The Wildest Heart (9 page)

Callie's face lit with a mild smile.

That's the difference between us,
Sam thought. If Brynna said, “Oh, Sam,” she'd assume she'd done something wrong.

“Yes?”

“It seems you talked with Sheriff Ballard?”

Callie shrugged. “I just thanked him for getting out here so quickly, and helping to get the fire trucks through.”

“Well, whatever you told him, helped, because he talked with Clara at the coffee shop and she sent out free food for the firefighters.”

“Great,” Callie said.

“Not only that, Clara mentioned the wild horses to Phil at Phil's Fill-Up and Feed, and he's sending out some free hay to supplement Trudy's grass.”

“Wow!” Sam said.

“And Phil told his daughter about the graze being burned off and I guess her scout leader is talking
about organizing some kind of reseeding project.”

“All that from telling Sheriff Ballard ‘thank you'?” Sam asked, and when she took in Brynna's and Callie's expressions, she saw that one wore a warning and the other a grin.

“Call it karma, the Golden Rule, whatever,” Callie said, “but it means the same thing in any society—what goes around, comes around.”

As Callie gave a satisfied nod and moved toward the kitchen, Brynna pulled Sam along with her to the door.

“Quit looking so smug,” Brynna whispered, with a glance back at Callie. “This is something serious.”

“Okay.”

“I think your horse could be dangerous tonight. By tomorrow he could be hearing—”

“And gone,” Sam said, crossing her fingers.

“That, or he might have settled down. But it's better to be safe than sorry. Give him some space. You saw how he told Roman to back off,” Brynna said. “You don't want him to do the same to you.”

He wouldn't,
Sam thought, but she said, “Okay, but I'll be out there as soon as I wake up.”

“I figured you would be,” Brynna said, but then Callie's voice floated to them from inside.

“Sam, did the Phantom like carrots when he was a colt? I brought the ingredients to make carrot crispies and they just might cheer him up.”

“Don't forget what I told you,” Brynna said,
rolling her eyes meaningfully toward the kitchen.

“I won't,” Sam said. “No mystical nonsense.”

Just the same, Sam was remembering two things Brynna had said, too.

She wouldn't treat the Phantom like a furry person, but she would be his very best friend.

S
am came back inside the house to see that Callie had grated a mound of carrots and apples. A bottle of dark-brown molasses and a bag of bran sat beside a box of crackers. With crossed arms, Callie considered the ingredients.

“Carrot crispies are horse cookies I make for Queen,” Callie said, “and I know Ace will like them, but we might want to check with Dr. Scott about the Phantom.”

“He might not be used to any of that stuff, but I'm sure he could eat it,” Sam said.

“Maybe, but the Phantom's probably still in shock,” Callie said, shaking her head. “When people are afraid, chemicals jolt through them so they can
turn superalert, or escape. Their pulses and breathing speed up, and I think their blood sugar goes up. Some of that's got to be true for horses, too, and I'm looking at all the sugar in this—”

“I don't see any sugar,” Sam said.

“The molasses, the carrots, and the apple have sugar in them,” Callie pointed out.

“Oh, yeah. Just because it's not sitting there in a bag labeled ‘sugar,' I forgot,” Sam said. She felt her cheeks heat with a blush.

“Don't feel dumb,” Callie said as she mixed the ingredients together. “I'm a vegetarian and I live alone. If I don't watch out for my nutrition, no one else will.”

Sam was admiring Callie all over again when the phone rang.

They both stared at it, abruptly aware they were visitors here. This was Mrs. Allen's house, so the call was probably for her.

“We
are
the house sitters,” Callie said, “so we'd better answer.”

Sam did. “Hello?”

“Sam, it's Trudy.”

For a second, Sam didn't believe it.

Mrs. Allen's voice was usually strident and bossy, but the person on the other end of the line sounded fragile. Her voice was faint as a dry leaf's flutter.

“Hi, Mrs. Allen,” Sam said.

“Everything's all right there at home, I hope.”
Mrs. Allen sounded as if the quiet peace of Deerpath Ranch was a comfort.

“Things are pretty much okay,” Sam said. She made a helpless face at Callie, who held her hands apart in amazement.

Yeah, right, except a fire burned a few dozen acres of your ranch, injured some horses and, oh yeah, you don't mind if another herd of wild mustangs moves in, do you?

