Firefly (2 page)

T
he only noise in the white BLM truck came from the air conditioner. It labored to cool the desert heat before it huffed in on Brynna and Sam, but it didn't do a very good job.

Sam barely noticed.

Never before had she heard Brynna use the word
crazy
for an animal. By nature and education, Brynna searched out a cause for unusual behavior. Usually she attributed horses' problems to humans.

Brynna might declare a horse
damaged
by bad care.

She might say a creature was
unhealthy
because of harsh range conditions.

She might say a horse had turned
vicious
in self-defense.

But
crazy
? Sam stared out the truck's side window, amazed the word was in Brynna's vocabulary.

As they drew near the Gold Dust Ranch, Sam's eyes focused.

She thought she saw clouds, but then she lowered the window for a better view. It was too hot and dry for clouds to be mounding and billowing like whipped cream, like foam on the tops of waves, like—

“Smoke,” Sam gasped. “There's a fire at Gold Dust—”

“It's a controlled burn,” Brynna said.

Sam sat back in her seat and clasped her hands in her lap when she realized she'd been gripping the window frame and she'd been sniffing the morning air like a dog.

Calm down, can't you?
Sam said to herself. Not every fire was destructive.

“Oh,” she said when Brynna glanced over at her.

“Your dad said Jed Kenworthy took the Deerpath fire as a wake-up call. Since Linc didn't plant his hay fields this year, they're overgrown with cheatgrass. That's pretty much like kindling just waiting for a match. So Jed applied to the volunteer fire department for controlled burn permits. The volunteer fire truck will be out there off and on all week. They'll set the fields on fire, one at a time, then stand by, keeping watch.”

Sam nodded. If another fire started before winter,
it'd burn to the edge of the blackened fields, then go out because of a lack of fuel.

Suddenly, the smell was a cozy reminder of childhood. So many ranchers burned off the stubbled fields after harvest that it was a seasonal scent, reminding her of frosty mornings and Halloween.

The smoky smell had seemed threatening because Linc Slocum, as usual, was out of step with the other ranchers. He hadn't raised hay because he could afford to buy it. He hadn't thought of the danger of a field of cheatgrass, because he didn't depend on Gold Dust Ranch to feed his family or pay his bills. To him, ranching was just a hobby.

“Quit moping. We're almost there,” Brynna said.

Sam was so surprised, she didn't protest that she was
thinking
, not moping.

“Really?” Sam said.

As they drove through a neighborhood on the outskirts of Darton, Sam noticed that though the yards were larger than most in San Francisco, there was nothing like the ten-acre pasture on River Bend Ranch. Where could Dr. Scott keep horses?

“Yep, Raintree Road.” Brynna read a street sign and turned right. “This is it.”

“Are you sure he keeps patients here?” Sam asked.

“Positive,” Brynna said. “He told me his house sits on a double lot and qualifies for agricultural zoning by six square inches.”

Sam joined in Brynna's amusement. Dr. Glen Scott was exactly the kind of guy who'd measure his lot that closely, on his hands and knees if necessary, to get what he deserved.

“He told me it's the only yellow house on the block,” Brynna said.

And there it was. The wooden house faced the street. A low white fence surrounded its tiny front yard, but there were no animals there.

They drove down a long driveway and discovered that the backyard was totally different. A rooster crowed from a row of cages and Sam saw what she was pretty sure were rabbit hutches.

Near the back of the property, Sam spotted a small corral and run-in shed. She didn't see the colt, but a half-grown Holstein calf, randomly spotted with black and white, bawled a noisy greeting.

“Glen must have very tolerant neighbors,” Brynna said.

Sam was about to agree, when Dr. Scott leaned out the back door and motioned them inside. Brynna parked and set the emergency brake, then they headed for the vet's back porch.

Where's Pirate?
Sam wondered. She scanned the property, feeling as if miniature mice were gnawing her nerves. She was that worried.

She kept looking for the young mustang, staring back over her shoulder as they climbed the concrete stairs, until she reached the door.

When Sam entered the crowded kitchen, she was distracted by the three gray kittens streaking out of the room.

