The Wildest Heart (2 page)

“I
knew it was a bad idea. I just knew it,” Mrs. Allen said. She slid down from her truck and left the door hanging open. She still wore her artist's smock over her clothes and the Boston bulls weren't with her. “Samantha, when you're old enough to drive, don't. It's a trap, an awful trap that only looks like freedom.”

Sam almost laughed. Being warned about the dangers of driving by Mrs. Allen would have been funny, except for her expression. Beyond her jet-black hair and silver jewelry, Mrs. Allen looked sorrowful and shocked.

“Is something wrong?” Sam asked. She felt cold all over. Was it Gram? Dad? She thought of her
mom, who had died in a tragic car accident when Sam was little.

Mrs. Allen's hands trembled as she passed them over her face.

“I'm probably overreacting. I dearly hope so, and I won't know anything for a few hours. That's why I came to get you now. You can ride your horse on home while I sit by the telephone.” Mrs. Allen took a deep breath. “And wait.”

It couldn't be someone in Sam's family, or Mrs. Allen would have said so.

Trying not to be pushy, Sam didn't ask for details. Using two fingers, she picked up the dirty paintbrush, but Mrs. Allen waved her to put it down.

“Leave it. Leave everything and let's go.”

Sam did as she was told.

Even though she hurried, Mrs. Allen moved faster. Sam had barely buckled her seat belt when Mrs. Allen put the truck into gear.

For once, she drove slowly, easing over ruts and rocks instead of hitting them.

Finally, Sam had to ask. “Has someone been hurt?”

Mrs. Allen nodded. “My grandson Gabriel.”

Sam felt ashamed of her reaction. She flopped against the seat back, weakened by relief that it wasn't someone she loved.

But Mrs. Allen's grandson would be young. Maybe close to her own age.

According to Gram, when Mrs. Allen was a young mother, she'd been obsessed with her art. Although she'd loved her friends and children, her painting had come first. Since her husband's death, that had changed. Mrs. Allen still painted, but she had rebuilt her relationships with her children and grandchildren.

Sam searched for the right thing to say, but her mind was empty.

“I'm only just getting to know him.” Mrs. Allen said. Her voice cracked and Sam heard the regret in her words. “He wanted to come stay with me and learn to ride. I put him off, hoping the place would look nicer a couple weeks from now.”

Sam thought of all the gardening Mrs. Allen had been doing, and the fence painting.

“I'm sorry,” Sam said. It was the truth, and the only thing she could think of to say.

“He and two friends left on a road trip over the weekend. All three had brand new driver's licenses. I could have told them—” Her voice broke and she shook her head. “They wouldn't have listened, I suppose. You see, there was an accident and Gabe—”

Sam spotted a jackrabbit bounding across the road at the same time Mrs. Allen did. Mrs. Allen braked to a complete stop, though the rabbit had already crossed the pavement and disappeared into the brush.

“Gabe's a soccer player,” Mrs. Allen said as she
stared after the rabbit. “He made the varsity team as a ninth grader. That's very unusual, but then, he…”

Was he dead? A tiny voice in Sam's mind asked the awful question, but she'd never ask it out loud.

“He was conscious, when they brought him into the Denver hospital,” Mrs. Allen said, “but he couldn't move his legs.”

“I'm so sorry,” Sam repeated, but her hands curled into fists of frustration.

She wanted to help, to do
something
. But what? Frozen with the awfulness of this, she thought of her own accident. She could have snapped her spine instead of fracturing her skull. And Jake had been crushed by a falling horse and only broken his leg. They'd both been lucky.

As they drove on, and the pointed roofline of Mrs. Allen's lavender house came into view, Sam felt guilty for ever thinking it looked like a witch's house. Now, the KEEP OUT sign was gone, the rose garden flourished, and the only magic that worked here was the love lavished on forgotten horses.

In the saddle horse corral, Ace trotted to the fence, eyes fixed on the truck, though Calico, Ginger, and Judge, Mrs. Allen's horses, merely swished their tails in recognition.

