Firefly (9 page)

“Don't think I don't know why,” Gabe said. “The doctor was cool. She told me everything.”

Mrs. Allen gave a nod of agreement. “The doctor said she wished she could tell him everything would be okay, and she really seems to believe it will,” Mrs. Allen said adamantly. “But she can't promise. And she did mention that with a chronic condition like this, even the sweetest people in the world can't help but be angry.”

“And I wasn't sweet to begin with,” Gabe said. He sat back with his arms crossed, trying to look tough, but Sam could see his hands shaking.

“Of course you were. When you were training for soccer and going to school and falling into bed exhausted, you were perfectly sweet.” Mrs. Allen's chin lifted and her eyes narrowed. She looked as if she'd had enough.

She stood up, cleared the dishes to the kitchen sink, and continued, “Now, I'm going to get things settled in your room. Whether you realize it or not, you need a rest.”

“Look,” Gabe said, turning his anger on his grandmother.

Mrs. Allen was ready for it.

“
You
look,” Mrs. Allen snapped, with the nerve Sam had always admired. “I know very well you agreed to come visit not because you wanted to be
with me, or be around horses, like you said, but because you wanted to get away from your friends.
They're
getting ready for school and soccer, and—at least in your mind—pitying you because you'll miss this season, entirely.”

“Grandma!” Gabe's mouth stayed open as if he couldn't go on.

“There's no point in us lying to each other,” Mrs. Allen said. She held Gabe's gym bag in one hand and a backpack bulging with square shapes that must be books in the other. Even though the strap of a pair of binoculars was wrapped around her wrist, too, she looked balanced and in control.

“It's the truth. Now that you're here, though, you're going to get better. I'm going to make you get better!” Mrs. Allen leaned toward him, voice lowered. “Your upper body works just fine and so does your brain. You're a young athlete who's had some bad luck, just like that horse. You know what he's going through, and you'll help Samantha bring him back to what he should be.”

Sam sat very still. Mrs. Allen's quiet voice was scarier than her shouting. Sam didn't want to attract Mrs. Allen's attention, but Sam couldn't let her hope for something that was practically a miracle.

“Mrs. Allen?” Sam began cautiously.

Mrs. Allen's silver concho earrings flashed like lightning. She whirled so quickly, a lock of black hair came loose and fell over one eye.

“You can hush, too, Samantha. I took that colt in when I already had way too much on my plate. You knew it, so did your whole family and young Dr. Scott. Well, this is how I'm going to make everything work. This is the price you'll pay to save him!”

“Wait—”

“But—”

Mrs. Allen refused to listen to either of them.

“Both of you sit quietly and see if you can wrap your minds around this: For the next five days you'll work together on that colt or all three of you are out of here.”

As if she'd been pounding on a piano and suddenly stopped, vibration hung in the room. Mrs. Allen cleared her throat and flashed a smile too bright and giddy for a seventy-something lady.

“Now.” Mrs. Allen's voice was barely audible. “If there are no questions, I think I'll go make up the bed in the guest room.”

Sam took a deep breath and stared after her, listening until she no longer heard the swishing skirts and thumping boot heels.

If Brynna and Dr. Scott thought Pirate was crazy, they should come spend some time with Mrs. Allen. Next to her, the
loco
little horse seemed absolutely serene.

“I
'm going to go outside and sit with the colt,” Sam told Gabe once Mrs. Allen was busy in the other room.

“Sure, leave me in here with her.”

“She's your grandmother,” Sam said, smiling. “Mine just cooks too much.”

“You think this is funny?” Gabe asked, rubbing one hand over his spiky hair.

“A little bit,” she admitted. Now that Mrs. Allen was out of the room, it all made sense. Sam had seen the tension building in the older woman since she climbed down from her tangerine-colored truck. “I think she's just worried about you, and this is how she's showing it.”

