Mustang Moon (9 page)

S
AM'S FIRST WEEK
of school almost ended well.

She'd been on time for each class. She'd turned in every bit of homework. She liked her teachers, especially Mrs. Ely and Mr. Blair. She'd interviewed the principal, Ms. Santos, and discovered she had humor and a flair for lively language that made writing the interview easy. RJay,
Dialogue
's editor in chief, read the story and flashed Sam a thumbs-up.

And Sam's locker only jammed once.

The week had grown hotter each day, and no rain was predicted. Dad went about his work with a smile, getting ready to pounce on the one-hundred-degree day when it dawned.

As Jake had said weeks ago, the fall roundup paled in comparison to the cattle drive to summer pasture or the spring roundup. In a single day, the steers vanished off the home range, and Dad shipped them off to market with Dallas, the gray-haired
foreman, as escort. Now, Dad waited for the final tally saying how much they'd earned from the range-fed Herefords.

Best of all, Dad said Sam could ride, come Sunday. The announcement launched her into a dozen daydreams of taking Ace out over the foothills with Jen and her palomino.

In all, the week had been great, except Sam
did
wish Jake hadn't been so busy. With the beginning of school, things had been bound to change, but she was surprised by how much she missed him.

Her spirits lightened, though, when she remembered Jake's birthday. It was still six weeks away but Sam knew she could count on Gram to do something special, even if they couldn't afford an expensive gift.

Standing at the bus stop on Friday morning, Sam wore a sleeveless blue blouse, but she was already flushed and warm. Dozens of mouse-colored clouds hovered overhead, but they didn't offer the coolness of shade. They just made the morning dark.

Sam pulled the collar away from her neck as she and Jen planned a ride to War Drum Flats.

The bus was coming. The girls settled their backpacks in place as the diesel huff of the bus drew near. The familiar sound was interrupted by a sudden squeal of tires and screeching of brakes.

The murky sky made the car's headlights glare red-gold. The lights veered from side to side, as if pushed by a demonic wind. Sam recognized the car.

Line Slocum gunned his Cadillac until it lurched within feet of the bus's back bumper. He swerved into the lane for oncoming traffic, then angled across the bus's path and sped forward, toward Jen and Sam.

Sam's hand flew up to cover her lips. Her pulse beat in her wrists and ankles, even behind her knees, as her heart pounded out a warning. Jen looked suddenly pale, but joked through her fear.

She shaded her eyes and squinted at Slocum's car. “As my daddy would say, ‘There's a man mad enough to kick a hog.'”

Sam tried to answer in kind. “I can't repeat what my dad would say if he saw Slocum cutting off a school bus.”

If only Dad were here.

The bus pulled up beside the Cadillac as Slocum climbed out and rounded the front of his car. The bus driver opened the bus door and shouted, but Slocum paid no attention. He stormed toward the girls, shaking his fist.

In the instant before she understood Slocum's words, Sam saw faces press against the bus window, watching.

“That renegade, that mongrel, that
mutt
of a horse has trespassed—” Slocum took a loud breath, as if the morning air held too little oxygen for his ranting “—on my property. That menace has ruined my investment—”

He must be talking about the Phantom. Had the
mustang destroyed a fence or some rosebushes? What was Slocum yelling about? And why was his shirt buttoned crooked and his jeans hanging over bare ankles and bedroom slippers?

“Mr. Slocum,” Jen said quietly. “We don't know what you're talking about.”

Slocum kept his back to Jen. He loomed over Sam. She saw sweat beaded on his upper lip, and she heard bus windows slamming open so everyone could listen. Oh, great.

With his fingers formed like a child pretending he held a gun, Slocum yelled, “
You
know what I'm talking about. This time it's not some cow pony your silver menace stole. Apache Hotspot is the cornerstone of
my
new breeding program.” Slocum's fist struck his chest when he said
my
. “That mare's the investment of a lifetime!”

Finally, Sam understood. Slocum hadn't just purchased the sweet chocolate-and-white Appaloosa as a gift for Rachel. The mare was an investment. And she was gone.

“I want you to call that stud! Call the Phantom!”

