The Challenger (7 page)

A
ce tossed his head high and wheeled hard right, back the way they'd come.

Sam slipped in the saddle, but she couldn't fall. Not now, with cougars on the prowl. She forced her weight back toward center, righting herself in the saddle as Ace uttered a long whinny.

Sam didn't have time to be mad at him before realizing the sound was a greeting, not a warning.

“Hey, Brat.”

The voice made Sam relax. No one except Jake used that silly nickname. Right now, she'd tolerate it without complaining. If she was riding into danger, there was no one she'd rather have beside her than Jake.

An instant later, he rode out of a copse of cottonwoods, black Stetson pulled low on his brow, barely moving with the jog of his black mare, Witch.

Witch gave a snort of recognition. In the cold, the
breath jetting from her nostrils looked like smoke. The roached-maned mare surged forward like a black dragon.

Ace gave a hop and a squeal of pleasure. Even as Sam waved at Jake, she thought Ace might be excited to see Witch for the same reason she was pleased to see Jake. They both hoped there was safety in numbers.

“See any mountain lions on your way over?” Sam called. She tried to sound casual, so Jake wouldn't know she was afraid.

The part of the ridge Sam knew best ran behind Jake's family's Three Ponies Ranch, behind River Bend, and on past Linc Slocum's Gold Dust Ranch. It offered about twelve miles of easy access to all three ranches and their livestock. If she were an injured cougar, she'd use it instead of roaming over the range.

Jake shook his head, not speaking until Ace and Witch fell into step. “No. A few tracks and signs, though. They were headed this way when I lost them.”

Jake leaned right, then left, checking the ground as they rode. Witch was used to his weight shifting in the saddle, but Ace shied.

Sam snugged her reins and let Jake ride ahead. If there were cat tracks along this ridge, she didn't want to trample them.

“Let's try Aspen Creek,” Jake said. “The altitude's lower, it's warmer, and mule deer go there to
water. Those things oughta attract the cats.” He didn't sound convinced.

“Why are you worried?” Sam asked.

“Whatever's wrong with the mom cat, she's getting worse. Instead of limping, she's dragging the injured paw. It's on a hind leg, and she needs both hind legs to hunt.”

“I thought cougars got up in trees and dropped down on their prey.”

“Sometimes, but look around.” Jake gestured at the terrain. “The trees are bare and there aren't any cliffs. That's why I want to go down by Aspen Creek, where there are still trees with leaves.”

Oh good,
Sam thought,
so they can drop down on us.

“What about that?” Sam pointed at an overhanging shelf of old snow.

“That's just left over from the last storm,” Jake said. “It doesn't look too stable to me. I bet if you rode up there, it would break right off.”

After a closer look, Sam decided Jake was probably right. But then she thought of this morning.

“But the cougars were down by our chicken coop,” Sam told him. “I know that's what I saw.”

“I believe you,” Jake said. “But a healthy cougar can travel twenty-five miles a day, and it's only three or four miles from here to River Bend.” Jake shrugged. “That's not good news that they were down by the house,” he added. “She's already shown her cub how to wait in the brush. He doesn't need to practice that. Wait. Stalk. Act.” Jake emphasized the
words as if they were a process all mountain lions memorized. “They should be working on step three. A cougar as big as this one shouldn't be hoping to catch a hen.”

“How old do you think her cub is?”

“At least a year,” Jake said, and Sam knew his certainty came from the size of the cougar's paws. “He's big, but inexperienced. She should be teaching him how to rush a deer before it scents him. He's big enough to spring on a deer's back and still keep his hind legs on the ground for stability.”

Sam pictured that kind of attack. It would be like the attack of a rearing stallion—only with teeth and claws.

“Good-sized cats like this one have been known to kill even bears that way,” Jake said, “with a single bite on the neck.”

Instinctively, Sam hunched her shoulders and glanced around. “What kind of tracks are we looking for?”

“I'll take care of finding tracks. You look for scrapes and scratches.”

