Mustang Moon (4 page)

I
T WAS NEARLY
four o'clock when Gram's car bumped back across the River Bend bridge and Sam heard her horse calling for their afternoon ride.

Ace's sorrowful neigh turned to joyous snorting as Sam climbed out of Gram's car. No matter how full the days were on the ranch, Dad made sure Sam had time to ride.

After two years in the city, Sam had to admit her horsemanship needed polish. Dad agreed, but he assured Sam her skills would come back with practice. If he noticed she was still a little nervous since the accident, he didn't say a word.

Sam ran to her room and piled her purchases on her bed. She changed into riding clothes and nearly reached the door before Gram caught her.

“Sam, I know you're in a hurry, but please check for eggs, first. They were downright sparse this morning.” Gram handed Sam a basket. “Wyatt's been
craving a yellow cake with brown-sugar frosting. With him so worried over stock prices, it's the least I can do.”

Sam took the egg basket and hurried to the door. She'd already fed the hens and checked their nests this morning, but fresh cake meant the delay was for a good cause.

“Oh, and as long as you're going,” Gram said, pulling a tin colander from a shelf, “pick us some sugar snap peas.”

Sam didn't growl aloud, but she wished she could. As the screen door slammed behind her, Ace's nicker carried over the quiet ranch.

She smooched in his direction and called, “Soon, boy.”

River Bend's garden provided enough food to last all winter long, with few trips to the grocery store in Darton. As summer tapered into fall harvest, Sam couldn't go more than two hours without fetching and carrying baskets and colanders full of produce for Gram.

It took forever. The cowboys had already ridden in, giving her tired waves, by the time Sam presented Gram with sugar snap peas and eggs.

Sam jogged by the pasture on her way to the tack room. Ace had given up on her. He'd fallen to grazing again and didn't even look up.

Inside the barn, Sam heard the radio before she got to the tack room. It wasn't playing music. She
heard the rustle of newspaper pages and when she walked in, Sam could see Dad wasn't reading the comics. Dad looked up to smile, but his index finger tapped his lips, hushing her. As the radio station from Reno gave the latest stock prices, he frowned.

“Hey, girl,” he said, snapping the radio off. He pushed the newspaper aside, too, and rolled his shirtsleeves down to cover red scratches on his forearms. “Back from town?”

“Yep,” Sam said. She took her saddle blanket from its perch and flung Ace's bridle over her shoulder. “What did you do to your arms, Dad?”

He shrugged. “Fool bull calf got himself stuck in the blackberries, down on the other side of the river.”

“Ouch,” Sam said.

“Range cattle have no sense once we bring them to summer pasture,” Dad mused. “They know how to find water and graze, how to kick cougars and coyotes, but give 'em something simple as a hedge full of stickers, and they only see the sweet berries. One calf—Pepper calls him Baby Huey—just won't learn. His little pink nose is
all
cut up.”

Sam made a humming sound as she backed out the door balancing her saddle. She hoped it sounded like an interested hum, but not too interested. The sun showed a copper edge above the hills, hinting she should have been loping away by now.

“But Baby Huey won't be our problem for long,” Dad said, turning back to his newspaper.

As if they'd suddenly frozen, Sam's hands clamped on the saddle. If Baby Huey, a spring calf, was old enough to be sold for beef, so was Buddy.

“He won't be going to market, right?” Sam asked.

Dad gave an impatient shake of his head. “Bull calf auction,” he said.

Gram, or even Jake, might have picked up on Sam's hint, but Dad didn't. Instead, he came up with another chore.

“As long as you're riding out, check for Baby Huey. Then, I'm counting on you to put Ace and Sweetheart—”

“I remember,” Sam interrupted, even though she'd almost forgotten. “But how do I recognize Baby Huey?”

Dad stared at Sam as if she'd asked how to tell a horse from a handsaw.

“He's bigger than the other calves, but, for crying out loud, Sam, if you see
any
calves tangled in the blackberry bushes,” Dad snapped, “yank 'em out!”

“Yes, sir.”

Oh, the joys of country living
, Sam grumbled to herself. At Aunt Sue's house in San Francisco, she'd only had to make her bed and set the table. On a cleaning day, she might have had to dust the piano and feed the goldfish, too.