Past Slocum, Sam saw Jen's jaw drop in amazement.

Good. Let everyone on the bus see how insane Slocum was. She couldn't call the Phantom. Not really.

“Mr. Slocum, I'm really sorry your horse is—”

“Don't give me that,” he snarled. “I want that
mustang down here, now!” Slocum's face was twisted with rage. Any second now, he was going to burst a blood vessel.

Sam shrugged out of her backpack and let it drop. There was no place to hide, but she was darn sure she could outrun Slocum. She'd done it before.

From inside the bus, there came a sound like a telephone receiver slamming down. The bus driver tramped down the stairs, and the sound of his approach made Slocum glance back.

“Thank goodness,” Jen whispered.

“Sir? I've radioed the sheriff,” said the driver. “I think you'd better get back in your car and wait for him.”

“The sheriff? Of all the idiotic—” Slocum stopped blustering and took a breath. “Guess I did get a little loco, didn't I? Shucks, when a man works hard and sinks his money into a fine piece of horseflesh, it's just downright disappointing to lose it.”

Sam shivered. Slocum was talking like a Hollywood cowpoke. The sudden change was spookier than his clenched fist.

The bus driver looked confused, but he motioned the girls toward the safety of the bus and held his other arm out, barring Slocum from following.

The bus swayed as students returned to seats on the opposite side of the bus. Both Sam and Jen noticed and met each other's eyes. Sam hesitated before stepping up.

“There are at least twenty kids on that bus,” Sam whispered wildly to Jen. “If each of them gets off at school and tells one person what they saw, that's forty people who know, and if each of them goes to class and tells—”

“I can do the math, Sam. You're right, they'll gossip. But we didn't do anything wrong. We're the victims—or, nearly were—of Rachel's nutty father.” Jen flinched as Slocum's car door slammed. “The man doesn't do well when he doesn't get his way.”

Sam remembered Slocum's rage when Brynna wouldn't allow him to adopt the Phantom. Jen was right.

They spotted an empty seat about eight rows back from the front of the bus. Jen and Sam took it. For a minute, all was quiet. The bus doors closed. The driver put the vehicle into gear and pulled back onto the road.

Sam kept her eyes focused on the seat back in front of her, until a boy across the aisle poked her arm.

“Hey, what was wrong with him?”

Sam shrugged. “I guess he lost his horse.”

From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Jen smile, but then an avalanche of questions began.

“Was he crazy?”

“Was he talking about the Phantom?”

“Did he think the Phantom stole something?”

“Yeah, like a ghost cares about mortal mares.”
That speaker wore glasses and pushed them back up his nose in a superior fashion.

Sam's relief froze. Did everyone know the legend? She racked her brain for a clever answer.

“I don't know,” she said.

A girl with a pierced nostril turned in the seat just ahead. Sam searched her mind for the girl's name. Callie, that was it. The girl was in her Spanish class.

“It sounded like he thought you were a witch,” Callie said. “Like you could conjure the stallion to come to you.”

“Now
that's
crazy talk,” Jen said.

“But she is from San Francisco,” Callie pointed out.

Jen laughed. “They carry briefcases there, Callie, not magic wands.”

The remark got a laugh. As the tension around her evaporated, Sam looked at her watch. She shook her wrist. Sam couldn't believe it was only eight o'clock.

 

Sam took the glass of lemonade Gram handed her as she walked into the kitchen after school. She felt light-headed and weird after the long hot walk home but not so weird she didn't notice four unbaked pies and six pans of lasagna crowded side by side on the kitchen counter. Oddest of all was Gram's expression.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked. She held the glass against her cheek instead of drinking.

“The check Dallas brought home for the cattle wasn't much,” Gram said. “We barely broke even.”

Sam sipped the lemonade.

“What does that mean?” she asked. “That we can't pay back the loans from last year?”

Gram nodded. “We'll talk tonight. Your dad's doing that last cutting of alfalfa with the hands. He left a message on the Elys' phone, too, hoping Jake and his brothers can help. Wyatt's worried it will start pouring and hurt the hay.”

“
Pouring?
It's like an oven out there,” Sam said. “Dad wanted a one-hundred-degree day and this is it.”

