The Wild One (13 page)

With a satisfied sound, Jake reappeared. He shoved a wire, curled like a spring, at her.

“Stick that in your pocket,” Jake ordered. “Gram's Buick isn't going anywhere until we put it back.”

The Cadillac roared closer. Sam hated to leave Jake to deal with an angry and frustrated Slocum.

“Run, Sam!” Jake gave Sam a shove between the shoulder blades, and she took off. “And don't do anything stupid!”

S
AM'S HEARTBEAT
pounded in her throat, in her arms, and in her face. It wasn't the blistering heat that made her run a choppy pace. Sam was afraid.

She slipped on a patch of gravel. Her feet shot out from under her body and only her hands kept her face from slamming into the dirt.

Sam stood, wiped the dirt and blood from her palms on her shorts, and glanced down the hillside to her left.

Hypnotized by the steep drop-off, Sam couldn't help but look. Far away, River Bend was arranged like a toy ranch and the river glinted silver-blue.

If only the Phantom were down there, playing in the river, safe and sound. But he wasn't, so Sam kept running.

If Slocum got her horse, there were ways to get him back. If Zanzibar died…

She quit thinking of the powerful stallion, slamming
the door on those nightmare images. Instead, she thought of Jake. Slocum had probably reached him by now. Slocum would be furious. But Jake was younger, stronger, and faster. And hard in a way Slocum could never achieve, even if he spent hours in a gym. Jake worked. Slocum only pretended. Slocum had to buy the trappings of a cowboy. Jake was the real thing.

The rhythm of Sam's steps turned regular. She caught her breath, kept her head level, and aimed her eyes straight ahead.

She heard the Phantom's neigh, before she saw him. Raspy, as if he'd screamed his throat raw, his cry and galloping hooves lured Sam to his corral.

People. Sam caught a glimpse of Miss Olson in her khaki-colored uniform. She saw Flick and the men she'd identified as Bale Thrower and Clipboard when she'd visited the corrals before. She refused to let them see her. Or stop her.

Sam ducked and sneaked along the fence, keeping her head low. She couldn't risk walking to the gate and opening it. If Phantom galloped through, he'd be lost in the maze of corrals and easily recaptured. She looked for another way in.

Down a few yards, a bottom rail was missing from the fence. She crept along, determined to reach that gap. Once there, she'd slip under and into the corral before she was spotted.

“The vet's on her way.”

Sam recognized Miss Olson's voice. Her tone was so unemotional, Sam couldn't tell if the vet was coming to sedate the stallion or destroy him.

As if he understood, the stallion trumpeted a challenging neigh. Sam had to look. She crouched and peered through the fence rails.

The Phantom was transformed by fury. Dirt dulled his silver coat. His drifting mane lay clumped and matted with mud from dust mixed with his sweat, but he fought captivity with every weapon a wild horse possessed.

He tried speed, galloping around the corral. Stumbling and exhausted, he still tried to outrun the walls surrounding him.

He tried slashing hooves, battering the fence until he dropped back, all four legs spread wide to keep from falling.

He tried screaming with defiance. He was a king of stallions determined to scare his captor.

And then, once more, he ran.

“I want to see you two, now,” Miss Olson's voice snapped with authority. She stood with one foot on the porch. From where Sam hid, it looked like there was a pile of rope on the porch. Sam hoped Miss Olson was calling in the two men who'd trapped the Phantom.

“Yeah?” The lazy voice was Flick's. “Ed's gone, but what do you want with me?”

He didn't sound worried. Miss Olson's voice was
stern, but Sam didn't have time to listen.

Time was running out. Sam edged closer to the gap beneath the fence.

The faltering stutter of the Phantom's hooves made Sam wonder if the stallion scented her. His dread increased. He ran faster, streaking along the fence line and slamming into a corner. Only then did he turn, run, and ram into the next corner.

Blood ran between his churning forelegs. Twists of forelock hid his eyes, but that wasn't why he kept running and slamming into each corner. The royal stallion ran blind with rage.

“He's doing it again,” Miss Olson sounded close. “I'm afraid he'll run himself to death.”

There were mumbles from Bale Thrower and Clipboard, but Sam heard Flick clearly.

“Hasn't got a brain left in that puny mustang head,” Flick said.

