by Terri Farley
Chapter Fourteen
SAM SWUNG HER sleeping bag over one shoulder.
On this moonless night, she had only starshine to show the way along the gravel driveway, past the pasture and down to the river’s edge.
Things grew quiet behind her. She heard the soft crunch of her tennis shoes, a whicker as Ace, alone as usual, followed along the fence line, and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Since luck was sitting on her shoulder tonight, Sam had decided to test Brynna Olson’s blind-trust theory.
After their picnic supper of spareribs, garlic bread, and salad, the family had enjoyed a long talk. No one mentioned her mistake with Buddy, but Dad seemed ready to believe she’d learned her lesson.
Crickets hushed as Sam picked up rocks and plopped them into the river. She smoothed her sleeping bag on the ground she’d cleared, but she didn’t try to sleep. She sat, tugged the cuffs of her gray sweatpants to cover her ankles, and pushed only her bare feet into the sleeping bag’s cozy layers. Then she gazed into the high desert sky.
Blind trust. She wasn’t sure what Brynna meant by it, and was less sure the stallion could feel such faith in her.
As a foal, he had, but that was a long time ago. Too many scary times had cropped up since then. Most of them involved people.
She’d been the one astride the young horse as he was held trapped by the gate. Later, a man had nearly strangled him with a rope and weight. Since then, helicopters had pursued him and he’d been run hard and long by Slocum and his Thoroughbred.
Zanzibar was a wild thing now. He couldn’t trust her as a tame horse trusted its master. He might trust her as a friend.
Sam stared into the darkness, silently calling the stallion. The river ran murmuring by, but she heard nothing else.
For a long, cold time, she stared across the river, glad she’d left her watch inside. She shrugged her shoulders and wiggled her toes, keeping her muscles moving. When she finally burrowed into her sleeping bag, with only her face exposed to the night air, she still wouldn’t allow herself to sleep.
And so Sam sang.
Ears pricked to catch each word, the horses lined the pasture fence. Sam thought her voice sounded pretty good, pure and almost pretty, as it rose into the black and diamond sky.
Sam had run out of songs with memorable lyrics, when she thought of Christmas carols. Even on the last night of June, “Silent Night” sounded great.
The stallion appeared on the opposite bank, hazy as a chalk outline left after erasing a blackboard. Head raised on his graceful neck, he listened.
With a powerful plunge, the stallion rushed into the water, coming toward her, mane billowing on wind created by his own speed.
Spellbound, Sam stopped singing. Then she scolded herself. Last time, she’d frightened him with silence. For some reason, the stallion expected sound from her, so Sam kept singing.
Slowly, she slipped out of her sleeping bag, stood and walked to meet him.
The stallion slowed his swimming.
Did he remember she’d first ridden him in the river? Far back in his equine memory, did the stallion feel the soft flannel halter?
Did he hear echoes of Sam’s whispers as she’d grabbed his mane and vaulted softly upon his back?
“All is calm…” Sam sang. She was in the river now and amazed that the water warmed her legs. Underfoot, the stones felt smooth. “All is bright…”
As she walked, Sam trailed her fingers in the river. It felt thicker than water. The closer she got, the more certain Sam grew that she could touch the stallion.
Once, he lowered his head and skimmed his muzzle along the river. Water splashed as if he meant to play.
“Zanzibar,” she crooned, and lifted her right hand from the river.
He bolted.
For one heart-stopping second Sam thought she’d seen the last of him. At least for tonight. Instead, he scampered like a puppy, moving three watery lunges upstream, before prancing back to her, pushing waves before him that crashed over Sam’s legs.
“Good horse, Zanzibar.”
He stood two horse lengths away. Heat from his silver body made mist that clouded his form in the darkness.
“That’s my boy,” Sam said, slowly moving toward him.
His head snapped sideways, looking toward the ridge marking the boundary between River Bend and Slocum’s ranch. Light flared like a low-hanging shooting star, and the horse trembled before looking back to her.
“Zanzibar,” she said to him again, stopping. She kept her hand outstretched, but still.
