Mustang Moon (10 page)

“There's no cause to be sentimental over that.” Jake squared his shoulders and looked down on her like he had since she was five years old.

“It's not that I'm sentimental over Buddy,” she tried to explain. “It's all this other stuff.”

Jake brushed her off with a single word, “Yeah,” he said. “Gotta go.”

He did.

Sam held Blaze's collar to keep him from following. As he started the truck and drove off, Sam sent a frown after Jake.

“Thanks for nothing, you turkey.” Sam released the dog's collar, made sure Buddy's stall was latched, and headed for the house.

Hot wind spun the dust from Jake's tires in a whirlwind. It danced across the ranch yard, causing horses to pin back their ears in warning.

T
HE HAILSTORM STARTED
and ended before dark.

While Gram showered, Sam put two pans of biscuits in to bake. First, she heard a pinging sound, then a tapping, next a rattling like machine-gun fire in a movie.

Sam hurried to the window. In the ten-acre pasture, the horses galloped like a wild herd. Heads and tails flung high, they raced around the pasture as if trying to outrun the hail. For five minutes, ice pellets showered from the sky, bouncing like Ping-Pong balls as they hit the ground. Minutes later, the storm stopped, leaving the evening sky blue-gold and scoured clean.

“Is something burning?” Gram called from upstairs.

Sam jerked the biscuits from the oven, then waited for Gram to tell her what the hailstorm would mean for the hay.

“Not good.” Gram rushed into the kitchen in a pink gingham blouse and fresh jeans. She tugged one end of the kitchen table and added another leaf to make it longer. “Not good at all, but Wyatt should have it baled by now, and he's got tarps to cover the hay. It won't dry out there now. He'll just have to bring it in and feed it. Or sell it right away.”

 

With company coming for dinner, Sam wanted to change out of the red tank top and white shorts she'd put on after school. But there was no time.

All of a sudden, trucks came roaring in, and men in cowboy hats were everywhere.

Sam lifted the kitchen curtain just enough to watch them wash up outside and use a big purple first aid kit from the Elys' truck to bandage one of Jake's brother's hand. Their voices drifted through the open window.

“Whoee, that thing's so purple, it could blind a man,” Dallas joked.

“Yeah,” said Luke, Jake's father. “But if a man needs a first aid kit, he doesn't want to spend all day looking for it.”

When the men began stomping mud off their boots on the front porch, Sam moved away from the window just in time. All at once a cluster of men followed Dad inside. Each hung his hat on the hat rack, until it was full. Then they used the coat rack.

Sam hustled between the stove and the table,
carrying the full platters Gram handed her. She slipped into her chair just before Dad said grace, but her eyes were only half closed. Dad's forehead furrowed as he thanked God for the food and the safety of the men who'd helped with haying. While Dad prayed, Dallas rubbed his temples and sighed.

Then, like a scene from a movie, the subdued meal was devoured to the clatter of knives and forks. In those movies, the farm wife didn't sit down and eat, but Gram pulled up a chair long before the meal ended.

Sam wanted to catch Jake's eye and get a feel for just how serious things were, but each time she tried, Jake's brothers noticed. So did his father.

Luke was a handsome but harsh-looking man. He didn't say a word during dinner, but Sam couldn't help studying him. The smooth sheen of his skin made Sam aware of the clean shelf of his cheekbones and smooth length of his jaw. He had more sharp edges than Jake, but when Sam brought him pie and coffee, Luke's smile made her grin right back.

As if the smile loosened his long-boned jaw, Luke said, “I could use some of that hay if you come up with extra.”

Dad's mouth lifted at one corner, but the expression wasn't a smile. Why not? Sam wondered. Dad needed to use or sell the hay before it spoiled.

“Thanks, Luke.” Dad sounded as if Luke had offered a favor.

“I haven't shipped my herd yet. You raise high-protein feed. I could use some,” Luke repeated.

One of Jake's brothers, the one with the bandaged hand, spoke next. “I have a friend who trains jumpers up at Lake Tahoe. She's always looking for high-quality hay. I could drive some up to her, if you can spare it.”

“Go ahead and call her,” Dad said. He held a fork, but he hadn't yet cracked the crust of his pie. “If the flatbed can make it up there, that'd be fine.”

Dad flushed. While the other men talked, he stayed quiet. Sam didn't understand, until the Elys rose to leave.

