Dark Sunshine (5 page)

S
AM DREAMED
of the Phantom. In her dream, a giant swan floated down the river, gradually changing into the curve-necked, broad-chested stallion. But he didn't lose his wings. The mighty stallion launched into flight, and Sam woke to the rustling of feathers.

As she dressed in boots and jeans, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that the Phantom had actually been near. She'd fallen asleep yearning to see him, wishing she could go to the river, even though she'd known he wouldn't come to her.

The Phantom was the leader, the protector of his herd. After yesterday's near disaster, she knew he wouldn't leave the horses alone, even in their isolated valley in the Calico Mountains.

She couldn't read the stallion's mind, but Jake had tutored her in horse psychology. The Phantom wouldn't lead his band back up the narrow trail to Lost Canyon, even though the water seeping from the
rock walls was sweet. The narrow trail, funneling into that tight trap, would have frightened the horses, so the Phantom would take the mares to an open area.

They'd be more visible, but that drawback worked to the animals' advantage. They'd see anything that could see them and have plenty of time to use their best weapon: speed.

War Drum Flats. That's where they'd go. The pond was scooped from the level sagebrush—and piñon pine-dotted land that lay at the foot of the trail up to Lost Canyon. Best of all, a ridge overlooked the area, so the Phantom could keep watch and use his trumpeting neigh to warn his family of danger.

Dusk
, Sam thought. She'd do all of her chores and homework and ride Ace to War Drum Flats just as the sun went down.

Sam avoided the mirror and finger-combed her hair as she trotted downstairs.

The kitchen was already warm and filled with the smell of frying ham and eggs.

Sam kissed Gram and kept moving toward the door.

“Biscuits will be done in about five minutes,” Gram said.

“I just want to check on the buckskin,” Sam announced.

“Go on, then,” Gram said, “But hurry back.”

She had to make sure the buckskin hadn't escaped. Though the corral was too small to allow the
running start needed to leap the fence, wings still fluttered in Sam's imagination.

Sam started to open the door, then let it close without leaving the kitchen.

“What's Brynna Olson doing here?” Sam asked.

Gram turned from the stove and stood just behind Sam, looking over her shoulder through the window.

“My, my, I don't know. I wonder if she knows Wyatt's already ridden out?” Gram pushed her glasses farther up her nose, but the white truck parked in the ranch yard was still there. “Well, dear, run on out and ask her in for breakfast.”

Sam might have protested if she hadn't disappointed Gram yesterday. It would be a waste of time, anyway. Gram always got her way, sooner or later.

Ace's nicker floated to Sam, but Brynna didn't turn to look at her. She watched the barn corral and stayed still to keep from startling the buckskin. The golden brown mare shifted nervously, but she stood facing the barn.

Sam sighed. It was sad that the little mustang was happier staring into the darkness.

“Gram says—”

“I didn't come for breakfast, Sam. I came to talk with you.” Brynna didn't look away from the horses, but Sam stood beside her now, and she saw the dark circles under the redhead's eyes. Brynna's tone made Sam fear she was to blame for the woman's sleepless night.

Brynna wasn't wearing her uniform today. She wore gray cords and a teal pullover. Far from making her red hair and blue eyes more vivid, the teal emphasized the fact that Brynna's eyes looked faded and tired.

“I haven't been able to track down her owner yet,” Brynna said. “But she was adopted by Mrs. Rose Bloom of Caspar, Wyoming, who did enter a name for the mare.” Brynna paused for effect. “Dark Sunshine.”

“It's perfect,” Sam said. “Not just her color, but—everything.”

“That may be all the woman did right,” Brynna said. “Mrs. Bloom's phone is disconnected. There's nothing in BLM records saying she
didn't
gain title to her last May.” Brynna sighed. “Which means, she might have sold the horse legally since then.”

Brynna raised one eyebrow as she regarded Sam.

“So, one of those rustlers could own her?” Sam asked. “Maybe I really did steal her.” Sam thought of the mare, thirsty and bewildered in that mountain trap. “But I'm not sorry.”

