Firefly (3 page)

Settling his black-rimmed glasses into place and passing a hand over his hair, Dr. Scott finally reached them.

“What's wrong with him?” Sam asked.

“He's exhibiting all the signs of a horse in serious hyperthermia,” the vet said, frowning. “Lethargy, weakness, rapid breathing, and flared nostrils, but he
doesn't run a temperature. I've checked. He's not really hyperthermic.”

“Is he sick?” Sam asked, but Brynna's question was louder.

“How often does it happen?” Brynna asked.

“Sometimes three times a day, sometimes not at all. This wasn't a particularly bad episode. See?” Dr. Scott nodded at the pen.

The colt shook his ears and looked around, as if he'd just awakened. If his coat hadn't still been wet from nervous sweat, Sam thought it wouldn't have been that hard to convince herself she'd imagined the incident.

“He's even hungry,” the vet said as the colt sniffed a wisp of hay. “I probably didn't have to leave the corral.”

“What does he do when it
is
a bad episode?” Sam asked, though part of her didn't want to know.

Dr. Scott cleared his throat before answering. “He rears, rolls his eyes, and bursts into full terror response as if some door in his memory has opened onto an inferno.”

Dr. Scott shaded his eyes with one hand as he stared at the colt. He bit his lip and was silent for so long, Sam was unprepared when he went on.

“And then,” Dr. Scott said, “he screams, as if he's still burning.”

S
am closed her eyes, wishing she could shut out the awful images for the colt. She'd had nightmares after her fall and concussion, but the colt's flashbacks to the fire would be a hundred times worse.

“He's having bad dreams,” Sam said, but Dr. Scott shook his head.

“Not exactly. That would be understandable,” Dr. Scott said, “but generally speaking, at least in human terms, if you have nightmares while you're wide awake, we call them hallucinations.”

“A horse hallucinating?” Brynna asked. Her arms opened and her hands turned palms up, in disbelief. “Is that possible?”

Dr. Scott pushed his black-rimmed glasses up his nose, clearly uncomfortable with the diagnosis. “I admit I'm no expert on horse psychosis, but can you think of another explanation for what you just saw? I've tried for two weeks, and I can't.”

Brynna stood quietly. Sam could almost see her logical stepmother reviewing the colt's symptoms.

He'd breathed quickly and loudly.

He'd staggered on suddenly weak legs.

He'd broken into a heavy sweat.

“Sure,” Brynna said, with a quick nod. “It's been awfully hot lately. The thermometer outside my office reached a hundred degrees yesterday. Since he's not in the best health to begin with, he could be reacting to the temperature.”

Then, as if Brynna was worried the vet would think she'd overstepped her expertise, she added, “But that must have occurred to you already.”

“Of course, and there's nothing I'd like better than to believe it. But wait until you see a full-blown attack,” Dr. Scott said, folding his arms. “It goes way beyond heat sensitivity.”

They all stared at the horse as if he could explain.

“What if—in his mind—he's sort of connecting the fire's heat with the temperature?” Sam gestured at the August air. “Maybe he's forgotten he'd been hot before that—I mean, mustangs can't spend much time thinking about the weather. He might remember, though, how hot he was in the fire.”

“Maybe,” Dr. Scott said, but Sam could tell he wasn't convinced.

Then she remembered Dark Sunshine, not as the buckskin mare was now, but as she'd been a year ago.

“She screamed,” Sam said slowly.

“He,” Dr. Scott corrected before Sam could finish. “He's a stud colt, Sam.”

“I know. I was thinking about Dark Sunshine,” Sam told him. “When we first got her—”

“Stole her, to be accurate,” Brynna said. She raised her eyebrows and gave a half smile, as if trying to lighten the mood. “Sam is quite an accomplished horse thief.”

Sam didn't answer her stepmother's teasing. She was remembering Dark Sunshine's days with the owner who'd bought her from her adopter. The buckskin mare had been abused and used as bait in traps for other mustangs. Each time she'd felt the safety of a herd surrounding her once more, the other horses had been taken away and sold, and she'd been left behind.

It had been the mare's haunting screams, echoing from Lost Canyon, that had led Sam and her best friend, Jen, to investigate. Eventually she'd learned that Dark Sunshine's screams had started out as cries of loneliness, but they'd recurred whenever she was afraid.

Only kind, consistent care had cured the mare. Sam hadn't heard those awful neighs for months.
Crossing her fingers, she hoped she never would again.

