Run Away Home (4 page)

“One of our contract pilots is doing a flyover of
canyons and valleys.”

Sam stared up, watching the helicopter's rotor blades flash silver, gold, and silver again.

“It's just an observation,” Norman told Brynna stiffly. “For now.”

I
f Kit and Jake continued their sibling rivalry while driving her home to River Bend Ranch, Sam didn't notice.

Once she'd loaded Ace into the trailer beside Witch, she thought of nothing but the conversation she'd overheard between Brynna and Norman White. As if her mind hid a tape recorder, she played it over and over again, studying each word for tone and hidden meaning.

She'd been confused by Brynna's attitude when she'd come out of her office to have Sam and Jake sign the paperwork that would result in them getting paid for their two hours of work. Bustling and looking as capable and calm as ever, Brynna was either a
really good actress, or she was confident the BLM would keep her on so that she could supervise Norman White for two more weeks.

Brynna's feelings had to be hurt, Sam thought, as Jake steered the Scout through Thread the Needle, headed for the highway. Trained as a biologist and long respected in a traditionally male job, Brynna prized her reputation for logic and levelheadedness. Being called emotionally unstable was a stinging insult.

And Norman White must be convinced the BLM would come down on his side, or he wouldn't have a helicopter pilot searching canyons and valleys. Sooner or later, he'd do another gather, and his comments about the Phantom made it clear which herd area he'd start in.

Together, Jake and Kit turned their heads to stare at her. Had she given a heavy sigh or made some squeak of distress? Sam didn't know, but she made an excuse, anyway.

“I was kind of dozing,” she said. The excuse didn't make much sense, but she couldn't tell them about a conversation she shouldn't have even heard.

“Ticked off at old Norman?” Jake asked.

“Of course!” Sam blurted. “He wants to take more mustangs off the range, but all he knows about is numbers. What's the average age and number of horses in a bachelor band? What's the foal production rate of a mustang mare and the correlation
between that and how many mouthfuls of food she's had?”

The explosion of words surprised Sam. She wasn't very good at keeping her emotions inside when she was around Jake. Even having Kit for an audience didn't seem to work.

“Sorry,” she apologized to Kit.

The older Ely brother lifted his shoulders in a shrug, then asked, “Aren't those things good to know if you're deciding to bring horses in?”

The question stopped the whirling of Sam's mind.

“They are,” she admitted, “but he's—” Sam broke off and stared at the faded knees of her jeans, trying to think of a way to explain. “He doesn't feel anything about them. It's like, he doesn't even know they're living things. To him they might as well be”—Sam searched her mind for an example—“like checkers, and he's just trying to get as many as he can so that the board is empty.”

“No heart,” Jake told Kit. Sam couldn't tell what the faint smile on his lips meant until he added, “Bet he's aiming to round up your favorite wild bunch.”

“How did you know?” Sam asked.

“Chopper,” Jake said. “And it takes more to get you stirred up than it used to, 'cept when it comes to that gray stud.”

Kit made an interested sound. Jake gave a quick shake of his head, but Sam's mind veered away from both of them.

What if Norman White convinced the federal government to bring in the Phantom and his herd? How could she save her horse?

“Wouldn't mind seein' one of our wild bunches. It's been a while,” Kit said to Jake. “Don't suppose you know where you could scare one up on such short notice?”

Sam didn't hear a challenge in Kit's words, but once more, Jake did. Abruptly, he steered off the highway to follow a bumpy trail, then took a series of back roads—left, another left, and then right, to cut across a swampy spot. Sam was surprised Jake tried it with the horse trailer. She guessed he knew what he was doing, but by the time he stopped, somewhere behind River Bend Ranch and Three Ponies, near their shared boundary, she felt queasy.

“I've got to get out for a—” Sam broke off. She'd been about to admit she was feeling carsick. Alone with Jake that might have been okay, but it wasn't with Kit sitting there. “I'd like to get out and stretch my legs for a minute.”

Kit bailed out of the Scout, grimacing as he used his other hand to balance his cast.

Sam walked away from the brothers to stare across an open plain that unrolled toward a column of gray granite backlit by a pale winter sun. It was Snakehead Peak.

