Firefly (8 page)

The vet left her standing there and returned to his truck.

D
r. Scott unloaded a big cardboard box full of supplies for the colt's care.

“We'll unpack it over here near the corral so he starts getting used to a little more activity than there was at my house,” the vet said.

And lots more than there was on the range, Sam thought.

“First, you got your fifty packages of kiwi-strawberry Kool-Aid.”

“What?” Sam said.

Dr. Scott was smiling. She hadn't heard him joke since the day they'd found the burned colt.

“It serves a couple of purposes,” Dr. Scott explained as he rigged a battered blue plastic bucket
to the side of the corral. He turned on the nearby hose. As he filled the bucket with water, he added two packages of the powder. “He likes the taste of it, so he drinks more and it keeps him hydrated. And since he'll be moving around—from my place, to here, to his new home—he won't develop a liking for the water at one particular place. It'll all taste the same to him.”

“Good idea,” Sam said. She remembered noticing how fresh and pure River Bend's well water tasted when she'd moved back from San Francisco. To horses, the difference would probably be even more obvious.

“We do it a lot with competition horses,” Dr. Scott said, watching as the colt came toward the familiar bucket. “When you're moving from state to state, you can't take a chance of them getting dehydrated. There you go, boy,” he crooned to the colt.

Pirate drank without looking down into the bucket. He stared over the rim, watching the humans.

“I keep a salt lick in there, too,” Mrs. Allen pointed out. “That will help him stay thirsty.”

The vet nodded, then pulled a tube of zinc oxide from the box.

“At this stage, sunburn can be serious. The skin around his eye and on his nose is regenerating.”

As Dr. Scott made his way into the corral, he shot a quick look back over his shoulder at Gabe. Sam looked, too.

At first, as Dr. Scott pushed away the older horses and convinced the colt to let him approach, Gabe just looked interested. Then, after the vet had pulled on plastic gloves and began smoothing salve around the colt's nose and eye, Gabe's expression changed.

He squinted against the sun's glare, so she couldn't read his eyes, but Gabe didn't look grossed out. His lips pressed together and turned down at the corners. Beneath the slight vee of his hairline, his forehead creased in a frown.

He didn't seem to be pitying the colt, but…

Sam tried not to stare. She faced away from Gabe, but kept her eyes rolled over as far as she could to watch him. Could he be holding his breath, staying as still as the colt was as Dr. Scott worked on him? If she had to guess, Sam would say Gabe was imagining the colt's pain.

“While it's hot like this, it would be best if he could get into the shade. Those trees will do,” Dr. Scott said, nodding at the three cottonwoods on the side of the corral. “But watch the other horses. If they don't share, we'll have to move him.”

“I plan to stay with him around the clock,” Sam said. “I'm sleeping out here, too.”

“Oh, now, Samantha,” Mrs. Allen began. “It's not like it was with Faith.”

“I brought my sleeping bag,” Sam said.

“All right, then,” Mrs. Allen agreed. “I know better
than to argue with one of you mule-stubborn Forsters.”

Sam curbed her impulse to stick out her tongue. How totally immature would that have been? Besides, Mrs. Allen's weak joke had made everyone smile.

“That's it,” Dr. Scott said, pulling off the plastic gloves and shoving them in a pocket. “We're pretty much past the stage where we have to worry over-much about infection, but precautions won't hurt.”

The colt's lips moved in a silent nicker as the vet closed the gate behind him. Dr. Scott didn't see it, but Sam did, and her heart ached for the young mustang.

“I brought plastic gloves for you to wear when you touch his face, and some flytraps to hang around here, and some fly spray,” Dr. Scott said. He bent over the box, holding up each item as he mentioned it.

“You thought of a fly mask, I suppose,” Mrs. Allen said.

Sam pictured the mesh hoods that slipped over a horse's head and ears to protect it from flies.

“I did, but he won't tolerate it,” the vet said. “He refused to quit trying to paw it off. I could have hobbled him, but that would've caused a whole new set of problems.”

Sam sucked in a breath. “That would be so scary for him. And he's already confined,” she mused, “when he's used to running miles every day.”

Gabe muttered something that was definitely sarcastic, and sounded like, “Imagine how that'd feel.”

