Firefly (7 page)

Suddenly, Sam saw Mrs. Allen's truck. From this distance, she imagined it was a meteor the size of a bowling ball, speeding this way to roll right over her. This could be a strange week.

Mrs. Allen was often cranky and picky, even about things that didn't matter. And Gabe mattered to her more than anything.

The one time Sam had talked with Gabe, he'd sounded smart and sure of himself, but bitter. He loved soccer and the accident had robbed him of another winning season.

Was it selfish to hope they'd both just leave her alone with Pirate? Yeah, it was.

Sam's hands tightened into fists as the orange truck drew nearer. It approached slowly, barely disturbing the dust cloud rising from the lane's powdery dirt.

“Shoot, Grandma, you didn't have to go so slow. You give new meaning to the words ‘driving me crazy.'”

The male voice that drifted to Sam in the tree house was half gruff jock and half little kid.

They hadn't left the truck yet, so the windows
must be rolled down. Which meant she was sort of eavesdropping.

“Hi!” Sam shouted as she climbed down the tree house ladder, but neither of them seemed to hear.

“I got lots of your favorite foods,” Mrs. Allen was saying. “Fried chicken, TV dinners, and green beans to make with onion rings on top.”

“It's so hot, Grandma, sandwiches are fine with me,” the voice said.

Even though Mrs. Allen was no cook, it sounded as if she wanted to do her best for her grandson. Added to what Gram had sent, they'd be eating well all week long, Sam thought.

“Hi!” Sam called again.

This time Mrs. Allen must have heard her, because she'd climbed down from the truck. She looked as she always did when dressed for town. Her dyed black hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, showing big silver concho earrings. Her white blouse was tucked into a long skirt.

One hand shaded her eyes as she looked toward Sam.

From this distance, Sam couldn't see the expression in Mrs. Allen's brown eyes, but she had a feeling the old woman's hand wasn't trembling from age.

Hush…hush…hush.
Like the river's voice from her dream, the La Charla seemed to echo Dad's words.

Don't go lookin' for trouble
, he'd said.

Sam drew a deep breath.

“Hi, Mrs. Allen!” she called.

Then, trying to be helpful, Sam darted forward to open the passenger's side door.

The guy inside had to be Gabe.

He looked like an athlete, with broad shoulders under a white team tee-shirt. His blond hair was short and prickly as porcupine quills. He wore a silver stud earring in one earlobe and had a grin so wide, his eyes were almost squinted closed.

He wore baggy black shorts, but his legs…

He'd been joking around until he saw her. Then the humor left Gabe's face in three quick shifts of expression. First his chin lifted, then his shoulders squared, making him look cocky and stuck-up. Next, his glance dropped to his legs and stayed there as if he couldn't look away from one leg in a cast from toes to mid-thigh and the other leg bruised with yellow bars and slashes.

When he managed to jerk his head up, Gabe looked vulnerable, completely defenseless as he waited for her reaction. Then his eyes turned green as a toxic chemical. As if his brain had barked an order to snap out of it, Gabe's sullen expression demanded,
Who the heck cares what you think?

Sam had forgotten she was holding the door open for him until he gave it a flat-palmed thrust that vibrated through the metal into her fingers and wrist bone.

“Like I couldn't have opened it myself,” he sneered.

Frozen by his fury, Sam pulled her hand away from the car door.

He reached into the backseat for crutches. He grunted, but there was no flailing around as he got them angled perfectly to lift himself upright.

“Sorry,” she said, but she was remembering Dad's words all over again. She hadn't had to go looking for trouble. It had come looking for her.

G
abe's hostile expression crinkled the scab over his cheekbone. He used the crutches to move closer. Way too close, in fact.

Sam stepped back. Afraid the tip of his crutch would crush her toe, she looked down. She'd tried not to, because she was certain Gabe would be self-conscious. But she did and noticed that though Gabe's bare leg looked muscular beneath the bruises, it dragged. The other leg swung a little bit, but only from the weight of its cast.