“Please call when you find out how he is, okay?” Sam asked, before they climbed out of the truck. “And, Mrs. Allen, I don't know what I can do to help, but—”

“Thanks, Sam.” Mrs. Allen said it in a dismissing way, like you would to a little kid.

“No, really,” Sam insisted. “I'm the one who got you into all this.” Sam gestured toward the wide fields that pastured the captive mustangs, then laid her hand on the older woman's arm.

As she looked down at Sam's hand, Mrs. Allen's lip trembled.

“If you think of something, will you please ask me?” Sam added.

“I will,” Mrs. Allen promised. “Thank you, Samantha.”

This time, she sounded as if she meant it.

 

Ace took the bit as if he was eager to go home. As Sam folded her horse's silky ears into the headstall on the split ear bridle, she reminded herself there was no need to hurry. She had plenty of time to get home. Besides, in this heat, it wouldn't be smart to push Ace out of a jog, no matter how willing he was to run.

At least it was dry heat, Sam thought as she swung into the saddle. According to Dad, the humidity that came just before a storm was harder on horses.

“No humidity here,” Sam told Ace as they jogged away from Deerpath Ranch. “But there's a hot springs over there somewhere, past the old tree house. I'll take you there sometime, good boy.”

Ace's ears flicked back to catch her words, but he kept trotting, as if he wanted to get past this part of the trip. The gait wasn't his usual gentle jog; it was more stiff-legged and watchful.

Horse-high weeds stood on each side of the lane, and though Mrs. Allen had cleaned up a lot of her ranch, she'd missed this part. Yellow-white and dry, they didn't move, because there was no wind.

“I don't blame you,” Sam told Ace. “You can't see through them.”

Maybe the Phantom was still around, Sam thought suddenly. She stood in her stirrups, trying to see past the weeds, but nothing was there.

Sam was about to let Ace lope for just a few yards, when a cicada chirped on her right. Ace shied and Sam snugged her reins. She couldn't reward him by letting him lope now.

As soon as they crossed the highway and the bridge over the La Charla River, Ace relaxed. They were home.

The minute she opened the screen door and entered the kitchen, Sam told Gram about Mrs. Allen's grandson. Frowning, with one hand covering her lips, Gram listened. Twice, she looked toward the phone, but made no move to dial.

“If she's waiting for her daughter to phone,” Gram said, “I suppose my call can wait. It's a terrible, helpless feeling not to be able to help a child you love.”

Gram kissed Sam's cheek, then waved her hand in front of her nose.

“Gracious, Samantha. You smell like a horse. Why don't you hustle upstairs, then shower and change?”

“Do I have time?” Sam asked. “The hens—”

“I'll be glad to go see if we have eggs,” Gram said. “Better that than be cooped up in the car with all that horsehair.”

“I can take a hint,” Sam said.

When she came back downstairs, not only had Sam showered, she'd washed her hair and blow-dried it, and put on the outfit Gram had given her for her birthday, a short white skirt with matching sandals and a bright emerald-green shirt.

She hadn't been able to get all the paint off her knuckles, but no one would notice.

“You look nice, honey,” Dad said as Sam came into the kitchen.

“You, too,” Sam answered, but now she knew something was going on.

Dad wore tan slacks. Not jeans. The only time she could remember seeing him in pants other than jeans had been at his wedding to Brynna.

“Dad, is this a celebration, or…?”

He stared at the kitchen clock as if he hadn't heard, then talked over her.

“'Bout time,” Dad said, then took Gram's Buick keys from the hook by the kitchen door. “I'll drive.”

 

When they arrived in Alkali, Brynna's BLM truck was already parked outside Clara's coffee shop.

As the bell on Clara's front door clanged Sam's passage into the aromas of hamburgers, French fries, and upside-down cake, she was more curious than hungry.

Brynna sat at one of Clara's tables with a glass of ice water. She'd changed from her khaki uniform into a summer dress the color of peach ice cream. She was chewing her thumbnail.

“Hi!” Brynna bolted straight up from her seat as she spotted them.

Sam felt as if she were walking underwater as she approached the table. Something was about to happen, but what? Once they sat down, Clara came to their table with her order pad. Sam heard Dad order a fried shrimp dinner. Gram said she'd have the same, plus a pitcher of lemonade for them all to share. Then Brynna ordered soup and crackers.

