Moonrise (3 page)

“It is,” Sam said, not protesting her friend's maternal urging.

Slowly, movements made stiff by her sopping jeans, Sam lifted her boot to the stirrup and swung back into the saddle.

She was about to tell Jen good-bye when she heard a high, undulating wail.

Silly tossed her palomino head. Her brown eyes looked frightened behind a veil of flaxen mane.

“What was that?” Sam asked Jen.

“Not a coyote,” Jen muttered. She turned Silly in a circle, distracting her from the sound.

Sam swallowed hard. The keening cry was like the one she'd heard before, but this time it not only sounded weirder—it was closer, too.

“I
t's just wind in the canyon. Now that the trees have leafed out, the acoustics are different.” Jen's voice deepened as she stressed a logical explanation.

“You're probably right,” Sam said, though Ace's ears pricked forward with interest. With a wave, she aimed Ace toward home.

The sun shone from directly overhead. Ace seemed to jog within his own shadow. If he'd sensed that howl from the hills was worth fearing, he'd forgotten about it.

Sam was nearly home when she saw Dad. From his lazy wave, it was clear he'd spotted her first.

She'd come to expect that.

A lifelong cowboy, Dad could scan the brown and
green vastness of the range and tell faraway rocks and bushes from cattle, deer, or mustangs. It sounded easy, but it wasn't. Sam couldn't count the number of times her heart had leaped up from spotting a wild horse, only to have it turn into a stunted pinion pine, dancing in the wind, when she got closer.

Dad swayed easily in the saddle as Jeepers-Creepers, his flea-bitten Appaloosa cow horse, descended a trail from the foothills.

Jeep seemed nervous. The rangy gray-and-white horse switched his rattail and looked behind him as if he feared he was being followed.

He was.

Baying and rushing, a pack of dogs skittered down the trail behind Jeep.

Dad didn't look back. He sent the Appaloosa surging forward, jumping ahead to level footing. Then, Dad turned Jeep to face the dogs.

And they
were
dogs, not coyotes or wolves. Black, white, speckled, and tan, the dogs moved in a blur. Sam couldn't tell how many there were. Four? Maybe five?

They circled silently now, except for loud sniffing. Could the hounds be planning their next move?

Sam pulled Ace to a stop. His forefeet danced. Did he want to bolt forward or retreat? Sam sat hard in the saddle, reins snug.

“Dad's got enough to worry about,” she whispered to Ace.

Dad had Jeep under control, but the Appaloosa was scared. He tossed his head, straining the horse-hair reins in a straight line to his hackamore. His pink-rimmed eyes rolled white and his hooves' staccato tapping said Jeep was barely setting each hoof down before jerking it up again.

Dogs were predators.

Horses were prey.

Jeep knew that speed was his only defense. He wanted to flee, but as long as the dogs weren't snarling or biting, he'd trust Dad's orders. He wasn't allowed to bolt.

Sam knew why. If Jeep ran, the dogs would be on him.

“Get outta here!” Dad shouted at the dogs. “Go on, get!”

One dog fell back, hearing the authority in Dad's voice, but another dashed ahead, brushing Jeep's forelegs.

Jeep started to rear as the largest of the hounds jumped up. Dad slammed his weight against the horse's neck, trying to keep him down, so he'd have the balance of all four hooves.

With a low whinny, Jeep obeyed. Suddenly Dad gripped and lifted his coiled rope. In a backhand smack, he struck at the big dog, but not before it nipped the Appaloosa's nose.

It was too much.

Jeep was stronger than Dad was heavy. He
soared into a full rear, nose dripping blood. When the speckled hound leaped a second time, as if going for the horse's throat, Jeep tried to stand even taller. Then, he fell.

Dad!
Sam thought. Fear tightened her throat. She couldn't yell, but she gave a kick and Ace galloped straight toward Jeep.

Sam had never seen Dad be thrown from a horse.

Hands tangled in Ace's mane, she leaned low, holding tight in case the dogs turned on her.

She'd fallen before. She'd seen Jake thrown, too.

But not Dad. Ever.

A yelp split the rustling sounds of paws and claws. The pack was running away.

By the time Sam pulled Ace to a stop, dust hung in the hounds' wake. They'd retreated up the hill, back the way they'd come.

“Don't get down!” Dad warned her.

His voice lashed so loudly, Ace shied and sniffed, sucking in a wind scented with dogs and Jeep's blood.

When Jeep lurched to his feet, Dad held his reins, keeping the horse between himself and the hillside.

The Appaloosa blew through his lips, calmer now that another horse was near.

“You did pretty good,” Dad said, giving Jeep's neck a hearty pat. Using his shirtsleeve, Dad swiped at Jeep's nose. “That cut's no big deal,” he told the
horse. “You'll forget about it before long.”

Standing beside Jeep, Dad gripped both reins in his right hand while he slid his left over the horse's shoulder. He closed his eyes and grimaced, squatting instead of bending from the waist, to run his hand across Jeep's chest.

