Gift Horse (8 page)

T
he biggest box stall on River Bend Ranch was waiting for Tinkerbell. Layered with fresh, golden straw, it smelled like summer.

“Hey, Ace,” Sam called to her horse, making a smooching noise to lure him to the side of his stall. “This is Tinkerbell. He's a new guy.”

Ace sidled up to the gate of his stall, ears pointed toward Tinkerbell. He looked interested, almost friendly, until she noticed his tight mouth and the little frown lines above his eyes.

“Don't be jealous, Ace,” she pleaded. “He's had a bad few months. He could use a friend.”

Ace slung his head over the side of his stall and stretched in Tinkerbell's direction. Although his
mouth stayed closed, Sam didn't think it was a warm welcome. She had the feeling Ace would give the other gelding a bite if he could reach him.

Tinkerbell must have gotten the same impression, because he didn't extend his nose to return the greeting.

At first Sam was irritated. If any horse should be nice, it should be Ace. The reason he had his own stall in the barn was because the horses in the ten-acre pasture picked on him.

Sam sighed. No matter how smart he was, she guessed she couldn't expect Ace to make the connection between getting kicked and being nice.

“Ace isn't usually this cranky,” Sam said, making excuses for her horse to Tinkerbell. “But we haven't been out for a couple days.”

Tinkerbell wasn't taking any chances. He ignored Ace and Sweetheart and looked up. Tinkerbell's skin shivered and he sidestepped.

Sam looked up, too. The barn rafters creaked as if someone were walking on the barn roof. No one was, of course, but she could see why the horse was a little spooked.

“It's just the wind, boy,” Sam told him. “The old part of the barn is kind of drafty.”

The barn was over a century old. Boards and nails had been added by each new generation, until it was a big, rambling structure. Dad was always saying the oldest part of the barn, which housed Sweetheart and Ace, needed to be shored up and strengthened.
Dallas claimed things were built to last in the old days, and it would be foolish to mess with the stout timbers supporting the roof.

Sam clucked to Tinkerbell, trying to regain his attention. “Hey, don't worry. You're across the aisle from them, in the newer part. You won't hear the wind howl so much over here.” Tinkerbell shook his mane, stamped, and followed Sam into the stall.

“After you sniff around for a minute, I'll cross-tie you, big boy,” Sam said. “No offense, but if you got startled, you could stomp me into a pancake.”

Sam gave the lead rope some slack and let Tinkerbell investigate his bedding. He took an experimental mouthful and chewed. As he did, he surveyed his new home.

Sam didn't expect trouble from Tinkerbell, but even a small horse like Ace could hurt her accidentally. Besides, Tinkerbell's handling hadn't always been kind and considerate. She wouldn't blame him if he'd developed some bad habits. So she couldn't take any risks. If Tinkerbell injured her, even accidentally, it might endanger her chance to give him a new life.

Once she'd run ropes from his halter to rings in both sides of the stall, Sam picked up her basket of grooming tools. Then she took a step back and gazed up at the horse like a country girl gaping at a skyscraper. This would be a mighty big job. She had about an acre of horsehide to brush. And those
hooves! Sam looked down and swallowed hard. They were as big as her head! Maybe she'd wait until Dad was around to tackle those.

Sam started to work with a rubber curry comb, using soothing, circular movements. After a few strokes, she realized Tinkerbell's skin kept twitching as if she were a pesky fly.

“A little harder?” she asked the horse. She bore down more firmly on the wooden brush. When Tinkerbell stretched and sighed, she figured he liked more pressure than Ace did. It worked better, too, taking off months of mud, caked-on dirt, and sweat.

“That feels just like a massage, doesn't it, Tink?” she asked the horse.

It helped that he liked it, otherwise the amount of dirt and hair swirling all around her might have made Sam stop. She coughed, but tried to do it with her lips closed. She squinted, hoping her lashes would keep the particles out of her eyes.

After a good thirty minutes of work, Sam stepped back, blew her bangs out of her eyes, and looked up at the horse. She'd made an improvement, but she wasn't even close to finished. What time was it? Sam glanced toward the barn door and saw darkness had fallen. She wasn't hungry, but it must be dinnertime. She was sort of surprised neither Dad nor Brynna had come out to check on her.

