Dawn Runner (7 page)

The others laughed and Ryan admitted, “But you're right.” Then, refreshed by his second cup of water, Ryan squared his shoulders and took in Pam and Dr. Mora with his smile. “I'm Ryan Slocum, heir to the Gold Dust Ranch, but more recently from Nottingham, England.”

He'd charmed them both, Sam thought, and once Ryan had loosened Sky's girth, slipped his bit, and tied him to a stunted pinion pine, Ryan continued to win them over.

“I wouldn't think of evicting you from your chairs,” he said when Dr. Mora tried to give him her seat. Instead, he sat carefully on a boulder. “But I will allow myself a taste of that wondrously aromatic dish you're cooking.”

While he ate Dr. Mora's stew, Ryan explained how he'd come to be here. He told how he'd lived with his “mum” and become an accomplished equestrian, riding competitive jumpers, between taking rigorous courses at a British boarding school.

“Once I graduated, I decided to come to Nevada to spend time with my father and twin sister…yes, thank you, I will have a slice of bread. It looks lovely.”

How did he manage to look so poised? Sam wondered. He balanced his cup and yellow tin plate, used the side of his plastic fork to cut a roly-poly red potato,
and
continued to conduct a conversation.

Sam decided it must be the sort of thing you
learned at boarding school, because she'd already dropped her spoon once and had to blow a bug off her bread. And she was sitting in a chair.

“Did your twin go to the same school in England?” Pam asked.

“No, Rachel's a year behind me. She's been schooled in the States,” he said. When Sam pointedly cleared her throat, he added, “No cause-and-effect implied, of course. My sister's strongest interests do not lie in the classroom.”

He could say
that
again. Rachel Slocum was more interested in makeup and MTV. Because she was her rich father's princess, she got everything she wanted, from a red sports car to a horse she'd never ridden. Now, her sights were set on a music career.

Ryan's expression dared Sam to say something critical about his twin, but Sam kept quiet.

Looking a little relieved, Ryan asked, “What brings you ladies to Lost Canyon?”

“I'm writing a paper about legendary horses. It's called ‘From Sacrifice to Saint: Complementary Legends of the Wild Equid.' It may sound dry and academic,” Dr. Mora said, “but it's not—”

“Of course not,” Ryan said.

“—especially because I'm scouting contemporary sightings of a magical horse. It carries the sun on its back, bringing light to the world each morning—”

The plastic fork almost broke in Sam's grip. A horse haloed in morning sun floated across her memory.

“—stories told in places all over the world,” Dr. Mora was continuing. “Some say it's a ghost whose only escape from darkness is at daybreak. Other tales claim it's a normal horse bewitched into the service of a sun god—”

Not magical. Not bewitched, Sam thought, just fleet and half wild.

“—one of the places where these stories recur is right here, around Lost Canyon,” Dr. Mora finished with a nod.

As Ryan allowed his mannerly disbelief to break into words, Sam would bet she was the only one to catch his teasing look.

“And what do they call this creature?” he asked. “The Phantom Stallion?”

Any other day, Sam might have worried about the same thing, but not today. Her stallion wasn't the legendary horse Dr. Mora was describing.

“No,” Dr. Mora said with a wave of her hand. “That's a separate legend altogether. This horse is generally thought of as a mare, like Epona in Britain. Unlike Epona, the white mare, this horse is parti-colored—dappled or spotted like the Chinese Tiger Horse—and she's called Dawn Runner.”

Parti-colored, Sam thought. She almost nodded.

Dr. Mora sighed with pleasure and announced, “I have a meeting with a Shoshone tribal elder who saw this sun bearer in July.”

That Shoshone elder could be Jake's grandfather,
Sam thought. He lived out near Monument Lake, but he drove back and forth to Three Ponies Ranch all the time. So it would make sense he'd seen her.

“Surely,” Ryan began, and Sam could tell he was struggling to remain polite, “you aren't saying this miraculous horse exists?”

Dr. Mora's palms met and her fingers interlaced. “Legends are often born from the mingling of fact and longing. It will be a fascinating interview, if nothing else, since it's the most recent sighting in this century.”