“There are laws against mistreating animals, and they broke them. If they filed a complaint against you, I doubt a judge would take it seriously.”

Sam felt a flush of warmth at Brynna's support, until the woman went on in her cold, official voice.

“The brand inspector at the auction yards in Mineral says no horses came in with fresh brands.”

Anyone would have spotted a fresh brand. Sam remembered Buddy's. For days after her pet calf had been branded, Sam thought the mark looked exactly like what it was—a second-degree burn.

“That's good, I guess,” Sam said. “But you'd have to be really dumb to brand a wild horse and try to sell him the same day, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” Brynna said. “But I think the criminal genius is a myth.”

Sam laughed. If the three rustlers she'd seen were representative of crooks…well, only one of the three had seemed very smart.

“The brand inspector saw animals without brands,” Brynna said, “but none appeared to be range horses. There were only three—two packhorses from Elko and a very old Shetland pony.”

At that, Sam couldn't repress a frown.

Neither could Brynna, though she worked at being tough. Sam didn't know if she worked so hard at it because she had a responsible job, or because she was a woman in a mostly male profession, or because she was hiding a soft heart.

If Brynna hadn't hated the thought of people selling horses for pet food once they outlived their usefulness, she wouldn't have mentioned the Shetland pony.

Maybe I'm not in trouble after all
, Sam thought.
Maybe thoughts of pitiful horses kept Brynna awake last night
. Suddenly, though, Brynna changed the subject.

“Mikki Small has had three stepfathers in the last four years. She's lived in eight different apartments and gone to seven schools between fourth grade and sixth grade.”

Sam flinched at Brynna's accusing tone.

“That would be really hard,” Sam said. She didn't say anything to fill the silence swelling between them. Instead, she touched a splinter on the fence. She'd have to get some sandpaper and smooth it down before a horse got hurt.

“I don't know why it happened, but Mikki was telling the truth when she said her mother sent her away.”

Sam kept trying to smooth the splinter down as she remembered how she'd felt the few times Dad had given Brynna extra-long looks. She'd hated it. Even though her reaction made no sense, she felt like he was choosing Brynna over her. The feeling cut like a knife, then kept aching each time she thought of it.

How much worse must it be for Mikki, whose mom had married three different guys and then sent her away? And Mikki was only twelve.

All at once, Sam realized her hand had reached up to touch her breastbone. She didn't want to sympathize with Mikki, but her heart didn't know that. Deliberately, she put her hand back on the fence.

“Couldn't you get in trouble for telling me this?”

“Sure,” Brynna said. “I could probably get fired.”

Sam took a deep breath and glanced back toward
the house. Gram would be waiting.

“But, how about the way she refused to shake Gram's hand? And the way she squared off with Jake? And…” Sam hesitated as a blush crawled up her cheeks. “I know it's no big deal, but she looks at me like I'm a…a hick.”

“I'll tell you what you look like to her, Samantha. You look like the luckiest girl in the world. You have people who love you, and horses, and a future.”

Sam didn't cry, but when Ace ambled to the fence and whuffled his soft lips over her fingers, she came close.

She didn't admit she felt like a spoiled brat. She didn't tell Brynna she'd make a great psychologist, either. But both were true.

 

After she'd finished her homework, Sam worked with Dallas. One reason the River Bend foreman was well liked was his willingness to work. Although the gray-haired buckaroo let it be known his only talent was work done from horseback, he'd dirty his hands with most any chore.

The chore of the day was repairing the chicken coop.

For weeks, Gram had suspected her Rhode Island Red hens were laying more eggs than she was getting. Something, she insisted, was slipping into the coop at night and stealing eggs.

By the time the hailstorm came and the hens
resumed laying, Gram had also noticed the coop could use tightening up. Sam was awarded the job, but Dallas had offered to help.

Now, he grunted as he settled his saddle-weary bones into a squat next to the coop.

“Snakes, weasels, ground squirrels could all get through something that size,” Dallas said as he examined an opening in the wire. He measured it with his middle and index fingers. “There's no room for a raccoon, though they do like eggs.”