If the stallion lowered his head now, his muzzle would touch her hand. His nostrils distended to study her scent.
Sam knew why. The stallion had seen her in many forms. Sometimes she approached him on Ace, so she’d seem to have horse’s legs. He’d seen her working in the barnyard, afoot. And tonight, she must seem legless, flowing toward him like a mermaid.
Only scent promised it was her.
Satisfied, the stallion lowered his head. She felt warmth as wisps of breath floated between them.
He lipped her palm, tickling her fingers with a muzzle that was both whiskery and velvet. Sam let her breath out slowly, as he nudged her hand.
“Zanzibar, what do you want, boy?”
A faint brightness washed toward them. Without turning, Sam knew that either Dad or Gram had turned on the kitchen light. Probably checking on her at the worst possible moment.
The stallion shifted his weight between his two front hooves, aware of the change. The new light let her see the expression in his brown eyes. He was telling her something she was too dense to comprehend.
Sam’s mind spun with choices. Was he investigating her as he would any unfamiliar object, or could he be asking her to pet him?
When his muzzle knocked against her wrist, Sam opened her fingers.
Mistake. The stallion acted as if she’d grown the claws of a cougar or bear. He was the Phantom once more. A savage light blazed in his eyes. He made a reckless swoop right, leading with a swing of his head. Heavy bone under smooth hide struck Sam’s cheekbone. The impact knocked her off balance. Sam stumbled and drenched herself to the waist.
Headed for the safety of the range, the stallion swept past so near he might have trampled her, but he didn’t. Sam wasn’t grazed by even the edge of one hoof.
Rubbing her cheekbone, Sam watched him go. In his first instinctive burst of panic, the stallion had left the river, but once his hooves touched the riverbank, he moved more slowly. He loped a few rocking steps, then settled into a jog, mane and tail drifting as he left her.
Once he was out of sight, Sam felt cold. Her sweatpants sagged in a sodden effort to drag right off her hips and her toes felt so frozen, they might shatter as she dashed toward the house. At least they were numb, so she didn’t feel the gravel’s sting. Halfway to the house, she stopped, turned around and ran back to get her sleeping bag. Boy, it was a pain acting like a responsible kid.
Dad, wearing boots, jeans, and a half-buttoned flannel shirt, had the door open when Sam’s feet hit the porch.
Dancing with cold, she slipped past him to land in a kitchen chair.
“Freezing, freezing, freezing,” she said, then pulled both feet up into her lap and rubbed them with her hands.
As she tried to knead warmth into her toes, Sam’s mind was flooded with the wondrous thing that had happened. She looked up at Dad.
“I saw.” Dad’s hands rose and just hung in the air. Even though Dad was a man of few words, he used them well. Now, he seemed at a loss.
Sam swallowed hard, caught between crying and laughing. “Pretty amazing, huh?”
Dad nodded. “Was it the light that scared him off?”
So he’d seen her collision with the stallion. Sam had hoped he hadn’t. She interlaced her fingers to keep from touching her face. Now that she was warming up, it hurt.
“No, it was my fault. I moved my hands in a weird way.”
“And he knocked you down.” Th
e awe in Dad’s face changed to concern.
“No, I get the blame for this,” she said. As she stood, her wet pants made a puddle on the kitchen floor. “I tripped.”
She faced her stubborn father. Were they about to clash, again?
“Mmm-hmm,” Dad said. He slid the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone. “This is starting to swell. I think it’s gonna bruise some.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” Sam said. She made a point of raising her chin. “And I wasn’t a bit scared.”
“He grew up real nice,” Dad said, then let out a sigh and hung his thumbs in his jeans pockets. “You want something to eat?”
“No, I’m…” Sam stifled a yawn. The skin pulled tight where the stallion’s head had struck her. “Just tired.”
“Your head feels okay, except for that bump? I know Gram would keep you up a couple hours to watch for a concussion, but I’m inclined to let you get a good night’s sleep.”
“I’m fine, Dad. I took a lot harder hits when I got knocked on my booty playing basketball.”
He smiled and Sam pressed her advantage.