But Mrs. Allen had more important things to worry over, so Sam kept those details for later. She waited, listening to the long distance sounds humming over the line.

“I know you're afraid to ask, so I'll tell you,” Mrs. Allen said, and though she only paused an instant and Sam didn't know Gabriel, her hand tightened on the phone in dread.

As she waited, Sam met Callie's eyes. She stood with all her fingers crossed.

“Gabe is awake and very unhappy.”

Sam gave an okay sign, then waggled her hand back and forth. Callie seemed to understand that Gabriel was alive, but not yet out of danger.

“He shifts between being angry, then so sad it breaks your heart. The doctors are giving us lectures, talking about stages of
grief
as if he'd died or lost the use of his legs forever, when they know…” Mrs. Allen's voice wavered. “They know very well, the paralysis could be temporary.”

Temporary. Just like, maybe, the Phantom's deafness.

“I really hope it is, Mrs. Allen,” Sam said.

“He realizes he never appreciated his legs.” Mrs. Allen gave a sad chuckle. “But who does? He talks about skateboarding, kicking a soccer ball, even how fast he'd run to class after the bell had rung. I told him he'll do all those things again, but he ignored me.” Mrs. Allen sounded amazed. “Then, he told me he wished, if it had to happen, that the accident had happened after he'd been out to visit me and learned to ride a horse.”

“I'm so sorry,” Sam said.

“I assured him there's plenty of time.” Mrs. Allen's tone hardened. “If not this summer, then next, he'll learn to ride. And I have said a thousand prayers that it's the truth.”

Sam fumbled for something to say. “But you're right there with him, and he can tell you love him,” Sam tried.

Mrs. Allen's heavy sigh came to Sam before the old woman said, “Love isn't magic, dear. If only it were.”

If only
, Sam thought.

Mrs. Allen cleared her throat. “Well, you hug those old horses and dogs for me, you hear, Samantha? My daughter's sleeping in a chair in Gabe's hospital room, but I need to put my old bones
to bed or I won't be a bit of use to anyone tomorrow.”

“Good night, Mrs. Allen. I'll think good thoughts.”

Though it sounded lame to her, it was the only thing Sam could think to say.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Allen said wearily. “And you have pleasant dreams. Tell Callie and your family thank you all over again for me.”

Sam hung up.

“You didn't tell her about the fire,” Callie said.

“I know,” Sam said, as if even she couldn't believe it herself. “But she was so sad already. Do you think that was wrong of me? Am I in trouble?”

“I don't know,” Callie said. “I guess it doesn't change anything.”

Sam recounted everything Mrs. Allen had said as she picked at the salad Callie had made, somehow, without her noticing.

“One thing she said that got to me was, ‘Love isn't magic.'” Sam stopped and shook her head. “It makes me think how much I really, really want to help the Phantom, but I might not be able to do it.”

“Isn't it kind of soon to give up?” Callie said.

“I'm not giving up,” Sam insisted. “But I've read that lots of wild animals die when they get vet care, because contact with people traumatizes them as much as their injuries.”

“That doesn't apply, here, for lots of reasons,” Callie said. “Well, at least three.” With both elbows
on the kitchen table, Sam set her chin in her palms and waited for Callie to go on.

“First, the Phantom used to be domesticated, so he knows what this whole fences-and-hay thing is about,” Callie said, holding up one finger. “Next, you know what he likes, so you can use your head to comfort him.” Callie held up a third finger. “Most important, you have a special bond with him. Probably no one else in the world has that kind of connection with a wild horse!”

For a few seconds, Sam buried her face in her hands.

When she looked up, she gave a humorless laugh. “Do you know how sad that is? Our bond is a word. I gave him a secret name when he was my horse.”

“That's not sad,” Callie responded.

“It's really sad,” Sam said, correcting her, “because he can't hear it anymore.”

Callie sat back, spine pressed against her chair. “That's a good point, but your link with him is more than that,” Callie said. “And if you're really going to be out in that pasture first thing tomorrow morning, like you told Brynna, we'd better get started making a plan.”

 

Fire raged through Sam's dreams. Burning grass crackled and flared orange. Then, in the mysterious way of nightmares, the grass lengthened into stems,
then monstrous flowers. Venus flytraps—brass yellow, red, and scarlet-gold—held their spiked lips closed, locking living things inside. She couldn't see what they were, but the things battered against the flowers' green-freckled throats, trying to escape, until the flowers blackened, curled, and sank into glowing embers.