“You've got your paycheck,” Miss Olson said. “I asked you to leave. Do it.”

“Oh yes, ma'am.” Flick laughed. “I guess I got what I came for.”

Sam knew he didn't mean the money.

Face lowered to within a quarter inch of the dirt, Sam slid under the fence rails. The stallion's hooves came to a halt.

Sam stood. If anyone saw her now, it would be too late. She walked slowly to the middle of the corral. The stallion watched, vibrating with an
emotion Sam couldn't read.

This wasn't the river. None of the stallion's movements would be slowed by water. Sam's cheek still ached from last night's accidental blow.

If this horse wanted to hurt her, she couldn't stop him.

If he hurt her, Miss Olson would surely put him down.

With everything at stake, Sam stretched out her hand in a gesture the horse understood.

The stallion froze. His nostrils flared wide from exertion. Sam imagined the feel of velvet muzzle and prickly whiskers, but the stallion didn't lower his head as he had last night.

He straightened to a commanding height, tossed his forelock back, and stared. He blinked once, as if he couldn't believe she'd dare this.

He took two steps forward and as he did, Sam heard Miss Olson gasp. She said something, too, but Sam quit listening as the Phantom pinned back his ears and charged.

Sam didn't move, couldn't move, and the stallion passed by. Dust choked her, but she refused to cough. His hooves stamped behind her, and she turned to face him.

Sam reached into her memory, trying to recall the signs of horse language Jake had taught her.

The stallion reared, showing a vast underbelly spattered with mud and blood. He lowered to all four
legs, gathered himself into a churning coil of muscle, and charged past again, head snaking out as if he'd bite; but he didn't.

The stallion told her he was confused and angry. He said he wasn't going to kill her, even if she deserved it.

He moved around the pen at a trot and as he turned gracefully at each corner, Sam sighed. The Phantom was acting like a normal, nervous horse.

Voices attracted her eyes.

Jake was there. “She knows what she's doing. At least
he
thinks she does.”

The stallion curved away from the fence and walked toward her. He stopped and stared toward the mountains, with one ear turned her way.

Sam talked to him.

“Hey boy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry they hurt you.”

The horse shuddered, but his ear stayed turned to catch each word. She knew the sound he was waiting for and she uttered it so quietly, no one else could hear.

“Zanzibar,” Sam breathed the word, hoping it reached his ears.

Her scent had betrayed the stallion. The word was all she had left to offer him. The word held all her love. No one else must hear it. Ever.

The stallion's head swung to face her. He took two steps, then pawed the dirt. His respiration was
labored, raising his wide chest. Blood misted from his nostrils.

“Zanzibar,” she whispered. “It's okay. I'll get you out of here, I will.”

When his lips fluttered, Sam felt his breath. His neck stretched past her hand, lifting. If he bolted now, she'd go down under his hooves to be trampled.

“Zanzibar, I love you, big horse.”

The stallion lowered his mighty head to Sam's shoulder. His sigh rocked them both. She saw his muscles loosen, felt his head grow heavy as he calmed.

Neither horse nor girl moved, for a very long time.

 

Slocum's high-heeled boots and broad belly kept him from reaching Willow Springs until after Sam left the Phantom resting in his corral.

As Sam came through the gate, Jake called her nine kinds of fool and ten kinds of idiot, then gave her a hug that nearly broke her ribs.

Miss Olson ordered Sam to sit down on the office stairs, until she decided whether to arrest her or award her a medal. Sam gave Miss Olson the purple pages, just in case they could sway things in her favor. The woman skimmed them, folded them into her pocket, but didn't comment on Sam's hours of work.

When Slocum finally staggered up to the porch
outside the office, he was puffing from exertion, but doing his best to seem polite.

“Miss Olson,” Slocum took her hand in a meaty grip. “I hardly expected to see you again so soon. But it's a pleasure, of course.” Slocum paused to breathe. “Excuse me,” he said, patting his chest. “I walked all the way up here. Some old clunker of a car broke down on the road and its driver neglected to pull over to the side.”

Slocum glared at Jake, then continued, “I hear you were able to recapture my horse.”

“
Your
horse?” Sam shot up from her seat on the porch. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“Oh now, sugar,” Slocum said, hefting his belt so the trophy buckle dented his overhanging belly. “You're not hoping that's your little black colt all grown up and changed color, are you?” Slocum gave Miss Olson a just-us-adults smile, then studied Sam more closely. “What happened to your eye, Samantha? Didn't sass Wyatt, did you?”

