Dawn Runner (13 page)

She'd really been more interested in Gram's front porch picnic dinner than anything else.

Until now.

T
he Phantom's eyes looked black and playful as he peered past the frost-white ripples of his forelock. He stood close enough that Sam breathed the sweet grassy smell of him and saw the faint tinge of pink beneath the silver skin over his nose. She could have touched him, and her heart leaped up at the possibility.

She released her reins and was reaching her left hand toward the stallion, when Popcorn could no longer contain his terror.

Backing away from the stallion, Popcorn's hind quarters slammed into the thicket of pinion pine on the far side of the trail. Feeling attacked from all sides, Popcorn skittered forward. He lowered his
muzzle and brushed an appeal for comfort against Sam's hand.

It was a mistake. Before, the stallion had ignored the albino gelding. Now he squealed in jealousy and half reared.

With lowered heads and clapping jaws, both Ace and Popcorn gave the stallion the respect he demanded, but the Phantom struck off downhill through the brush.

No!
Sam wanted to cry out, to call him back, to yell in frustration, but she only whispered, “Zanzibar.”

She didn't take her eyes from the shaking brush or the branches dragging over his silver hide, so she saw him stop.

“Zanzibar,” she murmured once more, and the stallion looked back at her.

He whinnied and Sam caught her breath. That simply wasn't part of the Phantom's vocabulary. Like other stallions, he snorted questions and blew challenging jets of air through his nostrils at rivals to prove how tough he was. If that didn't work, he squealed in rage. And a few times, when he'd been totally content, she'd heard her horse whuffle a sigh through his lips.

But this whinny was reserved for young members of his herd who'd strayed and needed to be summoned back. She only remembered hearing it once. Now, though, it was for her.

Sam knew she shouldn't dismount in a desolate place so far from home. She shouldn't leave Ace and Popcorn tied to pinion pines at the side of the deer path. She shouldn't follow a wild stallion wherever he wanted to lead her, but she did.

The brush on both sides of the path narrowed. On each side, reaching branches clutched at her, and when she looked up, the gray-green leaves blended with the twilight. But the Phantom was just ahead of her, leading her on.

If this were a labyrinth in one of Dr. Mora's stories, she'd be afraid. She thought of Pegasus, born from Medusa's blood. And Kelpies, Poseidon's beautiful horses, crafty creatures that gladly carried any greedy man who leaped onto their backs, then galloped back into the sea and drowned them.

But the Phantom was no myth, and all at once, Sam knew where he was leading her. The lush scent of water twined with that of charred vegetation.

Suddenly, the hillside slanted beneath her boots. Sam walked sideways down the steep ground to keep from falling. An old barbed wire fence sagged before them. The stallion hopped over it and Sam lifted the latch, a loop of wire over a slumping fence post, and followed him.

When she looked past the stallion, Sam knew where she was.

The Phantom had led her to the stream at the foot of the drop-off on the boundary of Mrs. Allen's land.
During some ancient flood, the river had carved off a piece of land and left a steep plummet down to the riverbank.

As she watched, swallows stitched through the air, then slanted down from the plateau across the stream, dropping through the air to hover over the stream.

Sam remembered hoofprints in the sandy soil. She remembered thinking that by late summer, this arm of the river would dwindle into a stream. She remembered thinking Hotspot, who'd hesitated when she followed the Phantom's herd as they left the mustang sanctuary after the fire in June, would be able to cross it with ease by September.

The Phantom drank at the stream. Did he know he'd led her to the last place she'd seen Hotspot, until this week?

Eagerly, she looked around for the Appaloosa. She wasn't here, but that didn't mean she wouldn't come back.

Exiled from the herd, she might remember this place. The memory of food, water, and other horses could beckon her back.

For now, though, Sam was alone with the silver stallion. He stood in the shallows. Sunlight danced through the willow trees, reflected up in wavering patterns to paint him blue.

“Zanzibar,” Sam said. It was the third time. She'd read that three was the number of times you had to
repeat a magic spell to make it work.

The stallion came to her.