In the trailer behind her, Ace and Witch shifted. Sam heard a faint rumble of faraway thunder.

“Forgot how sudden it can go cold here,” Kit complained. “Has me thinking fond thoughts about rodeoin' in Arizona.”

This spot was pretty in spring. Sam remembered antelope and wild horses grazing together here. Now, the cold breeze felt ominous.

Cloud shadows moved over the sagebrush and what was left of the bunch grass. Sam let her eyes unfocus, searching for movement. She wished she would see the Phantom.

“Most days they take a doze by that brush,” Jake was telling Kit. “But this change in weather's got 'em worried.”

Sam searched for the brush Jake was talking about, but she didn't spot it or the mustangs until a breeze set their manes blowing.

There! The herd stood with their tails to the wind, eating voraciously, snapping at band members who wandered too close.

Winter was here. Snow scented the wind and the mustangs concentrated on gobbling all the calories they could hold before seeking shelter.

Only the Phantom wasn't eating. He'd frozen to attention, eyes staring across at Sam.

The stallion stepped away from the other horses. His sudden move made the herd look up in alarm. Keeping his head higher than the others', the stallion neighed just as the clouds let a sunbeam pass through.

“How 'bout that?” Kit muttered.

Alone, Sam would have gone to the stallion, but now she just watched.

His ears tilted forward and his neck arched. A gleaming streak, bright as molten metal, followed its curve. Chin tucked, he bobbed his head, nodding an equine assurance Sam didn't understand, just before crosswinds caught his mane, tail, and forelock and he was surrounded with a corona of silver.

Sam heard Kit catch his breath as the Phantom pranced in place, showing off for her, though his herd returned to grazing. Then the stallion lowered his head, thrusting his muzzle in her direction before jerking his head to one side.

She was the only one in the world who knew what he was doing. If she'd been close enough, the stallion would have lowered his head beneath her arm, encouraging her to come for a ride. He pawed then, teasing her until Jake and Kit moved closer.

Then the Phantom's ears flattened. He burst into a contained gallop, making a circling rush around his band.

In moments, he'd arrived back exactly where he'd been, staring across the open space at the humans. He pawed the ground in four rapid, striking movements and his possessive snort carried to them.

Mine
, he seemed to say. He waited for them to make the next move—if they dared.

Wordlessly, Jake and Kit began backing toward
the Scout, and Sam decided she should join them.

You win, boy
, Sam thought, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. As she backed away after the brothers, her heart reached out to the stallion, pulling the connection between them thinner with each step.

Zanzibar,
she thought longingly, but she wanted him to graze, to stay strong for the cold winter ahead, and she knew he wouldn't lower his head to eat while they stood watching him.

When the Scout's door creaked open, Kit said, “Needs oil,” and the spell was broken.

As soon as they were settled with seat belts fastened and Jake was driving away, Kit said, “The way he was dippin' his head and kind of bowing reminds me of Sittin' Bull—”

“Don't tell her that story.” Jake shook his head in disgust.

“—and the dancing white stallion,” Kit finished.

“I want to hear it,” Sam said, shooting Jake a glare.

Just then, the Scout made a laboring sound and bogged down in the mud.

The interruption was awfully convenient, Sam thought, but when the tires spun uselessly, Sam knew enough to be quiet and let Jake concentrate. Getting stuck up here with the horse trailer, especially when Kit didn't have full use of his arms, would mean dirty work for her and Jake.

As soon as the tires hit the highway, Kit said, “I
know you've heard of Sitting Bull, the great chief and holy man of the Lakota Sioux.”

“Sure,” Sam said, ignoring Jake's groan.

“And you know that after his people were defeated, he joined Buffalo Bill's Wild West show and traveled all over the world, performing?” Kit went on.

Sam nodded. She'd always thought it was a sad fate for a great warrior.

“But that wasn't the end,” Kit told her.

“You are so—” Jake began, but Sam stopped him.

“It wasn't?” she asked, and elbowed Jake gently. She didn't want him to crash the truck, but she didn't want him to barge into Kit's story, either.

“Oh, no. Not nearly the end,” Kit assured Sam. Then, drawing a deep breath, he said, “Sitting Bull spent time with the silly circus partly because of—”

“Annie Oakley, Little Sure Shot,” Sam blurted. “Isn't that what he called her?”

