Mustang Moon (15 page)

 

Sam had just swallowed the last of her peanut butter sandwich and walked toward the journalism classroom, when she saw Mr. Blair, waiting outside
the door. Sam's heart plummeted and she had to force her fingers out of the fists they had curled into.

What stupid thing had she done? Left the lens cap on so that the entire roll of pictures turned out blank? Broken some mechanism she hadn't even noticed?

Her steps must have slowed, because Mr. Blair shouted down the hall. “Too late now, Forster.” His voice caused a dozen heads to turn and stare. “Come in and face the music.”

Mr. Blair had used the school darkroom to develop and print the photographs that were now spread over a table in the back of the room. Those who'd arrived early were already looking at them, and Mr. Blair didn't make them leave as he gave Sam an evaluation of her work.

“This one shows evidence of nearly every mistake a beginner can make.” Mr. Blair tapped a picture Sam had taken of a reflection on a watering trough. “This is better, but you've got to read up on lens openings and shutter speeds.” His finger skimmed above a photograph of two Herefords at dusk.

“Your people pictures are the best,” RJay said as he scooted one photo away from the others.

Sam bit her lip in surprise. It was one of the after-school shots she'd taken before her telephone tutoring from Mrs. Ely. She'd lucked out on this one.

In it, Ms. Santos was tapping at her computer keyboard with one hand, a telephone clamped
between her ear and shoulder, smiling and beckoning a student into her office.

“We'll use this for the next issue,” RJay said, and Mr. Blair nodded.

She felt dizzy, as if she hovered above the whole scene. Other students studied the photos and gave her sidelong glances that could have been admiration or amazement that she'd done something noteworthy.

Maybe she had, and maybe it could help her save the Phantom.

And then Mr. Blair held up the one photograph she'd wanted to erase as soon as she'd snapped it.

In it, Rachel stood by one of her campaign posters. Her forced toothpaste-commercial smile looked just like her dad's. One hand was perched on her hip and the other hand flicked out, the light caught on her glittering fingernails as she made a point to a bedraggled-looking freshman boy.

“This one is priceless,” Mr. Blair said.

Laughter sparked all around her, but Sam only felt the hot stare of Rachel's eyes on the nape of her neck.

RJay took the photograph from Mr. Blair and pretended to make up a caption for it. “‘In honor of my campaign, dahling, I'm wearing my new fuchsia-periwinkle nail enamel. So very chic, don't you know.'”

For a minute, Sam felt sick, but when she finally risked a look, Rachel was smiling. She was a better
sport than Sam would have thought.

“I think, Miss Forster, you should take the camera for another night and see if you can refine your touch with lighting,” Mr. Blair said. “Come back at the end of the day to pick it up.”

 

When the last bell rang, Sam jumped from her seat and got to Mr. Blair's classroom as quickly as she could. She didn't have much time to get the camera and make it to the bus on time.

Mr. Blair was waiting for her at his desk.

“Try playing with the aperture,” he told her, “to alter your depth of field.”

Sam glanced at the classroom clock. Jen would be saving her a seat on the bus. If she talked fast, she might have time to ask a few questions.

Mr. Blair answered every question, then paused.

“You seem awfully interested in shooting in low-light situations,” Mr. Blair said.

Carefully Sam looped the camera strap over her neck.

“I am, sort of,” she admitted. Sam checked the clock and saw she had no time for half-true explanations.

She couldn't tell anyone about her plan to take pictures of the thieving blue roan.

“Thanks for the help,” Sam said and hurried away.

With the camera around her neck, she didn't dare
run, but the smell of diesel fumes from the idling buses made her walk in long strides.

Sam would have made it to the bus, if Mrs. Ely hadn't leaned from her classroom door.

“Come tell me,” she said.

Sam couldn't resist telling Mrs. Ely how much her advice had helped.

“He loved them,” Sam said. “Well, except—”

A desk moved in the front row of the empty classroom. What was Rachel doing here again?

Mrs. Ely followed Sam's glance. “Rachel thinks a pen might have rolled out of her backpack during class, so she's searching for it.”

Bent to look under a desk, Rachel flashed a lopsided grin.

“Got it,” Rachel said, but she didn't leave.

“So, you're in a hurry and don't have the photographs with you,” Mrs. Ely summed up the situation. “I'll let you run, but first there's a photography book you should have. I want you to borrow my copy, but it's up there.” Mrs. Ely rushed across the classroom to a soaring bookcase crammed with books. She pointed to the top shelf. “I think you can reach it better than I can.”