“No, it's not,” Sam said without meaning to. “I saw the Dawn Runner just this morning.”

“S
he's joking,” Pam explained in a tolerant tone reserved for friends who've gone slightly crazy.

“No, I'm not,” Sam said. “Or, at least, not exactly. I
did
see a spotted mare running next to the La Charla River just as the sun was coming up.”

“How exciting,” Dr. Mora said.

“Indeed. I just wish you'd mentioned it before now,” Ryan said. And then he yawned, covering his lips, too courteous to let them see.

“I thought of it, but she would have been long gone, Ryan. And she was headed toward the Blind Faith sanctuary, where you were going to look anyway,” Sam insisted.

She didn't point out how stubborn he'd been
about capturing Hotspot on his own. That reminder might have started a fight, and this wasn't the time or the place for bickering.

“Wait a minute. I'm lost. So, did you already know about the legend?” Pam asked.

“No, we're talking about a real horse,” Sam told her. “Her name is Apache Hotspot and she's Ryan's.”

“And she was out running around by herself? I don't get it.”

“Help me clear the dishes, and then we'll talk about it while we walk down to the lake. All right?” Dr. Mora said.

“Splendid,” Ryan said. “I was hoping to locate a hiding place, rather like a hunting blind, where I could watch for Hotspot if she comes in for water.”

It was only a comparison, Sam knew, but it made her uncomfortable when Ryan talked about a hunting blind—one of those camouflaged lookouts used by people with rifles—and Hotspot in the same sentence.

Cleanup was over and they were walking through the rangeland dusk when Dr. Mora noticed Sam's horsehair bracelet.

“Did you make it yourself?” she asked.

“Yes, it's hair from my stallion. Well, I call him mine, but he's really not anymore. When he was a foal, he was, but now he's wild.”

“The horse you were riding when you had the accident,” Dr. Mora said. “I remember.” She glanced
at the bracelet again. “Did you know that worldwide, more amulets and good-luck charms are made from horsehair than any other substance?”

“Really?” Sam asked.

“That's what I've read.”

Sam was about to tell Dr. Mora the bracelet wasn't a good-luck charm, but since she wasn't sure exactly what it was, she didn't correct her.

“And speaking of foals, that's why I'm tracking Hotspot,” Ryan said. “She became separated from her foal about a month ago. Now, he's not doing as well as he might, so I'm trying to bring her back to him.”

That was certainly a cleaned-up version of the truth, Sam thought. But she kept walking, enjoying Pam's companionship instead of confiding the ugly details of Ryan tricking her into hiding Hotspot and Shy Boots, then leaving her to take the blame for stealing them.

Sam felt a secretive smile play over her lips and had to admit to herself that even though she didn't want to ruin the tranquil mood now, she might not be able to resist gossiping with Pam a little later.

“So, will your sister look after your colt while you're searching for Hotspot?” Pam asked.

“Not in this lifetime,” Sam muttered.

“Samantha doesn't hold a very high opinion of my sister,” Ryan said, and though the words were critical, his tone wasn't.

And that makes me look bad,
Sam thought, but it
took a few seconds for her to figure out how to contradict him without lying.

“Rachel and Ryan have just been brought up differently from me,” Sam said.

“With money,” Ryan put in, then laughed, and despite his fine manners, Sam knew Dr. Mora and Pam didn't like the entitled way in which he said it.

Although they walked a quiet lap around the desert watering hole, they concluded what Sam had known from the start. This was a safe place for mustangs to drink because there were no nearby hiding places.

“This won't work,” Ryan said with a disgusted shake of his head.

“You could set up camp here,” Dr. Mora recommended. “I have a friend who's a wildlife biologist and he insists you don't see anything until you become part of the animal's environment.”

“I don't want to study her,” Ryan said as they turned to walk back toward the O'Malleys' camp. “I want to trap her.”

Did Ryan hear the uneasy silence between their footfalls as they walked back? If so, he didn't say anything. But Sam noticed, and a single glimpse from the corner of her eye told her Dr. Mora did, too. She was sizing up Ryan as if he were under a microscope.

Ace's nicker reminded Sam that she would have to ride home in full darkness. The trail was clear and she and Ace knew it well, but she'd be testing her
family's patience, especially on a school night.