The insinuation that her father would hit her was like pouring gasoline on Sam's already flaming anger.

“Unlike some people, my father never hurts anyone or anything,” Sam shouted. “And he”—she pointed toward the corral—“is not your horse.”

Miss Olson made a smoothing motion with her hands.

Jake tugged at her elbow.

“Fire coming out of your nostrils there, Brat,”
Jake said quietly. “Take it easy. I think the law's on your side.”

He probably meant Miss Olson, but she wasn't “the law,” just a government representative. Still, the redhead's icy expression said she was in control. Sam sat down.

“Miss Olson and I have already talked about the matter of the gray's scar,” Slocum said.

Sam met Jake's eyes. If Miss Olson had read Sam's notes, she'd know how folks said Phantom had gotten that scar.

“And I told Mr. Slocum I couldn't accept it as proof of ownership. If I could accept circumstantial evidence, I'd be inclined to award him to Samantha. She has an amazing link with that stallion.”

Sam tried to catch Miss Olson's eye, to thank her for the compliment, but the woman didn't seem interested.

“I suppose she demonstrated some of Jake Ely's Indian mumbo jumbo,” Slocum scoffed.

Miss Olson left enough silence that even Slocum looked embarrassed. Then she went on.

“As a horsewoman, I was convinced by what I saw. It was better than a bill of sale. As a representative of the federal government, however, it's not good enough.”

The redhead leaned against the porch railing with her arms crossed. Even then, her crisp uniform didn't wrinkle. As always, Miss Olson looked detached, but
something told Sam the woman was waiting for Slocum to stumble into a trap.

Sam decided to give him a push.

“Mr. Slocum, did you make the complaint about the Phantom?” Sam asked.

“A complaint? Must be some misunderstanding. I did call.” Slocum rocked back on his bootheels. “The horse was on my property, and I could've just put my rope on him—”

“Like you did before,” Sam nudged him to admit it.

“—but I wanted everything to be official, this time.”

This time.
Bingo. Slocum had just admitted he'd caught the stallion before. Wasn't that illegal?

Sam kept herself from looking at Miss Olson.

Slocum could go to jail for that. Sam was sure of it. She pressed her lips together. It wouldn't do to crow with delight.

But Slocum wasn't stupid. He turned shamefaced toward Miss Olson. “I used to have a cowboy who fancied himself a buckaroo. He caught the stallion, once.” Slocum looked down at his eel-skin boots and shook his head. “Tempted as I was, I wouldn't keep him. After all, it's against the law.”

Jake had heard enough. “Then how come you offered me two hundred bucks to track him down for you?”

“What
are
you talking about, Jake?” He winked at Miss Olson. “These kids.”

“They can really get some crazy ideas,” she said. “Still, I can't help wondering why you didn't report the harassment of a wild horse. That's a prohibited act under the Wild Free-Roaming Horse and Burro Act of 1971.”

Yes,
Sam thought.

Slocum only slowed down a minute, then answered, “I wanted to give the young man a chance.”

“Even though you knew the horse was bleeding.” Miss Olson pretended to wince. “That would count as negligence, another prohibited act.”

“Miss Olson, it's not something I like to talk about, but you and I both know horses can bleed all day long and—”

“And you'd noticed the animal's injuries were severe enough to scar.”

“If I'd thought he was suffering, dang it, I would have put him out of his misery,” Slocum snapped.

“Without permission of an authorized officer?” Miss Olson shook her head. “Another prohibited act.”

Snorting like a bull, Slocum dropped all pretense of cooperation. “Lady, you can take your prohibited acts and—”

“Go to court with them, Mr. Slocum?” Miss Olson smiled.

“In that adoption application, you can read that the commission of prohibited acts are punishable by a two-thousand-dollar fine or a year in prison. That's
for each offense.” Miss Olson pretended to calculate. “And how many are we up to now?”

“Three!” Sam said, counting the charges on her fingers. “Harassment, negligence, and destruction, right, Jake?”

“I'm no expert,” Jake said. He nodded toward Miss Olson.

“Mr. Slocum, until I have time to do a background check, I'm deferring your application to adopt a wild horse.”