Red Feather Filly (3 page)

“Thanks for the scientific analysis, dear,” Mrs. Allen said.

She didn't sound sarcastic, so Sam had to ask the question she'd been asking neighbors since the earthquake. “Mrs. Allen, did your dogs know the earthquake was coming?”

Every horse on River Bend had acted strange before the earthquake. Popcorn, Ace, and Sweetheart had been the most unsettled, except for Tinkerbell, the sweet, draft-cross mustang Sam had been lucky enough to rescue from a slaughterhouse.

“No, they didn't,” Mrs. Allen answered. “I heard most everyone's animals acted odd the week before.” Mrs. Allen frowned. “I even asked Dr. Scott about it, and do you know what that young man had the nerve to say?”

Sam and Jen both shook their heads.

“He said that driving around with me had…oh, how did he put it? It was not complimentary.” Mrs. Allen's index finger tapped her temple. “Oh, yes. He said riding with me had ‘knocked their early warning systems out of whack'!”

Sam couldn't help giggling, even when Mrs. Allen gave her a quelling look.

“But the point is,” Mrs. Allen raised her voice, “the arena wasn't insured.”

Sam bit her lower lip. A month ago, she would have ignored this talk of insurance. It had been no big deal, simply something adults complained about, until the earthquake. Now, she understood. Gram and Dad had congratulated each other and thanked heaven they'd kept up the insurance payments on River Bend, even during the hard times. Because now, the insurance company was paying to rebuild the barn.

Sam watched as Mrs. Allen pretended to be very busy brushing cookie crumbs from her sweater.

Everyone thought old Mrs. Allen was rich, but was she? Sam's mind circled back to the question Mrs. Allen had ignored before.

“Will the prize money be very much?” Sam blurted.

“Very smooth, Sam,” Jen said, grimacing.

Sam felt a hot blush cover her face.

“I need enough to keep construction going until my next check from the gallery in New York,” Mrs. Allen explained, not looking nearly as embarrassed as Sam felt.

Mrs. Allen still hadn't spelled out how much prize money they'd be racing for, but Sam gave up. It would be rude to keep pressing her.

In the moment of uneasy silence, Sam's kitten, Cougar, now a leggy “adolescent,” padded into the kitchen.

“Mew?” he asked, walking away from his water bowl to sniff Blaze's empty dog food dish before
vaulting into Sam's lap and making himself comfortable.

Mrs. Allen slid the typed sheet across the table, then put it back inside the leather folder. “You think it's all right, then? Good enough to have flyers made?”

“I think everyone in the county will want to do it,” Jen said. “I'm already wondering who I'll get to ride with me.”

“Me too,” Sam admitted, and for an instant her eyes met Jen's.

She looked away. She hated the feeling that flashed between them.

She and Jen were best friends, not competitors. They couldn't be. Jen was a much better rider. She didn't fear going too fast, or jumping or falling. Once Jen mounted a horse, she belonged there.

The Super Bowl of Horsemanship.
Sam imagined a booming voice reading tall golden letters. If she rode in it, no one would think she was afraid. If she won, everyone would forget her accident. She might forget, too.

“I'll post the flyers at Clara's Diner and the general store there in Alkali,” Mrs. Allen began.

“What about Crane Crossing Mall?” Sam said. “There's a bulletin board at the Western wear store—”

“Tully's,” Jen put in.

Mrs. Allen nodded, stood, and swooped the folder up from the table.

“I'll drop a copy at the
Darton Review Journal
,” she said, walking toward the door. “Who knows? They might want to do a newspaper story on it.”

The girls followed her outside, but they stopped when they saw a black horse tethered next to Silly.

It was Witch, but Jake was nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Witchy,” Sam said.

The black mare flattened her ears and glared in a way that indicated she didn't appreciate the nickname.

She'll eat you alive,
Jake had warned her once, so Sam kept her hands to herself and stared at Witch's bridle.

Witch wore a mushroom-brown split-ear headstall. Faint feathers were etched on the leather. Sam recognized it at once. She'd given it to Jake on his sixteenth birthday, months ago, and paid for it with her own money. That was the last time Dad had allowed her to spend more than a few dollars.

That fact and the sudden creak of Mrs. Allen's truck door made Sam think of something.

“Mrs. Allen?” she called after her. “I don't mean to be rude, but how much is the entry fee?”

“Uh-oh,” Jen said. She began shaking her head, amazed she'd forgotten to ask such an obvious question.

