The Renegade (15 page)

“Yes,” she croaked.

The riders came galloping out and Sam dodged behind Brynna. If Karla Starr saw her, it would be a warning.

When the riders were all through, the gates slammed closed.

“And now, folks, a little change in your program. The Cimmaron County rodeo is pleased to have Miss Karla Starr, former Best of the West rodeo queen and current president of Starr Rodeo Productions, as contractor for our little show. Miss Starr is proud of her stock, and because of some unfortunate publicity about her stallion, Renegade--“

“He’s here!” Sam gasped.

Brynna was already shouting into her radio, trying to be heard Over the noise all around.

“--directly across the arena, you’ll see our cowboys all lined up. Give ‘em a hand, folks, and watch the gate swing open for our rough-and-tumble, best-ever, wild horse race!”

H
ead high, muscles pumping, the Phantom exploded into the arena. The silver stallion claimed the attention of every person sitting in the stands.

At once, the crowd recognized the difference between a bucking horse and a wild mustang. He fled the dark, skyless place in which he’d been kept, following the wall of the arena as he would the high cliffs of home.

His desire to escape hardened every line of his body, making him beautiful despite his matted mane and dirt-smeared coat.

But he was muzzled.

Sam’s head snapped back. They’d muzzled the great stallion like a dog.

It seemed she’d watched him for only a minute, while the world spun around her in a blur of color and music, but two of the teams had saddled their bucking horses and crossed the finish line. The others had given up.

One man in a blue shirt threw his hat in the dirt as the Phantom rounded the arena again. The stallion shied from the hat and ran toward a weak barrier where a calf-roping horse stood waiting. It must have looked like an opening, but it wasn’t.

As the Phantom slowed, the man in blue saw his chance and grabbed the rope trailing from the stallion’s muzzled head. Another man joined him, and then there were three, hanging on to the rope in a tug-of-war as the stallion bucked.

It was unfair, until the Phantom charged.

Dropping the rope, the men scattered with the stallion in pursuit. Others reached hands down for the men to grab. All but one man were pulled over the fence to safety.

A neigh floated across the arena, and the voice of that bucking horse made the Phantom swerve.

Was it an offer of help? Sam didn’t know, but the stallion answered by galloping in that direction, even when he could see no way out. As his broad chest slammed into the chute, Sam felt it in her own heart.

Enough
. She had to help him.

“Here.” Suddenly aware of the child she was still holding, Sam shoved Darrell’s cousin at Brynna.

“Sam, you’re not--”

Some instinct made Brynna drop her radio to keep the child from falling. Relieved, Sam loosened her grip and escaped before Brynna could stop her.

She ran. Past all the closed arena gates, past the faces of people she squirmed between. Sam ran until she could duck under a metal fence, into a maze of rails.

Brynna wouldn’t follow her down this channel to the bucking chutes, because she wouldn’t know where it led. These were just like the chutes she and Dallas had inspected at the Riverton and Sweetwater rodeos, only these were empty.

Sam heard the thunder of the Phantom’s hooves. She was getting closer. She had to get into the arena before he hurt someone. What if he’d already trampled the man on the ground?

The smell of animals and manure told her she was getting closer. And still no one had followed.

All at once, Sam saw why.

A Brahma bull filled the space between the fences so completely, he couldn’t turn. But he knew she was there. He bucked up, looking over the hump of flesh on his back to fix Sam with a glare.

“Maniac!” Sam gasped, transfixed by the mask of black and orange stripes on the bull’s face.

She didn’t have time to think what it meant, that Line Slocum’s bull was here. So was Karla Starr. And the Phantom. It all fit together somehow.

Maniac uttered a rumbling protest. Did he think she was attacking him from behind? Whatever the massive bull thought, he was furious. He loomed over her, coming fast as a truck in reverse, intent on running her down.

“It’s okay, boy,” Sam shouted. “It’s okay.”

Conversation wasn’t going to work. He had no reason to think a human meant him well, she guessed, so Sam jumped for her way out.

Her fingers locked on a metal fence rail, then she pulled herself up, hand over hand, tennis shoes searching for each foothold. Maniac backed past her. She knew by the warm blast of breath and the splatter of moisture on the back of her favorite red blouse.

Over the top. Sam sprinted across the next narrow chute, over one more fence, and slid down the wall into the arena.

The Phantom saw her at once. The nervous pacing that had taken him around and around the arena stopped. He was still for only a minute, and then he rushed across the arena.