Sam liked working with Dallas. As long as she did her share, he never criticized. And maybe because he'd known her since she was a toddler, Dallas never thought her questions were dumb.

“Would any of those animals hurt the chickens?” Sam asked.

“Probably not,” Dallas said. “If a critter ate one of these big fluffies”—he gestured at the fat hens, whose feathers puffed up at the disturbance caused by the two humans—“it likely couldn't get out again. Plus, they'd set up a ruckus that would wake us, or Blaze.

“Come spring, though, if we have any chicks, they'll gobble them down for sure.”

Sam felt a little queasy, thinking of a chick-size lump in the gliding length of a snake. She didn't say anything, but Dallas must have noticed her expression.

“What we need to do is take off this old chicken wire.” Dallas gestured to the screening within the
wooden frame of the enclosure. “Then we'll replace it with new. After that, we'll put out the word we need a rooster. A mean one. Anything comes sneaking along after that is in trouble. All it needs to do is stick its head in, and the rooster will grab on and flog it till you can fold it up like your Gram's hanky.”

Sam worked quickly, lulled by the low clucking of the hens.

The chickens were set free daily to peck at table scraps and bugs. Dark Sunshine acted as if she'd never seen such creatures. The buckskin slung her head over the top rail of the fence. Ears pricked forward, eyes tracking every movement, she watched the hens, trembling with fascination.

“Look.” Sam nudged Dallas and nodded toward the mare.

“She's showing you that she can be smart and interested,” Dallas said. “Now, you just got to figure how to get her to look at you like she does those chickens.”

“I wish I could.” Sam sighed. “I'm worried about BLM returning her to her owner.”

“Oh, I think she'll be sticking around River Bend for a good long time,” Dallas said.

“I hope so. Whoever owns her doesn't deserve her,” Sam grumbled. “I'd buy her from them if Dad hadn't forced me to put my reward money in savings.”

Just a few weeks ago, Linc Slocum had offered a
huge reward for the return of his Appaloosa mare, Apache Hotspot. Using horse sense and her talent with a camera, Sam earned the reward by unmasking the renegade stallion who'd stolen mares right out of their home pastures.

But Dad didn't believe in shopping sprees. He'd allowed her to buy a camera of her own, small gifts for him and Gram, a soft leather headstall for Jake's upcoming birthday, and a new well pump.

She'd had to fight him on that purchase. Sam and Dad had stood toe-to-toe, each with arms crossed. Sam figured Dad finally realized she was every bit as stubborn as he was and the time they were wasting made him give in.

If every other penny hadn't gone into her college savings account, Sam knew she could have convinced Dark Sunshine's owners to sell her.

 

An afternoon breeze blew over the sagebrush by the time Sam rode out on Ace. She'd had to display all her finished homework and promise to return in time for dinner, but at last she was riding.

Ace moved at a rocking chair lope across the high desert, and Sam thought maybe Brynna had been right. With the wind in her face, a spirited horse carrying her across starkly beautiful land and love waiting for her at home, she felt awfully lucky.

They'd almost reached War Drum Flats when Sam leaned forward to pat Ace's neck and saw the horse.

At first, peering through the frame of Ace's ears, Sam took the palomino for a lone mustang.

The mustang had wings.

Sam thought of her weird dream, then shook her head. Impossible. But something
was
flapping out from the horse's body.

Ace's stride didn't change, but Sam felt him grow tense beneath her. “What is it, boy?”

Sam squinted. She wished for a camera to bring the scene into focus. Then, all at once, she recognized the movement.

Stirrup leathers bounced out with each galloping step the palomino took, but the saddle above them was empty.

Sam urged Ace into a run, planning a path that would intersect with the palomino's. Out on the range, with darkness coming on, a riderless horse could only mean trouble.

T
HE PALOMINO WAS
ready to stop running. He slowed to a trot, a walk, and finally fell into step beside Ace, so that Sam could snag his reins.

