Firefly (13 page)

If he were a horse, she'd try something different to get the same point across. If he was sensitive to a certain kind of bit, for instance, she'd try a hackamore.

Could that work with him?

If he didn't like her suggestions or those from his grandmother, maybe she'd let the colt take over.

“Hey,” Sam said. She dug into the box Dr. Scott had brought and pulled out the big rubber soccer ball. “I know where you can get some practice.”

“What do you expect me to do? My legs don't work, remember?”

“Gabe, I'm not being mean. For some reason, that little horse has decided you're interesting. He needs a buddy and Dr. Scott said he loves that ball. What if you just went in there and batted it to him?”

“With my crutch?”

“Your crutch, your hand, your head—” Sam stopped, because she could see Gabe was tempted.

Then he glanced toward the house, even though Mrs. Allen was gone.

“Do I go inside the corral?” he asked.

“No.” Sam shook her head so hard, she felt her
auburn hair whirl. “He's still wild, and even though he wouldn't mean to hurt you, I'm not sure”—Sam slowed her words, trying not to make him irritated all over again—“that you could get out of his way fast enough if he goes
loco
again. Besides, I think that would get your grandmother really mad.”

“I don't care,” Gabe said. “She's the one who said I had to work with him. And then she threatened to kick me out if I didn't.”

Gabe shifted his weight on his crutches, then headed toward the corral gate briskly, as if taking up a challenge.

G
abe didn't look up from playing soccer with the colt when Mrs. Allen returned from Alkali.

At the last second, Gabe had agreed to stay outside the corral. Since then, he'd spent an hour balancing on his uncasted leg, gripping the top fence rail with one hand as he hung head down to punch the ball with his crutch from under the last fence board. Because the horse toy was egg-shaped, the ball rolled unpredictably and Gabe made his way from one side of the pen to the other and back again dozens of times.

“It's less like soccer and more like playing pool with a jumping bean,” Gabe said. His face was flushed, but in a good way, Sam thought, and the colt
definitely enjoyed his contortions.

Gabe didn't seem to care that the colt rarely used his teeth to grab the ball's handle and shake it, and that he'd only kicked it once and trotted after it three or four times. It seemed enough to the boy that Pirate was playing with him.

Sam couldn't have explained why the scene satisfied her so, but it did. The two seemed right together. Gabe didn't demand more of the mustang than he gave freely, and even when he didn't react to the rolling ball, Pirate filled his eyes with Gabe.

“That's sappy,” Gabe protested when Sam told him.

“But true. He thinks you're really interesting.”

Gabe shrugged, but he let her words stand as his grandmother came huffing from the truck.

“That danged Slocum,” Mrs. Allen snapped as she was towed along by the small black-and-white dogs. “I saw him in the cafe with his daughter—who's really an awfully pretty girl, even if she does come from bad bloodlines—and I told him what I thought about him choosing now, when this colt is in such a delicate condition, to be burning off his fields. That hardhearted son of a gun didn't care. And what's more, he doesn't plan to stop.”

Sam felt as if Mrs. Allen had snapped her fingers to bring her out of a trance.

“What?” Sam said.

“Try to listen, Samantha,” Mrs. Allen said briskly.
“Before I picked up our milk, I stopped at Clara's for a cup of coffee and maybe a little pie, I can't exactly remember, I was so upset.”

“Who is this guy, Grandma?” Gabe demanded. “What did he say to you?”

Although Gabe wasn't flexing and vowing to beat up the guy who'd annoyed his grandmother, Sam imagined his blond hair got bristlier and his pale eyebrows dropped in a threatening way.

She couldn't help thinking it would be fun to see him take on Linc Slocum.

Mrs. Allen said, sighing, “I don't know why I'm even surprised. The man is so self-centered—although his daughter Rachel did mention she'd heard I had a houseguest who was quite an accomplished athlete, and wondered if she might visit.” Mrs. Allen smiled meaningfully at Gabe.

He rolled his eyes at Mrs. Allen's obvious match-making.

“I hope you told her ‘no,'” Sam blurted.

“Why, Samantha!” Mrs. Allen's voice curled up at the end of the exclamation and her smile grew bigger.