Dad's eyes darted from the hillside to Sam to his search for more wounds on the Appaloosa.

“Pretty excitin' there for a minute, wasn't it?” Dad asked Sam. His smile was white against his sun-browned skin, but Dad's eyes weren't happy. They weren't even relieved.

Sam's breath gusted out.

“Pretty terrifying,” she corrected him. “Are you all right, Dad?”

“I'm kicking myself for being a fool. I never should have taken the scabbard off my saddle.”

Sam shivered, and this time it wasn't from her damp clothes. When cougars had roamed the foothills last fall, Dad had put a rifle scabbard on his saddle. That was the only time she'd known him to ride out armed.

Did that mean he would have shot the dogs? Would he call Sheriff Ballard and have him capture them? Or would Dad think it was a one-time accident?

She didn't recognize the dogs, but maybe he would. Before she could ask, Dad took in her soaked clothing.

“What happened to you?” Dad asked.

“Ace decided to go for a swim,” Sam said absently.

Dad wasn't moving right. He gave a short, humorless laugh. He pressed his lips together in a hard line as he lifted his boot toward Jeep's stirrup.

“Did Jeep fall on you?” Sam asked.

“Didn't you hear the yelp? He fell on that black-and-tan hound. Don't know how bad he hurt him, but that's what sent 'em runnin'.”

Vaguely, Sam remembered the cry of a frightened dog. Next, she realized Dad hadn't really answered her.

“Maybe you should stay here and let me go get Gram, so you could ride back in the car,” she suggested.

“Maybe I should, but then Jeep would think something had gone wrong,” Dad said. “It could turn him spooky around dogs, and then what? If there's one thing we don't need around here…” Dad's voice trailed off, then he looked up and gave Sam a wink. “If I ride him in as usual, he might forget all about it. When I doctor his nose, he'll wonder what the fuss is about.”

“Okay,” Sam said dubiously.

Dad's boot was in the stirrup and he was about to swing his leg over for the other stirrup when Jeep shied off a step.

“Knock that off,” Dad ordered.

His sternness turned the Appaloosa statue still,
but Sam saw a pale ring around Dad's mouth.

She'd been right. Dad was in pain.

“Dad, are you sure?” she asked as he gathered his reins.

“Let's go,” he said, and Sam rode after him.

T
he La Charla River glinted sapphire blue and its rills shone in the summer sun.

Sam's clothes had dried to a comfortable temperature and the countryside lay peaceful around them. Only the far-off bawling of a calf broke the silence and Dad rode with his usual ease.

It was hard to believe anything was wrong, but swelling marked the spot where the dog's fangs had slashed Jeep's tender nose.

“What are you going to do about those dogs?” Sam asked.

“I'm thinking,” Dad said. “Goin' after a full-grown horse like that shows they've got some nerve. Wouldn't
take much at all for them to bring down a calf or foal.”

The image of Dark Sunshine's foal, just weeks old, flashed into Sam's mind.

“Tempest—” she began.

“—is safe,” Dad assured her. “That corral fence goes down to the ground. You checked it yourself. And can you imagine the ruckus Blaze would set up if another dog trespassed on his territory?”

Dad was right. Blaze was the ranch dog. A Border Collie, he was devoted and fiercely protective when it came to River Bend Ranch.

“Do you think those dogs would go after the mustangs?” Sam asked.

“They might,” Dad said.

“I think—I'm not sure—but I think I saw Moon nearby with a couple of mares,” Sam said. In all the excitement, she'd almost forgotten.

“He's young,” Dad said, “but the wild ones are probably safe. They're set up for attacks.”

Sam's sensible side knew Dad was right. She'd seen the Phantom strike out with flashing teeth and lashing hooves.

But it was the time of year that wild stallions fought to add to their herds. Could a stallion watch for challengers every minute and still protect his mares and foals?

Sam loved dogs, but she wanted that pack off the range. Whoever had turned them loose was
irresponsible and not very smart.

Dad's sigh snatched Sam's attention back. Even if he wouldn't admit it, Dad hurt from that fall. She knew that from experience.

“I'll put Jeep away for you, Dad,” Sam said as the horses clopped across the wooden bridge to the ranch.

“Naw,” Dad said, “I'll take care of both horses. Looks like you'll be cleaning that saddle till lunchtime, at least.”

Sam gave Dad a sidelong glance. His expression was hidden by the shade from his Stetson, but it would have been hard to read anyway. Dad didn't like admitting he needed help.

Still, he
was
tougher than she was. Maybe she was exaggerating how shaken up he was by the fall.

“Okay,” she agreed.

As they rode into the ranch yard, Blaze frisked around the horses' legs as usual.

Sam watched the horses for residual fear.

Ace only snorted, and though Jeep's back hooves clattered out of rhythm for a second, neither horse acted scared.

“That's a relief,” Sam said, and Dad nodded.

Clearly, the horses didn't connect Blaze with that growling, snapping pack.

