Untamed (9 page)

S
am didn't know whether it was excitement or fear that kept her from eating the next morning.

Her mind had assembled, scattered, and reassembled jigsaw puzzle pieces of information all night long.

The homemade cinnamon rolls had smelled so good that she'd given in to Gram's urging to take one, carefully wrapped, in her backpack, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to swallow it.

Gram had just paused to let her off at the bus stop and Sam had barely opened the Buick door when Jen, wearing new pink corduroy pants and a short-sleeved fuchsia turtleneck, descended on Sam.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Don't be mad at me,” Jen said, pulling Sam by the arm when she drew back.
“As a good friend, I know I owe you a crazy spell after the way I was acting when my parents were messed up!”

Jen wouldn't let Sam escape. She wrapped her in a hug.

“And I know that this is a much bigger deal than the stuff with Golden Rose because it's your mom. So just don't say anything.”

“Can I breathe, if I promise not to say anything?”

“I guess,” Jen said. “And actually, you're allowed to talk, if you promise not to yell at me.”

“I won't yell, but I have a question and a favor to ask,” Sam said.

She told Jen about Jake's theory and noticed her friend was nodding.

“Oh, and here's the best part. I think someone's trying to keep us away from there. Someone called the sheriff and reported us!”

“What do you mean?” Jen asked.

“That afternoon when we saw the guy with the gun? Someone called the sheriff anonymously from Crane Crossing Mall—”

“He traced the call?” Jen's voice was faint.

“—and reported…” Sam's voice trailed off as Jen's face turned milky and her eyes grew round behind her glasses.

“It was me,” Jen confessed. “I didn't want whoever it was to get away with it, and I was afraid, with the stuff Rachel was saying about you, well, they
wouldn't take you seriously, but am I in trouble?”

It was Sam's turn to hug Jen. Her best friend had tried to protect her, even though she knew it might get her in trouble.

“He doesn't care who it was,” Sam said once she'd released Jen. “He said it wasn't important, just someone being a good citizen.”

“He's right,” Jen said. Then, after she'd caught her breath, Jen agreed the pronghorn-poaching scheme sounded just like something Linc Slocum would be involved in.

“It's just his kind of skullduggery, but he wasn't around back then. He didn't come to Nevada until about two years ago.”

“I thought of that,” Sam said. “But—”

“But it's exactly his kind of creepy, money-making scheme,” Jen agreed. Then she looked faintly confused. “Hey, do you have something delicious in your backpack, or is that new perfume?”

“Not perfume,” Sam said, brushing her friend's curiosity aside. “But listen, I told Brynna about Jake's theory, and she says if Sawyer was leading illegal hunts on public lands or harming mustangs, he's dead meat.”

“She said that?” Jen gasped.

“Not exactly,” Sam admitted, “but she had that look in her eye.”

Jen didn't speak. Instead, she very pointedly stuck out her tongue and pretended to bite it.

Sam smiled. Jen was trying not to lecture Sam about Brynna's value as a stepmother again.

“You don't have to tell me. I know Dad could have married a person who was a lot worse,” Sam said.

“So are you going to get her a Mother's Day present?” Jen asked.

“I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I should, and other times it seems sort of disloyal,” Sam said.

Jen nodded just as the yellow school bus roared into view. Once they were seated in their usual bench, she asked, “So where does the favor come in?”

“I want to go see Caleb Sawyer.”

“I won't bother listing everything that's wrong with that idea. You probably already know, right? Starting with the whole guns and grounding thing, progressing through bodily harm and not talking to strangers.”

“I know. But I've figured out how to do it safely. And that's where you come in.” Sam paused, then frowned as Jen stopped twirling the end of her braid and actually nibbled on it. “I've never seen you do that before.”

“Do what?”

“Uh, eat the tassel on your braid?”

“Yikes,” Jen tossed the braid away as if it were a snake. “That's because I haven't done it since I was about ten. My parents finally bribed me to stop—with a way-too-expensive chemistry set. I only do it
when I'm facing extreme stress. So tell me, Sam. What do you want me to do?”