Sam tried to understand exactly what he meant. Jake must have seen her confusion.

“Scrapes are piles of dirt kicked up by a cat's hind feet. And you know how house cats tackle a scratching post? They mark trees the same way, reaching high up and pulling their claws down like they were ripping your sofa.”

“We've never had a house cat,” Sam admitted.
“Just barn cats and they're pretty wild.”

“You're joking.” Jake's smile said he couldn't believe he wouldn't know this about her. “Mom's calico is about to have a litter—want a kitten?”

“Dad doesn't like cats,” Sam said.

“What about Brynna?” Jake asked cautiously.

Sam felt a glow of appreciation for Jake. Because he valued his own privacy, he was careful with hers. “You know they're getting married, right?”

“Clara and her waitresses aren't much for keeping secrets,” Jake said.

Sam thought that over for a second. If the waitresses at Clara's diner were serving this gossip along with coffee and cake, everyone in the area must already know about Dad and Brynna.

It surprised Sam that she didn't really care.

“I don't know if Brynna likes cats, but I know everything's going to be different.” Sam considered one of the white-trunked aspens alongside the trail. Those weren't gouges, just dark marks on the pale bark.

“Maybe some of it will be good different,” Jake said.

“Maybe,” Sam said. “But what if I want to do my homework in front of the TV, and she tells me to go up to my room? Or if I go into the tack room to talk to Dad and she interrupts? And even if she doesn't, I'll be talking to him, just knowing that she could show up any time she feels like it.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “You know, my dad's talking about having my grandfather move in with us.”

“But he's cool,” Sam said.

“How do you know?”

“I met him at a rodeo once, and that's what I've heard.” Sam didn't remind Jake that most of what she'd heard had been from his own mouth. “Please tell me what he said about your dream.”

Jake laid his hand on Witch's neck as if she'd trembled.

“Not that much.”

“I won't stop asking,” Sam warned, “so you might as well tell me now.”

“There's not much to tell. He said cougar dreams are about coming into your own power,” Jake spoke in a half-mocking tone, but Sam noticed the way he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.
That's
how he'd seemed different this morning. He'd looked more powerful. More like a grown-up. “About leadership and self-confidence. It doesn't take a—” He shook his head, and Sam noticed his long hair was tucked up under the Stetson. “Look, that's stuff you could tell any guy my age and be pretty close to right.”

Jake paused, and Sam knew there was more to his grandfather's dream translation.

“What else?” Sam asked.

When Jake refused to answer, Sam leaned forward. She was ready to harass him more when Witch jumped sideways with a sharp grunt.

Wait. Stalk.
Act.

Sam turned quickly in the saddle, searching right, left, sure she'd see a feline shape bounding toward them. She stayed low on Ace's neck and firmed her legs around him. Just ahead, Jake allowed his body to follow Witch's movements.

Sam saw no cat.

“It's okay, boy,” Sam murmured, though Ace knew best whether he had a reason to be afraid.

“Shoulda seen that comin',” Jake snapped as Witch returned to a jittery walk.

Sam could tell he was scolding himself, not his horse.

“Seen what? Was it that?” Sam pointed at a branch no bigger than her arm. It lay beside the trail, gold leaves fluttering.

“Yeah. But they're expecting the worst. There must be cat smell all over.”

Ace lifted his hooves like a parade horse as he passed the branch. Eyes rolling to show some white, he remained watchful, just in case.

 

Ten minutes later, both horses stopped, nostrils testing the air as the trail dipped toward Aspen Creek. Even Sam could smell the difference.

Snow had fallen recently, but the valley still looked like fall and the breeze smelled like apple cider. It flowed through the gold haze of pollen hanging in the air. It fluttered the yellow leaves, making
them applaud other leaves floating like sailboats on the small creek.

Then there was a splash.

Round rocks rolled, and a black mustang walked down the creek to give a snort of challenge.

“Moon!” Sam gasped. She turned to Jake, but he was frowning.

His eyes ran over Moon with such concentration, Sam wondered what he was trying to figure out.

