Firefly (6 page)

“Brynna tells me Mrs. Allen said
no problema
about the colt staying at her place this week.”

Sam didn't pay as much attention to the vet's fractured Spanish as she did the content. Had Brynna skipped right over that whole midmorning panic? The part where Mrs. Allen had said “no”?

“Yeah, but she can't work with him,” Sam hinted.

“Right, something about her grandson's accident,” Dr. Scott said distractedly.

“Her grandson's
really serious
accident,” Sam repeated, with the emphasis she thought it deserved.

Then she noticed Dr. Scott's eyes. Behind his black-framed glasses, the vet focused on Blaze. The dog was wandering back from the river. Once he saw Dr. Scott watching, Blaze lowered his head and stopped. His plumy tail nearly touched the ground as
it waved a cautious greeting.

The vet glanced at Sam, raised his eyebrows, then purposely turned his back to the dog so it could approach unwatched.

Then, arms folded over his belt, Dr. Scott faced Sam.

“Is anything wrong?” Sam asked suddenly. She looked quickly toward the bridge that led to River Bend.

“No, I'm just driving over to Deerpath Ranch to see what kind of setup Mrs. Allen has for the colt. Thought I'd stop on my way and tell you about my observations this morning.”

Why couldn't she find the words to tell him that she wasn't going to take care of Pirate? If she did, he might change his mind about evicting the colt from his corral.

Then Sam wondered if she'd come up with a crack in the vet's emotional armor.

The colt
. Dr. Scott never called him anything else. If
she'd
been caring for a young horse for two weeks, she certainly would have named it. Maybe he had, and just wouldn't admit it.

“What's the colt's name?” she asked, as if she could catch him off guard.

“He doesn't have a name, Samantha,” Dr. Scott said patiently. “He's a wild horse.”

Dr. Scott's tone—which implied she wasn't too smart—would have been insulting if she hadn't
known he was underlining the fact, again, that he didn't get involved with his patients.

Sam thought about telling him that she called the colt Pirate, but something stopped her.

“At any rate,” Dr. Scott went on, “this morning, I was out putting on his salve and sunscreen—”

“Sunscreen?”

“I'll tell you all about it when we meet at Blind Faith tomorrow morning.”

“But, I'm not sure I'm going—”

Blaze interrupted Sam's confession by sidling next to the vet. Then the Border collie raised his head under Dr. Scott's hand, forcing a pat.

Sam looked at the vet, incredulously, but the surprises weren't over.

With a low nicker, Dark Sunshine nudged the small of the vet's back. He turned and rubbed her neck.

“What happened, do you think?” Sam asked.

“I know exactly what happened,” Dr. Scott said. “They noticed I wasn't carrying my bag—the one with the shots and medicines in it.”

“Of course,” Sam said. The animals were more observant than she was.

“Yeah,” he said pointedly, “it turns out, a lot of times, it's kinda hard to recognize what's good for you.”

Sam had a feeling he wasn't just talking about the animals.

“I
really need to put some time in with Tempest before school starts,” Sam insisted.

“Just listen to what I have to say.” The vet's calm voice made Tempest look up.

Drops of river water trembled on her black face as if someone had decorated her with rhinestones. The filly's beauty tugged at Sam's heart, but she nodded. She'd listen to Dr. Scott, but he wouldn't change her mind.

“First off, if you don't work with that injured colt, no one will. Not in time for the auction.”

He was probably right, Sam thought.

“Second, I'm not just asking you to do this for the good of the colt, but for your own good, too. I know
that's a parent kind of thing to say, and I grant you, helping that little paint will be a lot harder than what you're doing with this baby.”

Together they looked at Tempest. Without thinking, Sam touched the cheek that was still faintly marked where Tempest's hoof had cut her on the first day of halter-breaking.

Dr. Scott must have followed her thoughts, because he gave a dismissive wave.

“With the wild colt, there's a greater chance of failing than there is of success….”

“Great.” Sam hadn't meant to say it. The word had just popped out.

“But you'll change his life if you work with him. Tempest will be waiting for you when you're done.”

“I appreciate what you're saying—” Sam started, but Dr. Scott wasn't finished.

“I don't have to tell you there are better riders than you,” he said.

“No,” Sam put in. Why did he think that would be persuasive?

“But you have an instinct for thinking like a horse that is, in my experience, unparalleled.”

Sam took a deep breath, thinking about the compliment. She pictured two twigs lying side by side. Parallel to each other, right? Then she imagined railroad tracks running into the distance, with only one rail on the right side and the crosspiece meeting nothing on the left.

Unparalleled. It was difficult to believe Dr. Scott, but if he happened to be right, maybe the injured colt could complete the picture. Maybe Pirate could be the other rail running along beside her. What if she
could
help him, and he transformed into as wonderful a tamed horse as he had been a wild one?

Sam shook her head. It just didn't make sense. Jake could do that, but her?

“What if I'm not good enough?” Sam asked. “What if I just scare him even more?”

“So, you think it's better not to try?”

“No. Of course not, but what if I try and—”

“Sam, if you try hard enough, you'll improve his life, forever.”