With a sick feeling, she realized Gabe hadn't regained the use of his legs. At least, not yet.

Sam wet her lips. How many words had passed between them during their single phone call? One
hundred? Two? She didn't know him at all, but his stare dared her to say something.

“Gabriel,” Mrs. Allen began, and her voice was shaky. “This is Samantha Forster from River Bend Ranch. I pointed out their bridge to you from the highway, remember? And you talked with her on the phone?”

“How are ya?” he asked. Sam felt a surge of hope. Maybe things would be okay, after all. But then Gabe's eyes flicked over her scornfully and he added, “I guess you're the official ‘check out the gimp' greeting committee.”

Did her mouth actually fall open?

In the single minute he'd been here, the guy had shoved a door at her, gotten—literally—in her face, and insulted her. Enough was enough.

“No,” Sam snapped. “Actually, I've seen gimps before. But I'm waiting for a horse that's one of a kind.”

Mrs. Allen gasped, but Gabe gave sort of a snort. His hands loosened their white-knuckled grip on his crutches. Even if it was rude, it might have been the right thing to say.

“Yeah?” Gabe stared toward the pasture and then the corral. “Looks to me like they can take care of themselves.”

“Sam's going to be here all week,” Mrs. Allen said. “He was a fine young horse—” Mrs. Allen broke off. Her hands fluttered in uncharacteristic dithering
movements. “He was badly injured and it…she's…”

Mrs. Allen was holding back tears. Gabe's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Where's Jen when I need her?
Sam wondered. Her best friend understood human psychology almost as well as she did that of horses. Maybe she'd comprehend this guy's meanness.

“He's a mustang colt that was badly burned in that fire I told you about,” Sam explained. She could hear the return of her own confidence. If there was one thing she could talk about, it was horses. “You know your grandmother takes in ‘unadoptable' mustangs, and this one's not only been burned, he was traumatized, and is almost kind of crazy.”

“Oh yeah, right,” Gabe said.

Sam's eyes had wandered to the road, looking for Dr. Scott and Pirate, but Gabe's sarcasm drew her attention back.

“You don't believe me?” Sam asked, amazed. “Why else would I be here?”

“To keep me company because you've done hospital time, too?” Gabe's sun-bleached eyebrows quirked up. He looked smug, as if she couldn't possibly deny his theory. “I don't suppose that could have anything to do with it?”

“I don't know how to break it to you, but—” Sam stopped. She'd been about to tell him he wasn't the center of her universe.

That would have crossed the line between sarcasm
and outright rudeness. Sam knew it, and Mrs. Allen's loud intake of breath underlined it.

The kid was being a jerk, but he had a good reason. Sam remembered when Rachel Slocum had spread a rumor about her all over school. Samantha Forster had suffered permanent brain damage from her riding accident, Rachel had told anyone who'd listen.

Despite the heat, the memory turned Sam's hands cold and she shivered with goose bumps. The stares—half of which she'd probably imagined—had tormented her. Hot blushes had lasted for days, like sunburn. She'd reacted—well, like she wasn't exactly sane.

At least that rumor had been false.

How must Gabe feel, knowing people were staring at him and seeing limp legs that had once been strong enough to kick a ball the entire length of a soccer field?

“That
could
have something to do with why I'm here, but it doesn't,” Sam told him. “I'm here for the colt, because your grandma was willing to take him in and Dr. Scott—”

“The vet,” Mrs. Allen put in.

“—talked me into working with the colt so he'd have a better chance of being adopted.”

In the lull between sentences, Sam heard a faint nicker. Most of the wild horses had stopped grazing to stare toward the road, but she saw nothing.

“You could help her with the horse, though,” Mrs. Allen said. Sam heard the apology in her words. Mrs. Allen had wanted to teach Gabe to ride this summer, but this might be the best she could offer.

“You could,” Sam said slowly. An addition to Pirate's human herd might be a good idea.

“Oh yeah,” Gabe snapped. “I'm totally set up to help you tame a wild horse.” He shifted his weight to his left crutch and gestured with the right one. “Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not nice to tease the handicapped?”

