The Wild One Page 8

  “The mustang corrals?” Sam felt excited and worried all at once.

  “Willow Springs is where the BLM holds wild horses until they’re adopted,” Jake explained. “And you,” Jake used his bacon like a scepter, “get to come along.”

  “Lucky me,” Sam said. She wasn’t sure she liked the BLM, because they took wild horses off the range, and she was half afraid Jake would act over-protective around even captive mustangs.

  Jake ignored her sarcasm and added, “’Course, Wyatt’s coming, too, since I only have my learner’s permit.”

  Sam drained the rest of her orange juice and watched Jake. Should she tell him about the Phantom? Maybe when no one else was around.

  “You are lucky,” Gram told her. “Wyatt doesn’t have much use for the Bureau of Land Management.” Gram glanced over as the door opened to show Dad stamping off his boots. “You’d think visiting their corrals was paying a call on the Devil himself.”

  “Them talking about raising grazing fees again isn’t improving my attitude,” Dad said. He looked over Gram’s shoulder as she flipped two pancakes at once. He licked his lips, then added, “I can rein in my tongue long enough to take Sam up there. She’s been a big help at home, while we’ve been riding fence.”

  Sam felt a burst of pleasure at the compliment. Dad was taking a day off from ranch chores just for her.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Sam said.

  “You’ve earned it,” Dad’s voice said he wouldn’t tolerate any sentiment. “Let’s just hope Jake gets us there in one piece.”

  Gram handed him a cup of coffee. “I wondered if you were ever coming in,” she said. “I thought I was going to have to feed these pancakes to the dog.”

  Outside, Blaze thumped his tail in appreciation, but Sam wondered why Gram sounded cranky. She’d just cooked those pancakes, so they weren’t the real problem.

  For two days in a row Gram had acted like this, and it was out of character. It had also made it impossible for Sam to ask Gram why Jake seemed to feel guilty over her accident.

  “You be careful driving, Jake Ely, even backing out,” Gram said. “I love that Buick, and if you hit it, your folks are footing the bill.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said.

  Jake looked puzzled by Gram’s mood, too, and her attachment to the long yellow car, which must be two decades old.

  Jake grabbed a chair, turned its back to face the table and straddled it.

  “For heaven’s sake, if you come to my table, sit right,” Gram snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said again, but this time he sounded humble. He switched the chair to its proper position.

  As Gram walked away, Jake’s eyes asked Sam what was going on. Sam shrugged.

  “BLM is pretty much done gathering horses for the year,” Dad said. His sudden change of topic made Sam think he was trying to distract them from Gram’s mood. “Those up at Willow Springs have been there a while.”

  “I’m glad they’re done,” Sam said. “But why?”

  Dad sipped his coffee. “Usually, they won’t gather when there are foals. Unless there’s an emergency.” Dad gestured toward the range. “I expect that bunch we saw them trying to round up the day you came home was in a real dry area and they didn’t want ’em to go thirsty.”

  Jake continued Dad’s explanation. “They use helicopters to drive them into traps. Then they truck them off the range, vaccinate and worm them and give them some vitamin-laced feed while they’re waiting for adoption.

  “Expensive stuff,” Jake added. “Just putting a helicopter and pilot in the air has got to cost a thousand dollars.”

  “See where my grazing fees are going?” Dad grumbled.

  Sam stared out the kitchen window, but she wasn’t thinking of money. She imagined herself one of those horses. She heard the helicopter’s racket overhead, felt herself slam into a corral and then a truck with other mustangs.

  It must be terrifying, and yet she’d read that fewer mustangs were injured with helicopter herding than when men chased them on horseback.

  Once more, Sam imagined herself a horse. Mustangs had no flying predators, but they knew ground attacks, from coyotes or cougars, meant blood and pain. Maybe that’s why they considered the helicopters more of an annoyance than a threat.

  “I’ve read about it,” Sam said, slowly. “Does that mean we can just drive there, pick one out and bring it home?”