“Oh, did I forget to write that in there?” Mrs. Allen tsked her tongue. “Well, my goodness, I guess I'll have to add one more teeny line at the bottom of
my flyer.” Mrs. Allen watched the girls carefully as she announced, “It will be one hundred dollars per team.”

Sam was too surprised to gasp. She heard Jen moan, but neither of them could think of what to say.

Sam and Jen stared after the tangerine-colored truck as it bumped over the bridge, then hit the gravel and fishtailed like a bucking bronc.

“That's a lot of money,” Jen said, finally.

“Yes, it is,” Sam said, but determination was gathering in her.

If she won this race, she'd earn something more important than money. Sam braced both hands against the hitching rail. She gripped it so hard, her nails bit into the wood. If she won, she'd show Dad she was a good rider, one he didn't need to watch over every minute.

“It's a whole lot,” Sam admitted. “But that's not going to stop me.”

A
s the crunch of Mrs. Allen's tires faded, Jen shrugged.

“I don't know why I'm even thinking about that race. It's pretty unlikely a hundred-dollar bill will just flutter out of the sky and into my hand.”

“I bet your partner could pay,” Sam hinted as her eyes locked onto Jen's and held them.

“You're crazy,” Jen said. She threw one white-blond braid over her shoulder, turned away from Sam, and paid a lot of attention to making sure the stirrup on her saddle was centered on the leather.

“You know who I'm talking about,” Sam said.

“I haven't the faintest idea what kind of warped ideas are in your twisted mind,” Jen said, smoothing her fingers between Silly's cinch and her palomino
belly. “And I don't want to know.”

“Ryan Slocum,” Sam said before Jen could cover her ears.

To give her friend time to cool down, Sam strode toward the round corral to catch Ace.

“Remind me why I started hanging around with you,” Jen shouted after her. “Because I sure can't remember.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam called back.

Jen had had a crush on Rachel Slocum's twin from the first time he'd knocked on her door to say a mountain lion was eating a nearby buffet. Jen said the way Ryan's sleek coffee-colored hair got messy as he rode made her want to brush it off his forehead. Sam didn't understand
that
at all.

She agreed that Ryan's British accent was sort of cool, but it didn't give her the goose bumps Jen reported.

Could that be because Ryan was a Slocum? Sam tried not to be judgmental. It wasn't Ryan's fault he'd been born into that family. And he had proven himself more trustworthy than his father Linc and twin Rachel. But he'd also kept Golden Rose, a horse that didn't belong to him, captive in a nearby ghost town instead of reporting her to the sheriff.

Jen knew that as well as Sam did—after all, Golden Rose belonged to the Kenworthys—but she apparently didn't think about it much.

Sam led Ace back to the hitching rail and tied him by his halter rope. While Ace and Silly snorted and
touched noses, expressing pleasure at seeing each other, Sam watched Jen.

“Well? Am I right?” she asked, finally. “Wouldn't he be the perfect partner for you?”

“I wish,” Jen said, sighing.

“It's only obvious you guys should ride together,” Sam said matter-of-factly. She gave Ace a quick brushing, then threw on his saddle blanket.

“Right,” Jen said. “But he could pick someone better.”

“Like who?” Sam asked. She lifted her saddle into place, knowing her words weren't flattery. She couldn't think of a better girl rider than Jen.

“Like you,” Jen suggested.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam said. She tried to laugh, but couldn't. “I fall off and get trampled about once a month. I'm sure that's just what any guy looks for in a riding partner. Someone he'll have to spend extra minutes on, peeling up off the desert floor.”

Eyes closed, Jen shook her head, blocking out Sam's words.

“You're a good enough rider to do this,” Jen persisted.

“Good enough to finish, maybe, but not to win.” Sam took a breath, then she confessed, “My dad thinks I'm hopeless.”

“That's ridiculous,” Jen said before Sam could tell her about that morning. “He thinks you're a fine rider, but he's paranoid like every other father.”

“More than most fathers,” Sam insisted.

“I'm the one whose parents wouldn't let her go to
school
because of bad influences, so don't tell me about protective.” She sighed and looked serious. “You know he's afraid you'll get hurt like you did before.”

Sam finished saddling Ace in silence. Jen hadn't changed her mind about Dad, but she didn't feel like arguing.

“Wait, we were talking about you riding with Ryan. How did we get off on this tangent about me?”

“Because it's your kind of race,” Jen said. “You connect with your horse. If I understand what Mrs. Allen has in mind, that's what half this race is about.”