She held her breath as he nosed the scratches from the thickets she'd rushed through as she followed him. First he sniffed the cuts on her arms, and then his whiskers tickled her neck. She felt the stallion's teeth touch her hair and Sam flinched. She stayed still, though, when she realized he was grooming her like he would another horse.

The fresh, leathery smell of the stallion surrounded her. Sam closed her eyes.

This was magic, but it wasn't the bracelet on her wrist or a chanted spell that had drawn the stallion to her. It was friendship.

Friendship with a wild stallion meant happiness didn't last very long. For the hundredth time, Sam wondered if the Phantom could read her mind. The very instant she thought of grabbing a handful of mane and jumping onto his bare back, the stallion sidled away from her.

“C'mere, boy,” she coaxed. “You know I won't hurt you.”

The stallion's head tilted to one side. His forelock fell free and his eyes widened with a look that said she must be kidding. Clearly, the Phantom wasn't afraid of her. He simply wasn't going to stand around and wait for her attempt to ride him.

The Phantom trotted up the hillside, made a seesaw jump over the barbed wire fence, and then
turned toward the pinion pines. Sam heard his shoulder graze dry twigs and crack them. Then, with a flick of his silver tail, the stallion vanished.

It took Sam a lot longer to trudge back up the hill and hike the path that returned her to Ace and Popcorn.

Sam wondered what kind of mood the geldings would be in. After all, she'd deserted them to follow the Phantom. If she'd been either one of them, she would've been mad.

Horses, it turned out, were different from people. If Popcorn was traumatized by the Phantom's charge, he was making a fine recovery. If Ace resented her disappearance with his old leader, he hid his jealousy well.

Left standing in the shade, the horses had contented themselves with munching dry grass and dozing. Neither of them had missed her. They proved it with their sluggish reluctance to leave the hillside and head for home.

 

The first thing Sam did when she got home was wolf down the fried chicken and potato salad Gram was just serving to the rest of the family. Even though she'd detoured into the world of wild horses, she wasn't nearly as late as she'd thought.

The second thing she did was phone Ryan. She'd been thinking about his reaction to his dad and about Hotspot's situation, and she'd decided she should tell
him about the stream that bordered Mrs. Allen's ranch.

Sam was thankful Ryan picked up the phone, until he began talking and wouldn't stop.

“I've been thinking I should get Hotspot to come to me instead of going after her,” he began. “I might take some of her things with me and put them where she could investigate. The bareback pad, a bridle with her hair on it, things like that. What do you think?”

“That might work,” Sam said, surprised at Ryan's creativity. “And hey, I wanted to tell you—”

“Clearly, I don't have the transcendent relationship with her that you do with your wild stallion,” Ryan went on, and Sam couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. “But I've decided to take Dr. O'Malley's advice and become part of Hotspot's environment. I learned from Mrs. Allen, when I saw her yesterday—oh, by the way, I tried Sky Ranger's temperament in conjunction with Roman's and it was a total disaster—that the Phantom's herd winters near her wild horse sanctuary.”

Sam rushed to tell him about the mare fight before he drew his next breath. “Ryan, I'm not sure she's still with the Phantom's herd. I saw her in a scuffle—”

“Horses can have scuffles?” Ryan asked, laughing.

“Well, no, not really. But it was a disagreement
and it involved kicking and biting and Hotspot being scolded until she left the other mares.”

Ryan was quiet for a minute, then said, “Well, she may well return there anyway. Mrs. Allen said Hotspot was actually in her pastures shortly after the fire.”

“Oh?” Sam said. It was all she could do not to tell Ryan that that was why she'd called, but she didn't.

Instead, she listened to him talk some more. “I'm getting myself outfitted tonight, so I can camp out. The Kenworthys are being quite helpful, supplying me with outdoor gear.”

Sam shook her head. His gratitude for Jen's family was great. She was wondering what had happened to the old Ryan, when he added, in an undertone, “The equipment is quite old, really, and a bit musty, but it's serviceable.”

“Have you ever camped before?” Sam asked.

