The Wildest Heart (12 page)

Maybe it had been Gram, Sam thought, but Dad was rubbing the back of his neck. He always did that when he was uncomfortable.

Who had checked up on her? Mrs. Coley, when she brought dinner? Jake, when he came to mend the fence? Dr. Scott, when he gave her an update on Pirate?

Dad wouldn't have done the snooping himself, but she'd bet he'd urged Gram to get on the phone and talk with all of them.

“You didn't have to stay away,” Sam said.

Dad bumped his Stetson back from eyes that widened in surprise.

“No ma'am, I didn't, but you've been asking me to trust you. Now seemed like a good time to stand up and do it.”

Sam's tongue wet her lips. She didn't know what
to say. Dad sounded like he'd had to fight himself not to run over here.

Maybe he hadn't stayed away because he didn't care. Maybe he wasn't preoccupied with the coming baby.

“Thanks, I guess,” she said.

“Here's the thing, honey. Right now, I need to know where you are, every breathin' minute, day and night. So, what am I gonna do when you go out on dates? And off to college? Shoot, I can hardly stand thinkin' about the kind of fool trouble kids get in.”

Dad rubbed the back of his neck again and Sam smiled. That speech had been world-class long for Dad, and there was nothing left to do but hug him for it.

So she did.

 

It was ten o'clock at night. Callie had gone to bed, but Sam had finished her mystery and was restlessly searching Mrs. Allen's shelves for something else to read.

She sat on the couch, flipping through an art history book. It sure didn't have much of a plot. She closed it carefully.

She'd already had two slices of chocolate cake, so a snack was out.

She should go to bed, because she was determined to make major progress on painting the fence tomorrow.

Suddenly the phone rang. It couldn't be good news this late, but Sam snatched up the receiver before the phone could ring again and wake Callie.

“Samantha? It doesn't sound as if I've awakened you.”

“No, you haven't, Mrs. Allen. What time is it there?”

“Midnight or thereabouts, but I have someone who wants to talk with you.”

Sam reeled with misgivings. It could only be Mrs. Allen's grandson, Gabe. She didn't even know him.

Sam folded her legs up on the couch beside her, wishing she could gather her thoughts so efficiently.

Callie had sensed Mrs. Allen was building up to something. Was this it?

Sam wished Callie had answered the phone. She could handle anything.

Maybe Gabe was just bored, Sam thought as the sound of rustling, which might have been bedsheets, came over the line.

Yeah, boredom. The confinement might be driving Gabe nuts. He had been an active kid….

Had been.
Oh good, Sam.

And then he was talking.

“Hi. This is Gabe. My grandmother said I should call.”

The male voice sounded normal. Not as deep as Jake's, but surprisingly—Sam searched for a word—breezy, she guessed, for a kid in his position. His
grandmother had told him to call and, bored, he'd given in.

She could handle small talk, couldn't she?

“What's up?” she asked.

“Not me,” he said with a bitter laugh.

Sam curled in on herself as if he'd punched her in the stomach.

How stupid could she be? What an idiot thing to say! But, wow, the kid had some guts, trying to joke when, unless something wonderful had happened, he couldn't even move his legs.

“So, what year are you in school?” Sam asked. That would be safe. If Mrs. Allen was counting on her to cheer Gabe up, she'd fall back on the most ordinary of questions.

“I'll be a junior.”

“One year ahead of me,” Sam said.

She drew a deep breath. Now what?

“Look, this was a dumb idea,” Gabe said.

“No! Are you kidding?” Sam said quickly. “I was sitting here bored out of my mind. When you come visit your grandma, bring something fun to read, will you?”

“That might be a while,” he said.

“That's okay.” She stared at the ceiling. A faint crack zigzagged through the plaster. She was following it with her eyes when she said, “I got locked up in the hospital a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah?”

“I fell off my horse and managed to put my head where his hooves were.”

“Ouch.”

“Naw, I don't remember a thing. About that part.”

“I hate this place,” he said.

Sam heard voices in the background. Was his mother there, as well as Mrs. Allen? Maybe none of them could sleep.

“Yeah, I was unconscious for a while, so I wasn't awake to hate it, much.”

“Like a coma?” he asked, bluntly. “You're supposed to be cheering me up.”

“Hey, you called me,” Sam blurted.

They both laughed, then, but she added, “Yeah, like a coma.”

“You musta hated that horse.”

“It wasn't his fault, and besides…”

All at once, Sam found herself telling Gabe about her time in San Francisco and Blackie's flight into the wilderness. When Gabe prodded her for details, she explained the controversy over the West's wild horses, told him about the Phantom's herd, and finally told him about the explosion that had robbed him of his hearing.