“Look at that sky, young lady.” Gram pointed toward the window. “It's tight as the head of a drum. The weather stations say this is a window between two storms.”

“If it starts to rain now, is the hay ruined?”

“Not necessarily. Once the hay is cut and baled, a single hot day can dry it,” Gram said. “Your dad's got it cut. If they can get it baled today, we might be all right.”

Gram sipped her own lemonade before adding, “I just hope my old granny wasn't right. She said when hens left off laying for no good reason, they were predicting hailstorms.”

Sam rubbed her hand across her eyes. She'd really wanted to tell Gram what had happened this morning.

The halls had been abuzz before Sam even
reached her first period class. By second period, people were outright staring at her and Jen. When Rachel Slocum had left school “sick,” everyone pitied poor Rachel, whose father was a lunatic. By the time her last class began, Sam had heard gossip saying he'd run the school bus off the road into a ditch.

With rumors flying, Sam longed to tell Gram the truth before she heard something worse. But Gram and Dad were fretting over money and weather and saving the hay crop. This might not be the best time to mention she hadn't had such a great day either.

“If I don't put on shorts, I'll pass out.” Sam stood up and headed toward her bedroom, but stopped before she reached the stairs. “I bet there's something I should be doing to help.”

“See to the animals, then come help me cook.” Gram gestured toward the pans of lasagna. “The cowboys will eat here tonight, and if the Elys come, that makes seven extra men for dinner. Even with a small cutting, they'll work up an appetite.” Gram fanned herself with a dish towel.

Sam had jogged halfway up the stairs when she heard Gram mutter, “And I don't know where I'll find the strength to turn on that oven.”

 

Buddy didn't seem to think the storm would hold off another day. Or maybe she'd picked up on Sam's worry over the branding.

The calf mooed and pressed against the fence
rails, trying to follow Sam as she did chores. When the skies darkened and a tumbleweed skittered across the yard, Buddy bucked and bawled, certain the weed had blown in off the range to devour her.

Finally, Sam put Buddy inside the barn. Sam was scattering extra straw in the box stall when she heard a truck.

Sam sprinted outside. Jake was alone in the truck. Maybe he'd already dropped his brothers at the hay field. It didn't matter. All week she'd wanted to ask Jake if he'd rope Buddy tomorrow for the branding. Not only was he skillful with the lariat, Jake would be gentle.

If she said that, he'd be embarassed.

Jake reached inside the truck for his Stetson. Ready for hot-weather work, he wore a sleeveless white undershirt and jeans. As he pulled his Stetson down low, Sam saw the wind catch the long hair he'd tamed with a leather thong. He slammed the door of the pickup and glanced toward the house but kept walking her way.

Sam swallowed hard. This was really stupid. She shouldn't be so glad to see Jake. Or so uneasy. When he got close enough to take her in a one-armed bear hug and walk her back inside the barn, she was happier than she'd been all week.

Jake bumped up the brim of his hat to get a better look at her. “So, how was your mornin', Brat?”

“You heard?” she asked, though she doubted
anyone at Darton High hadn't.

“Do I have ears?” Jake waited, thumbs hooked in his belt loops.

“Linc Slocum is not a healthy man,” she said.

“He's a real self-centered son of a gun.” Jake stared at the barn floor as he spoke. “I know that for a fact, but don't tell me he laid a hand on you or Jen.”

When Jake looked up, his eyes were hard.

“He didn't,” Sam said quickly.

“Good thing.”

Sam didn't ask why. She could figure it out for herself. Though their parents didn't approve, the Ely boys had reputations for settling disputes with their fists.

With a yap of greeting, Blaze bounded into the barn. He stood next to Jake, bumping against his leg, inviting a pat. Jake slid his hand down the dog's back, then straightened.

“My brothers are helping your dad. My dad will be along soon. I better hightail it down there.” Jake didn't move, though his boot heels creaked as his weight shifted.

“I've got to help Gram make garlic biscuits to go with the lasagna.” Sam didn't know what she was waiting for. Then, she blurted, “We're supposed to brand Buddy tomorrow.”