Even if Sam hadn't recognized the palomino, she might have guessed his owner by the horse's trappings. The silver conchos glittering on his noseband matched those decorating his black leather saddle. It was parade gear, and the only man in northern Nevada who'd tack up his horse this way for a Sunday afternoon ride was Linc Slocum.

“What are you doing, horse, running away from home?”

She wouldn't blame him. Champ belonged to Slocum, and the man compensated for his mediocre riding skill by using harsh bits and spurs. The palomino wasn't bleeding from spur gouges today, but his dark lips were smeared with foam.

Sam scanned the range. Slocum was nowhere in
sight, and she was glad. For the first time, she'd have a chance to help this horse.

Crooning to keep the palomino calm, Sam dismounted and ground-tied Ace.

Today, Slocum rode with a spade bit. From outside, it was a thing of beauty, silver mounted with fine engraving, but inside a horse's mouth, it could be a torture device. The three-inch metal spade worked on the tenderest parts of the horse's mouth.

According to Dallas, the bit worked elegantly in the hands of an expert rider. But Slocum was no expert. Dallas said giving Slocum reins connected to a spade bit and expecting him to ride well was like giving a monkey a straight razor and expecting him to give you a nice, close shave.

She'd have to return Champ to Slocum, but she had time to adjust the bridle so that the bit moved with less severity.

Sam had just finished and remounted when Slocum appeared on the horizon, limping toward her in high-heeled cowboy boots.

She held Ace's reins in her left hand, Champ's in her right, and the palomino followed along nicely.

“You're a good horse, Champ,” Sam said to the horse, “but it's just like your boss to get himself stranded when I'm in a hurry.”

The good news was that she was nearly to War Drum Flats and Slocum's Gold Dust Ranch was only a couple of miles away. Once she got Slocum back in
the saddle, she should have the area to herself. She just hoped he hadn't created such a commotion that he'd frightened off all the wildlife in the area from horses to jackrabbits.

“Well now,” Slocum bawled when he got within range, “aren't you a sight for sore eyes!”

Sam might have said the same, but she would've dropped the last three words. Slocum's plaid shirt and jeans weren't extraordinary, but Sam couldn't stop staring at his boots.

Working cowboys wore their jeans over their boot tops, but Slocum tucked his in to show off the red and yellow cutouts and fancy green stitching. The boots matched the silver-mounted tack for flashiness.

Though he had to have been walking for some time, balancing his barrel-shaped body atop his slant-heeled boots, Linc Slocum looked in good spirits. His slicked-back black hair lay in place and his white grin in his flushed face made him look like an advertisement for quick-tanning lotion.

“Hello,” Sam greeted him. “Going someplace special?”

Slocum didn't realize she was referring to his gaudy attire.

“Just to get my horse,” he puffed, taking the reins from her hand. “Champ decided to give me an opportunity to see if the moon really is made of green cheese.”

Sam managed a small laugh. Slocum loved using
expressions he thought were Western. If they'd come out of Dallas's mouth, they might have worked, but somehow Slocum didn't get the timing right.

“But seriously,” Slocum amended, “what's goin' on over at your place these days?”

“Just the usual,” Sam said.

Slocum loved gossip, but he rarely got stories even approximately straight. Sam couldn't mention the HARP program, wild horse rustlers, or the buckskin mare she'd sort of stolen unless she wanted to hear a twisted version of each item as she climbed onto the school bus tomorrow morning.

“Well, I've got some good news.”

Sam braced. Slocum's “good news” almost never was.

“I'm going to start breeding Brahma bulls t'sell to rodeo contractors. Now, ain't that fine?”

Sam could force her lips to smile, but she couldn't erase the pictures of disaster playing in her mind. A man who'd accidentally hired a criminal to help him capture the Phantom, who gave his daughter thousands of dollars for clothes, makeup, and anything else she wanted, who couldn't stay on his own horse or dress for the rough country he lived in, should not get near two-ton animals bred for their vile tempers. She might be only thirteen, but even she knew better.

