming to River Bend.
Miss Olson climbed into the truck and slammed the door. She just sat for a minute, and Sam saw the woman was unwilling to leave things in such a tangle.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, Samantha, but I might be able to help, if you would tell me what has you so worried.”
Sam bit her lip. BLM was the enemy, but Brynna seemed genuinely concerned. Should she believe what Dad had told her, or the evidence in front of her? Sam wished she knew what to do.
So far, this entire summer had presented her with one decision after another, and her choices hadn’t all turned out so great.
Then Brynna seemed to go veering off on a wild tangent.
“I have three horses,” the woman said, abruptly. “And you know which one works with me like magic, like we were one animal instead of two? Penny, my little blind mustang.”
“I can’t imagine anything scarier than galloping into the darkness, because the stranger on your back told you to do it,” Sam said.
Brynna pointed at Sam, as if she’d gotten an answer right in class. “Penny does it because she trusts me.”
The truck’s gears made a grinding sound. Brynna backed the truck a couple of feet before she added, “Sometimes blind trust can be the most perceptive of all.”