Sam heard gasps from the grandstands, and shouts summoning help, but she watched her horse. He galloped, head swinging from side to side, then lowered in a snaking, herding motion.

The Phantom stopped about six feet from her, and though every proud line of his body told Sam it was him, something was wrong. The stallion’s head cocked to one side, then raised, eyes rolling, as if he couldn’t see her clearly. Every sign of horse language she’d learned to read was scrambled.

More commotion rustled through the grandstands as the stallion arched his neck and pranced a circle around her. Some people caught their breath with awe. A few even clapped, thinking this was a performance.

In a way it was, but Sam turned, always facing the stallion, because she knew what came next. She’d seen this ritual both times the Phantom had fought Hammer.

There. A front leg struck out in challenge, and then he charged. Sam didn’t close her eyes. He passed within inches, head swinging out as if to bite, and the metal muzzle struck Sam’s shoulder. She felt impact, no pain, and a fierce stab of shame that the stallion might have bitten her if he could have.

The Phantom ran past, and from the corner of her eye, Sam saw a pickup man on a big dun horse, poised to help. Sam swallowed hard.

The Phantom pivoted and walked back. He looked more calm and he talked to her in a low, rumbling nicker, but his eyes still rolled, showing white around the brown.

Sam’s world shrank to just this moment, just this horse. Everything depended on her skill at understanding him.

The stallion’s forelegs braced apart and his head hung, mane falling forward, forelock covering his eyes. Sam made a quiet smooching and he staggered forward a step.

Inside the metal muzzle, the stallion’s velvety lips moved. He lifted his head as if he might have nuzzled her if he could.

“Zanzibar, boy, what have they done to you?”

Grandstand sounds covered her voice, but the stallion’s ears pricked forward. He heard her. He knew her. He tried to come to her, but he had taken only two steps when he fell to his knees.

Unafraid, Sam ran to him. She ignored the rope trailing from his halter. Instead, she placed a hand on his withers.

“My poor boy,” Sam murmured. The stallion’s skin shivered at her touch, and he lurched up again.

With careful movements, Sam reached over the stallion’s crest and lifted the halter over his ears. As it fell off his nose, the mustang shuddered. Sam wanted to grab the awful thing and throw it as far as her strength would let her. But that would shatter the Phantom’s calm, so she just stroked him silently.

Through her dismay, Sam heard Brynna’s voice.

“Sam, over here.”

A gate swung open on oiled hinges, revealing a small pen. Seeing a way out, the stallion made for it.

The arena was silent as the stallion swayed step by step. Twice, he fell to his knees. Both times, Sam stood with her hand on his mane, talking, encouraging.

When the Phantom reached the enclosure and the gate closed behind him, his head flew up. A low cry said he recognized this final trap. In despair, he fell to his knees, to his side, and lay still.

Brynna grabbed Sam before she could get in the way of the team of vets who stood waiting. They swooped down upon the gray stallion, rolling back an eyelid, hydrating, monitoring his pulse and heartbeat.

Sam didn’t know how long she watched before Brynna tried to explain.

“Drugs,” Brynna said as she turned Sam to face her. “Karla Starr uses drugs to sedate her stock and to make them perform. She gave the Phantom something she calls Mad Dust. She cups it in her palms and blows it toward their nostrils.”

Sam closed her eyes against an image of the copper-haired woman working black magic on the mustang.

“She claims it’s legal. She also claims Slocum told her the stallion was his, and if she could catch him, she could have him--if she made Maniac a champion.”

“He’s here,” Sam whispered, but she was watching the Phantom’s legs twitch.

One of the vets spoke soothingly, though the stallion was unconscious. The vet’s kindness made tears start up in Sam’s eyes.

“We’ve impounded Maniac.” Brynna’s professional tone fell away for just a moment. “Tell me I didn’t see right, that you weren’t actually in the same chute with him, Samantha?”

Sam shook her head and Brynna sighed.

“Never mind. The important thing is, you’re all right, and Karla Starr will have a lot to answer for in court, and the Bureau will pursue this case. I know it.”

But that wasn’t the important thing to Sam. She put her hand out to still Brynna as the Phantom’s legs churned more vigorously.

The kind vet she’d noticed before rose from his place beside the horse and came toward them. He was young and blond, with black-rimmed glasses, and his expression was full of hope.

“So far, so good,” he said. “It’s a blessing, really, that he’s out, so we can work on him without causing further stress.”

“Will he--” Sam couldn’t ask the questions tumbling through her mind.