“Why couldn't horses get freaked out by bad memories?” she asked the vet. “People do, don't they?”

“I'm not saying they can't,” Dr Scott's tone hardened. “What I am saying is, this colt needs to move on.”

That's not fair
, Sam thought.

Here, the colt had medical attention, company, and affection. How could there be a better place for him to recover? Sure it was rude to point this all out to Dr. Scott, Sam thought as she watched the injured colt sniff along the calf's furry back. But who else would speak for the young mustang?

As she was trying to compose words that would really work, Sam stared at the vet with such intensity, he looked away.

“I know what you're thinking,” Brynna said, trying to head off Sam's argument.

“So do I,” Dr. Scott said. “You think the colt belongs here. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Knowing how you feel about mustangs, I value that, but the timing's all wrong. What this colt needs now is daily, hands-on care.”

Both Brynna and Dr. Scott had just assumed they could read her mind. And they were right.

“But you're giving him that kind of care,” Sam said.

“Sam,” Brynna cautioned. “A vet can't fall in love with all of his patients.”

Dr. Scott gave a short laugh. “Even if I could, pretty soon I'd run out of money.”

Money. Why did it always have to be money?
Sam wondered.

“We've just about reached the limit of what BLM says I can spend on this colt,” Brynna said. A worried frown creased her forehead.

“It's not that. I'll continue to treat him for free,” Dr. Scott said. “But what about my other patients—the horses, cows, sheep, pigs, and dogs I drive to see around here?”

Frustration tightened Sam's chest. River Bend's animals had all benefited from Dr. Scott's care. What if he'd refused to come when they needed him?

“That colt's reached a critical period in his recovery,” Dr. Scott said. “He's almost well. I've given him all the vaccinations and vitamins he needs and I'm tapering off his antibiotics. I think danger of infection is passed, as long as I—” He broke off with a shake of his head. “No. As long as his
new
owner applies his ointment.”

“Is he healthy enough to be adopted?” Brynna asked.

“Physically? Sure, he's fine. He's learned to accept my touch, so other human hands shouldn't terrify him. As I said, this is the best time for him to bond.”

“Except that he's
loco
,” Sam said. Both Brynna and Dr. Scott stared at her in surprise. Since this did not sound like something she'd say, Sam explained,
“That's how Dad, Jed Kenworthy, or most ranchers would think, right?”

“Yep,” the young vet agreed, but he met Brynna's eyes instead of Sam's.

What kind of plan had they worked out for the colt? They must have thought of something.

“Can't we take him to River Bend?” Sam asked.

“Honey, if we didn't have the HARP girls coming tomorrow, I'd probably face off with Wyatt and give it my best shot,” Brynna said. “But we budgeted for last week's girls and they didn't come. That's nobody's fault, but we need this week's payment from HARP, and I don't think this colt would get the attention he needs while the girls are with us.”

Sam drew a breath so deep, the hot air made her sneeze. Then she sighed. Brynna was right.

She looked back at the colt, studying his ugly burns. He needed every advantage he could be given. Someone should eat, sleep, and work near him. If he learned humans could make up his new herd, he'd not only be more adoptable, he'd be happier.

“Okay,” Sam said as her mind sorted possibilities.

Gold Dust Ranch? The Slocums had plenty of space and money. Jen would do a wonderful job working with the colt. For a minute Sam's spirits skyrocketed. Then they crashed. Jed Kenworthy wouldn't let Jen work with an injured mustang, for free, if she could be using the same hours to earn money helping HARP.

Besides, Sam scolded herself, Linc Slocum had almost destroyed Shy Boots, just because the foal wasn't a purebred. Her heart froze at the thought of how he'd treat a singed and psychotic mustang.

“What about Mrs. Allen?” Sam said.

The first fourteen horses sheltered at Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary had been just like this colt—wild and unadoptable.

“She'd be first on my list,” Brynna said.

Of course she would, Sam thought. Not only had Mrs. Allen successfully gentled Faith, a blind Medicine Hat pinto filly, to lead and accept humans; but Roman, the liver chestnut gelding who considered himself the boss of the captive mustangs, had been gentled to ride and very nearly won an endurance race.

Both had been slated for euthanasia because they were unadoptable, but both had healed under Mrs. Allen's care.

“She's all alone out there where it's quiet,” the vet said. “She has plenty of time to pamper him, and some real expertise with horses.”

“She'll do it,” Sam said confidently. “I know she will.”

Already Sam could picture the bright bay colt sharing the big square corral with Calico, Ginger, and Judge. The two paints and the old bay would be his new herd, crowding close to give him the security he missed.