Sam blinked at all the tall browned men. It was as if a redwood forest had sprouted in the kitchen.

The boys walked ahead, but Dad paused in the doorway and shook Luke Ely's hand.

“It's not so humiliatin' when you're bailed out by good friends,” Dad said.

Luke shrugged. “Don't know what you're talking about, Wyatt. You're the one doin' me a favor.”

It was easy to see Luke's generosity and know that when the time came, Dad would help the Elys, too.

The brothers clambered into the truck bed, haggling for the best seats, and Sam hoped only Jake would hear her.

“Jake?” She tried to call quietly, but all the Elys looked.

Even though there were no lights in the ranch
yard, Sam's white shorts made her all too visible. Jake's brothers elbowed him, joshed him, and one mimicked Sam, calling his name in a high voice. All the same, Jake walked with solid steps back to meet her.

“Yeah?” he said, holding his hat and looking at her sideways, as if she'd scold him.

“Could I ask you a favor, please?”

He nodded with long-suffering patience.

“I've been thinking about this all evening, kind of rehearsing, so I don't do anything dumb like cry,” Sam said. “Tomorrow, when we brand Buddy, could you—do you mind—?” Sam stopped, made a smoothing motion with her hands as if steadying her mind was that easy. “Would you please be the one to rope Buddy?”

Sam remembered the way a rider roped the calf's two hind legs, then dragged her the short distance to the branding fire. Done correctly, it was quick. But Sam had seen ropers catch only one hoof or lasso the calf's tail along with a leg. Often, horses took a while to get into position, and cowboys ended up chasing the calf until it was terrified.

But not Witch and Jake. Together, they were a synchronized roping team. She trusted them.

“Why me?” Jake asked.

“Because you'll get it right the first time,” Sam said. Jake looked bashful, and she was afraid he'd refuse out of modesty.

“Because if you do it,” Sam added, “Buddy won't be scared any longer than she has to be.”

Jake groaned.

“Samantha, you drive me crazy.” Jake shook his head and glared at the night sky as if the stars ought to help him out. “What if I miss?”

“You won't!” Sam took two light steps away. His disgusted expression said she'd better escape before he changed his mind.

From the front porch steps, Dad called, “Fire ought to be ready by seven-thirty, Jake.”

Dad had been listening all along. Drenched with embarrassment, Sam looked at Jake, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

“Yes, sir,” Jake called, and he seemed just fine as he strode back to his father's truck.

Sam didn't feel fine.

“There's no privacy around this place,” she said, letting the door slam behind her as she entered the kitchen. “Not a bit!”

Dad didn't look properly ashamed.

“Sure there is, honey.” Gram sounded sympathetic, but her smile held some sort of trick. “Your dad and I are going into the living room to watch a little television.”

Gram untied her apron, handed it to Sam, and nodded at a sink stacked high with dirty dishes. “You can have the kitchen all to yourself.”

 

Sage-spiced smoke made its way into Sam's bedroom, waking her with thoughts of branding. It was Saturday. She
could
sleep in, but then she thought of Buddy. The calf had no idea what the day held for her. Suddenly, Sam was wide awake.

She swung her feet out of bed and stood. Through her nightgown, Sam touched her hip. She'd hate to have a scar burned on her skin.

Dad expected her help. She, Dad, and Jake would do the branding. Once the iron was heated, Jake would ride into the ten-acre pasture and rope Buddy. Sam would swing open the gate, let Jake ride through with the calf, slam the gate, then run to where Dad waited with the branding iron.

Sam didn't feel like eating. She skipped breakfast and went outside. The hens fluttered at the sight of her and scurried away. Dad squatted beside a little campfire.

He didn't give orders, but Sam knew what to do. She gathered an armload of sagebrush and stacked it near the fire. After a few minutes, Sam realized she and Dad both stood with arms crossed, staring down into the flames. Dad seemed even quieter than usual, probably because of the hailstorm and lost winter fodder.

Dad scooted the business end of the branding iron into the fire. After a while, he rotated it a turn. He did that every so often, sometimes pulling it from the fire and blowing on the iron to scatter the ash. He
checked the iron's progress as it turned from black to gray to red.

Sam snapped a piece of twisted gray sagebrush into small lengths and dropped them into the fire.

“That's enough,” Dad said.

Sam realized she was feeding the fire to keep from imagining the searing pain from that hot iron.