“By acting crazy? What about creating a secure environment for the invalid?” Gabe asked, then lowered his voice. “I haven't been around her that much. We were just getting to know each other before this happened. I—”

Gabe broke off. Then, looking thoughtful, he reached up and turned the gold stud in his earlobe. “If I'd come out here to visit when she wanted me to, two weeks ago, I wouldn't have been on that road trip.”

Sam remembered the long list of “ifs” from her own accident. If she'd paid closer attention to her horse, to the weather, to Jake's technique of riding through the gate, to any of those things, she might not have fallen and the horse she loved wouldn't have escaped.

But it didn't matter how many “ifs” she listed. She'd made a mistake that had caused her to fall. The stallion's hoof had grazed her head. He'd run for the mountains, leaving her on the ground, where she heard his hooves retreating into silence.

Even if she could count off ten thousand ways she might have changed that day, it was too late. But she sure wasn't going to lecture Gabe about the lessons she'd learned. Sooner or later, he'd learn them for himself.

“So, do you want to learn to ride?” Sam asked.

Gabe's expression said she didn't deserve an answer, so Sam didn't wait for one.

“The first step to horsemanship is always done on the ground anyway. You need to get to know the horse. They're individuals just like people, in how they think, how they understand the world, and how they express themselves.”

Gabe still didn't say anything. Given the way he sagged against his forearms, which lay on the mahogany table, Sam guessed his silence wasn't all resentment. Part of it was weariness. Just the same, he was listening.

Sam told him about the HARP program, going over the days of groundwork that preceded actually mounting the mustangs. She talked about the program's success with girls like Mikki Small and the failures that had come before the successes.

“You let them burn down your barn, get bitten by snakes, and commit, like, Internet fraud. Then, instead of suing them,” Gabe asked, “you talk about them being scared and getting over it? That's lame.”

Shaking his head, Gabe leaned forward until his chin rested on his folded arms.

“Maybe,” Sam said. “But it works.”

Gabe's eyelids were drooping. Careful that her chair didn't squeak as she pushed back from the table, Sam slipped out of the kitchen, through the door, and onto the rose-flanked walk.

Bees zipped between flowers. Sunbeams highlighted small bodies the color of orange marmalade and striped with black. No sultry breeze hinted of
rain or rocked the roses on their thorned stems. It was still and silent except for the bees' droning.

Sam hoped the horses were dozing in the pen, feeling relaxed and accepting. She tried to open the iron gate soundlessly, but one glance across the ranch yard told her she needn't have bothered.

The colt was already watching her. The saddle horses were ranged against the far fence, in the shade of the cottonwood tree. Judge and Ginger stood head to tail, dozing. Calico's chin pointed up as she rubbed her neck against the fence, scratching an itch on the top board.

If Pirate backed a single step, his tail would brush one of the other horses. Even in the security of this small herd, though, his body was tense and his ears pricked to catch each of her footfalls.

“Hey, baby,” Sam crooned when she was still halfway across the yard from the corral. “I bet you had me the minute I opened the door, didn't you?”

The colt's head bowed, then jerked up. He was probably dodging a fly, but his black mane swayed forward on his glossy neck and he looked like he was agreeing.

“You'd be long gone if not for those fences. Is that what you're thinking?” Sam asked him, but as she did, she reached one hand out.

Hooves stuttered, kicking up sand as the yearling threw himself sideways to escape. His bay hide slammed against the other horses, earning him flattened
ears and bared teeth. Eyes rolling, he skittered off a few steps, then turned his tail to her, still trembling and completely aware of her movements.

No!
She'd already committed two mistakes—reaching out and talking.

How had she forgotten that the mustang's world had nothing—at least nothing friendly—with arms. Cougars had long, clutching arms that ended in claws. Men had arms that ended in snaking ropes. Yes, Dr. Scott had reached out to pet and heal the colt, but Sam was new and strange. The colt had relied on his wild instincts to assess her.

Crooning to the colt as she approached so that he wasn't surprised by her sudden appearance would have been fine, except he'd already known she was coming. He'd been watching her, so she should have stayed silent.