The smell of burned toast lingered from breakfast, but the round kitchen table was bare and smeared with moisture, as if Dr. Scott had cleaned it for their arrival. The counters were clean, too, and empty except for a cage. The creaking sound must be coming from the white rat running on its wheel.

Sam thought of a painting called
The Peaceful Kingdom
, or something like that. Dr. Scott's kitchen was filled with creatures that were natural enemies—kittens, a rat, and…She peered into a decorative iron cage and discovered that it held a green parrot.

The big bird clung to the cage bars with talons, tilting its head sideways to ask, “Wanna beer?”

Sam and Brynna both caught their breaths with surprise as Dr. Scott corrected the parrot.

“
Cheer
. Want a
cheer
?”

By his patient tone, Sam guessed Dr. Scott had responded to the bird's question hundreds of times.

“He belongs to Mrs. Prizzo,” he explained.

“The pastor at Bethany Church?” Brynna asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Scott said. “So you can see the problem. She's had him since she was a girl and suddenly, with no encouragement, he's added that phrase to his vocabulary. She thinks he must have picked it up from television. In any case, she loves the bird and called me because she can't seem to cure him of this
one bad habit. So I offered to give it a try.”

“Are you making any progress?” Brynna asked.

The parrot squawked, left the cage bars for his perch, and sidestepped as far away from them as he could. He muttered as he moved.

“Cheer,” Dr. Scott corrected loudly, then looked at Sam and Brynna. “He thinks if he mumbles I won't notice.”

“Who's this?” Sam asked, pointing at the white rat.

“Francis,” Dr. Scott said. “He's recovering from surgery to remove a bump from his tail.”

A moo floated from the pen outside.

“You sure have lots of animals,” Sam said.

“They're just patients,” Dr. Scott said firmly. “Which brings us to our problem.”

“Our equine burn victim,” Brynna said. “I've been concerned about him.”

“Wanna beer?”

“Cheer!” Brynna and Dr. Scott corrected the bird together.

“It's time for the colt to go. Come take a look.” Dr. Scott started for the door, pausing to add, “Don't let the kittens out. They're orphans and they'd have no clue what to do in the yard.”

Sam left the house first. The bay colt must have heard the kitchen door open, because he took a cautious step outside the run-in shed.

Sam's heart beat faster. The colt was moving normally, legs swinging with wild grace as he lifted his
haltered head to get a better view of the humans.

A startled snort said he'd identified them as strangers, then he ducked back into the shed.

That's a good sign
, Sam thought. After two weeks with Dr. Scott, the mustang was at least curious about people. Hiding in the shed wasn't that bad. She'd seen the colt's sire throw himself against fence rails until he was injured and exhausted.

“I'll walk on ahead of you and put the salve on his burns,” Dr. Scott said. “If you stop here, you'll get a better look at him. He'll come to me and he's beginning to understand leading, but he's still pretty wild.”

Sam stood with Brynna as Dr. Scott approached the corral at a brisk walk.

“Here, baby,” he said in a voice higher than his normal tone.

Moving with wary steps and alert ears, the colt came out to meet the vet.

“He's going to have great conformation,” Brynna said.

Just now, the yearling colt looked gawky. His body had a long way to grow before catching up with his legs. He reminded Sam of Damon, a freshman boy she knew at school. His basketball teammates called him Damon the Destroyer, not just because of his ability to demoralize opposing teams but because the kid couldn't cross a classroom without bumping into desks or tripping over feet—sometimes his own.

Sam figured Damon was clumsy because he was
as tall as a man but weighed less than most boys. And though he must be bruised from stumbling a lot, Damon was smooth and nimble when he was dribbling down the court to score.

The colt probably had his full height, too. She'd bet he was close to fifteen hands high, a fine size for a mustang stallion.

Could trauma have suppressed his appetite? Sam noticed how his bones poked against his coat at the same time she noticed what a beautiful color he was.

“He's a pretty bay, isn't he?” Sam said to Brynna.