“Did Ryan pick you up after school yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Jen said cautiously. “And he actually took me to Clara's for a Coke before he drove me home! Why?”

Sam sighed in satisfaction. It meant missing a trip to the mall with Brynna, but who cared?

“Would I let anything bad happen to my best friend?” Sam tried to sound soothing.

“Probably not,” Jen said.

Sam thought of a way to seal their truce. She pulled her backpack into her lap, opened it, and took out a waxed paper-wrapped lump.

“I can't bribe you with anything as exciting as a chemistry set, but I can offer you half of this cinnamon roll.”

Jen inhaled deeply, then sighed. “You can count on me to do whatever you've got in mind, but it's really sad that it only took food to convince me.”

 

The first half of the school day went smoothly. As far as Sam could tell, no one peeped over a book to get a look at a crazy person. Her.

It was Friday and, amid the usual chatter about weekend parties and movies, Sam heard complaints about Mother's Day, which was bound to get in the way of fun with friends.

As she listened, Sam felt a cold hollow beneath
her breastbone. She wanted to speak up, to remind the whiners that their mothers would be gone, someday. But she didn't. Someday was too far away. She probably couldn't convince them it would ever come.

She and Jen split a sandwich and sipped chocolate milk shakes as they finalized their after-school plan. Jen stood by, fidgeting, as Sam used a pay phone to call Brynna and tell her she had an assignment for Journalism, which meant they'd have to delay their trip to the mall.

“That's a shame, but we'll do it in the next few days,” Brynna had said. “Your classes are top priority.”

Feeling guilty, Sam slipped into Journalism early, still sipping her milk shake. Mr. Blair was pretty cool about allowing food in class, as long as no one made a mess. Sam glanced around for Rachel. She hadn't seen her all day, even in the P.E. class they shared.

Mr. Blair and RJay were the only ones in the Journalism room. The emptiness was a relief.

Sam crossed to the assignment clipboard hanging on the wall. Mr. Blair wanted a photo story on old Nevada.

Sam nodded. If she signed up for it, she could convince herself she hadn't lied to Brynna.

What could be more photogenic than shots of the high desert cabin of the hermit of Snake Head Peak?

As Sam signed her name next to the story, she noticed Mr. Blair motioning her up to his desk. RJay
stood nearby. Was this the “think fast” moment RJay had alerted her to yesterday?

Sam walked toward them, trying to look confident.

She held her breath, wondering if this was about the editorship. Mr. Blair wouldn't keep her in suspense. He always got right to the point.

“So here's the thing, Forster,” he said. “I'm impressed with your photography, but you're not showing me much in terms of people skills.”

“Management skills, more,” RJay corrected.

Stalling for time, Sam sipped her milk shake. Yuck. It was goopy and no longer cold.

“I'm just a reporter. I don't get a chance to boss anyone,” Sam protested.

The bell to begin class rang and more than a few students let their eyes wander to the meeting at the teacher's desk.

Mr. Blair smiled as if Sam had said exactly what he'd wanted her to say. “RJay, let her take charge of assigning stories for this issue. That'll show what kind of bossing skills she has.

“Forster, that clipboard lists every story, but precious few reporters have claimed 'em. Thirty minutes from now, I want you back at this desk to show me who's doing what. Got it?”

Sam and RJay nodded.

“Go,” said Mr. Blair, and turned back to his computer.

Sam took the clipboard from its wall hook and held it with trembling hands.

This was just great. It wasn't bad enough that she'd made a fool of herself in class and been accused of brain damage. Now Mr. Blair had given her a job guaranteed to make everyone hate her, too.

Oh well, at least it would keep her mind off the awful chance that she'd get caught today. But she wouldn't think about that now. She had to be brave. And fast. They couldn't send her away to San Francisco if she uncovered the truth about Caleb Sawyer.

Sam refocused on the clipboard and started moving around class with it. Surprisingly, once she explained what she was doing, no one resisted.

“Give me some sports stuff,” said a guy named Zeke. “My grade in here could use some CPR. And I've got the computer until the end of the period,” he announced to the room in general.