“You don't know Rachel,” Sam said. She ignored Mrs. Allen's smirk. If the two of them had been alone, she might have told Gabe's grandmother that she wasn't jealous of Rachel.

Sam was afraid that Linc Slocum's spoiled little princess of a daughter would do something to hurt Gabe's feelings.

Sam peeked at Gabe from the corner of her eye. She got the feeling he understood her fears even without meeting Rachel.

“At any rate,” Mrs. Allen continued, “I hardly think Linc knew that I was asking him to hold off on burning the stubble on his fields for just a week until the colt's been adopted and moved from the area.” Mrs. Allen stared at Sam again. “Samantha, what have I said that has you so absolutely slack-jawed?”

“The smell of the fields burning,” Sam said. “That's what's bringing back the memory of the fire and making the colt panic.”

“Isn't that what I just said?” Mrs. Allen asked.

“You figured it out,” Sam told her.

“Figured it out?” Mrs. Allen tilted her head to one side. “Samantha, it seems fairly obvious.”

“It does now,” Sam said, laughing. “Can I go call Brynna? And Dr. Scott?”

“Help yourself,” Mrs. Allen said, waving Sam toward the house. “I'll stay here and see what Gabe and the horse have got up to.”

 

The sky was black velvet, sprinkled with stars.

Gabe and Mrs. Allen had spread a blanket beside the colt's corral and Sam sat between them as they watched the late August meteor showers.

“There goes another one,” Sam said.

As the meteor's silver trail left a glowing streak
across the darkness, Sam couldn't help thinking of the Phantom.

“Doesn't all that vastness make you feel small?” Mrs. Allen asked them both.

Crickets chirped in the moment of silence, before Gabe shifted on the blanket and grumbled, “It makes me feel itchy.”

“Itchy?” his grandmother asked.

“Yeah, and this other one's no better.” Gabe jerked in annoyance and rubbed at his bare, bruised leg. “I don't know, it's like muscle spasms. Man! It's like I stuck my toe in a light socket.”

In the darkness Mrs. Allen turned to Sam. She couldn't see Mrs. Allen's face well, but the set of her shoulders was tense and expectant.

It took Sam a second to realize Mrs. Allen hoped it was a good sign that Gabe was feeling anything in his legs. Did it mean the swelling around his spine was going down? That he might be getting better?

“I'm sorry it's so uncomfortable. These days, they discourage using knitting needles or coat hangers to scratch inside it, don't they?” Mrs. Allen sounded merely sympathetic.

She doesn't want to get his hopes up, Sam thought.

“No scratching with
objects
. They say if you scratch the skin and it gets infected, you'll delay recovery.” Gabe seemed to be parroting something he'd heard in the hospital. “But they also say the cure
is to elevate it over your head.”

“Mmm, that would be awkward,” his grandmother put in.

“Listen, hear that?” Gabe asked.

A scraping sound came from the corral.

Sam saw the colt's outline on the far side of his enclosure, but she couldn't tell what he was doing.

“I bet his burns are itchy,” Gabe said.

“Poor baby,” Sam said.

“He's not a poor baby,” Gabe yelped. “He gets to scratch.”

“Gabriel, quit squirming or go back to the house,” Mrs. Allen said. “For heaven's sake, you're acting six instead of sixteen.”

Sam refereed before grandmother and grandson began another squabble.

“But he is good at thinking like a horse,” Sam defended Gabe. “He's got the colt leading pretty well, too.”

Dr. Scott had started the colt, but when Gabe walked around the outside of the corral, Pirate followed, hardly noticing that Sam held the end of the lead rope attached to his halter.

Just the same, she and Gabe had been vigilant for smoke. Their senses couldn't match the colt's, but she hoped, if it wafted this way, she'd have enough warning to get out of the corral. Pirate's frantic memories would crowd out any consideration for humans.

“I might be a vet,” Gabe said quietly, “you know,
if pro soccer doesn't work out.”

“You could do that,” his grandmother said, and Sam heard the pride in her voice.

“There's another one!” Sam and Gabe said in unison, and as she thought of the silver stallion again, Sam began wondering about the hot springs and Pirate.