“Can I—? Don’t you think I should call Miss Olson in the morning and talk to her about Blackie?”
Dad frowned for a second before he shook his head.
“Time to discuss that tomorrow, Samantha. Now, get to bed.”
Sam overslept.
Sunshine had painted her white walls yellow by the time she opened her eyes. She might not have awakened then if Gram hadn’t brought a glass of orange juice to her bedside.
This time, when Sam yawned, it hurt.
“Oh dear, Wyatt was right.” Gram clucked her tongue, eyes examining Sam’s cheek.
“Don’t touch it, please.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, dear, but you might want to borrow a little makeup,” Gram sounded dubious, as if she wasn’t convinced makeup was the solution.
Sam blinked. She hadn’t worn makeup since she’d left San Francisco. Even then, she’d only worn a little mascara and lip gloss.
“Why?” Sam asked. “Does it look terrible?” She crawled out of bed to consult the mirror.
“You might be able to even out the color a little bit,” Gram said. “Try it before you go outside.”
Dad’s truck idled in the yard and bolts rattled, but Sam didn’t pay much attention. She stood in front of the mirror, wondering how a bump on the cheekbone had turned into this.
While Gram went to get the makeup, Sam studied the lumpy purplish distortion taking over the right side of her face. What fool had ever named this thing a simple “black eye”?
Gram returned and extended the bottle. “Do your best, honey, because if Jake sees that shiner, he’s likely to have kittens.”
A mask might have helped, but the makeup didn’t. In fact, Sam thought the flesh-toned foundation made her look even more ready for Halloween.
So what if Jake was back? After twenty minutes of fussing with various combinations, she gave up, washed her face, put on a bright red tank top and white shorts and strode out into the ranch yard.
Jake had just loaded Pocahontas into a horse trailer. He turned, smiling, but just for a minute.
“You should see the other guy,” Sam said, nearly shouting the phrase she’d rehearsed.
Jake didn’t utter a sound. He fixed the metal doors tight behind the paint mare, then slid the bolts into place.
“Isn’t that what men say, when they’ve got black eyes?” Sam kept a boasting tone in her voice.
Jake still faced the tailgate. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” he said, “you’re not a man.”
“Let it be, Jake.” Dad moved to touch Jake’s shoulder, then pulled his Stetson down a notch, instead. “She’s fine.”
Jake whirled around. His voice was low and hard to hear. “I leave for a couple days, and you get into trouble.”
“I said, that’s enough,” Dad’s voice grew stern. “I was watching her all along. If you’d been standing where she was, you’d be the one with the black eye.”
“He may get one, yet,” Sam taunted.
“That goes for you, too. Just hush,” Dad snapped.
Sam crossed her arms. Jake shrugged. Both times he’d come close to defying Dad had been over her safety. And Dad let him get away with it, as if he and Jake were on the same team, or something. She wanted them both to knock it off.
“Gram and I are delivering this filly for Dawn Archer’s birthday,” Dad said. “You kids take the day off. And sort this out however you want. Short of homicide.”
Gram came hustling from the house and deposited a set of car keys dangling from a fluffy neon-green ball into Jake’s hand.
“Jake, if there’s an emergency or something, you can use the Buick, but be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said, but he gave Gram’s boatlike yellow car the kind of sidelong glance horses gave rattlers.
As the truck and trailer pulled away from the ranch, Dad’s arm waved through the driver’s window. In a minute, it was across the River Bend bridge and gone, with only a line of dust to show it had passed.
“Well?” Jake said.
Now his arms were crossed and Sam’s hands were on her hips, but she wasn’t about to waste time fighting.
“Well, I’m going into the house and make a phone call my dad didn’t tell me I couldn’t make,” Sam said. “And you, Jake Ely, can just suit yourself.”
Chapter Fifteen
SAM STOOD BESIDE the telephone, twirling the cord around her finger, tighter and tighter.
She’d already blurted out the details of her encounter with the Phantom to Jake, but telling a virtual stranger and expecting her to believe was going to be trickier.