Ace's nicker made Sam look up. Her bay gelding had braved the teeth and heels of other horses to sidle toward the gate. Before she could open it, he nuzzled
her neck, tickling her with whiskers and his grass-sweet breath.

“And
that
,” Sam said, kissing a muzzle so dainty it could sip from a teacup, “is why I don't live in San Francisco.”

Once astride Ace, Sam felt free.

She kept her reins taut. Though Ace was a cow pony, used to working on loose reins, he felt tight beneath her. Sam had learned her lesson. When Ace felt restless and ready to run, she didn't dare let her mind wander. Bucking was Ace's favorite way to make her pay attention to him.

After they'd crossed the bridge and headed north, she would let him run. When he'd settled down, they would check the blackberry bushes for cattle.

Finally, Sam leaned forward, firmed her legs, and gave Ace's ribs a tap of her heels. Even though she'd braced for Ace's sudden lunge forward, Sam grabbed the saddle horn.

No!
Darn it. She only scolded herself for a second. Then, as Ace settled into a smooth run, she relaxed, swaying in the saddle as if she'd been born to it. Which she had.

His pace lulled her. Sam breathed a summer wind scented with pine, sun-yellowed grass, and an edge of evening cold. The ground underfoot slanted down into a damp hollow thick with coarse grass. A few yellow flowers no bigger than raindrops clustered together. She'd bet an underground spring ran
just under the surface here.

Wings fluttered and a sage hen burst from the grass, right beneath Ace's nose. Hands steady on the reins, Sam didn't panic.
I trust you, Ace
. Her thought matched the quick stutter step that interrupted Ace's run. As Sam caught her breath, Ace swung back into a gallop. Head level, he watched the cattle that were now about a block away.

Sam slowed Ace to a jog, then a walk, and finally reined him to a stop. As Sam praised Ace by rubbing his neck, a group of white-faced Hereford calves wearing the River Bend brand sighted them. They ran bawling, brown tails straight up, to their mothers.

They were only pretending to be afraid. The calves bumped each other, detoured around a rock, then kicked their heels skyward. The calves had been around riders for weeks. They weren't a bit scared. They were playing.

Buddy would love to romp with these calves, but their fun might not last long. Some bull calves would be sold as soon as Dad found a buyer paying top price. This time next year, all the males would be on their way to market. Sam watched the calves scatter and rejoin a herd of about thirty cows.

Buddy wasn't unhappy at the ranch. Sam served as her mama, although now that she usually munched grass instead of taking a bottle, mothering mostly meant rubbing Buddy's bony head. Buddy didn't lack for playmates, either. She chased Blaze, the ranch
dog, with the same zigzag silliness these calves were showing.

Eyes on the vanishing sun, Sam hurried to the hedges. She dismounted, ground-tied Ace, and checked each tangle of blackberry bushes. No sign of Baby Huey.

Angling her hand around the wicked thorns, Sam plucked one fat blue-black berry and popped it in her mouth. Oh, wow. Sam grabbed another one, closed her eyes and let the sweet juice fill her mouth. No wonder Baby Huey had been trapped so often.

Sam had caught up her reins and started to mount when she spotted another possible hiding place.

Ace hung back at the end of his reins as Sam peered into a cavelike opening in the hedges. No calf hid inside, but one might have fit. She couldn't go in, but—

All at once, Sam felt as if an icy finger had trailed down the nape of her neck. Shivering, she looked over her shoulder.

No one was there, but someone was watching. Could it be Slocum? Not likely. And she'd seen all the cowhands ride in before she'd left the ranch. And neither Gram nor Dad would come after her. They knew she'd be home in time for dinner.

Sam shrugged her shoulders so high, they nearly reached her ears. She felt cold. She studied Ace, but his eyes only scanned the terrain, showing no margin of white around the brown. He wasn't frightened,
then, but Ace wasn't the most reliable watchdog. Sam wished she'd brought Blaze along.

Sam felt better once she remounted. She thought of the roast beef sandwiches, homemade french fries, and fresh steamed peas Gram was making. And the cake.

She also remembered she had to swap Sweetheart and Ace into the small corral and turn Buddy in with the horses. That could take a while, especially since she needed to be sure everyone got along. If they didn't, more than feelings could get hurt.