Gabe was really feeling sorry for himself. Sam recognized the same bitterness she'd seen in Jake when he broke his leg. She understood, but she didn't have to like it.

She'd already opened her mouth to ask Mrs. Allen for help, when she heard the vet's truck.

“Here they come,” Sam said. For a second, she wondered why her neck felt wobbly. Could it be from relief? Had she really been that tensed up?

Yes! Given the choice between facing a terrified, half-ton horse and a mixed-up guy, Sam knew she'd pick the horse, every time.

She could get inside the mind of a
loco
colt more easily than she could a guy who struck out at others just to prove he wasn't weak.

Mrs. Allen glanced at her watch. “Gabe, would you like to go inside? Maybe lie down on the couch for a little while?”

Gabe gave a curt shake of his head. “I want to check out this wild horse.”

It took Sam only a second to see that Dr. Scott was following through on their plan to put Pirate in with the three saddle horses.

She gave Mrs. Allen a quick explanation, then bolted to open the pasture gate.

Dr. Scott backed up to the gate and turned the truck off.

“I should have bandaged his legs,” Dr. Scott said before he uttered another word. “Or given him a higher dose of sedative.”

The vet's eyes were pained, as if the banging around the colt had done in the trailer had bruised his flesh, too.

But Pirate was out of the trailer and into the corral in minutes.

“He knows what a pen's about,” Mrs. Allen said, coming to stand beside the young vet.

“He should,” Dr. Scott said, then squeezed Mrs. Allen's forearm. “Thanks so much, Trudy.”

“For nothing,” she said, shrugging.

Shimmering red gold in the morning sun, the colt pranced halfway around the corral, swerved away from the three saddle horses, then doubled back the way he'd come. Although Dr. Scott had said the colt hadn't lost vision in the eye with the starfish-shaped patch, Sam noticed that Pirate tilted his head, trying to keep his unmarred side to the other horses.

Now, as Calico advanced toward the colt, Sam recalled the mare's strength. Calico might be old, but Sam had spent an uncomfortable half hour once dangling from the pinto's halter rope as a farrier tried to shoe her.

But Calico only jostled against the colt's shoulder. The other paint mare, Ginger, clopped up to sniff him loudly, and no matter how the colt shied and tried to sidestep out of reach, she snuffled and rubbed him with her nose.

To establish his dominance, Judge slung his head over Pirate's neck. He didn't press downward, though, at least not enough that Sam could see it.

“They're all talking the same language,” Dr. Scott said, and Sam could tell he was heartened by the horses' acceptance of the colt.

They were sweet and welcoming, just as they'd been with Ace when he'd spent his first minutes with them. Sam couldn't understand it. Turned into River Bend's saddle horse pasture, poor Pirate would have been reminded of his newcomer status with bites and kicks, not placid pressure and gentle nibbling.

Behind her, Sam heard Mrs. Allen talking quietly to Gabe.

“You're sure you're up to this? You've been awake for hours. You're not even in the same time zone.”

“One hour difference is all,” Gabe said, and when Sam glanced his way, he met her eyes.

She gave him a small smile for hanging in there, but Sam noticed his lips were pressed together hard and she thought a faint tremor showed in his arms as he arranged himself against the corral fence.

“I'll tell you a few things while he settles in,” Dr. Scott said, coming to stand beside Sam. “We'll do show-and-tell afterward.”

“Okay,” Sam said, though she was thinking it would be polite if someone introduced Dr. Scott to Gabe.

It would be up to her, Sam thought, because Mrs. Allen was fussing over Gabe as if he were a little kid. And it was backfiring big time.

“Punishing fear is the biggest mistake you can make,” Dr. Scott began, and Sam decided to let Gabe and the vet remain strangers for a while.

Dr. Scott was more interested in telling her how to handle the colt, and Gabe was trying to act tough, no matter what it cost him physically.

“Like we were talking about yesterday,” Dr. Scott went on, “if you're not an equine mind reader, it's difficult to know exactly what triggers the memory of an old fear, but seeing it is easy.”