Take it as a compliment
, Sam told herself. Clearly,
they didn't think she needed any help.

Just the same, she was a little afraid to work on Tinkerbell's tail. It was a matted mess and getting out the tangles would be nerve-wracking for them both.

Sam thought for a moment. Her goal here wasn't just to make the horse clean. She wanted to calm Tinkerbell and teach him her touch. It might frighten him if she got a step stool to do his back and mane, so those jobs would just have to wait.

Instead, she slipped her hand under the strap of her biggest, softest brush and set to work on the rest of him, all over again.

A few seconds later, Tinkerbell groaned.

Ace and Sweetheart jerked, and their hooves thudded as they moved to the far sides of their stalls. Sam jumped back, too, and held her breath.

She didn't think she'd hurt the horse. The sound didn't have the tone of an equine protest.

The big gelding leaned forward and his head drooped as low as the ropes would allow. Tinkerbell had settled into a doze.

Sam smiled. She was glad the horse was relaxing, and she was excited to have a month to work with him. Even though he weighed about a ton, Tinkerbell was cute.

Sam worked on, humming and wondering what kind of work had built the heavy muscles in Tinkerbell's gaskins. More than that, she wondered exactly how tall he was.

Ace's questioning snort alerted her to the sound of approaching boots. Since Sam had just moved around to groom Tink's wide, deep chest, she didn't look up. It was probably Dad. He'd finally arrived to tell her to come inside and eat—or start her homework, even though it was Friday night.

She'd do it if she had to, but right now she felt more at ease here in the barn. Inside, everyone was certain to grill her about her community service project. Sam refused to think about the project or Rachel or anything except the soft hair covering the gelding's wide chest.

Suddenly, it moved toward her.

“Got a bran mash, here, from your—” Jake gasped in uncharacteristic amazement. “Holy guacamole, he's big enough to shade an elephant!”

“Shh!” Sam hissed. She dodged away from the startled draft horse, thankful she'd cross-tied him.

Tinkerbell pulled on the ropes, trying to turn his head to see what was making all the racket. She moved in close so that he'd understand she wasn't afraid.

That didn't mean she wasn't mad.

“Are you nuts?” she asked Jake as she petted the big horse's neck to calm him.

Tinkerbell's hooves stamped and backed and sidled, forcing her to avoid him however she could. Her feet moved as if she were doing some kind of totally disorganized hip-hop routine.

But she stayed close to him. She couldn't let Tinkerbell panic when he was tied up this way. He could hurt himself.

“Do you really want to get me trampled?”

“Sorry,” Jake said, but he didn't sound sorry.

Now Sam understood why the horse was so restless. Wisps of steam curled up from the bowl Jake carried. It smelled like hot cereal. The gelding sniffed energetically while Ace and Sweetheart did the same from their own stalls.

“Anyhow, here's a bran mash with a glug of corn oil,” Jake said. He was standing behind her now, and the mash smelled good enough to remind Sam it had been hours since she'd gobbled chocolate chip cookies. “According to your gram, he'll need it every day to build him up and improve his coat.”

Sam had just taken the bowl from Jake and started wondering how she was going to do this stunt, when Tinkerbell got impatient. He swung his head left, as far as the ropes allowed, knocking her back against Jake's chest.

“Ow!” she yelped, keeping her grip on the bowl. “My head! That really hurt.”

“'R head?” Jake was talking again, but kind of oddly. “Ya knocked it on my chin.”

Sam glanced over her shoulder to see Jake wore the close-mouthed, thoughtful look of a guy using his tongue to check for missing teeth.

“You were standing too close,” Sam accused him.

“Fine, thanks,” Jake managed.

“What?”

“And there's not much blood, but thanks for your sympathy.”

“Oh, quit suffering.”

With a sudden, muffled neigh, Tinkerbell lifted his forelegs. He rose in a frustrated half rear.

“I'll unsnap these ropes. You put that where he can get it,” Jake instructed.

Sam's eyes narrowed into a glare. She would have done that in a minute. Jake just lived to order her around.

