by Terri Farley
Jen and Jake sat their horses, way across the ranch yard, pretending they were guarding the bridge against the steers’ return. They weren’t, though. Sam knew they felt the uneasiness quaking between her and Dad and they wanted to stay out of range.
But her friends weren’t quite uncomfortable enough to ride on home, Sam thought with a mocking smile. Nope, they knew it was about time for Gram and Brynna to come home from church. They were determined to stay for lunch, and they hadn’t even heard about the peach pie yet.
As Sam watched, Jen took off her cream-colored Stetson and twirled it on one finger. That looked like a small celebration and it could only mean they’d spotted the Forsters’ only car coming this way.
Yep. Sam heard the hum of the yellow Buick, and Jen and Jake were backing their horses away from the bridge.
Gram had barely parked the car when Brynna slid out of the passenger’s seat and started toward Dad.
Brynna wore an electric-blue maternity sundress that showed off her tanned arms and legs. Sam thought she saw her stepmother stuffing half of a candy bar into a patch pocket shaped like a white daisy.
“You’ll never guess who was in church,” Brynna said. “It’s a wonder we weren’t all killed by a bolt from above.”
“Now Brynna,” Gram said, laughing in a way that clearly supported her daughter-in-law’s sarcasm instead of discouraging it.
“Couldn’t have been Slocum,” Dallas said. “He was out shooting coyotes.”
Brynna frowned and Gram flashed Dallas a scolding look before she hustled past toward the kitchen.
“Dinner’ll be in twenty minutes,” she snapped.
Brynna’s mood might have been a little restrained by Dallas’s comment, but she still slung both arms around Dad’s neck and gave him a hug.
“I’m all sweaty,” he protested.
“I noticed,” Brynna said, kissing his cheek. “I just don’t care.”
“I’m gonna leave you two lovebirds alone,” Dallas said. He shook his head before moving off. “And I’ll look Blaze over if he’ll let me.”
“Me too,” Sam said. Sometimes she wondered if Brynna got all mushy with Dad so that other people would get embarrassed and give them some privacy.
“No,” Brynna said, “don’t go, Sam. You’ll want to hear this. Well, actually you won’t want to, but—” Brynna gave a deep sigh. “You need to.”
Then it had to be about wild horses, Sam thought. Brynna didn’t believe in hiding the hard facts of mustang management from her stepdaughter, no matter how unpleasant they were.
“Spit it out,” Dad said. “You’re worryin’ me.”
“I knew he was coming,” Brynna said to Dad. “I just didn’t know it would be this soon.”
“Aw, shoot,” Dad said. He swept his hat off and slapped it against his chinks. “Already?”
Dad seemed to know exactly which “he” Brynna was talking about, but Sam didn’t.
“Who’s here?” Sam asked.
Brynna reached up and tightened the ponytail that took the place of her sensible weekday French braid.
“Norman White will substitute as manager of BLM’s Willow Springs Wild Horse Center while I’m on maternity leave,” Brynna said. “And for some reason, he’s shown up early.”
“At church?” Sam squeaked.
“Right in the middle of the front row,” Brynna confirmed.
He’s not as evil as Linc Slocum, Sam thought. Still, Norman White was known by BLM colleagues as “No Way Norman.” He was so cautious in spending the bureau’s money, he was the last person Sam wanted filling in for her horse-loving stepmother.
“But you’re not going on leave until December, are you?” Sam asked.
“No, of course not,” Brynna said. “I feel great and I’ll work until the very last minute. Nothing would make me happier than going into labor right there among the wild horse corrals. It would give him less time to mess things up.”
Dad’s mouth opened. The emotion telegraphing down the reins to Blue made the Spanish Mustang jerk back and roll his eyes. Dad’s expression said he was about to ask Brynna to tone down her statement.
But when Brynna whirled toward Dad with her hands on her hips, he didn’t say a word. And neither did Sam.
Chapter Eleven
Even to Sam, Brynna’s declaration sounded a little crazy. But Brynna hadn’t exactly been herself lately. Forgetful, uncoordinated, and—though she’d gained exactly the right amount of weight according to her doctor—embarrassed by her craving for sweets, Brynna was still devoted to the wild horses and she fought hard to prove that to everyone.