Mrs. Coley had actually told Gram once that the Slocum twins had never even made their own beds.

“No, but how hard can it be? I have dehydrated food. I can boil water for tea and I'm bringing a book to read. That should substitute for patience, which, as a matter of fact, I'm running short of.”

“What?” Sam asked. Had he just hinted he was getting impatient with her?

“Now, as much as I'd like to chat, Samantha,” he said sternly, “I have Mocha saddled and I'm about ready to ride out. Would it please you if I had
Jennifer phone you up when Hotspot's back safe and sound? Shall I do that?”

“Well, yeah—”

“Splendid. I thought so. Good-bye.”

Even though Ryan had hung up, Sam's ears were still ringing from his plans and pride. The old Ryan hadn't gone away at all. He was improving, but he was still there.

O
n Saturday morning, Sam almost crept out the front door without Pam noticing. They'd thrown sleeping bags on the living room floor and watched videos until their eyes crossed with sleepiness.

Sam glanced at the grandfather clock. That had only been a few hours ago. The aroma of popcorn still scented the house, though she was pretty sure they'd picked up every kernel they'd spilled when one of the movies they were watching took an unexpected turn and they'd screamed and flinched and popcorn had cascaded all over the rug.

It was Pam's last day here, and that was what kept Sam from leaving without telling her. That, and the fact that Pam had held her by the shoulders and
shaken her until she promised she wouldn't go out to spy on Ryan without her.

Sam squatted, and whispered, “Pam?”

When her friend didn't move, she touched Pam's arm. Nothing. She rocked her shoulder gently. Pam moved as if she were boneless, then opened one eye. “Huh?”

“I'm riding out to see how Ryan's doing. Do you want to come?”

In a flurry of thrashing restricted by the sleeping bag, Pam sat up and stared so wide-eyed at Sam, it was kind of scary.

“What time is it?” Pam mumbled.

“Five thirty.”

Pam kept staring, but Sam wasn't sure her friend had heard her. She doubted she was really even seeing her.

“Five thirty in the morning,” Sam added. “You said you wanted to ride out with me.”

Pam blinked once, then tipped as if someone had yelled, “Timber!” Once she hit the floor, she mumbled something.

Sam thought it might have been “Tell me what happens,” but she wasn't sure, and she didn't ask, because Pam had already fallen back asleep.

In the kitchen, Sam filled her canteen with water, then grabbed a slice of cold pizza and a plum and dropped them into a brown paper bag to tuck inside her saddlebag. She didn't plan to be long, but it had
only been a couple of days since she'd warned Ryan about riding out unprepared. Besides, the idea of breakfast in the saddle, at sunrise, was irresistible.

Ace came to her eagerly, with long, head-bobbing strides. He was wet from rolling in the dewy pasture, but he welcomed the saddle and scratched his neck on the hitching rail as she drew the cinch snug.

A crow rasped a caw so raucous, Sam felt like shushing him. Swinging into the saddle, she glanced toward the barn roof, toward the enclosure Dark Sunshine shared with Tempest, toward the ten-acre pasture. Where was the crow calling from?

Blue Wings, Dad's Spanish Mustang, stood still and staring in the pasture and Sam followed his gaze toward the new bunkhouse, but it was empty and she saw no flicker of black feathers.

“Better to leave him behind, anyway,” Sam told Ace. His ears flicked back to listen. “Not that I buy any superstitions about crows carrying bad luck.”

She should ask Dr. Mora about that, Sam thought as she rode Ace across the bridge and into the morning.

 

Across the river and nearly to Mrs. Allen's ranch, Sam drew rein. She sipped water from her canteen and admired it all over again. Its sides were covered with rainbow flannel and its metal rim had dents from hundreds of hours of hanging on a horse. It was weird how moments of stillness usually made you
appreciate stuff rather than dwell on anything that was wrong.

As Sam was eating the purple plum, trying not to drip juice on her jeans, saddle, or Ace's shiny mane, she heard the crow cawing again.

Sam looked overhead, but the gray sky looked empty.