When she got to that part, she stopped. Gabe had been quiet for a long time. Had she babbled him to sleep?

This
was
dumb.

Gabe had been right twenty minutes ago when
he'd said that. Why was she spilling her life story, and the Phantom's, to a stranger?

“So what are they gonna do with him?” he said finally.

“I don't know. My stepmother is the manager of the BLM's wild horse program here, and she says—well, it's really sappy—she says since I'm the best friend he has, I get to make the decision.”

“That is sappy,” Gabe agreed. “Why you? He's the wild horse. Let him decide.”

Irritation flashed through Sam.

“Easy for you to say,” she told him.

But then she wondered if Gabe was really talking about the Phantom. Maybe he felt like all his choices had been taken away from him.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded a little fainter. Had he shifted positions, or was she tiring him out? Wasn't Mrs. Allen there to tell him to get off the phone and go to sleep?

At last, he said, “Tell me what the Phantom looks like.”

“He's the most beautiful horse in the world. He's silver gray, but sometimes, like in moonlight or bright sun, he looks pure white. And…” Sam felt her throat close. “Most of all, he's wild. And, even though he's really confused right now, by not being able to hear…” Sam cleared her throat, trying not to cry. “I can still see it in his eyes. In racehorses, they call it ‘the look of eagles,' have you ever heard that?” Sam
heard something on the other end of the line. Maybe he'd transferred the receiver to his other ear, but she couldn't stop talking. “Well, the Phantom's got that look and that spirit and that's why I won't adopt him. I will never, ever take that away from him—”

“Samantha?” It was Mrs. Allen's voice, kind but impatient. “Thank you, so much,” she whispered. “He's just been so nervous and didn't want to talk with any of his friends here. You did a great job of making him get sleepy. Nighty-night.”

Sam hung up the phone, but she didn't go to bed for a long, lonely hour.

S
am yawned as she looked back over the sections of painted fence.

She'd been feeling so lazy, she'd ridden out bareback this morning.

Ace was ground-tied back where she'd started this morning, and the distance to him seemed to stretch for a mile. As if he felt her gaze, the gelding lifted his red-brown head and tossed his forelock back from his eyes. When he saw she had nothing interesting in mind, he dropped to his knees, then flopped to one side and rolled, enjoying the luxury of rubbing his hide on the short, damp grass.

Beyond Ace, Sam could see Callie leading Queen.

The red dun mare had been standing at the fence
this morning, waiting as if her time with the wild ones was finished, so Callie had decided to lead her on a walk around Deerpath Ranch. Following Sam's directions, they were going in search of the hot spring.

Everyone was enjoying a peaceful and contented morning, except her. She was still working on the fence.

Sam knew she was making progress, but the old weathered wood seemed to soak up the paint as soon as she brushed it on.

She was lucky Mrs. Allen only wanted the part facing the road painted. It would take a professional with a sprayer, according to Brynna, to paint the whole thing.

In a way, Sam was glad the fence ran on forever. If the pasture hadn't looked like endless acres, the Phantom's herd would have been frantic to escape. She'd seen horses fresh off the range come into the corrals at Willow Springs.

They flung themselves at the fences, trying to jump metal rails they had no hope of clearing.

Should the Phantom be captive or free?

She tried not to think about her conversation with Gabe.

Let him decide,
he'd told her.

Sure, and did he let his cat decide it wanted to go outside and run across the freeway? Did he let his
dog decide when it wanted to go to the vet for vaccinations? What did some guy in Colorado know about mustangs?

Sam slapped her paintbrush down so hard that reddish spots splattered her legs.

The Phantom had had such spots after the explosion. They were gone now. He'd seen to that by rolling in the grass, or maybe he'd gone down to the river.

The river. Maybe…

Hotspot nickered for attention.

Behind her, Ace's hooves moved closer, but Hotspot seemed more interested in human companionship.

“Hey, girl,” Sam said. “Are you lonesome?”

All morning, the Appaloosa mare had followed along on the other side of the fence. Since Roman's attack on the Phantom, the two herds had split, and Hotspot wandered between them, an outsider to both bands.

“Do you want to go home, girl?” Sam asked.

The mare watched with eyes that almost matched her chocolate-brown face.

“Do you miss your baby?”

Hotspot shook her head so hard that her mane flipped from one side of her neck to the other.

“Well, that's not very nice, so I'm going to assume a fly was buzzing around your head and I just couldn't see it.”

Sam didn't tell Hotspot that her colt, Shy Boots, had been matched with a nursemaid burro in her absence, or that Brynna had said Hotspot would be going home.