“And she can put him in with her saddle horses,” Sam said.

Dr. Scott was smiling, as if she'd guessed the right answer. “That'd be better than putting him out in the open pasture with the other mustangs,” he added.

Better, too, Sam thought, because the wide pastures bordered the Phantom's territory. Running with a captive herd, with his home herd just outside the fence rails, would be too tantalizing.

“We've got the Willow Springs auction coming up soon,” Brynna said. “And I make a point of telling a little about each horse. If I could mention he'd been handled for three weeks, if we could get him broken to lead by then…”

Brynna's words were hopeful, but her eyes weren't. A new owner would have to overlook the colt's damaged face and mind. Still, Brynna was willing to give it a try.

 

Sweat found its way from Sam's forehead to her right eyebrow. Then suddenly it sizzled in her eye.

Stupid heat
, she thought. She loved summer, but about one week each year, she caught herself thinking no one with a brain had settled in northern Nevada during the hottest week of summer.

Sure, the early pioneers had stopped to plant trees and build cabins in springtime or fall. They might even have sheltered in the high desert in winter, since more days were cold and sunny than
wet and dreary. But Sam knew if she'd been driving a covered wagon through northern Nevada during this August heat, she would have slapped the reins, clucked her tongue, and called out to her horses or oxen or whatever to keep on going.

The shade cast by the roof on the front porch of Brynna's office didn't seem to help much, and since the air conditioner in the beige government building had been turned off last night and no one had turned it on this morning, it was no better inside.

Sam longed for home, but Brynna wanted to talk with Mrs. Allen as soon as possible. Since Mrs. Allen's phone kept ringing busy, Brynna was alternately catching up on work and dialing.

If Sam had closed her eyes, she wouldn't have known she was looking out over hundreds of horses. A hoof stamped or a tail swished through the wind sometimes, but both were quiet sounds.

Willow Springs Wild Horse Center was a combination of what she loved and hated about the government's wild horse adoption program.

The pipe corrals help keep wild horses segregated by age and gender. They were a little more crowded than usual. Horses from holding corrals in other states were being sent to Willow Springs for the upcoming auction.

Of course, Sam was grateful that the horses had been rounded up and taken off the overgrazed range. In the old days, they might have been shot or captured
and sold for pet food. Still, Sam hated it that none of the penned horses looked wild.

Sam pried a tiny rock from between two boards in the plank porch, turned it over on her palm, then threw it toward the dirt. After it struck the ground, Sam finally heard the flow of Brynna's voice from inside her office.

Sam couldn't tell what Brynna was saying, but she had to be talking with Mrs. Allen about adopting—or at least fostering—the burned colt.

Good!

The day was slipping away. Though she was eager to get the yearling's future settled, she could have finished weeding by now. She could have haltered Tempest and led her down to the river to wade.

It wasn't likely Tempest would go without her mother, but the point of the walk was to continue accustoming the foal to her halter. When Sam pictured herself leading Dark Sunshine and Tempest, she saw herself wrapped in lead ropes, stumbling in all directions, trying to control both horses.

Suddenly the door opened behind her.

Smiling, Sam swiveled to look up at Brynna, then felt the muscles in her cheeks sag.

Before Brynna said a word, it was clear she felt dejected.

“She won't do it,” Brynna said. Her shoulders sagged. The corners of her mouth drooped and Sam could see Brynna had counted on Mrs. Allen just as
much as she had.

“Why?” Sam asked.

Looking resigned to Mrs. Allen's refusal, Brynna was about to go on, but Sam didn't give her a chance.

“That's why she has Blind Faith Sanctuary, isn't it? To shelter wild horses that have nowhere else to go?”

Sam felt angry, disappointed, and amazed, all at once.

“Sam, if you'd just listen—”

“What kind of excuse could she have? She could take him in for just a few days…”

Brynna's expression had changed. Her eyebrows arched, one higher than the other.

Sam's lips slammed closed. She had a feeling her stepmother was about to tell her she was being bratty beyond words. Or that she was babbling down the wrong track. Maybe both.

“I happen to think Mrs. Allen has a pretty good excuse,” Brynna said quietly.

Uh-oh.
Sam felt a hot blush clamp her face.

“She's picking up her grandson Gabriel at the airport tonight,” Brynna continued, “and his doctors in Denver think Mrs. Allen's plans for this week could make the difference between Gabriel walking again, or staying in a wheelchair for life.”