“I know,” she said, and pulled the pizza from her saddlebag. She ripped the crust from the slice, broke it in three pieces, and tossed it out on the desert floor.

A brown bird she couldn't identify dove for it a minute later, and his flock followed, but still no crow.

Okay, and she was trying to lure a bird that was an omen of bad luck to her. Why?

Sam tightened her legs against Ace, but he didn't step out. That one second of disobedience made her focus on a sound coming closer.

Hooves were galloping, accelerating, shaking the earth and air. Just as Sam gripped her reins, heart beating in surprise, the Phantom exploded past, brushing her leg, bumping Ace off balance.

“Where—?” Sam gasped, but Ace's answer was to leap after the silver stallion that had been his leader.

Don't let him go.

Take control.

You know the right thing to do,
her mind yelled,
so do it.

She didn't. The thunder of hooves put her under their spell, and she couldn't resist joining the
Phantom's early morning run any more than Ace could.

Her hat flew back on its stampede string, yanking tight across her throat. Her hair and Ace's mane stung her face with lashing from winds made by two horses possessed by high spirits.

The Phantom raced just a horse length ahead. Muscles bunching, thrusting, stretching, he glowed pale silver.

He might have leaped right out of the sky, Sam thought, covered in a metallic cloak of moonlight.

The stallion was playing, romping with her and Ace as he couldn't with his herd. There, he had to rule. Here, with Ace and Sam, he could act like the young horse he was.

Sam tried to convince herself of that as the Phantom let Ace draw alongside.

The stallion didn't look at her—merely allowed his silver hide to brush her knee—but she couldn't stop the questions stampeding through her mind.

Could she catch a handful of mane and pull herself from Ace's saddle to the stallion's back? Trick riders did it. A “flying change,” isn't that what they called it? Easing from the back of one galloping horse to another.

The Phantom's shoulder bumped Ace's again. Was it an invitation or did he just long to be close?

Sam glanced down. Rough dirt and rocks blurred between the speeding hooves. Ace and the stallion
ran close together, but there was still room to fall.

Chicken,
one voice in her brain taunted.

Don't force it,
ordered another voice, the one that had lectured Ryan.

But he was her horse. He'd come to her. He'd carried her before. Why shouldn't she try to ride him again?

Both horses' ears were flattened. Was that just from the wind, whipping them back, or were they telling her this was not a good idea?

Sam sucked in a breath, transferred her reins to her right hand, and stretched the fingers of her left toward the stallion. If she could kick loose her left stirrup, grab onto his mane, and pull, wouldn't her right leg follow the stallion's momentum?

Thick threads of mane teased her fingertips and the gap between the two horses yawned wider as if the Phantom felt her touch.

Dawn Runner brings the sun, and seeing it is enough,
Dr. Mora had said.

Am I absolutely insane?
Sam wondered.

No!
She didn't shout the word, but she might as well have. The stallion caught her quick move from the corners of his eyes and slowed. He ducked behind Ace, colliding with the gelding's hindquarters.

Off balance and still half poised to close a gap that had turned into thin air, Sam fell.

For one awful moment, it was just like the first fall. Plunging head over heels, she saw earth and sky
in one brown-blue smear. But this time she hit the dirt rolling.

Even when she stopped, she felt like she was still tumbling. Slowly, the world stilled around her. She felt sand-sized rocks in her skinned palms, heard a cawing crow and retreating hooves.

She was shaken up, but when she inventoried each body part with slight movements, she knew her arms and legs weren't broken. She turned her head side to side. No sparks flashed before her eyes. No heavy feeling told her to stay down and wait for help.

But that sound meant something. Not that braying, annoying crowing, but the rhythmic pounding of hooves…

She leaped to her feet.

“Oh no,” Sam moaned, because even as she scrambled up, she saw the two horses' forms growing smaller.

Ace was leaving her.

“I don't believe you!” Sam shouted after him.

To her amazement, the bay gelding slid to a stop, letting the Phantom run on. Ace threw his head sky-ward, and though she couldn't see his eyes from here, Sam knew he was rolling them as if to say,
I don't believe you!
Then, the gelding switched directions and headed home without her.

