Mustang Moon (14 page)

M
ONDAY MORNING
, Darton High School was covered with campaign posters.

“I don't know why we don't do these elections in the spring, like other high schools,” Jen grumbled as she and Sam entered the school. “Starting the year with a popularity contest doesn't seem like a good idea.”

“On the other hand,” Sam said, nudging her friend with an elbow, “you're a freshman, so what do you know?”

“How do I keep forgetting?” Jen asked, pretending to strike her forehead in frustration. She turned left toward her locker. “See you in gym.”

“Bye.” Sam scanned the campaign posters as she walked to her own locker. The posters were much the same as those in her San Francisco middle school.

The candidates' appeals were painted on construction paper or butcher paper, sometimes decorated
with glitter or clever slogans.

Sam had almost reached her locker when a swarm of students blocked her way. They stared at something on the wall.

Rachel Slocum's campaign poster was different.

Five minutes before the first class of the week, Rachel was already drawing a crowd. The banner looked like a glossy magazine page featuring four full-color photographs of Rachel. Though the poster was big as a double bed, Sam had to jostle through the crowd to see.

Rachel as treasurer…will root for you
promised hotpink script across a cheerleader-skirted Rachel leaping in the air.
Rachel as treasurer…will shine for you
said letters across homecoming queen Rachel, hair spilling in a coffee-brown waterfall down her back.
Rachel as treasurer…will work for you
showed her bent over a notebook, wearing glasses and a flattering little frown. The last picture, a computer-generated composite of real Rachel and towering stacks of cartooned gold coins and dollar bills, had students chuckling and pointing.
Rachel as treasurer will save every time for you
it pledged.

“She'd know about money, all right,” a lanky boy said with grudging admiration.

The first bell shattered Sam's contemplation. She sprinted for her locker, dialed her combination, and tried to review her history homework. There was no reason to waste brain time on Rachel. But Sam would
bet Rachel had recovered from her convenient Friday illness and those expensive posters were the price Linc Slocum had paid for embarrassing his little princess.

 

Gym class was an all-grades torture session. Freshman had lockers next to juniors. Sophomores averted their eyes when they showered with seniors. Only luck gave Sam and Jen P.E. lockers in the same row.

Now, they gossiped as they dressed for a one-mile jog followed by flag football.

“The ranch was her mom's dream,” Jen whispered as she pulled on green shorts. “Slocum just went along, at first. Then he got hooked by the”—Jen paused and a sly smile claimed her face—“charm of the Old West.”

Sam glanced all around before she asked, “So, where's the mom now? England? Really?”

“She remarried, a baron or something, and lives on a horse farm outside Nottingham.”

“Wow.” Sam gave a final tug to her tennis shoe laces. “So, when Rachel's there, do you suppose she has tea with the Queen?”

Jen sputtered with laughter. “You're turning evil, Sam. I don't think I'm a good influence on you.”

The locker-room crowd had thinned by the time they bolted toward the athletic field.

Rachel Slocum stood, framed in the doorway, waiting for them. Outside, Sam saw girls jogging
around the track, ponytails bouncing, but Rachel didn't seem to care if she was late.

“If you keep gossiping about my dad, or do anything to damage my campaign,” Rachel said, “you'll be a social outcast this fast.” Rachel snapped her fingers beneath Sam's nose.

Sam felt a hot blush claim her face. Last week, she'd been the only one in school
not
spreading rumors about Linc Slocum.

Very slowly, Sam tucked a lock of auburn hair behind one ear. She wasn't feeling scared, she realized, just surprised by Rachel's ambush.

“I'm not gossiping about your dad,” Sam said.

Rachel fluttered her rose-gold fingernails just inches from Sam's cheek, as if shooing her away.

“In fact,” Sam pressed on, “I'm kind of insulted you think I have nothing better to do than spend time thinking about your dad. If he didn't keep showing up where I was, I wouldn't even know him.”

“It's that horse.” Rachel shuddered. “He's no different from all the others, I'm sure. They're all dirty, smelly, and big enough to hurt you but so stupid they don't realize it. If they had an ounce of intelligence, they'd realize they don't have to carry people around on their filthy backs.”