“Blackie's herd?” he asked, under his breath.

“Yes.”

Once, the Phantom had been known as Blackie. He'd been born on River Bend Ranch, son to two captive mustangs named Kitty and Smoke. Sam had raised the colt by hand, and when Jake had helped her train him to saddle, he'd still been called Blackie.

Months ago, Mrs. Coley had spotted Moon running with two other bachelor stallions. She'd called him New Moon, because he was night black and had no white markings at all. Neither had Blackie.

Jake considered Moon as if the horse was a ghost. Sam knew he still felt guilty over the accident that had made her fall from Blackie, suffer a concussion, and leave River Bend for a long recovery in San Francisco.

Sam wanted to shake him and say it
still
wasn't his fault. He wore a protective look as he turned to her, but Sam cut him off before he could say a word.

“Blackie's son,” Sam whispered. “His name is New Moon.”

That quickly, Jake's expression changed. He gave her a disgusted look. He thought it was wrong to name wild things.

“His dad tear him up like that, do you think?” Jake muttered.

“Yes,” Sam said.

Dark red bites marked Moon's rump and neck. His mane was ragged where the Phantom had grabbed and pulled.

When Ace and Witch answered his snort, Moon forgot his challenge. He leaped onto the bank and trotted closer.

He needs a herd,
Sam thought. Moon tossed his forelock away from his hopeful eyes. He was drawn by the two horses, even if he feared their riders.

Then, as if a door in his memory had opened, the mustang slid to a stop. Did he remember the rustlers who'd caught him, herded him into a truck, and kept him prisoner until Brynna had him released?

Moon turned, galloped back up the riverbank, then vanished among the trees.

“He's a beauty,” Jake agreed before Sam could ask.

“Brynna and I saw him fight with the Phantom the other day when we went into Lost Canyon.”

“Thanks for telling me all about it,” Jake muttered.

“That's not fair,” Sam said. “You won't even talk with me, half the time.”

“This is the other half,” Jake explained. “When
you have something worth sayin', I'm all ears.”

Sam shook her head at Jake's contrariness, then told him about the stallions' fight and Brynna's concern that the Phantom's herd was on Indian land.

“Don't know nothin' about that,” Jake said.

“I didn't expect you to. Brynna will look it up on a map.”

“I do know there's some other property in dispute,” he said. “Dad said Slocum was complaining that some of what we fenced for Mrs. Allen belongs to him.”

“What?” Sam thought of the hours she, Jake, and his brothers had spent working with wire and fence posts. “He can't take back the mustang sanctuary. Not even part of it.” But she knew Mrs. Allen had sold some of her property to Slocum. “Can he?”

Jake wasn't listening.

“There,” he said, pointing at a patch of riverbank where brush crowded near the water.

Sam saw only one cougar print. To her, it looked like an impression made by a dog's paw, though the toes might be rounder and more widespread.

Feeling her rider's excitement, Witch trotted up the bank as Jake leaned from the saddle. His lips moved. He read the prints as if they were words.

At last he looked up, but his triumphant expression had vanished. Jake's jaw was set hard. He looked angry.

“Tell me what kind of equipment Slocum has
again,” he ordered.

“He has dogs with electronic tracking collars, and a recorder that plays the sound of a distressed deer or rabbit, and—”

“Not floodlights? Jed Kenworthy didn't mention night gear?”

“Yes, he did,” Sam said. “But he told Dad that Slocum couldn't use any because—wait. He said something about only being able to hunt mountain lions during the first half hour before sunrise and the first half hour after sunset.”

Jake nodded. His gaze swept the silent clearing around them. “Maybe they'll be all right, then,” he said. “I sure hope so, 'cause those cougars are headed toward Gold Dust Ranch.”

M
aybe Miss Finch was psychic.

Sam's English teacher had assigned a poem that made her think Miss Finch knew about the mountain lions.

Sam sat cross-legged on her bed. She'd written the answers to the questions that followed the poem. Her other homework was finished and she was already wearing her nightgown. Still, she sat up, reading the poem once more.