Just the same, Sam knew Brynna wouldn’t do anything to endanger the baby. Something about Norman White’s early arrival had her stepmother worried.
Sam had first met Norman White before Brynna and Dad were married. He had filled in as manager of Willow Springs while Brynna was on a business trip to Washington, D.C., and he’d ordered the death of a dozen “unadoptable” wild horses.
Sam had heard about the mustangs’ death sentence through Dr. Scott, a young vet who hated the idea of putting down healthy horses, and Sam had persuaded Mrs. Allen, their neighbor to the east, to go with her to just look at the doomed mustangs.
The horses had included Faith, a blind Medicine Hat filly, and her mother, plus other mustangs Norman White thought were too old or ugly to find homes. Sam had always wanted to ask him if he wondered what would happen to him when he grew old, lost his hair, and maybe had trouble moving around.
Luckily, Mrs. Allen’s heart had gone out to the condemned horses. They’d been the start of her Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary.
Now, Brynna smooched at Blue, and the wary mustang flicked his ears in her direction. Although he didn’t leave his place beside Dad, he shifted his weight forward and extended his muzzle far enough that when Brynna reached her hand out, they touched. Their greeting made Dad smile.
“Why is Mr. White here so early?” Sam asked.
“To investigate some irregularities in my office procedures.” Brynna pronounced the words in a prissy way.
“Oh, B.,” Dad said, using his nickname for her as he gave her shoulders a squeeze.
“I’m not worried about it,” Brynna said. She leaned against Dad so that he left his arm around her shoulders and looked up to tell him, “I’ve always followed policy to the letter.”
“So which ‘irregularities’ could he be talking about?” Dad asked.
“He wouldn’t discuss that at church,” Brynna said, “but—and I know this sounds paranoid—I got the distinct feeling he’d only come because he knew I’d be there.”
Sam believed Brynna. If Brynna thought Norman White was spying on her, he probably was.
Dad nodded. He believed her, too, but he offered another explanation.
“C’mon now,” Dad said. “Even old No Way Norman’s allowed to have a yen for church, isn’t he?”
“Sure,” Brynna said, “but once I spotted him sitting up front, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. I had a hard time paying attention to my own devotions, because I could see him writing something.”
“Writing? Like taking notes?” Sam asked.
“Like that,” Brynna admitted, “but when the service ended and we were all filing out, he dropped what he’d been working on and, well, I was right behind him.” Brynna touched the rounded front of her dress and laughed. “Norman was pretty surprised that I managed to bend down quick enough to swoop them up and return them to him.”
“What was it?” Sam asked.
“A couple things. I didn’t get a good look at the diagram, but I saw the computer spread sheet had dollar signs and the names of different herd management areas. I have no idea what he’s scheming to do while I’m gone.” Brynna’s tone verged on despair.
Ace mouthed his snaffle loudly, then swung his head against the reins. Sam followed his glance toward the hitching rail nearest the house. Jen and Jake were tying their horses. Sam couldn’t blame Ace for reminding h
er that she’d already loosened his cinch. That usually meant he was done for the day.
“This doesn’t sound like good news, but you’ve got almost a month to keep your eye on him, right?” Sam asked, and when Brynna agreed, Sam added, “I’d better go put Ace up.”
Brynna nodded, then pointed to Sam’s saddlebags and bedroll.
“Hey! I didn’t even ask how your camping and vulture-watching went.”
“It was great,” Sam said.
Then, Sam heard the clopping of heavy hooves, which meant Nicolas was leading Lace this way for water, and she yearned to talk about something that wasn’t serious. Homecoming week at school, maybe, or a spur-of-the-moment Halloween party. She wished she and her friends could just take a picnic lunch somewhere else, away from River Bend Ranch and its problems.
Dad looked at his dirty, horsehair-covered hands and said, “Better wash up and turn Blue out.”
When Brynna just nodded, Dad said, “We can talk more.”