Sam set her teeth against one another to keep from talking. She knew Gabe was longing for his own hours of running, but couldn't he focus on the colt's problems, just for a little while?

“Now, I don't know what you've heard about the colt's, uh, episodes.” Dr. Scott crossed his arms and looked thoughtful as he turned to Mrs. Allen.

“Brynna told me he goes a little crazy,” Mrs. Allen said, “as if he's having bad memories.”

“That's so,” Dr. Scott agreed, “and you'll recognize it if it happens. If it does, it won't last long. Get out of his way, and when it ends, just treat him like a horse that's overheated. Sponge him off if you can. Squirt him with a hose if you have to, if he won't let you get close enough with the sponge. Quickest way to cool him down is to look for the big veins in his neck,” Dr. Scott said, moving his hands down both sides of his own neck, “and inside his legs.”

He waited a second until Sam nodded that she understood.

“Then scrape off the excess water so he won't get chilled while you walk him around.”

When the vet looked down at her hands, Sam realized she'd laced her fingers together and was squeezing back and forth like a teeter-totter. She pulled her fingers away from one another and shook them out.

“I'll remember,” she said quickly.

“I've written this all down for you, Sam,” the vet
said, “just like I did before your buckskin foaled.”

Thinking of the night Tempest was born made Sam sigh. She'd been all alone during that terrible storm, for the hours Sunny was foaling. She'd managed fine, and she could do this, too. The colt was counting on her.

“How long?” Gabe asked.

Everyone turned toward him in surprise, but no one said a word.

Gabe sounded impatient as he repeated, “How long does he need to be walked after he has an episode?”

“Until he feels cool to the touch between his front legs,” the vet said.

He flashed Sam a look that said just maybe he'd been wrong about Gabe. For some reason, she felt herself smile.

“You're like a parent dropping off your child for his first day with a babysitter,” Mrs. Allen told Dr. Scott.

“No,” he said adamantly, “I'd just hate to see a patient fail.”

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Mrs. Allen said, brushing aside his protest. “But you needn't worry. I've seen this young lady at work with horses, and I know she'll do her best.”

Pleased and embarrassed at the same time, Sam was about to thank Mrs. Allen for her vote of confidence, when Dr. Scott spoke up.

“I know that, and I've told her as much, but I
don't want her getting sidetracked.” Dr. Scott aimed an accusing glance at Gabe.

The boy had the audacity to grin. Then he gave a shrug as if no female could help being distracted by him.

Give me a break,
Sam thought. As everyone else looked amused, she flashed back to what Dr. Scott had said about a simmering teakettle. That was just how she felt, but she kept quiet.

“Well, of course, Gabe could help,” Mrs. Allen offered. “He likes animals and he was hoping to learn to ride this summer.”

“This'd be a good first step,” Sam said, in spite of her irritation.

Dr. Scott lifted his shoulders stiffly, and though Sam was pretty sure he was thinking of Gabe's reaction to the colt's burns, Mrs. Allen totally misinterpreted the vet's gesture.

“Now, listen here,” Mrs. Allen said, shaking her index finger at the young vet. “It's just a waiting game, this time with the crutches. He'll be better soon and in the meantime, he has enough strength in his upper body—from soccer, you know, throwing the ball in from the sidelines. Isn't that right, Gabe?” She didn't give him a chance to agree, but Sam glanced over at him. He looked pained and angry, but reluctant to tell his grandmother to hush. “Those muscles in his shoulders are why he's able to get around on crutches, when most people in his situation would be confined to a wheelchair.”

Thank goodness Mrs. Allen ran out of breath, because Gabe looked pale, and perspiration glimmered on his face.

“A soccer player, are you?” Dr. Scott asked. Gabe gave a stiff nod. “You might like this, then.” The vet lifted a big rubber ball from the box. It had black-and-white pentagons on it like a soccer ball, but it was egg-shaped and had a handle on top. “It's a horse ball, and he loves it. He's stopped beating up his water bucket since I gave it to him. He tosses it all over his pen, and since it's not round, it bounces funny. Nothing like this out on the range, is there, boy?”

The colt's ears flicked to catch the vet's words. Hearing his own enthusiasm, Dr. Scott cleared his throat. “Now, Sam, I'll just take you inside the corral for an introduction and then I've got to be on my way.”

“Why don't we go inside and get you settled,” Mrs. Allen said to Gabe.