“Dr. Scott thinks so. When I talked to him on the phone I was trying to fill out paperwork, and for coat color, he actually wanted to put
red topaz
.”

“That doesn't sound like something you'd say about ‘just a patient,'” Sam said. “And he called him
baby
.”

Brynna nodded, but she didn't comment on Dr. Scott's obvious affection for the colt; she just said, “We decided he was a paint.”

“Hmm,” Sam said, but she guessed he was, even though she didn't see any white except the roughly starfish-shaped spot over his eye.

“Look how quietly he's standing,” Brynna said when even the vet's upraised arms didn't frighten the colt.

The young horse protested by tossing his head and flaring his nostrils when the vet stood on tiptoe to apply the ointment, but he didn't bolt or strike out.
His movements seemed almost playful, reminding Sam of the first time she'd seen him.

On Dad and Brynna's wedding day, she'd been tracking down the Phantom's herd, though she should have been home at River Bend, where Jake had been waiting to drive her to the church.

She'd lost track of time as she watched the colt lead a troop of young horses in splashing mock battles in the desert lake at War Drum Flats. Then the snarl of a motorcycle passing on the highway had spooked the herd into running.

That's when the colt had panicked.

Sam had let Ace run with the herd, but she wasn't prepared for the colt's sudden appearance beside them. Fear had interfered with the colt's swift run and he'd crashed into the galloping gelding.

Ace had tripped and Sam had fallen, but the herd had split around her. Even though she'd been scuffed and dusty, she'd been fine.

Because of his distinctive markings, Sam had recognized the colt within the Phantom's herd each time she'd seen him. Most recently, she'd seen him race after a younger colt, when Linc Slocum's hunting dogs threatened the mustangs. Just like a herd stallion, the yearling had tried to shield the roan filly from danger, even when one of the dogs had slashed a ribbon of bay hide from his off hind leg.

The eye-patched colt was always bold and a little foolhardy, so she'd nicknamed him Pirate.

“Let's try taking a few steps closer,” Brynna said,
and Sam couldn't help but notice her stepmother's professional tone. Was Brynna weighing the colt's adoption prospects?

One step closer turned out to be too many.

“Nope,” Brynna said. As the colt shied fearfully, Brynna's arm reached out to gently bar Sam from moving closer.

When Brynna sighed, Sam said, “That proves he's not blind in the eye near the burn. That's good.”

“It is,” Brynna said, but she didn't sound enthusiastic.

“
I
think he's doing great,” Sam said, standing up for the young horse. “Two weeks ago, he was as wild as any horse in the Phantom's band. Now he's letting Dr. Scott touch his head. That's incredible progress.”

“He's got some other issues,” Brynna said.

Issues
. For some reason, the word grated on Sam's nerves.

“Dr. Scott told me that the smoke damaged the colt's lungs, that he might not be able to tolerate dust storms or icy winter weather.” Sam looked at the young horse who'd taken charge of all the other colts. He might have led a herd of his own one day, but not now. His days of freedom were over.

“Captivity's better than dying on the range, isn't it?” she asked Brynna. “He's pretty and smart and—”

“He's not so pretty anymore, Sam,” Brynna interrupted. “Look at him with your eyes instead of your memory.”

Sam shook her head. “So what? He's half gentled already. Dr. Scott said he's almost learned to lead. Anyone who adopted him would be getting a bargain.”

All at once, Sam heard the colt's breathing grow louder. He staggered as if his legs had gone weak. His flanks darkened with sudden sweat. His ribs heaved over the rapid breaths swelling his lungs.

“There,” Brynna said, but not with satisfaction. It was more like this reaction was something she'd been dreading.

“What's wrong with him?” Sam asked.

As they watched, Dr. Scott backed away from the colt, but only as far as he had to move for safety.

“It's okay, baby,” he murmured. “You're safe.”

When the colt remained oblivious, as if he could neither hear nor see the vet, Dr. Scott retreated step by slow step, until he reached the gate. Then he unlatched it without looking behind him, and backed through it.

Wearily, the colt let his head hang as he panted. One hoof struck the dirt repeatedly.