“His respiration is fine and his reflexes, though delayed, are improving. My name’s Glen Scott, by the way.”

He shook hands with Sam and Brynna, then glanced at the stocky woman who still sat by the horse while she talked on a cell phone. Just then, she gave him a thumbs-up.

“We’ve got a horse ambulance on the way, and if the stallion keeps improving, we’d recommend releasing him back to his environment as soon as possible.”

“Dr. Scott”--Brynna’s tone was hesitant--”don’t you think he should be kept someplace overnight, for observation?“

Glen Scott shook his head and pushed his black glasses up his nose. Sam almost smiled, because he reminded her of Jen.

“That would mean more captivity and even more drugs.” He looked earnest and determined to convince Brynna. “Get another opinion if you like. But after what he’s been through …” The vet shook his head.

“What about a week or two at the holding pens in Willow Springs? That would be safer,” Brynna suggested.

“The life of a wild animal is never safe.” Dr. Scott scanned the nearby pens, seeming to weigh the lives of the captive animals around them. “I think it will do more harm than good to keep him locked up. Why not drive all night, let him wake close to home, and release him?”

Home. Sam could picture the stallion, suddenly freed and galloping on the range where he belonged. The Phantom would face a challenger in his valley, though, and New Moon was young and strong.

Brynna turned to Sam. “It’s your call, honey What do you want for him?”

Safety or freedom. It should have been a simple choice. Safety meant the stallion’s life would be filled with longing. Freedom might mean Sam had lost him forever.

She moved away from Brynna and crouched beside the Phantom. She’d never seem him down like this. It frightened her. She lay a hand on his neck. Beneath the sweat-stiff hair, his tiny blood vessels pulsed.

She’d heard of people who’d faced a firing squad and not been shot. Some never lost the fear they’d felt when they’d believed death was certain. Would the Phantom be the same? Would he have the strength to drive New Moon away when the young horse had already served as king?

The Phantom’s head lifted. His eyelids fluttered and then he lay still again.

“Bad dreams,” the vet said. “His vital signs are improving all the time. Don’t worry.”

The Phantom trusted her. Terrified and filled with drugs, he’d come to her, allowed her to lead him from the arena by a piece of mane and the gentle pressure of her hand.

“Let’s take him home,” Sam said.

She leaned down and pressed her lips to his silver neck. It was a good-bye kiss. The Phantom would be safest if she never touched him again.

One mile past War Drum Flats, the sun rose and the desert turned tawny orange.

They’d driven all night. With the light, Sam saw frost edging the sagebrush at the roadside. It was cold out there and warm in the cab of Brynna’s truck, but Sam shoved the door open and ran to the horse ambulance the minute the vehicle braked to a stop.

Hooves pounded inside, and the Phantom screamed. Sounds that would have horrified her two weeks ago made Sam glad. He was awake and strong and ready to be free.

Dr. Scott met Sam behind the vehicle. The stallion’s neigh vibrated the ambulance. His kicks rocked it. The vet rubbed his hands together and blew on them. Cold, but heartened by the mustang’s vigor, he smiled as he surveyed the high desert landscape.

“It’s gorgeous out here,” he said. “And I think this mustang smells home.”

Sam nodded and followed the vet’s glance as he watched Brynna stride nearer.

“Last chance to take him up to Willow Springs,” Brynna told Sam. “We could keep him there until we’ve removed the black from the herd. Kind of ease the transition.”

Staring at the dark road, their headlights the only light for miles, they’d talked about this for hours last night, and Sam’s answer never changed.

“No.” She shook her head. That would mean revealing the Phantom’s hideaway. Never again would his mares and foals be safe. “It’s time.”

Metal bolts clanged. Hinges squeaked.

The stallion backed out, kicking. Brynna, Sam, and the vet stepped away, but not far enough. The Phantom’s head snaked toward the humans, scattering them farther off.

Sam didn’t speak. She didn’t try to soothe him. That part of their friendship was over.

The great silver stallion swung to face the mountains. He took a single breath, loosed a mighty neigh, and launched himself away. In seconds, only a white spiral of dust nearly a mile away suggested that a mustang traveled a narrow zigzag trail.

The stallion didn’t look back and Sam didn’t cry.

She didn’t reply when Brynna spoke to her, either, or join in her thanks to Dr. Scott, although she wanted to.

Instead, she stared at the ground, where a faint sifting of sand had caught the Phantom’s running hoofprints. Shallow and far apart, they held morning light and tiny shadows. She walked the path he had taken until the ground hardened and she lost her way.