  “Yep. If you’ve got a hundred and twenty-five dollars and a decent place to keep it,” Dad said. “But don’t bring your allowance, Sam. We’re just window shopping.”

  Window shopping. Did that mean Dad might allow her to adopt a mustang later? There was only one mustang she wanted and the prospect made her heart beat faster.

  “Might want to bring a sweater,” Dad said, standing. “We might be back late.” He turned to Gram, and added, “I talked with Dallas. He and the boys will take care of the evening chores. You just enjoy your day.”

  Sam didn’t mention she had not been able to find her favorite black sweater since the cattle drive. That sounded careless. Now that Dad was treating her with respect, she didn’t want him to change his mind.

  As Dad followed Jake out the door, Sam hustled from table to sink, clearing plates. The curtains at the kitchen window moved in the early-morning breeze. Outside, Dad directed Jake in backing the truck.

  “Come on back, come on,” Dad said, motioning.

  Sam smiled. Soon, Jake would be testing for his driver’s license and Dad didn’t miss an opportunity to teach him.

  “Honey?” Gram put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam turned. Gram’s concerned expression reminded Sam of Gram’s bad mood, but Gram reached a gentle hand to brush Sam’s hair back from her eyes.

  “What do you do, when you leave the house so late at night?”

  Relief rushed through Sam.

  “Nothing,” Sam said. “When I get restless and can’t sleep, I go out and listen to the coyotes, watch the horses in the pasture, and—” Sam told the truth. “I’ve seen some wild horses at the river.”

  Gram still looked skeptical.

  “What did you think I was doing?”

  “Never mind. Sorry I’ve been such a scold. I do that when I’m worried.” Gram kissed Sam’s cheek as Jake honked the truck horn outside. “You run along now, and have a good time.”

  Sam bolted out the front door and nearly collided with Dad.

  “Gram talk to you?” Dad nodded toward the kitchen.

  “Yes,” Sam said. “But I don’t know what about.”

  Dad gazed toward the river, looking embarrassed. “She thought you and Jake might be up to something.”

  “Jake,” Sam said, slowly, “and me?” A blush heated her cheeks. “Jake and me?”

  Why would Gram think she was sneaking out to meet Jake? Jake was like a brother. Almost.

  “Guess she was way off base.” Dad pulled at his hat brim.

  “I was looking at the horses, Dad. It’s the horses I missed while I was in San Francisco.”

  Dad smiled and opened the truck door. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but the three of us can fit. Slide on in,” he said, indicating she’d be sandwiched between him and Jake in the truck cab. “And hang on tight.”

  Jake wasn’t a bad driver, but the road to the Willow Springs Wild Horse Center made Sam appreciate her seat belt. The road’s surface was like rock-hard corduroy and her teeth hammered together as they swooped through the high desert.

  “Dad,” Sam said, suddenly. “I forgot to ask Gram to give Buddy her bottle.”

  “I’m sure she’ll think of it when that calf starts bawling.” Dad must have thought she looked worried, because he added, “Gram’s working out in her vegetable garden. That’s not far from the barn. I think she’ll hear Buddy just fine.”

  “Yeah.” Sam bit her bottom lip. She didn’t tell Dad she’d put Buddy out into the pasture, but since it was only a few yards farther from the garden, it probably wouldn’t matter.<
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  Suddenly the road slanted uphill.

  “This next part’s called Thread the Needle. We’re almost there.” Jake slowed slightly as the road narrowed, leaving just enough room for the truck as steep cliffs fell away on each side.

  “Look hard and you’ll see River Bend.” Jake took a hand from the steering wheel to gesture down the cliff.

  Sam didn’t enjoy looking down, but she saw the river, glinting silver-blue in the distance. Between here and there, a maze of trails marked the steep hillside.

  “Antelope paths,” Dad said, his finger showing how they zigzagged through sagebrush and rocks.

  Then the road slanted downhill and the Willow Springs Center was spread before them. To Sam, it looked like a patchwork quilt with pipe fencing for stitching.