Brynna Olson recognized Sam’s voice at once, and she was being quite friendly, but Sam hadn’t figured out how to tell the BLM employee that the Phantom was her horse. Jake, seated at the kitchen table with his chin propped on one hand, wasn’t trying to make it easier.
“You’ve probably heard about the Phantom,” Sam began. “He’s sort of a local legend.”
Jake made a face at that, so Sam turned toward the wall.
“Of course,” Brynna’s tone encouraged Sam. “The wild white stallion.”
“Actually, the horse they’re calling the Phantom now is a light gray with dapples. And—” Sam took a breath so deep, it might have fueled a dive into a bottomless sea. “He’s my horse. Two years ago, my colt escaped and this is him.”
Sam closed her eyes, wincing, ready for Miss Olson’s laughter. Instead, she said the same thing Dad had. “You’re sure?”
Sam opened her eyes, turned to Jake and gave him a victorious thumbs-up.
“I am sure, but there’s no way to prove it. No papers, no recent photographs, no brand, tattoo, nothing.” Sam waited.
And waited.
“Do you want to claim him?” Miss Olson asked.
“No. Well, sort of, but I just want him running free.”
“If you could claim him, and keep him on your ranch lands, that’d be the best solution,” Brynna spoke slowly, as if she were devising a plan. “Do you have his sire or dam, or any other domestic horses related to him?”
“Just a second, I’ll check.” Sam covered the phone’s mouthpiece and repeated Brynna’s question to Jake.
“I don’t think so. Smoke’s dead. Blackie was his last foal and your dad didn’t breed him often.”
“What about Kitty?” Sam asked, remembering the flighty chestnut mare, Blackie’s mother.
Jake made a dismissing motion. “Gone,” he said, frowning.
“No luck,” Sam said, but curiosity spurred her to see what Miss Olson had been considering. “What did you have in mind?”
“DNA testing,” Brynna said. “Sounds pretty high tech for the Wild West, huh? But if the Phantom shared bloodlines with your domestic stock, that might be good enough. Still, those tests are a little pricey.”
Sam thought of Aunt Sue’s birthday money. “How pricey?”
�
��The lowest possible would be…oh shoot, about two thousand dollars.”
Sam wondered if Jake saw her eyes bulge. Even if she could track down another of Smoke’s foals, even if Dad developed a demented desire to adopt a wild stallion, they could not afford the tests.
“Samantha?” Brynna sounded as if she thought Sam might have fainted from shock. “It’s unlikely we’ll even bring him in. Why don’t you relax?”
Sam had already disclosed everything except the location of the Phantom’s valley, so she confessed her fear, too. “Because I think someone else will try to adopt him.”
Papers rustled before Brynna asked, “Would that someone be Lincoln Slocum?”
“Yes.” Sam slumped.
“Lincoln Slocum was in the parking lot this morning when I arrived at seven-thirty. He filled out adoption papers, saying he wanted to set things in motion, in case a horse came in that he liked.” Brynna had resumed a cool, bureaucratic tone. “He expressed a particular interest in grays.”
Sam held her free hand over her eyes. She longed to hand the telephone receiver to Jake and see if he could make this problem go away. But she knew he couldn’t.
“That’s really not good,” Sam said.
“Don’t give up. Just let me look at this application a minute…” Brynna’s voice faded.
As Miss Olson looked over Slocum’s application, Sam hoped the woman would find something that showed Slocum shouldn’t be allowed to adopt a wild horse.
“Never mind,” Brynna said. “To discuss this in any more detail would be unprofessional. I’ve only shared this much because the man annoyed me. He asked if he could finance a roundup targeting grays.”
Sam thought a second. A helicopter, pilot, wranglers, trailers, and portable corrals were, as Brynna said, pretty pricey. “He wanted to pay for it all? Himself?”
Sam heard the sound of an open hand slamming a desktop.
“Can you believe it?” Brynna’s voice soared with outrage. “Of course, I told him the federal government doesn’t work that way, and then—” Brynna turned businesslike again. “Samantha, please give me your number, so I can phone if there are any developments which might interest you.”