“I'd better get going,” Sam said reluctantly.

Dr. Mora had asked Pam to light the kindling arranged in the rock ring. Now the cozy campfire smell made Sam want to stay.

“How about using my satellite phone to call home and see if you can stay just a little longer?” Dr. Mora said.

When she began burrowing in her box of supplies, Sam wondered why Pam's mom had buried her phone in the clutter. But she hadn't.

Mora lifted a plastic bag out of the box and swung it like a lure.

“I have marshmallows for toasting,” she said in a tempting tone.

Sam didn't even pretend to resist, but she held her breath as she dialed home. When Dad answered on the first ring, she was afraid she was already in trouble. Since she couldn't talk and hold her breath at the same time, she crossed her fingers instead.

“Dad?” Sam asked, then closed her eyes tight. “I'm with Pam and Dr. Mora. Ryan Slocum is here, too, and I want to know if I can stay just a little longer before I start riding back.”

“Where's ‘here'?” Dad asked.

“Oh, we're about midway between War Drum Flats and Lost Canyon. Um, a little closer to the mouth of Lost Canyon.”

Sam waited.

“You'll have to ride most of the way in the dark,” Dad said.

“Yeah, but I'm on Ace. We know the way home.”

“You have homework?”

“I don't. None.”

“Okay. Don't suppose it will be any darker if you leave in twenty minutes than if you leave right now. No galloping. Even a savvy pony can misjudge his footing in the dark.”

“I'll be careful,” Sam promised.

Dad cleared his throat. “Your Gram wants to know if you've eaten.”

“I had dinner with Pam and her mom,” Sam said, and then, since she knew Gram would be curious, she added, “We had stew, bread, and apples.”

“And cheese,” Pam put in, and Sam opened her eyes to see her friend fidgeting in front of her.

Dad must have heard Pam, too, because he gave a quiet laugh.

“Okay, then. Porch light will be on. Me and Blaze will be waitin'.”

“Thanks, Daddy!” she said, and then punched the button to turn the phone off.

“Yay!” Pam cheered, then celebrated by handing Sam a stick with a knife-sharpened point.

Before she took it, she followed Dr. Mora's nod and offered the phone to Ryan.

“No thanks,” Ryan said.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

Sam shrugged.

Ryan turned down the chance to roast marshmallows, too, after asking, “Just curious, but do you have any metal toasting forks?”

When Pam said no, Ryan claimed he really couldn't eat another bite.

As Sam eased a plump, white marshmallow onto her stick, she guessed Ryan had a right to be fastidious. True, the sticks weren't sanitary, but wouldn't ramming them into the flames kill germs?

As she squatted near the campfire and practiced her turn-and-burn roasting technique, Sam couldn't shake off the feeling that she'd forgotten something she was supposed to do tonight. She'd told Dad the truth. She didn't have any homework, but the memory of some other responsibility hovered just out of reach.

“I don't know how you can eat them like that,” Pam said as Sam withdrew her flaming dessert from the fire.

Sam stood up, stepped back from the campfire's heat, and pulled the black crust off her marshmallow. She popped it into her mouth, then returned to her position by the fire and thrust the goo that remained on her stick back into the flames.

“This way, I get to eat them twice,” she explained.

“Why would one want to consume charcoal even once?” Ryan asked, watching the orange tongues of
fire lick at the sizzling marshmallow.

“It's delicious, but I bet you're the kind of guy who turns your marshmallow way above the fire, one millimeter at a time,” Sam accused.

“Of course not,” Ryan said. “They're only a perfect golden brown if you turn them one
half
millimeter at a time.”

They laughed, and suddenly, Sam remembered something she'd been meaning to ask Dr. Mora.

“You said the name of your paper was something like, ‘From Sacrifice to Saints.' What does that mean?”

“It's a little gruesome,” Dr. Mora warned. She glanced toward Sky and Ace, dipped her head in silent apology, then defended the ancient people she was studying. “In primitive times, it was pretty common to offer a prized animal as a gift to the gods.”

“I know I'm going to be sorry I asked, but by ‘offer' you mean…?” Sam swallowed hard, then waited.