By law, Brynna had to notify Linc Slocum in a timely manner that his horse had been found running with a wild band.

When Sam had asked how long a “timely manner” was, Brynna had mused a minute.

“Well,” she'd said, at last. “It's too late for Hotspot to resume nursing her foal. Her milk's dried up and Shy Boots has bonded with the jenny. So I think a timely manner will be after things are resolved with the Phantom.

“I don't want Linc Slocum coming down here with a trailer while we have a wild herd all rounded up. The less that man is around mustangs, the better, as far as I'm concerned.” Then Brynna's voice had taken on a dreamy tone. “And you know, I could charge him a trespass fee for letting her eat on the public lands. Wouldn't that be fun?”

“Do it!” Sam had cheered. When Brynna let herself be a friend instead of a stepmother, Sam loved it.

“I'm thinking about it,” Brynna said. Then she cleared her throat. “I try to be a good neighbor, but that man tempts me to give him what he deserves.”

Suddenly, Ace's snort and the clack of a hoof on rock drew Sam's eyes away from her painting.

Faith and the Phantom came across the pasture
together.

The silver stallion and the half-grown filly had become buddies.

At first Sam had been a little sad, thinking the Phantom gave the filly eyes and she acted as his ears. As she watched the two, though, she realized they were just friends. Faith constantly sniffed and snuffled the stallion, as if he were a fascinating addition to her world, and the Phantom tolerated the filly's sassy refusal to be afraid of him.

Just now, Faith moved away from the stallion. She left him to his skittish, watchful walk while she meandered over to eat a few shoots of grass growing beneath her favorite tree.

Sam had been squatting to paint a bottom fence rail. Now she stood slowly to get a better look at her horse.

The Phantom's coat shone white in the summer sun. He must have given himself a dust bath, because not only were the red spots gone, but so was the mud on his coat and the clumps of dirt in his streaming silver tail.

He jolted into a nervous trot as if something spurred him. He didn't look confused and bewildered, but instead surprised.

Sam held her breath, not daring to hope.

The stallion burst into a lope. Long, fluid strides took him sweeping just yards away from the fence. Ace neighed and the stallion snorted, then snorted
again as he kept moving.

Sam recognized the snort. It wasn't a greeting. It meant, “What's this?” He didn't slow, but his gait shifted to a speedy trot. Something had his attention, but what?

He stopped, ears pricked after Faith.

No big deal,
Sam told herself. He's been doing that all along. He's never stopped trying to hear.

Then, his left ear swiveled toward the tree and his chin lifted.

That
was different.

Suddenly, in the same second, three things happened.

Faith's Medicine Hat head jerked up from grazing. The cottonwood branch gave a final snap. And the Phantom bolted toward the tree.

Thick as Sam's arm and covered with fluttering leaves, the branch fell to the ground. It didn't hit Faith, or the stallion. After a minute of sniffing muzzles and circling, the horses moved away.

Be calm,
Sam told herself, but an argument ping-ponged back and forth inside her mind.

The Phantom could have been reacting to Faith's movement with his eyes, not his ears.

But his left ear had already been listening to something up in that tree.

It wasn't like he'd rescued the blind filly. She'd rescued herself.

But he
had
bolted toward the sound. Why? Horses
assumed every strange movement was a threat, didn't they? Except that herd stallions had a job to do, and that job included protecting younger, weaker members of their herds.

Suddenly, Sam knew what
she
had to do.

It was two miles to the La Charla drop-off and the gate on the other side of the river. Two miles was a long walk, but it wasn't bad on horseback, and instinct told her the Phantom would be more likely to follow Ace than her alone.

Sam remembered the time the Phantom and Ace had run side by side, taking her to the stallion's valley, and the time he'd matched strides with Ace as the gelding galloped through the Thread the Needle pass above Willow Springs, leading the stallion home.

“What do you think, boy?” Sam whispered to the gelding.

Ace lifted his head and one of his split reins dangled within reach. Sam grabbed it. With slow, quiet steps, she led him back to a gate and through it.

Holding her breath, Sam vaulted up onto Ace's bare back. Her fingers fumbled with reins and mane. So much depended on this. She had to do everything right.

With the faintest tightening of her legs, she urged Ace forward. Sam pretended to ignore the other horses as he began walking.

Two miles was long enough to snag the Phantom's attention. If she'd guessed right, he would be curious
enough to follow. If he followed, and his honey-brown mare came after him, the rest of the band would fall into step.

She hoped.