 

Sam wished she'd worn her bathing suit to bed.

According to the thermometer outside the kitchen, it had still been eighty-two degrees when she'd gone upstairs.

“Take a glass of ice water up with you and just try to sleep,” Gram had urged her.

That had been at about ten o'clock, but she'd just heard the grandfather clock strike one.

She would have stroked Cougar and let his purr lull her to sleep, but the last time she'd seen her cat, he'd been stretched out in front of the kitchen's screen door, hoping for a breeze.

It was ridiculous, lying flat on her back with her arms out so they didn't touch her nightgown. She'd
need her sleep to be ready for tomorrow, but that thought made her mind swirl faster.

Dr. Scott's praise had convinced her to help Pirate.

For her, it had been a big decision, but when she'd told Dad, Brynna, and Gram, they'd just nodded their agreement, then ignored her as they prepared for the HARP girls' arrival.

Brynna had been on the phone, talking with Mrs. Allen, for nearly half an hour. Since Brynna had to drive into the Reno airport to pick up the HARP girls and Mrs. Allen had to make the same trip to meet Gabe's plane, the two women had tried to consolidate the trips into one.

From what Sam heard, it wouldn't work, but she'd been more concerned about the time she'd spend with Mrs. Allen and Gabe once he was at his grandmother's ranch.

“I'm not sure how I'm supposed to act around Gabe and everything,” Sam had told Dad.

He'd nodded slowly and for a minute, she'd thought he understood her worries, but then he'd tousled her hair and said, “I'll get you over to Deerpath nice and early, don't you worry. I'm supposed to pick up that new truck you won for me by nine.”

Getting there early wasn't the point at all, but she'd just smiled and hoped she'd figure out how to handle the awkward situation when she got there.

She'd packed some clothes. They weren't the ones she wanted, but Gram had said any laundry Sam washed would have to go with her wet, because there was no way on earth they'd run the dryer and make the house even hotter.

“If you didn't throw your clothes on the floor after you've worn them once, you wouldn't have this problem,” Gram had muttered, but then she'd looked up from her weeklong menu with a sigh. “I don't mean to sound snappish, honey. One of the HARP girls is allergic to eggs and I'm trying to figure out how I will adapt.”

“That's okay, Gram,” she'd said, but when she'd tried to talk with Brynna about how Pirate would be handled during the wild horse auction, her stepmother had been busy going over the juvenile records and personal histories of the girls.

Finally, a breeze ruffled the curtains at Sam's window. Faint but cool, it reached her and she sighed. Paws padded into her room and Cougar leaped onto her bed.

Sam's bedsprings creaked as she rolled over to see Cougar kneading her sheets into a suitable nest. The cat was as particular as she had been, digging her sleeping bag out of a downstairs closet, shaking it out, and rerolling it into a smooth bundle, tied tight until she unfurled it tomorrow night at Mrs. Allen's ranch.

“Go to sleep,” Sam urged the cat. Cougar pretended not to understand.

She knew she wouldn't be sleeping at home tomorrow night, but Pirate didn't. He'd found a home off the range in Dr. Scott's corral, but he was about to lose it.

Sam swallowed hard. She had to help the colt through his pain and confusion. If she succeeded, he could be adopted into a loving home. If she failed, he'd live out his days in a faraway pasture. One way or another, he'd be gone soon.

At last, Cougar gave a feline sigh. Without meaning to, Sam echoed it.

The cat lay still and so did Sam, fading into dreams of sun glare, galloping hooves, and the river, shushing her worries into silence.

 

The next morning, Sam was kissing Ace good-bye on his velvety muzzle when Dad told her to hop in the car.

Deerpath Ranch was only a few miles out of the way, so Dad and Gram were dropping Sam off before starting toward Darton to pick up Dad's new truck.

Sam sat in the backseat of Gram's yellow Buick, arms wrapped around her sleeping bag.

Gram glanced over her shoulder.

“You've stayed there before,” Gram said.

“I know,” Sam said.

But not without my horse
, she thought. Both times she'd stayed at Deerpath Ranch—first helping the blind filly Faith through her first rocky days, then
when Mrs. Allen had flown to Denver after Gabriel's accident—Sam had brought Ace along with her. But Sam was pretty sure Gram wouldn't understand that the frisky bay gelding could be her security blanket.

Boo hoo, poor you,
Sam scolded herself. How many girls would love the chance to spend a week on a ranch, sleeping out under the Western stars, working to heal a wild mustang?

Hundreds, maybe thousands of people would envy her.

By the time they reached Deerpath Ranch, Sam barely noticed the improvements Mrs. Allen had made to the ranch this past year. Wooden fences had replaced rusted, sagging barbed wire. Bleached and barren fields had become green pastures, spreading to the horizon, dotted with glossy-coated mustangs.

Sam couldn't wait to get started. She opened the car door and shoved out her sleeping bag and suitcase.

A neigh floated to her from the barn corral.

Two pintos and a bay watched her, tails swishing, heads tossing. Calico, Ginger, and Judge didn't know they were about to get a new roommate.