  Sam’s stomach tightened as they drove slowly past the pens. On her right horses moved away from the fences. On her left stood an office building and a parking lot for three white trucks with “U.S. Government” stenciled on their doors. Ahead, horses waited as a huge bearded man broke open bales of hay.

  Why did she feel nervous, when everything seemed normal? The pens looked clean. The horses weren’t crowded. A hill in each corral insured rain would run off before the mustangs stood in deep mud. Nothing was wrong.

  Sam noticed two mares standing head-to-tail, eyes half closed as their tails swished flies from each others’ faces. Then she recognized what was wrong. These “wild” horses looked tame.

  A door slammed and a trim red-haired woman in a crisp khaki uniform left the office building.

  “Hey,” she called to a bespectacled man standing at a corral with a clipboard. “We have thirty head coming in from the Calico Range.”

  “Ready,” he answered, gesturing toward three empty corrals.

  Sam heard Jake draw a breath. Clearly he’d listened, too. Something the two BLM officials had said surprised him.

  “What is it?” Sam asked.

  Jake lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

  “Since our cattle drive ran right along the Calico Mountains,” Dad said, “I suppose he’s thinking the wild band you two saw has been trapped. Is that it, Jake?”

  Sam’s mind swarmed with images of the Phantom running across the range, with Slocum in pursuit.

  “Could be,” Jake said, but before he went on, the red-haired woman interrupted.

  “Hello,” she said. “Are you thinking about adopting a wild horse?”

  Now that the woman stood closer, Sam saw her name tag read “B. Olson.” She had freckles. The sun lines around her blue eyes said she spent more time outside than in the beige office building.

  “Just looking,” Dad said.

  The woman glanced away to take in the truck’s Nevada license plates.

  “We don’t get many adoptions from local people,” said B. Olson.

  “We have a fair number of mustangs running on our ranch,” Dad explained.

  The redhead picked up on Dad’s apologetic tone. “Have a look around,” she invited, pointing out which corrals held mares, foals, and stallions. “And if you have any questions about the animals, just ask.”

  “Are they all wild horses?” Sam blurted.

  Dad and the BLM woman looked puzzled.

  “Yes, BLM is only charged with protecting free-roaming horses and burros.” The redhead spoke slowly, as if she didn’t want to mention Sam wasn’t too smart.

  Sam felt embarrassed, but she needed a plan before explaining her question.

  At the risk of sounding even dumber, she asked another question. “What if a horse was free-roaming but not a mustang?”

  “Like a domestic animal turned free?”

  “Or one that escaped,” Sam said.

  The woman nodded, catching on. “We look for signs of domestication. Marks from the nose band of a halter, maybe.” She sounded so proper, it surprised Sam when the woman rubbed the bridge of her own nose. “And we have a brand inspector with us when we capture horses. Branded animals are declared ‘estray.’ A second brand inspector checks horses before they’re adopted, too, just to be sure.”

  Sam pretended to study a sorrel mare with white socks, but she was thinking, The Phantom may not have a brand, but he’s mine.

  “And if there isn’t a brand?” Sam heard Dad’s boots shift as he listened.

  “No lip tattoo or ear crop, either?” the woman asked, and Sam nodded. “The person claiming the animal might supply registration papers if the horse were a purebred—or convincing photographs.”

  Sam’s spirits soared, then crashed. She had a photograph taken when her colt was eighteen months old, but she wouldn’t call it convincing. In that picture, his coat was coal black.

  “What about a scar?” Jake asked. Sam knew he’d remembered the mark from Slocum’s rope. “Could someone get a horse back by explaining a scar?”

  “Not a chance.” The woman brushed away the suggestion as if it were a pesky fly. “Anyone could tell a story about a scar.” She peered past the three of them toward the road, then turned to Dad. “You must be missing a horse.”

  “Not a one.” Dad didn’t give Sam a stern look, but she heard displeasure in his voice.

  Miss Olson shrugged, then glanced toward an approaching cloud of dust. “That rumbling means it’s time to return to work. This drought’s caused us a couple of emergency gathers. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Sam watched the woman go. Sam didn’t trust her formality and she didn’t like the way Miss Olson kept referring to horses as “animals.” Even though they were.