In July, you didn't eat soup and crackers unless you were sick.

Sam met Clara's eyes and saw she was thinking the same thing. Then a slow smile claimed the old waitress's lips.

“Sam?” Clara asked.

“Uh, how about the chef salad?”

“Good choice,” Clara said. Then, raising a hand
toward her own face, she added, “Looks like you've been working outside. You've got some color in your cheeks.”

“She's painting fence for Trudy Allen,” Dad said.

Sam's confused thoughts made way for surprise as she heard the pride in Dad's voice.

“Good for you,” Clara said. She gave a congratulatory nod, then slipped her pencil behind one ear. “I'll be right back with that pitcher of lemonade.”

In the silence that followed Clara's departure, Gram's eyes met Dad's across the table.

Now I'll find out what's going on
, Sam thought, but suddenly she wondered if they'd brought her to dinner in public to tell her something that would have made her shout if she were at home. What if they thought her manners were too good to do that here? Did they think she would have calmed down by the time they arrived back at River Bend?

“Sam,” Dad began.

But suddenly, Sam didn't want to hear what he was about to say.

“So, how are the horses doing in this heat?” Sam swiveled away from Dad to face Brynna.

Brynna knew Sam was talking about the mustangs at Willow Springs Wild Horse Center. “Fine. They're doing just what they would in the wild. Resting up in what shade they can find during the hot part of the day. In fact, I'm glad all over again that we put the weanlings in the pen near the hay storage shelter.”

Sam pictured the wall of hay bales, higher than a house. It would cast a block of shade big enough to cool several corrals.

“They're more active at night and early morning, though,” Brynna said, then sighed. “And we've been having some fights. Dr. Scott's been treating kicks and bites every day.”

“They're too crowded,” Sam suggested.

“Way too crowded,” Brynna confirmed. “I'll be glad when our adoption auction has come and gone. Then, they'll have more room to move around.”

Sam nodded. Although wild horses traveled in family herds, often dozing shoulder-to-shoulder or standing head-to-tail to whisk away flies plaguing each other, the desire to be close could vanish once they were confined with mustang strangers.

Many of the foals born to captive mares had been weaned and were ready to leave their mothers. Since most adopters wanted young horses because they believed they'd be easier to gentle, Brynna had scheduled an auction day for early August.

“Sam,” Dad's voice cut across Sam's thoughts, “Brynna and I have something to tell you.”

“Okay,” she said, in surrender.

Dad gave a quick glance around the coffee shop to see if anyone at other tables was eavesdropping. They weren't, and Clara was busy, scooping ice into a glass pitcher.

“'Bout the beginning of next year, you're going to
have a new little sister or brother.”

What?

Sam's mind spun. She turned toward Brynna again. This time, her stepmother was blushing.

“You're going to have a baby?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” Brynna nodded, blue eyes searching Sam's, as if to silently ask how she felt.

How
did
she feel?

Sam tried to do an assessment like you would with someone who'd fallen off a horse. No bleeding, no broken bones, no obvious injuries. But her head seemed to wobble, dizzy with the strangeness of a new member coming into her family.

Gram grinned, clearly delighted, without a trace of surprise. As usual, Sam thought, she'd been the last to learn this secret.

Sam sighed in frustration and told herself she just felt left out. To feel jealous would be ridiculous.

Three sets of eyes watched, waiting for her reaction.

“Wow,” she said, and all three of them burst into laughter.

Sam joined in. Then, Clara arrived with the pitcher of lemonade, ice cubes tinkling as she poured.

Silently, Sam hoped,
Please don't let them do something silly like propose a toast.

She needed a chance to get used to this, before she told the world. Jen might understand, since she'd spent her life as an only child. Jake wouldn't. As the
youngest of six brothers, he'd always shared everything. He'd laugh at her shock.

Besides, he was the baby of his family. He wouldn't know how it felt to have a new rival for—

Sam slammed a mental door on that thought and jerked her chin up in stubborn determination.

Dad would always like her best. And so would Gram.

“The beginning of next year?” Sam asked.