Slocum didn't wait for her opinion. “Ought to have them delivered and in their new pens about two weeks from now. I wanted to invite Wyatt and
Grace—and you, of course—to a special little Brahma-que.”

“You're going to eat them?”

“No, 'course not, honey. That's just a little play on words. I'll have my staff grill up lobster tails and T-bone steaks. Think you all would like to come?”

“Sure.”

Sam knew Dad mourned the loss of every minute spent in Slocum's company, but he'd want to see the cattle. And Gram embraced any excuse for a party. She'd come carrying a chocolate layer cake or lemon meringue pie that would draw more compliments than Slocum's gourmet fare.

“Well, you saved me a trip,” Slocum said. “And if you would, tell Jake Ely's dad—what's his name? Luke?—that they're invited, too.”

Sam would have enjoyed seeing Slocum at Three Ponies Ranch. Jake's parents might have maintained straight faces at Slocum's getup, but Jake and his six older brothers would've had a good laugh.

Slocum sawed at his reins. Though trying to signal the palomino to wheel into a turn, Slocum only succeeded in pulling the animal's head from side to side. With role models like Linc Slocum at the Gold Dust Ranch, maybe it was better Brynna had chosen the River Bend to host HARP.

Champ obeyed the reins, rolling his eyes and tossing his head. Sam thought the gelding's moves were done from habit rather than pain, and she was glad
she'd made the adjustments. Slocum would never notice. Already, he was kicking the palomino into a run.

“
Adios, muchacho!
” Slocum yelled, then headed for home.

Sam waved.

Muchacho
. Slocum's Spanish was even worse than his English. He'd called her a little boy. On the other hand, Sam didn't mind what he called her, as long as he left her alone to wait for the Phantom.

 

Five more minutes. Sam considered her watch, knowing she shouldn't wait longer for her horse to appear. In only twenty-five minutes, she was supposed to be home. It would take her that long to ride to the River Bend bridge. Then she still had to cool Ace, strip off his tack, and brush him before releasing him into the corral. And who knew how long that would take if Dark Sunshine tried to escape?

It started to rain. Drops pattered on the brim of Sam's old brown Stetson. She couldn't sit there any longer, waiting for the wild one who wouldn't come.

She missed him so much, her eyes were fooled by a curtain of rain wafting down the hill. For a minute, she thought it was the silver stallion.

“C'mon, Ace. We're just going to get soaked if we stay.” Sam lay the reins against the gelding's neck, but he didn't move. “Ace?”

Sam turned back and looked again. Pale and
silent as a wisp of cloud, the Phantom led his herd down the cleft in the hillside, toward water.

He was so perfect, she didn't even feel disloyal to Ace. Ace was her friend. The Phantom was perfection, a king among horses. Tonight he moved with a deerlike caution she'd never seen before. With swift, head-swiveling movements, he tasted the wind and rain. He studied every bobbing bush to see if it hid a man. He sampled each scent for the stench of a human.

The Phantom paused, one foreleg lifted in midstride, when he noticed Sam. She saw his nostrils distend, saw a shudder run through him as he decided she could be trusted.

Behind him, the mares moved in an uneasy swirl. Then he came on, bolder and faster than before. With hammering hooves, he bolted into the water hole. The stallion dipped up a quick sip. He answered the mares' questioning nickers with a shake of his head. For a second, his eyes were veiled with white mane. And then he cleared the way, racing toward the windswept ridge that was his lookout post.

Sam watched him go. Each of the mustangs in the water hole was beautiful. The tiger dun, the blood bay mares who must be twins, the sorrel foal who'd nearly been lost to the herd just yesterday, but Sam spared them only a glance.

The silver stallion, tail streaming like a waterfall as he navigated the path, was what she'd come for.

The stallion knew her.

Horses didn't forget, so he must remember her mistakes, and she didn't pretend to be nice, or polite or braver than she was, around horses. This one, least of all. And yet he trusted her.

Before he reached the hill crest, the Phantom stopped. He pirouetted in a space that looked too narrow for his muscled quarters, and looked down, watching.