And then, amazingly, Gabe said, “Have you ever heard of hydrotherapy for horses?”

“Oh my gosh, I was just wondering about that!” Sam said.

“I'm just thinking, the smoke craziness is something he needs to get over. He'd relax in warm water and maybe, if he smelled the smoke while he was there, and nothing bad happened—”

“That's perfect. All their movements are slower in water. He can't run and fall and hurt himself.” Sam realized Gabe was talking over her.

“—if we take the colt to those hot springs you—”

Sam wanted to clap her hand over Gabe's mouth so he couldn't say anything about her and the Phantom. She settled for shooting her elbow against his ribs and hoped Mrs. Allen wouldn't notice.

Gabe caught his breath in surprise, but got her message.

“The hot springs?” Mrs. Allen asked dubiously.

“They use whirlpools and hot tubs and stuff like that for athletes, and I was just thinking it might kind of soothe him,” Gabe said.

Mrs. Allen chuckled. “He's a wild horse, children. He's not going to lean back and be calm in those hot springs.”

“He might,” Sam said. She didn't openly contradict the older lady, but reminded her, “That
is
where we found Faith with the Phantom.”

“That's true,” Mrs. Allen said, and despite the faint light, Sam saw her smile.

“Besides, it's a medieval cure for madness,” Gabe said.

“Is it?” Mrs. Allen gasped.

“That's what I read.”

“For a boy who claims not to be a good student, you do read a lot,” Mrs. Allen teased him.

Maybe because she was glad Gabe read and remembered, Mrs. Allen agreed they could try taking the colt to the hot springs. Gabe and Sam would walk, but she would arrive early in the truck and park nearby.

“I'll stay in the truck and leave you three to yourselves,” Mrs. Allen said, “but only if you do this my way.”

“What's your way?” Gabe sounded suspicious.

“We can't go at sunrise or sunset. That's when other wildlife is likely to be there and I want to cut our odds of having that colt act up.”

“That's a good idea,” Sam said. She shivered at what could happen if the Phantom's herd came to drink when the colt was there.

“Is that all?” Gabe asked, looking up at his grandmother as she stood.

“That's all I can think of right this minute,” she said. “But I reserve the right to add more rules later on.” She gave a strong-minded nod. “Now I'm going back up to the house. Sam, do you need anything?”

“Mosquito repellent, or a snake bite kit?” Gabe suggested, looking around the empty ranch yard.

“I'll be fine, Mrs. Allen,” Sam said, ignoring him.

“Gabriel, are you coming?” his grandmother asked.

“I'll be right behind you,” he said. “You can have a head start.”

“Honey.” Mrs. Allen's voice was a moan of regret as he reminded her of her mistake.

“I'm kidding, Grandma,” Gabe told her, and his tone said he was telling the truth.

“Well all right, then,” Mrs. Allen said with a sniff. “Don't take too long.”

“I won't,” he said, but he stalled until he heard the iron gate creak and Sam knew he was up to something.

He didn't make her wonder for long.

“In about a half hour,” Gabe said, “she'll be asleep, and if she's not, you can pretend you're in the kitchen for a snack.”

Sam crossed her arms. “And if I go along with whatever this is, why will I really be there?”

Gabe made a bouncing movement against his crutches.

Sam could see this idea really had him excited, though he clearly didn't think his grandmother would approve.

“You'll be getting one of those big plastic bags she keeps for gathering leaves and stuff. I saw them in the pantry. Then you'll be folding it up real small to bring with us tomorrow.”

“Why will I be doing that?” Sam asked.

Gabe rapped his knuckles against his cast. His mischievous smile showed even in the dark. “I don't want this thing to melt.”

So he wanted to get in the hot spring with Pirate.

“I'm not sure this is a very good idea,” Sam said.

“Maybe not,” Gabe agreed, shrugging, “but if you think I'd miss a chance to tell the guys that I soaked in a Wild West hot tub with a mustang, you're the one who's
loco
.”

E
verything was ready for Sam and Gabe to lead the colt to the hot springs.

Following Mrs. Allen's rule, they'd waited until mid-morning, long past the time the wild creatures would have come to the hot springs to drink and distract the colt.