The poem gave her shivers. The words created a picture that could have been drawn from the cougar eyes she'd seen by the chicken coop that morning.

Sam stared at the reflection of her bedside lamp on the dark glass of her window and remembered
how the front porch light had made those cougar eyes smolder like golden coals.

How much scarier would it be to see those eyes gleaming back at you if you were Jake, alone by a campfire?

Sam rubbed the gooseflesh from her arms and told herself to squash her imagination. Jake was smart. He was home, safe and warm. Although he'd asked about Slocum's gear, and clearly was worried that the rich rancher would go lion hunting at night, Jake wouldn't ride through the dark to Gold Dust Ranch, trying to save those cougars.

Should she phone him to be sure?

No. Jake knew the animals' best chance would be their own instincts. The cats would hear Slocum from miles away, and run. If they could.

Sam closed her book and crawled into bed. She turned off the light and tried not to think of Jed Kenworthy's reaction when she'd said one of the cats was injured. That had solidified his decision to help Slocum hunt the cats. Jake seemed worried about the injury, too. He blamed the mother's wounded paw for the cats' nearness to civilization.

Jed and Jake could be right. It must be easier for a cougar to catch unwary house pets or livestock than wild deer.

Sam pulled the covers up to her nose. It would be cozy to have one of Mrs. Ely's kittens curled up, purring, beside her. Maybe she'd ask Dad tomorrow.

She sighed, closed her eyes, and smiled. Then again, she just might ask Brynna instead.

 

Sam's dreams were crowded with cats.

Mostly cougars, she thought, as she got dressed for school. In one nightmare, though, her calf, Buddy, had been running with Moon. Both had fled a yellow kitten with oversized fangs. Though the dream was silly, a feeling of dread still hung over Sam after breakfast.

When Gram's car reached the bus stop, Jen seemed glad to see Sam. She was walking toward the Buick before the big car had even rolled to a stop.

Jen's puffy pink parka was pulled up to touch her matching ear muffs, and she rubbed her mittened hands together. She was biting her lip so hard, she seemed more worried than cold.

Gram must have thought the same, because when Sam opened the car door to get out, Gram leaned forward.

“Is something wrong, dear?” she called to Jen.

Outside, Sam stood beside her friend. Jen shifted from foot to foot.

“Not really,” Jen said. She used the back of one mitten to push her dark-framed glasses up her nose. “Linc and my dad went out hunting before dawn. There were kind of a lot of gunshots, and, you know, it's a little creepy.”

Sam moved closer to Jen, until they stood
shoulder-to-shoulder. Without saying a word, she told Jen she knew exactly how she felt.

Gram shook her head in a way that was not sympathetic. “Land, I thought there was really something wrong,” Gram scolded. “I'm surprised at you, Jennifer. You, too, Sam. If you plan to be ranch women, you'll have to get used to this sort of thing. Injured animals have to be destroyed. Tame animals have to be protected from wild ones. It's part of ranching.”

Sam wanted to blurt out the ugly truth: Slocum wasn't protecting his livestock, he was after a cougar's skin he could show off on the side of his barn. But Sam kept quiet, afraid Jen might take her words as more criticism.

“Have a good day at school, now,” Gram said when neither girl answered. “And don't worry about things you can't change.”

Sam closed the car door. Gram drove off and Sam stared after her, feeling angry.

If killing innocent animals was what it took to be a ranch woman, maybe she didn't belong here, after all.

Sam let the thought simmer as her eyes lifted to the Calico Mountains. Their peaks were frosted with apricot snow, colored by the rising sun. Up there, the mustangs might be waking and pawing the ice from clumps of grass.

“I think Gram's wrong,” Sam said to Jen. “There can be all kinds of ranch women, even ones who love
wild horses and feel sorry for cougars.”

Before Jen answered, they both turned toward the sound of an approaching engine. It came from the wrong direction to be the bus, and it was too early for Mrs. Coley, the Slocums' housekeeper, to be driving Rachel to school. Besides, it sounded like a truck.