The tiger dun leaped from knee-deep water to the shore and the others followed, but Sam couldn't see a thing. What had frightened them? Were they overreacting to buck brush crackling under the big raindrops that continued to fall?

The stallion forced his way against the tide of fleeing mares, but they kept on, and Sam realized Ace was jittering beneath her, grunting a troubled sound as his head angled toward the highway.

Sam heard the hiss of tires on wet pavement.

Ace had heard passing traffic hundreds of times, though, and so had the mustangs. And any vehicle would have to pull off the highway and navigate a bumpy dirt road to reach them.

The wild horses would have plenty of time to run.

But this wasn't just any vehicle. A mud-yellow truck had left the highway. Its pinging engine labored and its tires spun as it roared onto the dirt road.

And then Sam knew why the Phantom had turned. Once more, he was protecting her, herding
her with his mares to safety.

Before the stallion reached them, Sam clapped her heels to Ace's sides.

“Go!” Sam leaned low on the gelding's neck and called to his backcast ears.

In a flurry of churning hooves, the Phantom and Ace sideswiped each other, pinning Sam's leg between them. She gasped, but kept Ace aimed after the wild mares. The tiger dun was leading the herd to safety, and Sam wanted to follow.

By now the rustlers must know someone had rescued Dark Sunshine. They knew someone was onto their crime, and though there was little chance they knew it was her, Sam wasn't going to stick around to make sure.

Her Stetson blew off her head and only the stampede string kept it from flying away. The braided horsehair string sawed against Sam's throat, and she blinked against the rain pelting her face. But running with the mustangs was glorious, uncontrolled. She grabbed handfuls of mane and clung low on Ace's neck, filling her lungs with the smell of wet rocks and hot horsehide.

The horses jostled, pressing tight together into a dark gorge thick with brush. Stickers ripped Sam's jeans, scratched her hands. A dark horse built like a rhino jammed past, and Ace staggered.

Then the mustangs stopped. Their breath hung in the moist air. Sam hadn't been running, but her heart
beat as if she had. Surrounded by the herd, she was the only one making a sound. She tried to muffle her panting.

The Phantom stood nose-to-nose with Ace. Through strands of silvery forelock, he watched Sam. His head bobbed silently, as if in greeting, and their eyes held.

The pinging of the truck engine echoed as it continued up the mountain, then braked to a stop.

Were the rustlers looking for horses or for her? It didn't matter. If the men found the mustangs, they'd find her. Sam stared into the Phantom's dark eyes. This moment, she was one of the herd, in safety or in danger.

A tremor ran through the herd as a truck door slammed and footsteps crunched on dirt. Sam closed her eyes, wishing the darkness behind her own lids could cover her.

On her first day back in Nevada, she and Dad had seen a helicopter herding mustangs toward a trap. In a blink, they'd scattered over the range, then vanished.

“Mustangs have secret getaway trails,” Dad had told her, trails humans couldn't find. That's where she was, hiding like a prey animal, waiting for predators to lose patience and leave.

Finally, they did. The truck's door slammed and its engine started. The sound of spinning tires and spattering mud grew fainter and fainter.

The Phantom backed out of the thicket. The mares followed, and Sam kept Ace reined in, making him wait for last.

As they emerged, Sam discovered the rain had stopped, but dusk had turned into darkness.

She glanced at her watch. The blue-green numbers glowed. She was a full half hour late for dinner right now, and she still had to ride home.

The lead mare clattered up the hillside with her family close behind. A pale shadow against the darkness, the Phantom followed after.

Good-bye, Zanzibar
. Sam sent the message with her mind. Though she was probably the only human on this rain-slick hillside, she didn't call the stallion by his secret name.

Sam tried to look away, then she was glad she couldn't. Halfway up the windswept ridge, he paused and looked back.

Once he went on, Sam started toward home. This time, it wasn't her fault she was late. Gram and Dad would be worried, and she'd tell them the truth. All of it.

She'd felt scared hiding with the herd. Those rustlers were more trouble than she could handle on her own.