“Not a mean bone in his body,” Jake said, as the gelding fell to eating.

“How do you know?” Sam demanded, even though it was true. “You've only been here five minutes. He could be an outlaw, just gaining your trust before he turns on you.”

“Right,” Jake replied, but then he seemed to forget her. “Chow down, fella. It's all for you.”

Sam liked Jake best when he talked to horses.

He never used harsh words, but he didn't babble baby talk, either. He knew the nature of horses. Repeatedly, he'd told her horses were prey animals who only fought when they couldn't flee. But Jake knew something more. His steady voice, horseman's hands, and quiet manner convinced horses he spoke their language.

“Shoulda come in quiet,” he told the gelding.
“Shouldn't have stared at you, either. But it's your turn to stare, now. I'm staying right where you can get a good look.”

When the horse showed little interest, except one ear turned toward his voice, Jake placed his palm on the gelding's shoulder.

“He's a great-lookin' horse,” Jake added, and it took Sam a second to realize he was talking to her.

“I know,” Sam agreed. “I've got this deal with Mr. Fairchild—”

“Heard about it.”

There was no sense in telling Jake he was a stuck-up know-it-all. He probably knew that, too.

“Want to buy him?” she asked.

“Don't need another horse. Witch will do,” Jake said, but he stepped back a little, scanning Tinkerbell's entire body.

“I can't sell him until I figure out what he's good at,” Sam said. “How would you figure out Tinkerbell's potential?”

“Tinkerbell?” Jake gave a low whistle. It didn't sound admiring. “First thing I'd do is change that fancy name.”

“Yeah, he hasn't had enough trauma,” Sam said sarcastically.

Jake didn't respond. In fact, he was no help at all. Still, she had to ask if he thought the vet should be called out to give Tinkerbell a checkup.

“Should I have Dr. Scott come out and look at him?”

“Your choice.”

“But would you do it?” she asked. “Much as I hate to admit it, I'd like your advice.”

Jake shrugged off the compliment, but he began looking Tink over.

His eyes considered the gelding's hips. Next, he stood behind the horse, close enough that if Tinkerbell struck out, his hooves wouldn't get up much momentum. Then, Jake turned his back to Sam and slid a hand over the mustang's ribs.

“Thin, but he has muscle. So I wouldn't worry about that. Still, this horse is bone-deep worried. What's his story?”

Sam didn't question Jake's intuition. He knew horses so well, she could almost believe he had telepathy.

“He's been neglected since the guy who bought him died. I think it's been a few months.” She was on the verge of telling him about Mike and Ike when Jake interrupted.

“Why haven't you tended that spot on his head?”

“Let's see if you can figure that out,” Sam snapped.

“It wasn't an accusation, Brat.”

Sam stood with her arms crossed. If she argued, it might upset Tinkerbell. But it had, too, been an accusation.

“He is tall,” Jake admitted. “Even I'd feel better if I had someone to help.”

“Even you?” Sam gasped in mock surprise.

“I know you have the horse sense to help,” he
added, “but you're only about five-foot two inches, right?”

Grudgingly, Sam nodded.

“This horse is…” Jake's voice trailed off as he measured the horse's height next to his own. “Five-foot six inches at the withers. At least. We'd both have to perch up on hay bales and that's too unsteady. I think we should wait for Ross.”

“For what?” Dad's voice made all three of them turn.

“Hi, Dad.” Sam watched Dad's expression. He might not say a word, but his expression would admit what a great job she'd done grooming the horse.

“He's looking good,” Dad muttered. “Now, what were you waiting on?”

“Working on Tinkerbell's head where he banged it in that stupid trailer,” Sam said.

“I think we could manage taking care of that without Ross,” Dad told Jake. Then, after he'd studied Tinkerbell for a minute more, he added, “And we've got that old open-top trailer, which should do the trick for a short distance.”

“Yeah,” Sam said slowly. Dad was sure planning ahead. “But whoever buys him would probably bring their own truck. Or they could afford to rent one.”

“Could, but don't want to,” Dad said.

What are you talking about?
Sam wanted to blurt, but she didn't.

“Are you teasing me?” she asked finally. “Because I really don't get what you're saying.”