“Maybe,” Sam said, shrugging.

But Jen was right. She might not be dynamite in the saddle, but she could usually communicate with horses.

Ace's head swung around to face her. His black forelock parted over the white star on his forehead and his big brown eyes studied her.

Sam leaned forward and kissed his nose before bridling him. Maybe it was Ace, not her, who was psychic. Of course, she had stayed in touch with the Phantom.

Sam stared past the ranch gates, toward the Calico Mountains. It was spring. He should be nearby. If she could beckon him to the river tonight, she'd do it.

Ace's back hooves danced, eager to be off. Witch flattened her ears and lashed her tail in annoyance.

“Where's Jake, do you think?”

“He's out there, working on the bunkhouse, see?” Jen nodded toward the half-finished structure.

Of course he was. She'd heard all the racket and dismissed it as the carpenters pounding on the barn.

But Jake wasn't hammering. Using a handsaw, he was cutting lumber. His black hair had worked loose from its rawhide tie. Now, it swung forward with each stroke of the saw. As they watched, he dropped the saw, shrugged off his plaid flannel shirt, and tossed it toward a stump. It missed and hit the ground, but he kept working, oblivious to the fact that he only wore a plain white tee shirt over jeans.

The sight of Jake's bare arms made Sam shiver. The sun was out, but it was not warm.

If Dad had asked him to come over and work, why hadn't he mentioned it?

Sam knew Dad hadn't. The insurance company was paying the carpenters repairing the barn. They would move on to the bunkhouse as soon as they'd finished. Dad wouldn't ask Jake to work without paying him. And Dad couldn't afford to pay Jake when he already had a crew drawing wages from the insurance company.

Besides that, Jake was on the school track team. Once the season had started, he used every spare minute to train for his long-distance events.

Jake's saw rasped through the lumber, and sawdust flew. He could have used Dad's electric saw, but he seemed to welcome the exertion.

He didn't look over at her and Jen even once.

Was he just concentrating or was he angry?

Sam took Ace's bridle reins and backed him away from Silly and Witch.

“I don't think I want to talk with him,” she said to Jen.

Sam stepped into her stirrup, swung into the saddle, and turned Ace toward the ranch entrance.

“He's sawing like he's taking someone's head off,” Jen said as she mounted, too. “So, I'm sure not going over there.”

“How 'bout later?” Sam asked.

“Okay,” Jen said. “We'll take care of everything after our ride, for sure.”

 

But after their ride, Jen chickened out.

“It's getting too cold to work with the horses,” she said. “And Jake hates me even when he's in a good mood.”

“He doesn't hate you,” Sam said, but Jen had a point. She and Jake were too much alike to get along.

So, Sam waved as Jen turned south, leaving her to ride back to River Bend Ranch alone.

Gram would be there when she arrived, though. She and Jen had seen the big yellow Buick go by on the highway.

“I saw Gram's shopping list before she left,” Sam told Ace as she rubbed his damp neck. “And if you're very good, I'll bring you a sugar cube for a treat. She doesn't mind spoiling you.”

Ace lifted his head a little higher. The little
mustang's vocabulary couldn't include the word “sugar,” but he sure seemed to understand.

Even before she'd finished crossing the bridge, Sam spotted Gram.

Dressed in a denim skirt and a pale blue blouse with flowers embroidered across the yoke, Gram hefted a sack full of groceries from the Buick's trunk.

Sam rode into the ranch yard, calling to Gram, “I'll be right back and help you.”

Ace veered toward the water trough. Sam let him go, but drew rein and dismounted before he could drink.

“Don't allow that horse more than a few mouthfuls, now,” Gram cautioned.

“Okay,” Sam said.

It was a good thing Gram was too far away to hear Sam's irritated sigh. She hadn't overwatered a hot horse since she was a child. She was pretty sure she hadn't done it then.

“Enough, good boy,” Sam said, then walked Ace around for a few minutes before taking him to the hitching rail, slipping his bit and loosening his cinch.

“I got everything we'll need for lasagna,” Gram said, as she and Sam filled their arms with sacks. “Pasta, cheese, Italian sausage, and all kinds of good things.”

Once they'd juggled their loads into the kitchen and put the bags down, Gram turned the conversation away from food. “I saw Jake working on the bunkhouse. Did you know he was coming over?”

“I had no idea,” Sam said. “And I'm sort of surprised he didn't come help us carry the groceries.”