From the instant Jake loped over the wooden bridge and into the ranch yard, he and Dad communicated in silence. Though they didn't wiggle their ears at each other like horses, Dad used only a few gestures to outline the plan he'd explained to Sam last night. And Jake nodded.

It was clear to Sam that both men wanted this operation over with quickly. So did Sam, but she had the feeling Dad and Jake felt embarrassed about making such a fuss over a solitary calf.

She knew they were doing it for her.

At last, Dad drew the branding iron out, blew on it, and looked up at Sam.

“That's what we've been waiting for,” he said, showing her the metal had turned gray white.

As Jake limbered up his rope and Witch danced in excitement, Sam jogged to the pasture and opened the gate. The horses stopped grazing to watch Witch lope past, and Buddy glanced up. Grass fell from her lips. She looked to the horses for advice and then, bewildered, jogged where Jake herded her.

Sam blinked back tears. She refused to cry, but
Buddy's confusion made Sam's heart ache.

Closer and closer Jake herded the calf. Was he going to ride past the open gate and rope the tiny black hooves somewhere farther out? At last, just before the gate, Jake leaned forward and gently cast the loop over Buddy's hind legs. She fell almost at Sam's feet and Jake rode through, dragging her mere yards to where Dad waited.

Sam latched the gate and sprinted after them. She knelt at Buddy's head, steadying her, looking into the calf's frightened eyes.

“It's okay, Buddy,” she crooned, and then there was a sizzle, a thread of pungent smoke and the branding iron was lifted.

“Go,” Dad said.

The rope that was stretched tight between Buddy and Jake now slackened as Witch stepped forward.

Quick as her shaking fingers could move, Sam slipped the loop from Buddy's legs.

She rocked the calf. “You can get up, baby.”

Buddy scrambled to her feet, staggered a step, then stampeded toward the barn, her tail held straight up.

“Go on after her,” Dad said. “You can sleep in the barn tonight, too, if you want.”

Amazed, but afraid to stay around in case he changed his mind, Sam followed Buddy.

Last night, Dad had told her that mother cows always rushed to nurse their calves after the
traumatic experience of branding.

Though Buddy ate mostly grass these days, Sam had left a bottle in the box stall, just in case. What worked for other calves might work for Buddy.

It did. As soon as Sam offered the bottle, Buddy latched her lips around the nipple. She tugged and sucked, gazing up at Sam with accusing eyes.

“It's okay, baby,” Sam said. “Now you won't get lost, ever.”

At last, the calf's eyes closed. She drew on the nipple more slowly and her tail stopped switching from side to side. Buddy's knees buckled wearily. With a shuddering sigh like a baby who's cried itself to sleep, Buddy collapsed into the straw. Her long white eyelashes fluttered, and then she napped.

 

Sam felt almost like she'd been napping when she emerged from the dim barn. When she saw Dad standing with his arm around Brynna Olson, she knew she was dreaming.

From the small corral, Ace nickered.

“Tomorrow, boy,” she said.

Ace stamped his hoof impatiently. For the first time since she'd come home, Sam didn't answer the gelding's summons. She had to see what was going on with Dad and Brynna.

A quick glance showed her the white BLM truck. Another look, as she walked closer, showed Sam her imagination had run away with her.

Dad's arm lay along the top fence rail,
not
around Brynna Olson. Still, Brynna stood pretty close. She was talking to Dad and having to look up at him. Dad was looking down and listening intently.

Sam paused next to the big flatbed truck Dad had pulled out of the barn. She wasn't spying on them, exactly, or even hiding. She just happened to stop and tie her shoe where they wouldn't see her.

Sam crouched there, listening. The conversation she overheard was definitely not romantic.

“Wyatt, I do believe you're the most bullheaded man I've met,” said Brynna Olson. “This is a great job, with a terrific salary, using horseman's skills you've mastered. Your contract would run from November to March—months your cattle pretty much take care of themselves—and still, you turn me down.”

Brynna had gone from leaning on the fence beside Dad to standing in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Just tell me why,” Brynna demanded.

“I work for myself—no one else,” Dad said. “And for darn sure, not for the government.”

Brynna threw her hands in the air with a strangled little scream of frustration. Sam covered her mouth, smothering a giggle. She'd never heard an adult make that particular sound, but she knew exactly how Brynna felt.

Dad's jaw was set hard, and he wore his stubborn-mule face. No one would be able to budge him.