Sam dismounted and stripped off Ace's saddle. Balancing the saddle against one hip, she placed a hand on the warm, damp hair of Ace's back.

“Good boy,” she whispered to the little mustang.
Red-brown hairs stuck to her hand as she stroked him, but she didn't care. “You could've gone nuts when those dogs showed up, but you took care of me.”

Ace's head swung around and his lively eyes peered at her past his forelock. She made a kissing sound and he answered with a nod.

As she set off to work, Sam felt a rush of affection for Ace and her ranch life. So what if she didn't want to clean her saddle? It was better than cleaning her room.

The worst part of the chore was the way her damp jeans rasped her legs as she arranged herself and the saddle on the front porch, but she didn't want to go inside and tell Gram what had happened. She'd leave that up to Dad.

Blaze sniffed at her boots. Loudly.

“Don't ask why I smell like pond scum,” she told him.

He didn't, but his nose continued to investigate as she washed mud from the leather with soap and water, then scrubbed it with a semidry sponge and more soap.

Blaze lost interest and trotted off to find Dad while Sam's stomach rumbled at the scent of Gram's cooking. It felt like a long time since breakfast.

Eager to finish before Gram called them in to eat, Sam wiped all the leather with neat's-foot oil and rubbed until the leather was glowing and supple once more.

She glanced up and saw Dad over by the barn.
What was he doing with that pitchfork? Looking kind of off balance, he pressed one hand to the small of his back as he extended the tool.

He'd dropped a saddle blanket, Sam realized, and he was pulling it closer with the fork.

He must be stiff already. Or maybe it hurt to bend over, as he usually would, to pick it up. Dad needed to take the afternoon off or at least swallow a few aspirin.

Dad wouldn't admit his discomfort to her, but Gram was his mother. She didn't miss much. She hoped Gram would talk some sense into him.

It wasn't long before Gram called them in for lunch.

“That's what smelled so good,” Sam moaned as she saw Gram's brown-sugar baked beans. She wanted to spoon some into her mouth now, not waste time going upstairs to change.

Gram smiled as she glanced at Sam. When Gram turned back to the ham sandwiches on the cutting board, Sam felt relieved. Gram hadn't even noticed her bedraggled clothes.

“They do smell good, don't they?” Gram used the back of her wrist to push away a lock of gray hair that had escaped her tightly pinned bun. “It's a shame you won't be having any until you go change.”

So she
had
noticed.

“I'm not that dirty,” Sam protested as she spotted a big blue bowl of potato salad.

“Not for someone who's been rolling in the mud,” Gram said. “But too dirty to sit at the table.”

“Okay,” Sam said, giving in.

Just before she turned to go, Sam noticed that though Gram had been talking to her, she'd also been eyeing Dad as he washed up for lunch.

“Your back's aching,” Gram said, not giving Dad a chance to deny it. “What happened?”

Sam stopped with one hand on the swinging door to the living room.

“Couple dogs ran down from one of the trails and spooked Jeep.”

Sam couldn't believe how Dad minimized what had happened. A couple of dogs? Spooked?

She crossed her arms and sent Dad a look. She'd be in big trouble if she did what he was doing.

“You go on upstairs and get into clean clothes,” Dad said, but Gram hadn't missed their exchange.

“Out with it, Wyatt.”

Sam kept moving, but just before the door swung closed she heard Gram say, “Tell me what happened, and I'm not taking ‘no' for an answer.”

Sam smothered a giggle and bolted up the stairs. It was so cool when Gram treated Dad like a kid, she didn't want to miss any more of his scolding than she had to.

By the time she'd changed and hurried back to the kitchen, Gram was sitting at the table. She wasn't sitting in her own chair, and the fingers of one hand touched her brow.

“My Lord, Wyatt,” she murmured.

“It could have been bad,” Dad agreed, then he and Gram stared at each other.

To Sam, it seemed as if they were picturing many outcomes for the attack, all of them violent.

Shaking her head, Gram stood, then began putting lunch on the table. As soon as she'd finished and Sam and Dad sat, Gram shook her head again.

“I'm calling Trudy,” she said.

Trudy Allen had a wild horse sanctuary not far away and she was one of Gram's best friends.

“I'm thinking of that blind filly,” Gram went on as she dialed.

“Faith,” Sam gasped. Suddenly Sam knew Gram had pictured the dogs attacking the blind filly or Penny, her stepmother's blind mare. And what about small children? She couldn't think of any little kids in the area, but she'd bet there were some.

“Those yappy little dogs are no protection,” Gram muttered, referring to Mrs. Allen's pets.

“There's Roman,” Sam suggested, thinking of the liver-chestnut gelding who counted himself boss of the “unadoptable” mustangs roaming Mrs. Allen's pastures.

Dad was resolutely eating lunch, acting untouched by all of Gram's fuss.

“Dad?” Sam said.

“I'll take care of it,” he said. “You can count on it.”