“That's one story,” Jake grumped.

“That's not right?” Sam asked Kit, blushing.

“Our grandfather says the chief stayed because of the magnificent white stallion Buffalo Bill had Sitting Bull ride in the show.”

“Ohhh,” Sam sighed. The chills racing down her neck, past her elbows, to the tips of her fingers told her this was a far better version of the truth.

“In the Wild West show, there were wagon races, shooting matches, and a special act in which the chief starred. In it, a stagecoach was chased and surrounded
by a band of shooting, screaming Indians.”

Kit's sarcastic tone took nothing away from the picture in Sam's imagination.

“And then Sitting Bull, wearing bleached buckskins and bright feathers, galloped in on his white stallion. The war painted horse leaped and reared and ran amid the gunfire, and finally bowed to his delighted audience, which, truth be told, liked the horse lots better than the chief.”

“Of course, Sitting Bull wasn't a Shoshone,” Jake put in, and Sam laughed. Jake must have forgiven his brother for telling her the story, so maybe he'd gotten over whatever was bugging him before. She felt satisfied by that possibility as Kit went on.

“Time passed, and even while the show was in Europe, Sitting Bull heard of the unrest stirring among the tribes. Sitting Bull decided it was time to leave show business,” Kit said. “As a parting gift, Buffalo Bill gave his old friend the white stallion.”

“Or he might've stolen him,” Jake joked. “Remember, he—”

“—wasn't a Shoshone,” Kit finished with a chuckle. “Still, the old man returned to his people and urged them to resist the government's campaign of stamping out Indian languages, religion, and ways. When the final clash came—and some say it was an outright assassination—Sitting Bull was afoot. He was shot many times. And he died.”

A crow rode the wind overhead and stayed silent,
except for his beating wings.

“The horse could have saved him, I bet,” Sam said, but when Jake and Kit didn't respond, the chills came back again and Sam asked, “What happened to his white stallion? Did he try to go to Sitting Bull?”

Jake rolled his eyes as if that was an unbearably romantic notion, but Kit said, “Maybe. All I know is that the stallion heard the awful gunfire and started doing what he knew how to do. He escaped the place where the chief had left him tied, and charged toward the sound he remembered.” Kit looked into Sam's face as he added, “The sound of rifles.”

Sam shivered.

“And then the stallion pranced,” Kit said. “He leaped over bodies, untouched by a single bullet. He reared, pawing at the skies, just as he had in the white man's circus. Finally, while the great chief lay dying, the stallion bowed to him.”

Tears pricked Sam's eyes.

“It's just a story,” Jake said.

“I know it.” Sam swallowed hard.

“A pretty widespread story,” Kit insisted, “and ever after, the tribes said the white stallion honored his master with a final dance.”

 

By the time they reached River Bend Ranch, they'd driven in silence for twenty minutes. Jake kept flashing Kit dirty looks, but Sam was sunk in melancholy over Norman White and her own
stallion, not over Sitting Bull.

Still, she found the silence hard to break until she'd unloaded Ace. Even then, she thought her good-byes sounded mechanical.

“Nice meeting you, Kit. See you at school tomorrow, Jake.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday,” Jake reminded her, but Sam hardly heard.

More than usual, she felt the smooth gloss of leather reins, as she led Ace toward the barn. He hung back, tossing his head, tugging toward the ten-acre pasture.

Sam made a clucking noise to keep the gelding moving, and finally he walked after her. They'd crossed the ranch yard and passed the small pasture where Dark Sunshine and Tempest were spending their last day together before weaning, when Sam stopped.

She'd almost put Ace into the open box stall he'd shared with Sweetheart.

But Sweetheart was gone. The old paint mare lived in town. She served as a beloved therapy horse for disabled children and Gram went to work with her and the kids twice a week. Sweetheart had left three months ago, and Ace had been living in the ten-acre pasture even longer.

“What am I thinking, good boy?” Sam asked her bay gelding.

Ace didn't answer, just kept moving into the barn.
He stopped where she'd crosstied and groomed him dozens of times and waited for her to take off his tack.