Sam smiled. It was funny being taller than her teacher. It would only take a minute.

“Okay,” she said. Carefully, Sam removed the camera from around her neck. She looked around for a place to put it. Mrs. Ely's desk was sort of a mess.

“I'll hold it for you,” Rachel offered.

Sam's hands tightened on the camera. She told herself her paranoia was just plain childish. She handed the camera to Rachel and went to stand beside her teacher.

“It is kind of high,” she said, standing on tiptoe.

Sam's index finger locked on the book's spine, and it plummeted to the floor. An apology was forming on Sam's lips when she heard the sound.

Metal slammed against tile. A fraction of a second later, there came the tinkling of glass.

Without meaning to, Sam covered her ears. She didn't have to turn around to identify the sound. She'd just heard the shattering of her dreams.

“S
AMANTHA, OH MY
gosh.” Rachel's hands covered her mouth in mock horror. “There must have been something slippery on it. That camera just slid right through my hands.”

Rachel's eyes showed no sympathy as she looked at Sam and shrugged. “Wow, you know what Mr. Blair said. Those cameras cost five hundred dollars and if it's checked out to you, it's your problem. No matter what.”

Mrs. Ely had already picked up the camera. She turned it carefully, looking through the viewfinder.

“Ta-ta until tomorrow,” Rachel chirped, and her perfume lingered in the room like a taunt.

Rachel had broken the camera
. Sam knew it, and by her jerky movements, Mrs. Ely knew it, too. But their certainty wouldn't matter to Mr. Blair.
You break it, you buy it. No excuses
.

This is what it feels like to be in shock
, Sam thought.
She took the camera from Mrs. Ely and wandered down the empty hall.

No buses remained outside Darton High School. The only moving vehicle was Rachel's baby-blue Mercedes-Benz.

Sam stood there, priming herself to refuse Rachel's offer of a ride home. She had dropped the camera on purpose. It would feel good to refuse to even be in the same car with her.

When Rachel drove off without a backward look, Sam felt her backpack's weight would drag her to her knees. She could call Gram or Dad to come get her, but then she'd have to tell them about the camera even sooner.

A sigh lifted her chest and gusted out. How could she pay for the camera? She loved her life at River Bend, but there were no luxuries to give up.

In a single swoop, Rachel had robbed her of Mr. Blair's respect, Gram and Dad's approval, the Phantom's rescue, and money. Lots of money.

“I suppose those useless sons of mine are long gone.” Mrs. Ely was suddenly beside Sam. Mrs. Ely wore fresh red lipstick and her blond curls bounced as she scanned the parking lot and jingled her car keys. “They're more fun, but I have a nicer car.”

Sam stared at Mrs. Ely, knowing she should say something.

“Come with me,” the teacher said, and beckoned Sam toward a green sedan.

Sam felt boneless, but she managed to climb in and fasten her seat belt. As they drove, Mrs. Ely talked about school. She described an upcoming history project she hoped would be fun. When Sam only nodded, Mrs. Ely gave up conversation in favor of the radio news. After a few minutes, she snapped off the radio.

“Can we pretend I'm not your teacher?” she asked.

“What?” Sam shook her head in confusion.

Mrs. Ely kept her eyes on the road, but she extended her right hand toward Sam. “Glad to meet you. I'm your neighbor Maxine. Jake's mommy. Our cows sure are loving that alfalfa we got from Wyatt.”

Sam laughed. The out-of-order sign on her brain could be removed. Suddenly, she understood Mrs. Ely wanted to say something un-teacherly. Sam hoped it was something vile about Rachel.

“Do you think it was an accident?” Mrs. Ely asked.

“Maybe,” Sam said. “I wasn't looking.”

“It looks like the mirror is broken. That was the tinkling sound, but I didn't want to take it apart and check. That's work for an expert.”

Sam felt her scalp tighten against her skull. Experts were always expensive.

“If Rachel broke it, she should pay for it.”

When Sam explained what Mr. Blair had told the class, Mrs. Ely's expression darkened.

“That could be sticky, since he took a stand in front of the class,” Mrs. Ely admitted. “Still, if I told him the truth…”

Mrs. Ely's voice trailed off. Neither of them had
seen
Rachel do it.

“Mr. Blair said we were responsible, no matter whose fault it was,” Sam repeated.

They drove in silence a while longer, but Sam suspected Mrs. Ely was having a serious talk with herself. She frowned, then nodded, raised one blond eyebrow, then her frown vanished.

“So, what is it you're yearning to photograph?” Mrs. Ely asked. “You wouldn't be shy if you knew what I like to shoot best.”

