The Renegade (16 page)

Behind her, Sam heard Brynna tell Dr. Scott the BLM would be in touch regarding the cost of doctoring the mustang. She should go back, but she wanted to hang on to the Phantom for just a few minutes more.

Sam heard a screech and looked up. She squinted, letting her eyelashes filter the brightness enough that she could watch the red-tailed hawk wheel in a dark silhouette against the morning sun.

A messenger to the sky spirits. That’s what Jake had told her just before the flash flood struck. She hadn’t wished then, but now she did.

“I don’t want him to be gone forever,” Sam whispered. “I just want to see him. I love his wildness. I’ll never try to take it away.”

Sam closed her dazzled eyes. A frenzy of multicolored lights from staring at the sun made her dizzy. When she opened her lids, the hawk was gone.

Sam trudged back toward Brynna’s truck. The horse ambulance was bouncing away, leaving twin wisps of dust behind. Brynna must be waiting in her truck.

There was no sense putting it off. It was time for her to go home, too. Sam hurried, then hesitated. She detoured just a little to her right, to see what lay on the ground.

Was the sun still playing tricks with her vision? Sam refused to believe her eyes until she stood right over it. Between her dirty tennis shoes lay a feather. It glinted red-brown and glossy against the white desert floor.

She-smiled and bent to pick it up. Between thumb and forefinger, she held the feather’s spine, then smoothed her fingers along the perfect plume.

The red-tailed hawk had given her a sign.

Sam’s wish for the silver stallion had been heard.

S
AM CLIMBED OUT
of Gram’s Buick and slammed the door harder than necessary. She crossed her arms and stared across the parking area at the corrals of captive mustangs.

She wanted to ignore Brynna Olson’s cheery arrival, but the woman’s freckled face actually brightened when she saw them.

“Sam, Grace, good to see you.”

Gram gave Brynna a quick hug, and Sam’s spirits sank lower.
A bug
. Things were worse than she thought, but at least Brynna didn’t try it with her. Just in case, Sam took a step back.

Brynna’s smile vanished. Her face clouded with confusion.

“Sam”--Brynna’s tone turned clipped and formal--”I want you to look at some horses for me.”

“The unadoptables. Gram told me. Will they be destroyed?”

“BLM doesn’t destroy healthy horses,” Brynna said. “But I’m worried about this bunch.”

The wind kicked up a whirlwind of dust. Brynna detoured around it. So did Gram and Sam.

Brynna stopped outside a corral shaded by a wall of stacked hay bales. About a dozen horses stood inside the pen.

Gram took an audible breath and let it go. “They’re not much to look at. I can’t say I’d pay good money for any of them.”

Sam leaned against the corral fence and studied the horses a minute longer. She hated to admit it, but most people would agree with Gram.

The horses didn’t look like mustangs. Glossy and well-fed, maybe too well-fed, they looked bored and undisturbed by the humans at the fence.

The group was made up of one black, three paints, and assorted bays and sorrels.

“The most outstanding things about them are their ages and lousy conformation,” Brynna said.

Sam didn’t want to agree, but Brynna was right.

One bay mare had a ewe neck that looked too weak to support her head. A tall bay’s showy white socks only emphasized his sickle-hocked hind legs. The black’s ears stayed pinned against his neck as if he were permanently cranky, and the scars on his hind legs said he’d kicked--or been kicked--plenty. The smallest of the paints had bumps from withers to tail, as if he’d been stung by a hive of bees. The largest of the paints had a huge belly, leaving no doubt about who got to the feed first.

Sam tried to pick one horse she’d want for her own. It wasn’t easy.

The liver chestnut looked pretty good. He strutted like a stallion, and the other horses gave him room, but his extreme Roman nose gave him the face of a fierce dinosaur.

Wait. Sam moved a little farther down the fence. What about that sorrel? Ears pricked and eyes wide, she was a pretty little animal whose flaxen mane streamed over her cinnamon shoulders like honey.

“She’s beautiful,” Sam said. “I can’t believe no one would adopt her.”

As Sam pointed her out, the filly trotted toward the fence.

All at once, Sam ached with pity. The filly’s knees were aimed to the sides instead of straight ahead. Her gait was so wobbly, Sam feared she’d fall.

“She’s young,” Brynna said. “Those legs might straighten out, or they could be corrected by surgery. She is a beauty. Plus, she’s curious and eager to learn.” Brynna paused and shook her head. “But no one’s willing to take a chance on her.”

“Did they all come from around here?” Gram asked.

“No. They’re from all over the place--Oregon, California, some from down near Las Vegas. Only one of the paints could be called local.” Brynna gestured south. “The big one came in with a bunch from the Smoke Creek desert.”

Though her voice was all business, Brynna wiggled her fingers toward the sorrel filly, tempting her a few steps closer. “These horses have been moved from one adoption center to another,” she continued.

“And that’s why they’re so tame?” Sam interrupted.

Brynna nodded. “They’ve been loaded and unloaded, herded, and fed by humans. Some have been captive for over a year. When they leave here next week, they’ll go to a big pasture in the Midwest where they’ll stay for life.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Gram said. “Though I’m not sure I like the fact that my tax dollars will be supporting a retirement home for horses.”

“Lots of folks feel that way,” Brynna admitted.

As the two women discussed money, Sam wished she could turn these horses loose and watch them run free. They’d look like different animals. But they’d probably never gallop across the range again. These mustangs would graze away their lives, placid as dairy cows.

Sam turned around in time to see Brynna fall silent. Words seemed to jam in her throat as she glanced back toward her office. “I’m leaving for two weeks of meetings in Washington, D.C. Norman White is taking my place. He’s”--Brynna seemed to be biting her tongue to stay professional--”not a horseman,” she managed. “And I’m not sure what decisions might be made while I’m gone.”

Sam watched Brynna shift, then swallow hard. Why was the woman so uneasy?

Sam sorted through all Brynna had said today, until her mind clicked on a single phrase.

BLM doesn’t destroy healthy horses.

Was Brynna worried that Norman White wouldn’t certify these mustangs as healthy?

But Brynna’s and Grams conversation had supplied the reason. Money.

Norman White might try to save the government money by having old or ill-formed horses put down.

Not only would that be cruel, it would be unfair. These horses were wild animals. They hadn’t been bred to measure up to human standards.

“How can I help?” Sam asked.

“Do you know anyone who’d want them?” Brynna didn’t sound very hopeful.

“That’s it?” Sam asked. Surely, Brynna could come up with something better than that. “Didn’t you ask me up here to help with some plan?”

Brynna shook her head, looking forlorn. “I’ve run out of plans and time,” she said.

Sam did her best to consider the horses all over again.

If she were a millionaire, she’d adopt them, put them in a huge pasture, and hope their wild natures returned. But she knew only one millionaire, and he’d never help. All Linc Slocum’s possessions were beautiful or valuable. These horses were neither.

Who, then? Jake’s Three Ponies Ranch couldn’t afford twelve useless horses. Jen’s family had already been forced to sell their land and stock to Slocum. Sam couldn’t think of anyone with both a soft heart and money.

“What about the HARP program?” Sam said suddenly. “These horses would be perfect. The little sorrel is half tame already. And kids would like those pintos.”

“I already tried HARP,” Brynna said. “Their funding is looking shaky. They won’t take on more horses or kids until it’s a sure thing.”

Sam stared at the captive mustangs until they blurred. Who would want a dozen horses, mostly old and ugly?

Sam rubbed her eyes. “Dust from that whirlwind,” she muttered to Gram and Brynna. But Sam was thinking,
They don’t deserve to die
.