No tangerine-colored truck sat parked by the wrought-iron fence around the rose garden, so Mrs. Allen hadn't come home yet. Dr. Scott's truck and trailer weren't here, either.

Sam climbed out after her stuff, and slammed the door.

Gram opened her door, went to the Buick's trunk, and opened it to remove a Styrofoam cooler. Sam had seen her put in plastic containers that held casseroles, cinnamon rolls, and vegetables all cut up and ready to dunk in the
chili con queso
dip.

“This might give her a few extra hours to spend with Gabriel, instead of cooking,” Gram said, but they both knew Mrs. Allen didn't cook much. “And don't forget these.”

Gram lifted out a brown paper bag. Sam could smell the yeasty aroma of fresh bread, wrapped and sitting atop tomatoes and zucchini from Gram's garden.

“I guess we beat everyone,” Sam said.

Gram scanned the deserted ranch, then looked back at Dad. “Wyatt?”

Sam knew she was to blame for Gram's hesitance.

“I'll be fine,” she assured Gram. “I'll just go yell through the door so that Imp and Angel know it's me.” She smiled, knowing Dad and Gram could hear Mrs. Allen's dogs barking with as much ferocity as their twenty-pound bodies could manage. “Then I'll go climb up in the tree house. I'll know even before they do if someone's coming.”

“Fine,” Dad said, but he motioned Sam to the driver's side window.

“Remember you were talkin' last night about Gabriel?” Dad paused until Sam nodded. “Just treat him like you'd want to be treated if you switched
places. Don't go lookin' for trouble. Just do your best and that'll be plenty good enough.”

Coming from Dad, that was a huge lecture. Sam leaned down to kiss his tanned and weathered cheek.

“Meant to ask you,” he added as she pulled away, “you leave your hat home on purpose?”

Sam smoothed her hand from her crown to the auburn hair covering the nape of her neck. It already felt hot with morning sun.

“I did,” she said. “Dr. Scott never wears one, and since he's the only human the colt really knows…”

Gram leaned forward and stared across Dad at Sam.

“That is awfully good thinking,” Gram said.

“Yep,” Dad agreed.

“I know you'll do right by that young horse.”

“Thanks, Gram,” she said.

Sam was still smiling as she stared after Gram's yellow Buick. Bumping down the road, it left her alone at Deerpath Ranch.

 

The black iron gate squawked. Metal shouldn't make a sound like that, Sam thought as she approached Mrs. Allen's house. Maybe the hinges needed oil or something.

The squawk set off a chorus of barks from inside the house. Sam eased through the gate and started up the garden path to Mrs. Allen's lavender house.

Sam knew the twisted metal spikes on the fence
were just for decoration. They probably weren't sharp, but she remembered walking up this garden path hand-in-hand with Jake when they were six or seven years old, thinking Mrs. Allen was a witch.

Sam didn't feel that way anymore, and once she got past the iron gate, the garden surrounding her was crowded with lush flowers and the buzz of honeybees.

She didn't expect anyone to answer her knock, but Imp and Angel did their best, barking and bouncing against the front door.

“It's just me, guys,” Sam shouted.

Even though she'd bet Mrs. Allen hadn't locked her door, Sam didn't let the black-and-white Boston terriers out. She could imagine them tearing around like the devil dogs she'd once thought they were, terrifying Pirate or Gabe—whoever arrived first—before she could recapture them.

Because she didn't want Mrs. Allen to think she planned on sleeping in the house, Sam piled her gear by the corral. It would be great to bed down outside, near the horses. Even as he drowsed, the injured colt would catch her scent and know she meant him no harm. She was just part of his herd. At least, temporarily.

Sam strode away from the ranch yard toward the tree house that had been built for Mrs. Allen's children. It was weird to think that Gabriel's mother had probably sat up in this tree house, having picnics,
maybe, or daydreaming she lived in the turret of a castle. She never could have guessed that some stranger named Samantha Forster would sit here, waiting to meet her injured son.

Except, that wasn't the main point, Sam thought a bit guiltily. She hoped Dr. Scott arrived first with the colt.

There was no sign of anyone yet.

From the tree house, Sam could see Mrs. Allen's house—gardens and studio in one direction and the blackened fields in the other. The La Charla River ran along one edge of the Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary. Its other boundaries were marked by brown-red fences Sam had painted herself. To the east, she saw the stairstep mesas leading up to the Calico Mountains and felt her pulse speed up as if she'd begun sprinting toward them.

The Phantom's secret valley lay hidden in those mountains. The silver stallion roamed this territory more often than he did the range surrounding River Bend.

Sam crossed her fingers on both hands. It was totally sappy, totally illogical, and contrary to all she knew about stallions, but she hoped the Phantom would come say good-bye to his son.

Later, Sam glanced at her watch.

Thirty minutes had passed and the road was still empty.

Had Dr. Scott had trouble loading the colt? Even
tranquilized, Pirate wasn't likely to welcome the trailer's confinement. Sam swallowed, imagining his fear with walls on each side. The truck's engine would sound like a roaring beast he couldn't see out the front window, and he'd have no room to turn and see what was behind.