“What?” His tone was astonished, despite his shocky look. “Go inside?”

Sam knew she would have felt the same. It would be like missing a mini-rodeo. But missing what would probably be her humiliation by the wild horse wasn't the worst of it.

Hands on the hips of her black skirt, head tilted to one side as if she was about to say something fun and sassy, Mrs. Allen added, “Go on, Gabe, I'll even give you a head start.”

I
'll even give you a head start?
How could Mrs. Allen look at her sixteen-year-old grandson on crutches he despised and say that?

How could she forget that the wrought-iron gate was tricky, the garden path rough, and the heavy wooden front door—once you got it opened—was guarded by Imp and Angel?

Sam winced for both of them. Mrs. Allen had said the words lightly, like you'd tell a little kid you'd give him a head start in a footrace. Gabe's face turned red and Sam could only guess what he was thinking. Maybe that if his condition didn't improve, there'd be hundreds of moments like this? Cruelty cut deep, even if it was accidental.

Sympathy clouded Sam's excitement as she walked toward the gate, but she tried to shake it off. If Gabe was anything like Jake, he'd hate being pitied.

“Keep watching and you might see me get trampled,” Sam called to him.

“You can't think that would be entertaining,” Mrs. Allen said. She frowned with nervous concern, but Sam gave her a smile.

Though Gabe didn't say anything, Sam thought his expression looked a little less tight.

Sam had reached the gate when she noticed that Dr. Scott wasn't with her. He'd stopped at the loud staticky sound followed by garbled words that came from his truck. He stood with tilted head, listening.

“That's my CB radio,” he explained, then nodded at a pattern of beeps. “Yep, and that's my tone.”

Dr. Scott jogged over to his truck and began making notes on a clipboard before he strode back, clearly in a hurry.

“'Fraid I've got to go before I make the introductions,” he said, nodding toward the colt in the corral. “Got a rancher who pulled a cow out of the mud yesterday and today she can't hold her head up. Something's wrong with her neck.” Dr. Scott made an exasperated gesture. “You can't just haul an animal around by its head. The spinal cord is delicate, you know?”

“Yeah,” Sam said weakly, but she was wondering if that was what was wrong with Gabe.

“Don't go inside the corral without a spotter—someone who can get help if you need it,” Dr. Scott said. “That's a flat-out law, understand?”

Sam nodded. Pirate was pretty calm with Dr. Scott here, but what would happen when he left?

“I don't plan to try until tomorrow,” she said. “I'll just hang around outside the corral and let him get used to me, today.”

“Good plan,” he said, then glanced at the box of supplies. “Well, I think you have everything you'll need. I'd best be going.”

“I'll walk out with you,” Mrs. Allen said. She sounded eager to escape her cranky grandson, and it seemed to Sam that Gabe relaxed a little, too, as his grandmother moved away.

“It's kind of hard to be nice, I bet,” Sam sympathized.

Gabe started to nod, then shrugged as if it didn't matter.

Mrs. Allen's black skirts swished back from her dressy boots as she matched steps with the young vet. Her dark head was bent toward Dr. Scott's blond one as if she was glad for adult company.

Some people just aren't cut out to live with teenagers, Sam thought.

Dr. Scott's voice was a low rumble, but Sam was pretty sure he'd said something to Mrs. Allen about having her hands full.

“I'm going to keep him busy, and not let him
brood.” Mrs. Allen's determined voice came to them clearly. Gabe readjusted his position on the crutches and made a frustrated sound as his grandmother went on, “…a waiting game and we're all on the verge of pulling our hair out, wondering—”

“You can talk about this in front of me, you know!” Gabe shouted, trying to sound overly patient. “I'd like that a lot better.”

Mrs. Allen turned. For an instant, both hands covered her mouth.

“Oh, now I've hurt her feelings,” Gabe moaned. “This isn't going to work.”

“Are you hungry?” Sam asked suddenly.

“What?” First he looked surprised, then disgusted. “I can't believe—”

“Hey,” Sam said, holding up her hands as if she'd halt him. “That's
my
grandmother's remedy for everything. I've had a warped childhood, so don't blame me. See all that stuff?” Sam pointed to the paper bag and Styrofoam cooler. “It's food. There are some cinnamon rolls she made this morning that we really should eat.”