“This horse is wild, Rachel,” Jen interrupted.

“So? This time my father's obsessed with a wild horse. Before that it was spotted horses. Who cares? It's his hobby.”

Outside, a whistle shrilled as the teacher called the girls together.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, slipping past Rachel.

“There are
no
excuses for you, cowgirl,” Rachel snapped. “Just remember that.”

 

During lunch, Rachel's campaign drew even more attention. Instead of handing out paper badges or campaign buttons, Rachel passed out dollar bills. Stamped across George Washington's face in hotpink ink were the words
Rachel for Treasurer
.

Sam and Jen heard talk of the tactic, but Sam didn't see it with her own eyes until she filed into journalism class and Daisy handed her a dollar.

“Rachel would just love to have your vote,” Daisy gushed.

Don't react
. Sam told herself.
Don't sneer or fling it back in her face
.

She managed to appear calm, but Sam couldn't stop herself from thinking of Dad's disappointment over the few cents per pound they hadn't made on the cattle.

She kept her feet moving away from Daisy, but Sam still pictured Gram brooding over each new batch of bills.

Sam had almost reached her desk when Rachel squirmed into her path.

“Here, cowgirl.” Rachel pressed another dollar into Sam's hand. “You look like you could use an extra.”

“Rachel, I'm pretty sure this is illegal.” RJay's bellow was so well-timed, Sam wondered if the student editor had overheard Rachel's insult. “From what I've heard,” he said, examining one of the bills, “you're not going to like prison.”

Rachel's fingers went gliding through her hair as she gave a theatrical sigh. “As long as they have MTV and a decent manicurist, I'll manage.”

Sam didn't want to laugh, but she did. Was it possible a decent human being lurked beneath that catty exterior? Probably not.

She forgot about Rachel during the quiz on the weekend's homework. Her fingers were aching from writing fast, when Mr. Blair called time.

“Pass 'em up and listen,” Mr. Blair yelled above the complaints of those who hadn't studied for the quiz. He put the papers aside and crossed his arms. “As students from last year know, we've got three cameras for staff use. Nikons donated by the Darton
Review-Journal
. Donated,” Mr. Blair emphasized, “but very expensive to replace.

“Since last year's staff only produced one decent photographer and he's now editor in chief—” Mr. Blair paused as RJay bowed to nonexistent applause “—I'll let new students try out as photographers.”

Excitement rushed through Sam's veins.

“If you're interested, check one out overnight, shoot one roll of film, then submit it to me and RJay. Impress us,” Mr. Blair hollered, “because we will
decide whose work earns the right to keep the camera for the first semester.”

Murmurs rustled as students turned to each other, but Sam didn't talk. She focused on the plan forming in her imagination.

“Class? One more thing. You'll treat these cameras like delicate baby birds. Do not harm them in any way. Got that?

“If they break, I won't care whose fault it is.” Mr. Blair paced the front of the classroom, pointing at students during his tirade. “If
your
mama breaks it or
your
dog eats it or
you
, Miss Forster, get abducted by aliens
—you
pay the five hundred dollars to replace the camera.”

Sam smiled at her journalism teacher. It didn't matter that Mr. Blair had singled her out. Her idea was bubbling like a shaken soda—sweet and ready to explode.

Mr. Blair's glare swept the entire class. “You break it, you buy it. No excuses.”

Sam's nerves hummed with excitement. She'd be careful, all right, because one of those black and silver cameras would help her earn that reward money and prove to Linc Slocum the Phantom was not to blame.

 

Shooting the test roll of film wasn't easy. She took a few shots at school, but she was afraid they wouldn't turn out. Only after Sam got the camera, did she
realize photography wasn't a simple point-and-shoot operation. There were shutter speeds to consider and focus to figure out.

Sam was growling with frustration by the time she really listened to Gram's suggestion.

“Just call Maxine,” Gram said. “Maxine Ely is a talented photographer. Her work wins blue ribbons at the state fair and the Darton library has framed prints of her pictures hanging on the walls.”