“He's not scared now,” Mrs. Allen said with self-assurance.

“No,” Dr. Scott said, “and he's an easy one to read. He'll start twitching his tail as he becomes fearful. The more scared he gets, the faster that tail switches, until it's a blur.”

“A blur,” Sam echoed.

Dr. Scott nodded. “It's common to horses and cattle, but in him—”

The colt's front hooves did a stutter step.

“Yeah, I'm talkin' about you,” the vet said in a voice that verged on baby talk, then made a smooching noise and the colt moved off. “Anyway, in him, it's like a fuse burning down.”

Gabe gave a faint chuckle and Sam would bet he was imagining something like a round, black bomb in a cartoon, with a sparking fuse growing shorter and shorter as it burned. If Dr. Scott heard him, though, he gave no sign.

“Once he starts twitching his tail, it means he's having those memories again. One swish and you can keep doing what you're doing. Two swishes, get on your mark. Three, get set. Four, just get away fast.”

Sam concentrated. That was easy enough, but she wondered what she was supposed to be doing while she was near him.

“Try to end the lesson before he's too scared,” Dr. Scott emphasized.

“What lesson?” Sam asked.

The vet sighed. “That people are kind, that they won't hurt him. In fact, it'd be good if he started to believe people will even help him if they can. Then we've gotta hope the family he goes to reinforces the lesson.”

The vet cleared his throat and continued in a
no-nonsense tone. “You want to work him no more than fifteen minutes at a time, but try to get in two hours per day.”

Sam nodded. That didn't sound very hard. In fact, if Mrs. Allen didn't make her do any other chores, it would almost be a vacation.

In the corral, the horses had all come to a stop. Although the three saddle horses stood side by side facing the colt and he was a few steps away from them, all four animals' heads drooped in relaxation.

“So maybe I shouldn't do anything that makes his tail swish,” Sam suggested.

“Well, we have to press him just a little bit if he's going to learn anything.” Dr. Scott's words came out reluctantly. He pushed his black-rimmed glasses firmly up his nose. “It's kinda like this: Working with that colt is like watching a teakettle, and we want to keep him at a simmer. You know what that is?”

Sam did, but it was kind of hard to explain. “It's like, hot, but—sort of just before a boil?”

“Exactly!”

Dr. Scott jabbed an index finger her way. Again the colt startled. He sure was focused on the vet, Sam thought.

Behind her, Sam heard Gabe make an exclamation. She didn't hear exactly what he said, but she guessed he'd just now seen the colt's burned face.

“So, I should end his lessons before he reaches a full boil?” Sam asked the vet.

Dr. Scott hesitated for a second, then said, “Absolutely.”

Sam nodded. She understood.

After the Phantom's capture and abuse by Karla Starr, Sam had mended her friendship with the stallion slowly and carefully.

Jaw jutting, Dr. Scott touched Sam's arm and guided her a few steps away from Mrs. Allen and Gabe.

“What?” she asked.

The young vet looked angrier than she'd ever seen him.

“How old's that kid?” Dr. Scott demanded.

“Gabriel? He's…I'm not sure. I think he's going to be a junior in high school. Why?”

“Since he's Trudy's grandson, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, but he strikes me as a bad apple.”

Sam had heard the expression before, but it didn't seem to fit. Gram said a bad apple was someone who, like a rotten apple in a barrel of tasty ones, spreads its decay. It didn't seem fair to dismiss Gabe as that sort of person.

“Why do you say that?” Sam asked.

“Once he saw the colt's burns, he couldn't stand to look at him. They're”—the vet shrugged—“unsightly, but he's still healing.”

Dr. Scott gazed at the colt with affection.

“Gabe's kind of banged up himself,” Sam said,
shrugging. “It seems like he'd understand what the colt's going through better than—”

“Stop it, Sam,” Dr. Scott said grimly. “You know animals are sensitive to feelings. The colt's in a delicate stage of recovery. I think it'd be better for everyone if you kept that kid away from him.”