“Your family?” Sam guessed.

“Sometimes, but it's tough to catch them being themselves. Those men of mine work hard at being stoic.” Mrs. Ely lowered the car windows to let the late August breezes surround them. “No, I like to photograph windows. Windows that reflect faces or mountains, windows that let you see inside to a family dinner table—” She shrugged. “Just windows. Nothing could be artier than that.”

“Wild horses,” Sam admitted. “At night.”

The invading breeze ruffled the ungraded papers Mrs. Ely had tossed in the backseat. Sam noticed a flash of yellow on the road, ahead. They'd catch the school bus soon.

“Oh, Sam,” Mrs. Ely said, staring ahead. “What
an incredible idea. I wonder,” she mused, “what kind of equipment you'd need to do it right.”

“Well,” Sam said as they drew alongside the bus, “a camera would be a start.”

Sam saw Jen. Sam leaned forward. She waved, trying to catch Jen's eye. Once she did, Jen looked puzzled, then angry.

Oh no. Sam just knew Jen was thinking she'd stood her up.

Sure enough, Jen straightened, pressed her shoulders against the seat back, and turned away.

Oh great
, Sam thought.
This day just keeps getting better and better
.

 

When it seemed nothing else could go wrong, they arrived at River Bend. Mrs. Ely switched off the engine, said, “Be right back,” then hurried to tell Dad what had happened.

Surprised and horrified, Sam froze next to Mrs. Ely's car.

Near the barn, Dallas and Ross were conspiring with Dad to shoe Tank, Ross's bald-faced bay. Dad hated shoeing horses in general and Tank in particular. It took two men to hold Tank while a third wielded the hammer and horseshoe nails.

Mrs. Ely crossed the ranch yard in her tidy slacks and blazer, then folded her arms and stood talking.

From here, Sam couldn't tell if Dad had finished shoeing Tank before he laid the hammer on the
ground and walked away. Each step was firm and deliberate, but Mrs. Ely followed him. Sam wondered if Jake's mom was doing more harm than good.

She didn't have to wonder long. Mrs. Ely came storming back, shaking her head.

“Never marry a cowboy, Samantha,” Mrs. Ely said. She leaned against the car next to Sam and stared toward the Calico Mountains. “Pride is their downfall, and that's for sure.”

“Am I grounded until I'm eighteen?”

“No.” Mrs. Ely looked over at her suddenly. “Oh, Samantha, of course not. You're not in trouble. I just suggested Wyatt make a private arrangement with Slocum, to cover his daughter's carelessness. You'd think I suggested something illegal.”

Sam felt relieved she wasn't in trouble but not surprised at Dad's reaction. “Yeah, Dad's like that.”

“Aren't they all.” Mrs. Ely rubbed her hands together. “The men of Three Ponies Ranch are exactly the same as those at River Bend.”

Mrs. Ely took the camera from Sam and looked at it once more. “Well, maybe the repair won't be too expensive. Until it's fixed, though, the least I can do is lend you a camera.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Sam protested, taking the Nikon back.

“She heard me ask you to come in after school. Then, she arranged to be there, too.” Mrs. Ely's red lips pressed together, but she just couldn't stay silent.
“Of course, I'm not suggesting Rachel would do something destructive because you're getting lots of attention from your teachers and classmates. What kind of teacher would even hint at such a thing?”

“Not you,” Sam said.

“Not me. I'm glad we've got that straight,” Maxine Ely blurted, but she was laughing as she climbed back into her car. “Jake'll be over with that camera. Soon.”

 

The phone was ringing when Sam walked into the white ranch house.

“It's Jennifer Kenworthy.” Gram extended the telephone receiver toward Sam, then whispered, “She doesn't sound very happy.”

“Hello?” Sam let her backpack down to the floor.

“So, you got a better offer and ditched me?” Jen meant her tone to be sarcastic, but it sounded hurt. “Next time, let me know, so I don't feel dumb saving you a seat.”

“I missed the bus.” Sam tried to keep the weariness from her voice, but a glance from Gram said she wasn't doing a good job. “Because Rachel broke the camera Mr. Blair loaned me.”

Jen gasped as if someone had poured cold water down her neck. “The Nikon?”

“The Nikon.”

“I suppose Mrs. Ely was your escort home because the school police think you're a flight risk.
So, are you making a run for the border?”

“Jen, this isn't funny.” Sam's mouth smiled in spite of her gloom.

“I know.” Jen took a breath, then asked, “How much?”