“Fine,” Sam said. Next, she managed to push prom coverage off on underclassmen who didn't have the excuse of getting their hair done or renting tuxes, because the dance was restricted to juniors and seniors.

She found someone willing to cover the school play in exchange for two free tickets and extra credit in English.

Finally, Sam sat biting her lip, studying the three remaining stories. She glanced up at the clock, only to see Rachel approaching.

Tailored and crisp, the aqua shirtdress Rachel wore was almost businesslike, except for its length. As Rachel approached with the menacing prowl of a tigress, her arms stayed close to her sides. Her skirt hem rode high on her thighs, way above her fingertips.

Just as she had all year long, Sam fumed at the unfairness. If
she'd
worn that dress, some school administrator would have sent her home to change. Even if Rachel looked great, shouldn't she be reprimanded for breaking the dress code?

But Rachel stood before her, waiting, as if she actually wanted to claim an assignment.

Then, she tapped an iridescent, taffy-colored fingernail on the list of stories.

“I'll do the interview with Jake Ely,” Rachel offered.

Of course you will
, Sam thought,
just to make me mad
. But after two or three seconds, Sam grinned.

Jake had won his long-distance event in every track meet so far. He'd definitely go to regionals and maybe compete for Darton High on the state level. The
Dialogue
needed an interview with him, but everyone who knew Jake also knew it would be impossible to make him discuss his winning season.

Jake was too modest. But Rachel wasn't familiar with that concept.

“You're on,” Sam said, scrawling Rachel's name next to the story.

Suddenly, the rich girl looked wary.

“Unless you want to do it,” Rachel said.

“No, go for it,” Sam urged. Then, when she saw Rachel's easy victory was making her increasingly suspicious, Sam added, “I wonder if you could do one more thing, a little piece on Kris's pitching for the baseball team? He's having a pretty good season, too. And I was hoping he'd have time to talk with you for the paper.”

Kris Cameron was Rachel's handsome, broad-shouldered boyfriend. Undeniably the cutest guy at Darton High, he was not only quarterback on the football team, but pitcher for the baseball team as well.

“But if you think he'd be too busy…” Sam said, shrugging.

“Too busy for me? You must be joking,” Rachel trilled. “He'll make time. Kris would do anything for me.”

“Ah well, who wouldn't?” RJay asked sarcastically as Rachel went slinking away. Then he tilted his head to look at the clipboard. “Two stories and”—he glanced up at the clock—“five minutes left. Lookin' good, Sam, keep going.”

Sam scanned the classroom in time to see Cammy edging toward the door. Time to make her getaway and buy Queen Rachel's diet Coke from the machine in the faculty room.

“Cammy!” Sam shouted. When the ringleted blonde jumped, Sam beckoned her over. “I had to save you from yourself.”

“Huh?” Cammy asked.

“Never mind,” Sam told her. “I need you to do two stories for this issue. One is on the campus cleanup campaign.”

“That won't be fun,” Cammy complained.

“But the other one is,” Sam said hurriedly. She was out of time. She could feel Mr. Blair's eyes boring into her back and see Rachel eavesdropping from her desk. “You get to do ‘Heard in the Halls,' you know, where you just listen for interesting or weird snippets of conversations.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Cammy said. Her ringlets bounced as she nodded. “Sign me up.”

Sam strode over to Mr. Blair and presented the clipboard with a victorious flourish.

He gave the names a cursory glance.

“Great,” he said, “now take a bunch of dynamite photos for that piece on old Nevada, get a few interviews”—he reached into a bottom drawer for a miniature tape recorder and slapped it into her hand—“and make sure this doesn't stall out on you. It's been known to do that. In short, just work hard and keep your nose clean till the end of the year and you're the new photo editor.”

Sam tried to maintain a mature manner. It lasted until she'd slipped the tape recorder into her backpack and checked out a class camera. Then, she couldn't stand it. She crowed in delight and spun around to give RJay a high five. And really, she
didn't care if she looked crazy. She was just acting like a freshman.

“Forster, get rid of that milk shake before you spill it,” Mr. Blair growled.