Thudding hooves and a squeal made Ace tense beneath her. Sam looked back in time to see Roman and the Phantom confront each other again. In a single glance, the gelding took in the commanding lift of the Phantom's head and the challenge ended.

Tail swishing, Roman returned to grazing.

Celebration started in Sam's heart, but she kept Ace walking toward the river.

The smell of the fire lingered, but it was different. The scent wasn't a bitter reminder of destruction. It had grown faint, turning to an almost cozy smell, like a barbecue or campfire, and even that faded as they approached the river.

Ace pulled at the reins and his hooves danced impatiently. He wanted to swing into a jog or turn and mingle with the horses behind them.

Sam listened hard, trying to figure out how many horses followed, but the La Charla rushed with the chitchat sound that had earned the river its name, obscuring all but the loudest hoofbeats.

Sam didn't turn to glance over her shoulder. Wasn't there some story about a woman who looked back and then turned to stone? Her penalty for looking back would be harsh, too. If she made even one of them shy, it could ruin everything. Today, she could
be patient.

When they reached the drop-off, the lush scent of water-loving willow trees crowded out the last wisp of smoke.

Sam could hear the sound of the river rolling over rocks even before she reached the edge. And then there was a swoop of wings above as a swallow slanted past her, dropping down through the air to hover over the silver rills.

A huff of breath told her the stallion followed closely, but she kept her legs tight against Ace's sides, urging him to navigate the path before the stallion caught up.

When she'd ridden out here with Brynna, she'd noticed it was just wide enough for a single horse.

Bareback on Ace, there was no way she wanted to share that trail with the Phantom, especially if the stallion was in a hurry to reach the river.

“You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink,” Gram said sometimes, and though Sam wasn't exactly sure what she meant, the saying came back to her now.

She could see the gate on the other side of the river. She'd led the Phantom to freedom. She couldn't make him choose it, but she could sure open the gate.

As soon as they reached the sandy riverbank, Ace gave a sharp jerk against the bit. He might really be thirsty.

As soon as Sam slipped from his back, he lowered
his head to drink.

Don't look back,
Sam told herself once more, then took a giant step into the river.

She managed not to screech at the slap of snowmelt on her knees and thighs.

It's hot. It feels good,
she thought as she kept walking.

She tried to see through the reflective surface of the water, but she couldn't. Her sneakered feet would have to find a way between the rocks. She really didn't want to fall. The splashing commotion could still send the horses running.

Almost there. She could see the gate was wide enough to drive a truck through. And the latch was just a loop of wire settled over a straight post. Piece of cake. It would take her about two seconds to open it.

Then it was up to the Phantom.

When a submerged branch snagged the hem of her cutoffs, she worked it loose and kept slogging, with cold-numbed legs, through the water.

At last! The shallows fell to her knees, her calves—her legs prickled with goose bumps that almost hurt—then the water was at her ankles, and she was out!

She lifted the loop of twisted wire and shoved the gate with her shoulder. It swung open.

“Good, good, good,” she muttered, and propped the gate open with a rock.

Only then did she look back.

The Phantom stood in the shallows, a few yards upstream from Ace, drinking. Blue shadows cast by the willows and water showed every curve of muscle below his silver hide. His lips touched the river, but his eyes stared across the surface of the water, watching her return.

Sam tried to keep her steps slow. Although the Phantom had come down the trail to the river, his herd stayed up above, milling and watching as they always did when their leader guided them to water.

Maybe the days she'd spent at the fence since the fire made her familiar to him, because the stallion met her while she was still knee-deep in the river.

Had he always seemed this big? A white wall of a horse, with his sweet leathery smell, he whuffled his lips over her shirt, then tickled her neck with his whiskers. He stood so near, she couldn't see his ears when she whispered to him.

“Zanzibar,” Sam said, daring to curve one arm around his neck. “Are you all right, boy?”

The stallion lowered his head, rubbed his forelock against her chest and, before Sam could steady herself, rammed her into the river.

She hit the river bottom on the seat of her cutoffs. Her head went under and she came up sputtering.

She ducked as the stallion gave a buck of sheer high spirit. Those hooves could hurt, but…

“No, boy,” she cautioned him as his shoulder hit hers, sending her back into the river once more.

“Some game,” she sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of water. “This stuff is full of bact—”

The stallion stopped. He turned his left ear her way. Then he shook his thick mane. His hindquarters gathered and smooth muscles bunched beneath his silken hide to launch him back up the path to his herd.

An imperious neigh warned Sam to
move,
but the order wasn't for her. It was for the honey-brown mare who jumped from the lip of the drop-off down to the middle of the path, followed by the nipping, kicking, bumping mustangs on her heels.