Wild horses were prey. Safety meant communicating with widened eyes, flicking ears, and flared nostrils. Translated into human terms, she'd just bounded into someone's house bellowing an offer to mug them.

And I have an unparalleled knack with horses
, Sam thought. Yeah, right.

Since she'd already disrupted naptime, Sam circled to the far side of the corral. All of the horses moved away until she sat on the ground, cross-legged in the shade. Then Mrs. Allen's three horses returned. Calico sniffed along the bottom rail. She turned her
head sideways and fluttered her lips over Sam's hand.

“Good girl,” Sam whispered. She used her knuckles to stroke the velvety skin between the mare's nostrils.

Calico enjoyed the caress for a few seconds, then snorted, hinting that a treat would be appropriate about now. But Sam had nothing to offer the pinto mare, so Calico huffed, moved off a few dragging steps, and closed her blond eyelashes for a nap.

Pirate stood as far from Sam as he could, with his shoulder, barrel, and hip pressed against the fence rail. But his neck wrinkled, showing amber-red glints, as his head turned to watch her.

If only he could read her mind, the colt would know he had nothing to fear. But, Sam thought, probably every kind human who'd ever worked with a frightened horse had made the same wish.

The best she could hope for was that Pirate believed the endorsement of the other horses. They stood nearby and though she knew their presence had more to do with the change than companionship, Calico
had
asked for her touch. The colt must have noticed.

Sweat gathered on Sam's forehead and dribbled down her temples and cheeks. She closed her eyes to keep the saltiness out, and wished she could flap her collar to cool her hot neck and throat. But the colt would probably think she was some weird, squatting bird of prey.

She'd been sitting in this cross-legged position so long that she was pretty sure the wrinkles in her jeans had made permanent indentations on her legs. The indigo dye had probably soaked into her skin cells, making her blue-legged forever.

Tiny wings whirred past her ear. Sam didn't flinch, but she felt exposed. Because she was hatless, that dragonfly could dive-bomb her head, or—what was it they were rumored to do?—sew up her ears.

Crunch.

Sam lifted her eyelashes, millimeter by millimeter. Pirate had taken one step away from the corral fence, then another, then rushed to sling his head over Ginger's back for comfort. The old mare flattened her ears, but she didn't move away. She'd put up with the yearling, she seemed to say, if he'd just stay still.

Sam watched the colt and he watched her. She considered his white salved nose and eye area and wondered if the smooth pink skin underneath would ever grow hair again.

Hours later, when her patch of shade had moved with the traveling sun, Sam measured her progress by the colt's hipshot stance. His head drooped and one rear hoof was cocked on its tip. She didn't dare move, even when the iron gate creaked and she saw Mrs. Allen coming toward her.

The older woman had changed into a sleeveless blue dress and she wore something amazing on her head. It was sort of a cross between a vaquero's flat
brimmed hat and something a Southern belle would wear. It was as big as an extra, extra-large pizza. Sam had never seen anything like it.

Neither had Pirate. The yearling threw his head up and began backing, nostrils wide. When he bumped Judge, the old bay swiveled one ear toward the sight, heard nothing threatening, then gave an impatient swish of his tail as if the colt had wakened him for nothing.

Just the same, Pirate crowded past the other horses, getting as far from Mrs. Allen as he could.

Not Sam. She'd just noticed Mrs. Allen was carrying a frosty glass. With luck, it was for her.

“Oh honey,” Mrs. Allen said. She stopped beside Sam and looked down at her, tsking her tongue. “That colt's not the only one that needs sunscreen. You should have put some on yourself.”

Why hadn't she thought of that? Sam wondered. Her face did feel kind of hot and tight.

“You are sunburned red as a clown's nose. Hope you're all finished peeling by the time school starts up again.”

“Me too,” Sam said, and it seemed her lips cracked just from talking.