Sam led Ace toward the pasture, then shouted back over her shoulder, “And we have company for lunch.”
Brynna was usually cheered up by visitors.
Sam freed Ace. As she hurried back toward the house, she saw Dad was still talking with Brynna. He hadn’t gone to wash up or turn Blue out at all. Were they discussing something they didn’t want her to hear?
Dad’s head jerked up, and he said, “Besides, you’re gonna like Sam’s new friend.”
“I bet I will,” Brynna said.
Sam thought it probably revealed something significant about her social life that Brynna started glancing around the ranch yard at animal level. As if her stepdaughter couldn’t have a new human friend.
“He’s a kid with a horse and wagon. A real gypsy, isn’t he, Sam?” Dad asked and there was something too hearty and totally un-Dad-like about the way he said it. “Sam?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said. “His name is Nicolas. Jen and I met him on the trail.”
Brynna frowned.
“He’s a college student, but he and his family are gypsies, from England,” Sam explained. “He’s the first Raykov—I think that’s how you pronounce his last name—born in the U.S., and he’s taking this journey to kind of live the life of his ancestors for a semester,” Sam told Brynna.
“That sounds interesting,” Brynna said, but her vague tone contradicted her words.
“Jake likes him,” Sam offered. She’d learned that unfair as it was, Jake’s opinion counted for more, with Dad and Brynna, than hers did.
“Is that him?” Brynna asked.
It was. Nicolas came around the corner of the barn and Lace followed, though she wore no halter and he held no lead rope. On playful hooves, the dun colt came with them.
“That’s Nicolas and his horse Lace. She’s a Gypsy Vanner. They’re really rare and he’s driving, if you can believe it, all the way from Seattle to Sacramento. He’s carrying everything he needs for his six-month trip in his wagon. It’s called a vardo. Jen and I—”
“Is there an unusual marking on that colt’s forehead?” Brynna interrupted.
“No….”
“He looks a little skittish. Can you get close enough to pet him?”
What was going on with Brynna? Sam wondered. The colt was cute, but Lace was amazing. And rare.
“Sam, have you peeked under his forelock?”
“No, he’s—”
“Wild?” Brynna finished for her.
“Not exactly,” Sam said, though she felt a flash of understanding. Part of Brynna’s job was making sure mustangs weren’t taken from the wild by anyone except the federal government.
“Samantha, tell the truth,” Brynna insisted. “Does your friend own that colt?”
Sam stared across the ranch yard, trying to remember everything Nicolas had said about the dun colt. She watched Nicolas stroke Lace’s black-and-white shoulder as she drank, but she was remembering the way the dun colt had tried to join the Phantom’s herd.
“He said it was a stray,” Dad cut in, casting an impatient look at Sam. “A leppie foal that started tagging along with the mare.”
“Where did he join them?” Brynna asked.
“I think he told me,” Sam admitted. “It was somewhere I’d heard of, but I can’t remember. We can ask him, you know.” Then, when Brynna looked like Sam had been sassy, Sam added, “Can’t you tell me what you’re worried about?”
Brynna parted her lips to speak, but then shook her head.
“Not ten minutes ago he was offering that colt to Pepper,” Dad said. Sam could tell he was trying to coax the truth from Brynna, too. “He says he can’t take the young one along with him travelin’ the highway.”
Tempest, Sam’s own black filly, called to the dun colt.
They must be about the same age, Sam thought, and when the little dun ran a bucking loop around Lace, Sam wished she could turn this baby out to play with Tempest.
“I’m probably being too suspicious,” Brynna stated, “but if I’m right, it’s going to mean trouble. Sam, why did you have to bring that boy and his horses here at all?”
That didn’t sound like Brynna. She was always sociable and welcoming to everyone.
“What is wrong?” Sam managed.
“If that colt’s the horse I think he is, Norman White will recognize him. The herd of Spanish Mustangs that Blue came from has turned out to be genetically significant in a university study, and the adopters of the other horses have become pretty loud in accusing BLM of losing—or selling off—the last remaining stallion from the herd.”
“But that didn’t happen,” Sam said.