“Should,” Gabe echoed.

“They're not like the ones you buy,” Sam said.

She squatted, lifted the cooler's lid, and unfolded an edge of the aluminum enclosing the pastry. The smell of cinnamon reminded her that hours had passed since she'd spooned down her breakfast cereal.

“They smell good,” Gabe admitted, and Sam was pretty sure she heard his stomach growl.

“They're still warm, now, but they'll be hard as rocks in a couple of hours,” Sam told him, then glanced over at the scuff of boots.

“What's this, now? Grace doesn't think I'm capable of providing food for my own grandson?” Mrs. Allen demanded as she walked back toward them, but she didn't sound genuinely insulted.

“Gram can't help herself,” Sam said, and when Mrs. Allen chuckled, it was clear she was still happy she'd rekindled her old friendship with Gram, and clearer still that she welcomed even a minute's break from worrying about Gabe, so Sam teased her a bit. “You're lucky she didn't come over and start banging around pots and pans in your kitchen.”

“Well,” Mrs. Allen said. “That wouldn't be the curse of the century. I've never known that woman to cook anything that wasn't delicious. Maybe we'd better go inside and eat those cinnamon rolls before they set up.”

Mrs. Allen hurried ahead of them to move the Boston bulldogs from the house into her art studio.

“It'll just be easier,” she'd said, and though Gabe had nodded in agreement, Sam had seen him lick his lips and look a little sad. She'd bet he liked those two nutty little dogs.

Sam walked beside him to the door, and before they reached the front step, Mrs. Allen was back,
opening the heavy wooden door to them with a flourish.

“Welcome,” she said, then stepped back as Gabe made his way inside.

“Your house is different,” Gabe said as he crossed the entrance hall and lowered himself into a chair at the cluttered mahogany table.

How old had Gabe been the last time he'd entered this room? According to Gram, Mrs. Allen had neglected her friends and family, placing her art above them for years. But after her husband's death, she'd rebuilt those relationships.

“I haven't changed a thing,” Mrs. Allen said, and the tension returned to her face. “Ever.” Hands on her hips, she looked around, confused, but Sam knew what Gabe meant.

The first time she'd entered the house, heavy drapes had covered the tall windows. Now they were pushed back to show sunny views of sagebrush-covered range and the Calico Mountains. If Sam craned her neck just right, she could see green swathes of pasture dotted with captive mustangs.

That first day, the smell of medicine had permeated the rooms. Now, fragrance drifted from china bowls of rose petals, and the lingering salt and butter smell of popcorn had settled around the microwave oven.

There was another smell, too, Sam realized. Something like barbecue smoke.

“You used to have some scary paintings,” Gabe said. “Of flowers with teeth.”

“They're not scary, just accurate,” Mrs. Allen said. She folded her arms, instantly defensive of her artwork, which depicted carnivorous plants. “And my agent said they're unique, and enjoying quite a little popularity with some collectors.”

Gabe's eyes swung to meet Sam's. For one moment, Sam thought they'd both burst into laughter, but the feeling passed, and Sam helped Mrs. Allen get down saucers for the cinnamon rolls and glasses for milk.

Once they'd all exclaimed over the delicious rolls, they ate in silence.

Sam glanced toward the ivory-and-brass telephone on the round table draped with a gypsy-looking scarf. When she'd talked with Gabe that night when he was still in the hospital, they'd sort of understood each other. But not now.

“You probably want to know about my accident,” Gabe said in an accusing tone.

“It's none of my business,” Sam said. “Besides, your grandmother was telling you the truth. I'm just here to help with the colt.”

“So you don't want to know. You think it would gross you out?”

Then, before Sam could protest, he changed the subject. “If you know so much about horses, how come you're calling that one a colt, when he's practically
grown up?” Gabe stopped for a breath and added, “Isn't a colt a baby?”

Sam looked to Mrs. Allen, expecting her to take over, but maybe things were piling up on her, and Mrs. Allen was taking a break, because she appeared engrossed in unrolling her pastry to get to its tender center.

“I
do
want to know,” Sam said. “It was really awful when I was down painting your grandmother's fence and she drove up to tell me you'd been in an accident and I could tell from her voice she didn't even know if you'd live.”