The downside to Mrs. Allen's rule was the temperature. It had already soared to one hundred degrees.

Sweaty for life
, Sam thought as she fanned the bottom of her red-and-white sleeveless jersey to make a breeze on her hot skin. The jersey was a relic from her middle school basketball uniform, but it was the coolest thing she'd brought, and it would dry quickly after their dip in the hot springs.

She'd already snapped the rope on the colt's halter and Gabe stood ready to open the gate when a blue Mercedes sedan came snarling down the dirt road toward the ranch.

No, no, no!
Sam would have shouted the words if she hadn't been standing next to the colt.

The car belonged to Linc Slocum, and Sam would bet Rachel Slocum was driving.

It only made sense. Rachel had finished her summer trips to Europe, Bermuda, and Africa. Now she was home and bored.

She'd heard there was a teenage guy at Mrs. Allen's house—more importantly, a guy who hadn't yet fallen worshipping at her feet—and Princess Rachel had decided to remedy that situation.

Sensing Sam's agitation, the colt backed against the rope until he'd used up every inch of slack.

“It's okay, good boy,” Sam whispered. “You're safe. After letting Tempest loose, she won't dare come near me or you. Not if she has any sense at all.”

The mustang ducked his gleaming head and gave her a sidelong look from his white-patched eye.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam whispered. “That part about her having good sense was a dumb thing to say, wasn't it?”

“When you two are done gossiping, maybe you can tell me who this is?” Gabe said, tugging at the collar of his faded blue T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off at the shoulders.

Sam guessed Gabe was wishing he'd worn something nicer for his trip to the hot springs. Not that it mattered. If Rachel flirted with him, she wouldn't care what he was wearing. He'd only be required to keel over at her beauty.

“Rachel Slocum,” Sam muttered. “She's really rich and really pretty. She's never wanted anything her daddy didn't get for her but she—” Sam drew a deep breath. How could she explain? “In spite of her looks, Rachel Slocum is a witch.”

Nervous as he was, Gabe laughed.

“I know the type,” he said confidently, and for a few minutes, Sam thought he might be immune.

When Rachel steered the Mercedes off the driveway and through a neglected flowerbed, nearly ramming into Mrs. Allen's truck, Gabe laughed even harder. His chest shook so much, he had to regrip his crutches to keep from falling.

But when Rachel eased from the Mercedes, model-sleek in a bare-shouldered dress of floaty black and dusty orange tiers, Gabe's laughter stopped.

The dress would have looked like a Halloween costume on anyone less perfect, Sam thought, and wondered how this could possibly be fair.

“Sa-
man
-tha!” Rachel called, finger-combing a wave of mink-brown hair back from one eye.

You've got a choice
, Sam told herself. She could release her fury in a scream at Rachel—which would
be satisfying but would cost her every minute of progress she'd made with the colt—or she could pretend Rachel didn't exist.

“I don't hear a thing, sweet boy,” she crooned to the horse.

“And you must be Gabriel.” Rachel's voice was a purr. Even though she wore high-heeled sandals that wrapped her feet and ankles in complicated crisscrosses, she arrived at Gabe's side before he knew what was happening.

If she'd felt generous, Sam would have given Rachel credit for slinking so gracefully and quickly across the ranch yard, and for ignoring Gabe's crutches. But when Rachel tapped her little black envelope of a purse on Gabe's shoulder and he smiled a cocky grin that said he was totally taken in by her flirting, Sam felt a little sick.

“Hello, honey,” Mrs. Allen said, approaching from the direction of her truck. Then, even though it was obvious, she asked, “What brings you all the way out here?”

Pirate's nostrils flared and his eyes widened. He could have scented Rachel's perfume, or maybe smoke from the Slocums' fields clung to Rachel's expensive clothes.

“Shhh,” Sam told the colt. “She'll be gone soon.”

“Actually, Mrs. Allen, I heard a snippet of gossip about your grandson,” Rachel admitted with a giggle.

“Yeah?” Gabe said, encouraging her.

“I heard you looked like an angel, but you weren't. What about that?”

Oh my gosh.
Sam wanted to demand Rachel's source, but this wasn't journalism class. Besides, Rachel had probably made up the comment because it was the sort of thing guys liked to hear about themselves.