The BLM hadn’t known Blue’s herd was almost pure Spanish, descended from the horses conquistadors brought to the New World centuries ago, when the herd was rounded up. The BLM had declared the horses’ territory too sparsely vegetated to sustain them through winter.
How could people accuse the BLM of losing or selling off the last remaining stallion when he—Blue—and his yearling colt had been gelded and adopted?
“You told me one of the mares from that Good Thunder Meadows bunch died,” Dad said slowly. “And when you got interested in the bloodlines, because of Blue, your boss put you in charge of tracking down her missing foal…” Dad’s voice faded as he stared at the dun colt and shook his head.
“Do you think that’s him?” Sam asked.
“Honey, that’s a terrible long shot,” Dad told Brynna, but suddenly Sam knew it wasn’t.
Dad had researched the place Blue had come from. Good Thunder Meadows had earned its name because an ex-cavalryman had lived in that high mountain valley and when a severe winter left his Indian neighbors hungry, he’d used his rifle to bring down game for food. They’d named the sound of his rifle “good thunder.”
Now, Sam remembered the glow of firelight on Nicolas’s face as he’d told her and Jen that the foal had showed up in the area of Good Thunder Meadows.
“Don’t you think it would look pretty fishy if I’m investigating the colt’s disappearance and he ends up here?” Brynna asked. “This is not a good time for me to be in possession of stolen government property. Norman’s certainly read the description. He’ll recognize the colt just like I did.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Dad said soothingly. “At least not right away.”
“It might, since your mother”—Brynna wore a wry smile as she tapped Dad’s chest with her index finger—“asked Norman White over for lunch. He’ll be here any minute.”
Chapter Twelve
If Nicolas felt three pairs of eyes watching him as he stood beside Lace at the water trough, he didn’t show it. He sang to his horse, soothing her with the same melody he’d used in the forest the night before. Even though the darkness and trees had given way to a sunlit ranch, the words gave Sam chills.
“Gypsy gold does not clink and glitter, oh no,” Nicolas’s voice soared, even without the violin to guide it. “It gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark, ah yes.”
“
His voice.” Brynna uttered the words in awe.
“The tune reminds me of that old song,” Dad said, and silently snapped his fingers as if the gesture would bring the title to mind. And it did. “‘Oh Shenandoah,’ is that what it’s called?”
“It has that same lonely quality,” Brynna said, but she used a dismissive tone. When she glanced toward the bridge over the La Charla River and the highway beyond it, Sam knew her stepmother’s attitude wasn’t linked to Nicolas’s song. “But right now, before we have more company, I need to have a look at that colt’s forehead. The one that got away had a distinctive marking.”
Sam didn’t know how they were going to do this without making Nicolas feel like he was suspected of something, but somehow Brynna managed.
Maybe her big belly and bouncy ponytail didn’t look threatening, Sam thought. And maybe Nicolas would have reacted differently if Brynna had been wearing her uniform, but she wasn’t. After admiring Lace and Nicolas’s ambitious trek down the West Coast, she told him the little dun might be the orphan colt of a Spanish Mustang mare from a desolate area near the Oregon border.
“It sounds like him,” Nicolas said. “He fell in with us around Good Thunder Meadows. At least, that’s what the sheepherder called it. It wasn’t on any of my maps.”
“I wonder if you can bring him close enough that I can check his brow,” Brynna said. “He was described as a dun with a marking like two upside-down Vs, one inside the other, where you might expect to see a star.”
“That’s it,” Nicolas said. “It’s a lot like the markings on his knee. They look like they were done in fountain pen, and then got rained on.”
Brynna smiled at the description, but then Nicolas’s brows rose and his jaw dropped slightly. “Described by who?” Nicolas asked with a fleeting breathlessness. “If he belonged to someone and escaped, why is he so wild?”
“He was probably born wild,” Brynna said. “He was brought in with the rest of the Good Thunder Meadows mustangs by the Bureau of Land Management. Now we know he’s a valuable little horse, but then…” Brynna shrugged. “He got separated from the rest somehow.”