Sam groaned again. Just because she deserved to be deserted for putting all three of them in danger didn't make it easier to watch her saddle leathers flap
like wings as Ace ran away.

“It's not like I wasn't going to go spy on Ryan anyway,” Sam muttered, then added, “so shut up.”

It was one thing to talk to your horse. Talking to yourself was a totally different thing and that thing was craziness.

She was sick of this. She was not destined to ride the Phantom ever again in her entire life. He was a wild horse. He was her friend. She didn't want him to be tame and carry her around in circles like a docile pony. She wasn't going to try to ride him, ever again, unless he pawed an invitation in the dust asking her to mount up.

Sam gave a forceful nod to underline her decision as she crossed onto Mrs. Allen's property.

She hoped it was too early for Mrs. Allen to be up, because she planned to creep across the ranch yard, duck through the fence, and cross the pasture that held the mustangs of the Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary, then follow the path down to the riverbank where Ryan would be camping.

She felt kind of sneaky avoiding Mrs. Allen, but Sam had ripped the elbow out of her shirtsleeve and she was covered with dust she couldn't completely brush off. Her appearance would demand an explanation and she just wasn't up for it.

As she walked, she wondered how the Blind Faith sanctuary was doing financially. Mrs. Allen had used funds raised in the Superbowl of Horsemanship to
build her arena, but it hadn't been finished. In fact, it had a long way to go. Now, it looked like little more than a big round pen.

Between caring for the horses and her grandson Gabe, Mrs. Allen probably hadn't had much time to spend on her art. Mrs. Allen's paintings of carnivorous plants creeped Sam out, but Mrs. Allen had told her, pretty sternly in fact, that those paintings paid the bills.

Sam knew Mrs. Allen had plenty of land. The wild horses were pastured on the hundreds of acres rolling from the La Charla River to the edge of wild horse country that had once been a cattle ranch.

Since he'd moved here, Linc Slocum had wanted to get his hands on Deerpath Ranch, but Mrs. Allen had refused to accept an offer that would have made her a millionaire. Sam hoped the stubborn old lady would keep resisting forever.

Sam might have thought Mrs. Allen's huge grassy pasture was empty, if she hadn't caught the silhouettes of grazing horses about half a mile away, and if Roman, the liver-chestnut gelding who ruled the captive herd, hadn't given a loud snort to let her know he was watching her.

Sam clucked her tongue at the gelding, not daring to speak, because so far she hadn't heard the yapping of Mrs. Allen's Boston bulldogs.

Once inside the pasture, Sam hurried toward the sagebrush slope she'd have to ascend on her wobbly legs.

She only encountered one mustang on her way there. Sam's determination to keep moving softened at the sight of Faith. The Medicine Hat filly was a lanky yearling now, and her palomino-pinto coloring had paled into a dozen shades, from ivory to golden candlelight.

“Hey baby,” Sam greeted Faith and, totally unhampered by her blindness, the young horse flared her nostrils.

On small hooves that made it look like she approached on tiptoe, Faith stopped a few steps away from Sam, stretched her neck and her muzzle, and picked a weed from Sam's hair.

“How did you know that was there when I didn't?” Sam asked, but Faith had already turned away, chewing.

Smiling, Sam walked on, glad it was fairly light now, because the path that twisted down from the drop-off was narrow and steep.

The sudden scent of fried bacon made Sam's stomach growl. Was it coming from Mrs. Allen's kitchen or Ryan's camp?

A corkscrew of smoke just ahead made her think Ryan was actually cooking breakfast, and Sam navigated the narrow path, just wide enough for a single horse, more quickly.

Ryan had made camp close to the river, between two willow trees. Sam could see him reading a book with Mocha tethered nearby and something frying—
no, the closer she got, the clearer it became the meat was burning—in a skillet over a campfire.

Sam was about to shout for Ryan to save his breakfast, when she noticed the tension outlining every well-bred line of the Morgan mare.

Mocha was watching Hotspot wade across the river.