  As everyone turned to see the approaching vehicles, Sam noticed a cowboy who looked familiar. Not the bearded man she’d started thinking of as Bale Tosser, nor the clipboard man, but another man. His long, drooping mustache reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t recall whom.

  A huge truck labored up the road, but another truck, smaller than the other one and pulling a roomy gooseneck horse trailer, came first. Miss Olson started to walk away, then paused.

  “The stallions are in the gooseneck,” she said. “The mares are in the semi. You might enjoy watching us unload.”

  Dad glanced at Sam. She nodded, though something told her it wouldn’t be fun.

  The smaller truck backed the gooseneck trailer into position for a loading chute. Sam heard horses shifting, stamping, snorting. The stallions demanded release.

  Men in cowboy hats checked the chute, tested gates, and unlocked latches. A few held long flexible whips with pieces of paper attached to the tips, probably to hurry the horses along. If they ever emerged.

  Sam didn’t know whether she longed for their appearance or dreaded it. Especially when she squinted at the horses jostling inside the trailer.

  Like most horses, mustangs were usually bays and sorrels, but through the side of the trailer, Sam saw one creamy horse.

  Miss Olson joined the man with the clipboard. They stood where they could see each horse appear.

  It took forever for the trailer door to swing open. A neigh echoed. Hooves stumbled. More whinnies were followed by the snapping of teeth.

  One horse slammed against the side of the trailer. When he tossed his head in distress, Sam saw it was the pale mustang.

  Please not the Phantom, please.

  Sam hadn’t spoken aloud, but she realized her fingers were clenched in fists when Jake grabbed one of them. He unfolded her hand, gave it a squeeze, and held it, as the first stallion bolted out of the trailer and into the sunlight.

  Chapter Ten

  THE FIRST STALLION was the color of orange sherbet mixed with whipped cream.

  He was not the Phantom. Not even a gray. Sam sighed as if a metal band had been cut from around her chest.

  The stallion had the thick neck of a mature horse, but he stood only a little taller than a pony. His long forelock swept back from his eyes as he charged into the empty corral. Then he trotted along the fence line, anxious for the company of other horses.

  When he was joined by a leggy bay, taller but yo
unger, they circled the pen together, forming a herd of two.

  With all eight stallions penned, the truck full of mares began unloading into a larger corral.

  The stallions seemed to ignore them, until the bay veered too close to the side of the pen nearest the mares. At once, the cream-colored stallion charged, reared, and came down to give the bay a savage bite on the crest.

  Surprised and hurt, the bay fled to the opposite side of the corral. He stood trembling among the other stallions, while the pony-sized bully held his ground.

  “It happens once in a while.” Miss Olson stood next to them again. “But not often. Sometimes there’s one horse just itching to prove he’s in charge.”

  “Just like people,” Jake said.

  Sam thought of Slocum.

  “Precisely,” said the woman. Then she glanced at Sam. “We’ve got a vet who’ll check that bite.”

  Sam held her breath. Miss Olson must have noticed Sam looked worried, but she couldn’t know why—Sam was imagining a fight between the cream stallion and the Phantom. She had a feeling it wouldn’t end so quickly or quietly.

  The Phantom was used to surviving in the wild and fending for himself. In a place like this, challenged by other stallions, surrounded by fences and unfamiliar humans, he might believe he was fighting for his life.

  Sam ducked her head a little, hoping to hide her eyes. It didn’t matter, because Miss Olson’s attention had moved on.

  “Don’t all those horses, loaded with potential, make you want to go on a shopping spree?” Miss Olson asked and Sam realized she was trying to sell Dad a horse.

  “Not hardly,” Dad said, but he looked amused.

  “What about that black mare with white socks?” Miss Olson turned toward Sam and Jake. “Don’t you kids think she’d be just right for your mom?”

  Their voices overlapped, in response.

  “He’s not my dad,” Jake corrected.

  “My mom’s dead,” Sam said.