Before her mother answered, Pam grimaced and made a slashing motion across her throat.

“They killed them? Not really,” Sam said.

“I'm afraid so,” Dr. Mora confirmed. “I know you've heard of civilizations that believed in sacrificing to their gods. The Romans killed white birds, bulls, and other flawless creatures. Mayans trusted human sacrifice. Some Celtic horse cultures gave their fastest, most beautiful stallions a life of luxury
before they sacrificed them.”

“And some even ate them,” Pam said, shuddering. “I've read the rough draft of Mom's paper.”

“But why did they do that?” Sam asked.

Dr. Mora used her index fingers to reposition her glasses before she explained. “We think they were asking higher powers to protect them from plague, drought, flood, and poor crops—sacrificing what they held dear to save their own lives.”

Sam gazed around her. Firelight flared on Ryan's dirt-smudged face and disheveled hair. Shadows shifted to show Pam's green eyes glowing from beneath the bandanna that had slipped down her brow. Then Sam looked at her own pointed roasting stick. Thousands of years ago, they might have been gathered around this desert campfire for much different reasons.

She stared over at Ace and Sky. Both geldings' eyes glowed red with firelight.

“Some say horses remember, and that's why they don't entirely trust us,” Dr. Mora said.

“What is it they're supposed to remember?” Ryan's question sounded dubious.

“When they were food, beasts of burden, and sacrifices,” Dr. Mora said. “Some think that explains why a domestic horse sometimes resists capture, even by a person he knows. It's that primal memory. They probably don't understand it any more than we do our own primal memories. For example, you know
how uneasy we humans feel at a sudden silence?”

When the very word
silence
made all four of them quiet, they laughed.

“Why do we feel that way?” Pam asked.

“Theories vary, but one says that before we developed big enough brains to be predators, we were nothing but thin-skinned, short-clawed,”—Dr. Mora held up her fingernails—“dull-toothed prey. When birds stopped calling to each other and a sudden quiet fell over ancient forests, that meant a predator was prowling for dinner. But that was long ago. Horses' memories are from more recent times. Some horse bones marked by human teeth have been dated at hundreds, not thousands, of years old.”

The thought sickened Sam. She stared toward Ace. The bay gelding stood motionless, almost as if he understood this conversation about her ancestors sitting around a fire like this one, gnawing on horse bones.

Chills prickled down Sam's arms. She put down her stick, pushed up from her squatting position near the fire, and went to hug Ace.

“Don't listen, boy,” she told him, but she was pretty sure Ace wouldn't be the one having nightmares about blood spilling from a beautiful stallion.

Apparently Ryan's mind had circled back to that awful image, too.

“That's puzzling,” he said. “Sacrificing the best, I mean. Not a sensible way to build up good blood lines.”

“No,” Dr. Mora agreed. “But I suppose everyone
understands that some things are supposed to be unattainable, and never possessed….”

Sam was nodding, thinking how she wanted the Phantom to remain free, even though she could have built a case for reclaiming him.

“Not my father,” Ryan said. “He believes everything has a value in dollars and cents and it's his right to buy it, even—”

Ryan's square jaw slammed closed. He stopped talking so suddenly, it sounded as if someone had flipped a switch. He shook his head.

“Pardon me,” he said. “That was totally out of line.”

“No big deal,” Sam said.

Pam chimed in, telling Ryan she didn't care, either.

Then Dr. Mora added, “I guess it all boils down to what the wise man said.”

“Go ahead, Mom. We're waiting,” Pam coaxed.

Dr. Mora cleared her throat melodramatically, then recited, “Not everything that counts can be counted and not everything that can be counted counts.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “I love that! Is it a Native American saying? Or—I know—the Dalai Lama?”

“Actually, it's from Albert Einstein,” Dr. Mora said.

“No way,” Sam said, but Dr. Mora nodded.

Sam couldn't believe it. Someone she'd banished to the part of her brain reserved for boring mathematics had said something so perfect.

She'd have to remember to tell Jen. Her friend was a fan of Einstein. She even had a black-and-white poster of a static-haired Einstein on her bedroom wall.