Sam risked a quick glance at the two of them. Judging by the look on Gabe's face, Rachel was right.

“And the other reason, dear?” Mrs. Allen said.

It took Rachel a minute to answer and Sam was amazed to see a kind of dreamy look on the rich girl's face.

“Oh, yeah,” Rachel said, shaking her head as if she'd shake off her softened mood. “I want to buy that horse my brother rode in that race.”

“Roman?” Mrs. Allen asked, amazed.

“I guess,” Rachel said.

That horse. That race.
Rachel definitely wasn't focused on her errand.

Sensing no threat from the new human, Pirate stretched his muzzle out to nudge his bucket of Kool-Aid.

Sam knew she'd be overdoing it to call this love at first sight, but something was sizzling between Rachel and Gabe.

“This is a sports injury, I bet,” Rachel said. She tucked her purse under one arm and flicked her manicured nails toward his legs. “Football?”

Gabe shook his head.

“Basketball?” she teased, and as she pretended to dribble a ball, her hand grazed his arm.

Just go away
, Sam thought, but Rachel wasn't nearly as sensitive to telepathy as animals were.

Mrs. Allen stood frozen and Sam wondered if they were both thinking the same thing. If Gabe told the truth, Rachel would probably recoil. He'd only known her a couple minutes, so in one sense, it wouldn't matter at all. In another way, it mattered a lot.

Suddenly the colt kicked at the soccer ball Gabe had left in his corral and Gabe looked up. He blinked. His cocky grin faded. Sam saw him decide to test Rachel and himself.

“Car accident,” he said, and when Rachel licked her heavily glossed lips, he added, “I was in a coma for a while and they're not sure when I'll be able to walk, you know, in a regular way.”

She snatched her hand back. The smile on her glossy lips was melting. The bright interest in her eyes grew faint.

“I'm sorry,” Rachel said, and Sam was amazed to hear the sincerity in her voice.

“Yeah, me too,” Gabe said, and his voice seemed to break the spell that, for a second, had made Rachel act like a genuine human being.

“I'd better be going,” Rachel said and her eyes darted down to Gabe's legs, frankly staring this time.

Gabe's jaw jutted forward and his eyes narrowed
before he asked, “What about the horse for your brother?”

“Oh, I think that was a mistake,” Rachel said. She sucked in a breath that seemed to shiver. “Sometimes I make the silliest mistakes.”

She talked herself out of it, Sam thought as Rachel hurried back to the Mercedes. She liked him and he liked her, but he was less than perfect.

Sam glanced at Gabe. He must be fighting to keep his expression bored as Rachel backed the car and swung it the way she'd come.

Sam wished there was a way to tell Gabe how gutsy she thought he was for being honest, but how could she say it?

Good thing you found out in the first ten minutes that Rachel Slocum doesn't follow her heart?

What
did
Rachel follow? Sam couldn't even guess.

Gabe cleared his throat loudly, then blurted, “Too high-maintenance for me.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Mrs. Allen asked her grandson.

“My school in Denver has a few millionaires' daughters, too,” he said. “Girls like that never get tired of having you spend money on them.”

Mrs. Allen looked confused, then her expression turned to one of understanding. It was less painful for Gabe to mention how materialistic Rachel was than to comment on Rachel's inability to like a guy on crutches.

“Can we go now?” Gabe asked.

“Certainly, but before we do, you two have to agree to one more rule,” Mrs. Allen said.

“Okay,” Sam said, and when her eyes met Gabe's she could see he was equally surprised that Mrs. Allen had been thinking about anything besides Rachel.

“If the colt should get loose, you're to let him go.” Mrs. Allen shook an index finger in Sam's direction, but her glance swept over Gabe, too. “No heroic attempts to recapture him from either of you, is that understood?”

They both nodded, but as Mrs. Allen hurried toward her car, Gabe muttered, “If he tried to run, could you hold him?”

A far-off cicada whirred as Sam stared at him in disbelief.

“You know that expression, ‘Wild horses couldn't drag me away'? Well, let me tell you, that was obviously made up by someone who's never been on the other end of the lead rope when a wild horse starts running.”