Sam urged Ace into a trot toward home. A rider was less vulnerable than a pedestrian. Afoot, she wasn't very fast. On Ace, she'd be tough to catch.

If she hadn't been watching for the flowers, Sam might have missed the print. The flowers were a yellow smear, and the hoofmark, distorted by the mud, looked huge.

Ace veered around the place and his pace stiffened. Sam knew a stallion had been watching her. Had it been the Phantom or the blue roan?

 

Gram wakened Sam early.

“Get up, sleepyhead,” Gram said. “Berries are sweeter if you pick before the sun warms them.”

In the dark, Sam gathered eggs and filled water troughs for the horses and hens.

In the barn corral, Ace and Sweetheart stood side by side, calm shadows against the graying sky. They
looked like friends. Using her cold fingers more than her eyes, she inspected Ace for new wounds. She found none. As they'd hoped, the two horses were getting along just fine.

Filled with relief, she forked hay to Sweetheart and Ace, then scattered the grainy feed called chick-scratch for the hens.

The hens were making cautious, questioning clucks as Jake rode into the yard.

Witch, Jake's explosive black mare, looked like a dragon as she snorted hot breath into the chilly morning. Her roached mane stood up in a crest. Witch stood still as Jake dismounted. She fidgeted, though, as he tied her, not ready to stop, even though they'd loped at least five miles from Jake's ranch.

Jake gave Witch a pat, then turned toward Sam.

“What a terrifyin' sight,” Jake said, bumping his Stetson back and blinking as if he couldn't believe his eyes. “Samantha Anne Forster doing work before sunup.”

“I did it on the cattle drive every day,” Sam reminded him as they walked toward the kitchen. Side by side, she tried to match his steps. “I've been storing up sleep for school and—”

“Biologically speaking, I don't think you can store sleep,” Jake said.

If she hadn't been carrying a delicate cargo of eggs, Sam would've elbowed Jake. All her life he'd pretended to know more about everything than she did.

“Besides,” Sam told him, “sleeping until seven as I usually do isn't exactly a life of luxury.”

Jake gave a skeptical grunt. He opened the kitchen door, nodded her through ahead of him, and took off his hat before entering.

Gram looked up from washing dishes and frowned at the paltry number of eggs. Dad gave Sam and Jake a considering look before setting down his coffee cup.

“Jake, I want you to take the morning off from working horses,” Dad said.

Jake's jaw dropped. Then he looked wary. No other chore came close to working horses. Jake believed he had the best job ever awarded to a teenager.

“Unless you have an objection?” Dad said.

Sam saw Jake's chest expand, as if he wanted to spout off a dozen objections, but he said, “No, sir.”

“Go pick some berries with Sam,” Dad encouraged him. “Work'll wait and maybe Grace will convince you to stay for some of her cobbler.”

“I'll do better than that,” Gram interrupted. “Leave Witch to spend the night and I'll drive you home with a couple pies. With school starting and her classes to prepare for, your mom sure won't have time to bake.”

“So, if Gram's going to please your mom and your stomach,” Sam said, “how can you say no?”

“Never planned to,” Jake muttered.

Gram didn't give Jake time to change his mind. She handed them long baskets. “Fix these into the panniers on one of the pack saddles.”

Sam felt that too-familiar uneasiness of not quite remembering something everyone assumed she knew. What were panniers and were the pack saddles in the tack room with all the other horse equipment?

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jake nod. Reassured, Sam kept listening as Gram rattled off instructions.

“Don't get greedy,” she said. “Pick as many berries as you can, but if they're green, leave them. Indian summer usually gives us a second harvest.”

“Take Banjo,” Dad said. “Work some of the orneriness out of him.”

In minutes, Jake had the pack saddle cinched onto Dad's big stocky bay. Dad didn't believe in coddling his favorites. If Banjo had enough energy to bully Ace, he could use it trudging along at the end of a rope, carrying berries on his back.

Sam smiled and held Banjo's head as Jake settled the baskets into side pockets on the pack saddle.

“I like you fine,” she said to the Quarter horse. “But maybe you'll think twice next time about beating up on Ace.”

“Let's go,” Jake said. And they did.