Sam bit her lip, listening, but too sheepish to do anything.

“She's Jake's mother, for heaven's sake, not just your history teacher,” Gram said. “She's known you since you were in diapers.”

“That doesn't make it better, Gram.”

But Sam's determination to get the reward from Slocum won out over her fretting.

Sam called.

Three times. Each time, Mrs. Ely acted as if helping Sam was the highlight of her day.
She must really like photography
, Sam thought.

And it was sort of exciting. Sam jogged from place to place on the ranch. She took a picture of Buddy trying to scratch her nose with a rear hoof, and one of a rusty hinge that had always looked too fancy for the gate. She gave up trying to make a portrait of Ace. The gelding was so friendly and curious, he kept nuzzling the lens.

“You are too cute for your own good,” Sam said.
She kissed his tender muzzle, then jogged toward the River Bend bridge, imagining the last picture she'd take before darkness fell.

 

Sam's last thoughts as she fell asleep were, as always, of the Phantom. In the sparkling mist of a dream, he ran toward her, ears cupped to hear her voice, dark eyes soft and filled with her face.

Oh no
. Sam sat up. She'd forgotten to call Brynna Olson.

How stupid was she? Sam buried both hands in her short hair and pulled.
Idiot
. Nothing was more important than protecting him.

Dad had gone to bed an hour ago. Sam listened intently. Was that the clink of a spoon on pottery? Hadn't Gram said she might stir up a batch of sourdough bread and let it rise in the refrigerator overnight?

Sam pattered down the stairs so fast, she was actually breathless when she came into the kitchen.

“Did Dad call Brynna about Slocum's posters and that ad?”

Gram nodded. She pulled plastic wrap over the top of the bowl, then did it again, tighter.

Sam nearly shouted in frustration until it hit her. This wasn't going to be good news.

“What?” Sam croaked.

“Brynna left Sunday for Washington. She'll be gone at least a week.” Gram paused to let that news
sink in. “Wyatt spoke to her replacement, a gentleman from the BLM office in Las Vegas.”

Las Vegas?
Sam's mind spun with flashes of neon lights and tuxedoed gamblers. She'd never been to Las Vegas. What she was thinking was probably unfair, because she was thinking Brynna's replacement couldn't possibly understand wild horses.

“What did he say?” Sam heard her voice croak.

Gram sighed, closed the refrigerator, then leaned against it. “He said it was ‘bothersome,' but he was sure it was a difficulty that would blow over without his interference.”

 

Sam couldn't sleep. She resented the night, because she had to move fast.

Without Brynna's help, her plan might be the only thing between the Phantom and capture. She tossed and turned all night, picturing the stallion's injured fetlock. If it made him slow, some cowboy could lasso him.

She dreamed of Flick, the cowboy with the drooping handlebar mustache. He'd worked at Slocum's Gold Dust Ranch before his temporary position at the Willow Springs Wild Horse Center. While working for the BLM, Flick had illegally roped the Phantom and Brynna had fired him. Flick had disappeared after that, but Slocum would know where to find him. Sam was sure of it.

 

The next morning before classes began, Sam tracked down Mr. Blair and handed him the camera and the film.

“Overachiever, huh, Forster?” he asked.

“I guess so,” she answered, but she could tell his gruff question had been a compliment.

Mrs. Ely pulled her aside after history and made her promise to stop by after school and show her the pictures.

“I don't think Mr. Blair will have had time to develop them,” Sam said. “And I can't miss the bus after school.”

“Mr. Blair might surprise you. He's in the school darkroom as much as he's in class. And after school—”

Mrs. Ely glanced over Sam's shoulder for a second. Sam turned, too, and saw Rachel pretending to gather her books, though she was clearly eavesdropping.

“—I can always give you a ride home,” Mrs. Ely continued, “if you miss your bus.”

“Thanks. I'll bring them, if I can,” Sam said.

Her spirits soared as she hurried to her next class, even though Rachel pushed past her with a sour expression. Rachel always looked that way in history. After all, she was a sophomore taking a freshman class. She must have flunked last year.