A champagne-colored Jeep Cherokee, windshield wipers twitching away the frost, came down the road from the Gold Dust Ranch.

“Slocum's new hunting truck.”

Sam was pretty sure that's what Jen had said, but her friend's lips sounded numb.

Keep going,
Sam thought, willing the truck to drive past, but Slocum's toothpaste commercial grin showed through the windshield and the Cherokee was slowing.

Sam looked down the highway, wishing the bus would arrive before Slocum did, but she knew that wouldn't happen.

“I don't want to talk to him,” Sam said.

“Then don't.” Jen tucked a mittened hand around Sam's arm and squeezed. “He's so wrapped up in himself, he'll never notice.”

Jen was right.

Slocum stopped on the highway in the exact spot the bus would occupy any minute. Careless of the fact that he was parked the wrong way in a traffic lane, he rolled from the vehicle and hustled around to the back doors, which were right in front of Jen and Sam.

“Y'gotta see,” he huffed. “Before I take her into the taxidermist. Don't want her stuffed, you know, but the hide has to be tanned so it looks good on the barn.”

Sam felt as if her chest were hollow and each of Slocum's awful comments echoed in the emptiness. He had one of the cougars in there.

Slocum jiggled the handle on the back of the Cherokee.

Don't open,
she thought.
Let it be stuck.

But it wasn't. It took Slocum a minute because he was unfamiliar with the latch holding the doors closed, but finally he got them open.

Eager and smiling, Slocum looked at the girls over his shoulder.

“Well, c'mon, take a peek.” He stood, hands on hips, regarding the blanket-wrapped bundle. “Cost me a pretty penny, this cat—what with the hounds and truck, and all—but I can afford it, and she'll look good when I get her fixed up.”

Sam's head swam. She'd never really seen the cougar alive, but how could Slocum think she'd be more beautiful dead?

At last, Slocum seemed to realize he was the only one admiring the cougar. As his grin turned into something greedier and more ugly, Jen managed to speak.

“Is it the mother or the cub?” she asked.

“The female,” Slocum said. “She came in alone,
ahead of the dogs. Guess she stashed the yearling someplace.” Slocum shrugged, then whipped aside the blanket.

Sam tried not to look. She'd already had her share of nightmares.

Blood spots marked the blanket. Sam noticed that detail before she realized both she and Jen had covered their lips and wondered what they were keeping inside.

“No more appreciation than I expected,” Slocum muttered as he slammed the doors. “Like to see either of you do what I did.” Jen uttered a small sound of protest, then closed her lips again.

How weird was this man? Sam wondered. Why was he taunting two high school kids?

Still, neither Sam nor Jen answered his dare.

The Elys' faded blue truck zoomed past on the highway, carrying Jake and his brothers to school. Slocum watched them grow smaller, then sneered at Sam.

“You be sure and tell your boy Jake that he did the right thing by staying out of my way. He may be a big tracker, but I'm the one who brought home the bacon.”

As Slocum returned to his truck, Sam shook her head.
Bringing home the bacon,
Slocum had said, when he had a dead mountain lion in his truck. The tangle of words should have been funny, but they weren't.

Dizziness kept Sam from closing her eyes, though
she wanted to block out what she'd seen. Between the time Slocum had pulled the blanket aside and the moment Sam had looked away, she'd glimpsed the cougar's face.

The animal's pink nose had looked heart shaped. Around it, a line of black hairs might have been painted by an artist's brush. Whiskers sprouted from puffs of white fur, and a pink tongue hung from the cat's mouth. Above all those features, the cougar's eyes were brown and dull.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
…Sam thought.
Not anymore.

 

All during that blustery day, Sam's steps dragged as she moved from class to class. She wished she were home at the kitchen table, drinking hot chocolate.

It was cold, but the temperature hadn't dropped enough to turn the blowing rain to snow. Sam thought of how miserable the young cougar must be, alone and wondering what had become of his mother. She thought of Moon, wandering without the warmth and safety of the herd.