Sam had never been so glad to wake up.

It was still so dark, she couldn't see the hand she held in front of her face, but that was okay. Heart pounding, mouth dry, Sam sat up, held the covers tight around herself, and stared into the shadows of Mrs. Allen's guest room.

Sam wished Imp and Angel were here, even though Callie breathed softly from the other twin bed.

Helplessness.
That was a great thing to dream of before the sun rose on the most important day in her life with the Phantom.

Gradually, Sam made out the square box of the television and the wall-sized bookcase ridged with clothbound spines. She wished the walls boasted one of Mrs. Allen's early paintings of abstract wild horses, but she was thankful there were no portraits of carnivorous plants. They might sell like crazy in New York City, and Mrs. Allen might deserve the money she got from spending hours alone, painting in her studio, but those creepy creations made Sam nervous.
She ordered her brain to evict them from future dreams, and turned to her plan for today.

Since the stallion's hearing would have to heal itself, she and Callie had decided they could only reduce his fear. Today, they'd try to soothe him with food, music, and massage.

Hocus-pocus
, Brynna might say, but once the stallion had stood in the La Charla River, listening to her sing Christmas carols, and Callie said she'd seen a television documentary about deaf children dancing to the vibrations they felt from music.

Massage made even more sense. The Phantom had allowed her to stroke her fingers through his mane until she had enough silver strands to weave a bracelet. He seemed to love her touch. But before she could touch him, she had to find him.

Sam inched her legs out from under the covers, trying not to disturb Callie.

Once she was on her feet, Sam lifted her duffel bag from the floor and tiptoed out, closing the bedroom door behind her.

Instead of coffee and roses, the living room held the smell of brush fire. Sam's throat ached from breathing it.

Putting her duffel bag on a chair, Sam edged the zipper down, tooth by tooth, and looked for her warm clothes. She knew she'd packed some. Even at the end of July, there were no guarantees in the high
desert of northern Nevada. It could be a hundred degrees or twenty-five.

Sam pulled on socks, jeans, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. The flannel would be tied around her waist by breakfast time, but now she was chilly.

She tried to read the kitchen clock without flipping the light switch.

Four o'clock.
Nobody with any sense was up this early. Nobody but mustangs. In the wild, the horses would already be seeking food and water, so they could doze during the hot part of the day.

Sam poured a glass of milk and sipped it. She couldn't force down any of Callie's yogurt. Maybe later.

As she grabbed two horse cookies, Sam wondered if a fourteen-year-old should be fantasizing about hands covered with horse slobber. Right now, she wanted nothing more, because that would mean the Phantom trusted her enough to approach and eat from her hand.

A cricket hushed as she opened the front door. When she reached the end of the garden path, it resumed its chirping.

Both herds had moved much closer to the ranch buildings.

Although smoke lingered in the air, its bitter smell couldn't hide the morning scent of wet grass.

Instead of saddling Ace, Sam slogged through the grass outside the pasture. A flock of dark birds rose in a cloud before her, then coasted out of sight.

The nearest horses raised their heads to watch her approach.

Sam longed to open the gate and walk inside. If only she could just go right up to the stallion and smooth her palm over his sleek shoulder. But she knew better.

Under the best of circumstances, the stallion might flee. And now that she could make him out, Sam knew these were not the best of circumstances.

The Phantom remained apart from the herd. He was ignoring a squealing, teeth-snapping spat between two half-grown colts. Normally the stallion would have reprimanded them. Now, even the lead mare stayed away, too cautious to get near the Phantom.

He'd turned his rippling silver tail to a section of fence. He kicked out one hind hoof, over and over again. He showed no interest in escape and he wasn't kicking hard. The single hoof barely struck the lowest rail.

Sam walked on, hoping he'd notice her without being startled.

His peripheral vision caught Sam's movement when she was still many yards away, and he wheeled away from the fence.

Weeds hung in his heavy mane and grass speckled his hide. His ears flicked forward. Had he heard her coming?

No, the stallion's head tossed in frustration. Curved at the knees, his front legs lifted off the ground, and his anguished neigh put an end to hope.