Gabe turned to his grandmother and took a shuddering breath. Mrs. Allen didn't look up from her fork, which was skimming white frosting from her roll.

“And a colt is a male horse under four years old,” Sam told him.

“Lecture me,” Gabe taunted. “I really like that from a younger kid.”

Sam ignored him and added, “That mustang is probably only a yearling. So he qualifies. And don't you want to know his story?”

“I know it,” Gabe said, and his voice sounded nice, finally. “You told me, that night.”

Progress
, Sam thought, as Gabe glanced toward his grandmother's phone.
He at least admits we've talked before.

“So, you were on a road trip?” Sam coaxed him to
talk about it, not sure why she wanted to know.

“Yeah, three of us. We had this plan. We all play soccer and we're all, like, C+ students, so we've been getting our grades up. Then all of us were going to just shine during our junior and senior seasons, and apply for college scholarships at the same school.” Gabe paused and rubbed his battered right knee. “We all have June birthdays, too, and we got our licenses just—bing, bing, bing. Three in a row. We were surprised when our parents said we could take off on our own for the weekend, but those good end-of-the year grades did it. The trip was like a reward.”

“But there were rules,” Mrs. Allen pointed out.

They both looked at her, but she still watched her fork. Now she pressed it down on crumbs, like she was seeing how many she could pick up.

“Yeah, like we were supposed to stay in a motel overnight,” Gabe said. “My dad made the reservation. But we weren't tired, and so we took turns driving, thinking we could get to Salt Lake City by morning.”

“What were you going to do there?” Sam asked.

“Nothing,” Gabe said, shaking his head. “Go see a girl my friend Yogi met during spring break last year.”

“Yogi?” Sam asked, with a laugh.

Then she stopped. What if Yogi hadn't survived the accident? Her mind raced, trying to remember if she knew what had happened to the other boys.

“He's okay except for a broken finger,” Gabe told her. “So is Luis, my other friend. He dislocated his shoulder, but they mainly got cuts and bruises. That's what would've happened to me if I'd been driving or sitting in the backseat, but I had to call shotgun.”

Sam pictured the teenage boys piling into the car and Gabe taking the front passenger's seat.

“And even that would've been okay if I'd stayed awake and reached for the CD that Yogi wanted, but I fell asleep and he…”

Sam imagined the boy trying to drive and reach for something, too. She didn't drive yet, but she could imagine veering off the road if you tried to do both at the same time.

“It sounds like it was his fault,” Sam said.

“You don't even know him,” Gabe snapped.

“You're right.” Sam hurried to say it. She knew better than to criticize people's friends. If Jen had done something wrong, Sam knew she'd stand up for her to other people.

“But then…” Gabe's eyes took on a faraway expression before he recited the next part and Mrs. Allen finally looked up, as if she couldn't not pay attention, although she had to know what had happened. “Yogi veered over into the other lane, and overcorrected, and the car rolled. My seat got the worst of it. The front of the car crushed against my legs, but that was kind of good, because they were bleeding and the metal actually sort of acted like a
tourniquet, so I didn't bleed to death, but it also did something to my spine. And like your horse doctor said, you really don't want to be messing with the spine.”

Gabe's hands covered his face, then moved as if he were washing it. Maybe he was, Sam thought, washing away memories of being trapped.

“So, they cut open the car with the ‘jaws of life'—like a chain saw that'll cut through cars—and told me how lucky I was to be alive. They took me to the hospital and I don't remember a couple days, except when I woke up, everyone started in with the ‘lucky' stuff again. I'm lucky to have the upper body strength to go on crutches instead of be in a wheelchair, lucky they could fix this leg with a steel rod,” he said, knocking on the plaster cast, “and lucky that I might not lose the use of this other leg, the beat-up one, because there's still some mobility—”

He broke off, and when he resumed talking, he sounded almost robotic. “It's a waiting game, like my grandmother said. We just wait until the swelling goes down and if I'm lucky again, I'll be able to use both legs like before. If it turns out I've used up all my freakin' good luck—” Gabe held his hands palm up, one to each side. “What ya see is what I've got.”

“He's perfectly stable, otherwise.” Mrs. Allen tried to sound cheery, but her hands were pressed palm down on the table, flanking the plate with the unrolled but uneaten cinnamon roll. “And the
doctor's encouraged him to be up and around and active.”