A meadow lark caroled from one of the fields and Calico plunged her nose into the watering trough, then made a breathy, splashing sound like a surfacing whale.

“How's he doing?” Mrs. Allen asked, nodding at the colt.

Standing slowly, because her knees had locked and she had to work to straighten them, Sam drank the lemonade Mrs. Allen had brought her, while she explained what she'd observed.

After ten minutes of description, Sam summed it up. “He's skittish, but not terrified. I think after we spend a little time together, he'll be used to me.”

“Same could be said for me and Gabe.”

Sam looked away from the colt to make sure Mrs. Allen was joking.

“You
can
use him with the colt, can't you?” Mrs. Allen asked.

“Gabe? Sure,” Sam said adamantly. “Just like we do with the HARP girls, before they ride. It's all groundwork. I told him about it.”

“And?”

“He didn't have much to say,” Sam told her.

“Well, I think the time for talking is done. Action's what's gonna make him well. If he can help heal that horse, he'll feel better, too.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam said.

“That's how it is with men,” Mrs. Allen went on, as if Sam hadn't spoken. “In fact, I'm thinking I might get that Jake Ely to come over if he has a minute between working for that father of his and that stepmother of yours.”

Sam sighed. Jake and Gabe were both guys, and they'd both been injured, but she couldn't see the two bonding. She'd already told Mrs. Allen her opinion. Clearly, Gabe's grandmother thought she knew best.

“Now, I'm not so sure that sleeping bag's a good idea,” Mrs. Allen said, nodding at Sam's bedroll. “Oh, it'll be cooler, and you'll be closer to the horses, and all,” she agreed when Sam started to protest. “Only thing is the snakes.”

“Snakes?” Sam's legs molded together, her arms crossed so that her palms touched the tops of her shoulders and she looked at the ground beneath her feet and for yards around.

“Country girl like you shouldn't be afraid of snakes,” Mrs. Allen chided.

This time last year, Sam would have agreed, but years of idle warnings had finally turned into reality in June. Sam had nearly stepped on a rattlesnake sunning itself outside their new bunkhouse. She'd seen a garter snake grab onto a girl's hand and grind with its tiny serrated jaws, too.

She was in no rush to share her sleeping bag with any snake, venomous or not. So when Mrs. Allen offered her a hammock and helped her hang it between the two cottonwood trees next to the corral, she thought it was the best idea she'd heard in weeks and Sam was sure she'd sleep more soundly.

 

Gabe slept through dinner, and even though Sam romped Imp and Angel, who were crazy from being locked in Mrs. Allen's studio all day, then watched television for an hour with Mrs. Allen, Gabe still hadn't stirred.

“Think I should wake him up so he can eat something?” Mrs. Allen asked when Sam headed for the door.

Sam shrugged and opened the door. A heavy scent of roses flowed inside from the garden as Sam said, “I have no clue.”

“Probably tells you what kind of mother I was that I haven't a clue either,” Mrs. Allen said.

“I bet you were lots of fun,” Sam told her.

“No, I wasn't,” Mrs. Allen's voice was flat. “But I've got a second chance to do things right and I won't waste it.”

Just as Sam's arms had acted without her permission when she gestured to the colt, they reached around Mrs. Allen's thin shoulders and gave her a hug.

Where did that come from?
Sam asked herself, but Mrs. Allen looked so pleased, Sam pretended she'd meant to do it.

“Well, now, isn't that nice,” Mrs. Allen said, flustered. Then she looked around the kitchen and the living room. “One thing I do know about mothering is that the microwave pasta I gave you isn't exactly packed with nutrition.”

“Oh, that's okay. I get plenty of nutrition at home.”

Mrs. Allen laughed, and Sam grimaced. That hadn't come out the way she'd meant it to.

“I want you to take a few of these,” Mrs. Allen
said, taking a colander full of peaches from inside the refrigerator. “Some fella was selling them outta the back of his truck in Alkali. They're good for you and they can count as dessert, too.”