In the middle of her P.E. class, while they played freeze tag in the gym, Sam stood like a statue, hoping Moon and the young cougar wouldn't face each other as enemies.

Sam and Jen ate their lunches without mentioning Slocum, the cougar, or Jed Kenworthy's part in the hunt.

In fact, the lunch hour passed quietly, until Jen said, “Rachel told me you went with her to look at horses.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “There's one she really liked, a Morgan named Mocha, over at Sterling Stables.”

“I'm surprised you went with her.” Jen crumpled up her brown bag loudly.

Sam didn't want to admit how out of place she'd felt and how angry she'd been at herself for going along.

“Yeah,” Sam said again.

“I've got to get to class.” Jen swung away from the table, stood, and strode off toward her locker.

To Sam, Jen seemed mad again, but it had been such a lousy day, she might just be turning paranoid.

Sam hurried to her own locker, pulled out a purple notebook, then slammed the metal door.

Just one more class, Sam thought as she made her way through the tide of students toward journalism.

“I need a volunteer,” Mr. Blair was shouting as Sam walked into the room.

She slipped toward the computer farthest from the teacher, even though that meant sitting near Rachel.

From Rachel's whispers to her cheerleader friend Daisy, Sam learned that the staff photographer scheduled to shoot the football game after school was sick. Daisy thought the photographer was faking.

Sam considered the slushy rain pelting the windows. It would be convenient to come down with a cold about now.

She glanced up and saw Mr. Blair's eyes scanning the classroom. Sam curled over the keyboard, typing nothing in particular. The last thing she needed was an after-school photo assignment.

“Forster,” Mr. Blair bellowed.

“She's back here.” Rachel raised her hand in a dainty pointing motion.

“I take the bus,” Sam shouted back. She tried to infuse her voice with a little regret, but Mr. Blair ignored her excuse.

“You're good at shooting in low light, and if this slush turns to blowing snow, that's what you'll have out there.”

Wind could get up a lot of force, rushing across the broad football field. Sam hated the idea of standing out there, shivering.

“I don't have a ride home,” Sam protested.

“No problem. I'm staying for the game,” RJay told her, then raised his voice. “Mr. Blair, I'll give her a ride.”

“Why don't you shoot it? Please, RJay,” Sam begged.

“Me? I'm not an award-winning photographer. Sam, you'll get something great. I know it.”

“I'm not that good. I only took second place,” she reminded him.

“You were robbed,” RJay insisted. “Besides, when your editor and your advisor say you're shooting a game, you shoot it.”

“Or flunk,” Rachel chimed in.

Sam hid by bending down to tie her shoelaces. She should've worn something besides these lightweight hiking boots. They'd turn soggy right away. She jerked the knot tight, to keep them from filling with snow, and the right lace broke. Looking at the scrap in her hand, Sam decided that some days were simply cursed.

 

She arrived home after dark.

The heater in RJay's car hadn't worked well enough to thaw Sam's frozen toes. Her teeth were chattering as she came into the warm house.

“I'm home,” she managed to announce.

A television babbled from the living room. No one came to greet her, and she could see Gram had already served dinner and cleaned up.

“I'm starving,” she shouted.

“I left a plate for you,” Gram called.

Sam opened the oven to see a white china plate crowded with meat loaf, carrots, and mashed potatoes, which reminded her just a little too much of the snow starting to mound up outside.

The door between the kitchen and living room opened just as Sam slid her fingers into an oven mitt and reached for her plate. “How was the game?” Dad asked.

“We lost in double overtime,” Sam said.

“Too bad.” Dad closed the oven. “Before you sit
down, could you make one turn around the yard? Your Gram's short a hen, and she's been out three times since sundown looking for that one Rhode Island Red.”

“Sure,” Sam said.

She pulled her coat closer, switched on the porch light, and walked outside. The snow had stopped and so had the wind. The sky was cloudless, black, and sprinkled with stars.