“I don't know yet. It makes a tinkling sound when you shake it.”

“That doesn't sound good,” Jen said. After a few seconds silence, she asked, “How deep?”

Sam took a glass of lemonade from Gram and repeated, “How
deep
?”

“Yeah, how deep are we going to bury Rachel's body?”

“You are really awful.” Sam wavered between laughing and crying. “But you're not still mad at me, right?”

“Not this time,” Jen said. “Even though you probably want to put off our ride for a really interesting family discussion.”

“Oh yeah,” Sam said, looking at Gram's impatient expression. “Interesting.”

 

Sam braced herself for further explanation, but as soon as she hung up the phone, it rang again. Because her voice was still unsteady, Sam let Gram answer.

“Hello,” Gram said. “Oh, Maxine.”

Sam lifted the cookie jar lid, quietly, so she could listen. She loaded three raisin-fat oatmeal cookies onto a saucer, then poured a glass of milk.

“Is that so?” Gram said. “A knack? He said ‘promising' and that little—” Gram broke off. “Samantha, please take your snack upstairs and get started on your homework.”

Sam trotted upstairs. At least Gram and Dad didn't seem mad at her. She could be grateful for that.

 

A shrill wind chased around the house, banging the shutters on Sam's window.

It was almost dinnertime, but she heard Jake pull up in his Dad's truck. As she folded away her biology worksheet and stacked her books, Sam could hear past the wind and knew Jake was talking to Dad and Gram.

When Sam came down the stairs, she could tell he'd laid out some sort of plan.

Jake wore a brick-colored shirt Sam hadn't seen before. It was tucked into faded jeans. The scuffed toes of his boots showed as he leaned against the kitchen door, but Jake smelled like soap and his black hair was shiny.

Something was up, and Sam felt uneasy.

“You want to drive down by War Drum Flats, lay low, and see if some stallion shows up with Sweetheart and that Appaloosa of Slocum's?” Jake asked.

Sam's glance flew to Dad, then Gram.

“I packed some sandwiches and a thermos of cocoa, so you can get there before dark.” Gram
indicated a brown paper bag. “If the lead mare sees you there as part of the scenery, she'll be less spooked than if you drive up later.”

It made sense, but Sam wondered why Gram and Dad were going along with this scheme.

“But it's a school night,” Sam blurted.

Jake groaned an instant before Dad spoke.

“That's right,” Dad said. “You've got a watch and you'd better use it. I expect you in bed by ten o'clock.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said.

Gram handed Sam the bag and kissed her cheek. “See if you can find Sweetheart for me, dear.”

“Okay, Gram.”

Jake opened the door, lifted her sheepskin coat from a hook, and shoved it toward her. Nights on the range could turn cold, even after ninety-degree days. Sam took it, then hurried, before Gram and Dad changed their minds.

“Don't ask me,” Jake said, as Sam fell into step beside him. “It's Mom's doin' and I'm just your chaperone.”

Sam's mind spun as they left the ranch, crossed the River Bend bridge, and headed into the wind toward War Drum Flats.

She hadn't told Maxine Ely the details of her plan, just that she wanted to photograph horses at night. Somehow, though, Maxine had figured it out and sent Jake to help.

Jake on a horse
might
help by roping Hammer, but this Jake—looking mature and in charge at the steering wheel—could just as easily get in her way.

Sam crossed her arms in determination.

“Your hair's okay,” Jake said, without looking at her.

“What a relief,” Sam said. “You can't imagine how many nights I've stayed awake worrying that—”

“Don't annoy the driver,” Jake interrupted. “I just thought I'd mention I'm getting used to it.” He switched on the truck's heater. “You should know, though, guys always think it's a mistake when girls cut their hair.”

“I'll write it in my diary,” Sam sneered, but they both relaxed after that.

As the sun dropped behind the mountains, the glow from the instrument panel made the truck's dark cab almost cozy.

“Remember when we were little and you used to tell me Indian stories?” Sam asked.

“I remember that you were a pest and I could bore you into falling asleep so you would leave me alone.”

Sam shivered. “I was never bored,” she said, pulling her sheepskin coat closer. It was a good thing she'd brought it, since the truck's heater barely did its job. “How many of those stories were true?”

“Lots of them are legends. People all over the country substitute the names of their own tribes or
heroes. I don't know.” Jake shrugged. “Mom could tell you better than I could.”

When Jake still didn't offer a story, Sam began planning. “Can you park the truck off the road? Then I'll walk down by the water. Like Gram said, if I'm just sitting there—”