Gram gave a hum of agreement, then added, “I'm about to bake a yellow cake with brown sugar and toasted coconut icing. If that doesn't bring him to the house, he's not the Jake I know.”

Sam opened the fresh pink-and-white box of sugar cubes and took two before hurrying back to Ace.

“A promise is a promise,” she told the bay. His ears pricked up and his nostrils vibrated as she held her hand flat with the sugar cubes balanced on her palm.

His velvety lips lifted the sugar. His head bobbed, eyes closed, and he drooled a little as he savored the sweetness.

Sam petted the light patch of hair that showed where Ace had been freeze-branded. It had been years since he'd run free with the Phantom's herd, and his life was much easier on River Bend Ranch, but thinking of the way Dark Sunshine had yearned toward the range this morning made her wonder if Ace remembered freedom.

“No more,” she said, when he sniffed her hand loudly. “Too much isn't good for you.”

The gelding blew through his lips as if she were talking nonsense, but he went willingly back to the round corral and Sweetheart.

Sam grabbed the big bag of dog chow from Gram's truck. Balancing it against her hip, she made
it back into the house.

“Give that to me,” Gram said. “And you go see what's up with Jake. Go on, shoo.”

“I don't want to,” Sam protested. “He's mad about something. Look.”

Sam and Gram stood in the doorway together. When Gram took a deep breath, Sam thought she was about to offer advice.

“I smell violets,” Gram said instead.

So did Sam. The tiny flowers bloomed in the shadows near the house.

“But what about Jake?”

Gram tilted her head to one side. She tucked a strand of gray hair back toward her neat bun.

“You're right,” Gram said. “He's working like a man trying to erase what's on his mind. I imagine it has something to do with Mac.”

Quickly, Sam's brain sorted through all the local names she knew. Her two-year stay in San Francisco, after her accident, sometimes made it hard to remember everyone.

“Who's Mac?” she asked.

“MacArthur Ely, Jake's grandfather. I ran into Helen Coley in town and she mentioned he was visiting at Three Ponies Ranch.”

“Ohhh,” Sam said. She'd heard rumors about Jake's grandfather. Some said he was a shaman with special powers. Jake loudly denied that, saying his grandfather was just a Shoshone elder who respected the old ways. “But Jake likes his grandfather.”

“I'm sure he does,” Gram said, but her tone wavered.

“So why would he be mad that his grandfather's visiting?”

Even as she asked, Sam had a feeling she knew.

Jake's Dad was Shoshone and his mom wasn't, but Jake took no note of that from day to day. One of the quickest ways to annoy him, in fact, was to ask about his Native American heritage.

Just a few weeks ago, when Mrs. Allen had looked at the blind foal she'd rescued and remarked on its Medicine Hat markings and their significance to some tribes, Jake had grumbled.

“Go talk to him,” Gram said pointedly.

“There's no way you're going to let me out of this, is there?”

“Honey, you're Jake's friend,” Gram said, then disappeared toward the pantry.

Jake sat on a stump, gazing at the horses in the ten-acre corral, as Sam walked across the ranch yard.

She knew exactly how to cheer him up. He'd like being one of the first three to know about Mrs. Allen's race and he wouldn't be able to resist the lure of the grand prize.

Sam walked a little faster. She thought Jake made a jerking movement, as if he considered escaping. Maybe she was wrong, though, because he was still sitting there when she walked up.

But before she told him about the race, she'd try to find out what he was upset about. Jake hated
being coddled, so Sam decided to be direct.

“What's wrong with you today?”

“Nothin',” Jake said, looking up from half-lidded eyes.

“You decided to come over and finish half the bunkhouse reconstruction all alone for no reason?”

“Just bein' neighborly,” he said.

“If you were being neighborly, you would've yelled ‘hi' at me and Jen.”

“Didn't know you'd taken to being so sensitive,” Jake began, but then a long breath whooshed between his lips. “I don't want to talk about it, okay?”

Wow. That had happened faster than she'd expected. Deciding she had nothing to lose, she asked, “Does it have to do with your grandfather?”

The look Jake flashed her made Sam think she should duck, but it faded. Jake shook his head and stared toward the mountains.

“He wants me to do some kind of a manhood initiation thing,” Jake said.

A frown contracted Sam's forehead. She thought about fighting a grizzly bear, one-on-one. No. That stereotype was hundreds of years old. The instant she felt the frown, she lifted her eyebrows to erase it.