Red Feather Filly (2 page)

“D
o you know what would happen to us if we drove like that?” Sam gasped.

“We'd be grounded for life,” Jen said, in a level tone. “And we'll remind each other of that when we finally get driver's licenses, right?”

“Right. I like Mrs. Allen, but she drives like—”

“A grasshopper in a chicken coop,” Jen finished. “That's what my dad says.”

Remembering one morning when she'd been late to school and Mrs. Allen had driven her, Sam decided Jen's father was right.

Now, Mrs. Allen scooted out of her truck. She slammed the door in time to confine two little black-and-white dogs. Yapping and jumping, they ricocheted
like jumping beans off the walls of the truck cab.

Dad had told her the dogs were a breed called Boston bulls and they were naturally high-strung. Still, Sam wondered if the dogs had been that way
before
they started riding with Mrs. Allen.

“Imp, Angel, behave,” Mrs. Allen ordered, then shook her head.

Mrs. Trudy Allen lived across the river, on the edge of mustang country, at Deerpath Ranch. Just months ago, she'd taken in thirteen “unadoptable” wild horses and christened her project the Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary.

Until then, most people across the county said she was eccentric. Sam knew they meant
crazy
, but because Mrs. Allen was an artist, they'd found a nicer way to say it.

Today, Mrs. Allen didn't look crazy. She carried a leather folder. Her hair, dyed inky black, was pulled back in a low ponytail to show round copper earrings. She wore a black-and-copper knit sweater with boots and a black skirt. Or maybe it wasn't a skirt. As she walked toward the girls, Sam tried to figure out exactly what Mrs. Allen was wearing.

“Are those gaucho pants?” Jen asked.

“Fashion is not my thing,” Sam said. “But she looks pretty dressed up—”

“And arty—”

“—for a Saturday morning,” Sam finished.

And for her age
, she added silently. Despite her
fashionable outfit and lively brown eyes, Mrs. Allen was about seventy years old. But she didn't walk with the vague wandering gait she had a couple of months ago. Since she'd adopted the horses, she moved like someone much younger.

“Morning, ladies,” Mrs. Allen called. “Jennifer, that was a fancy piece of riding you pulled, cutting in front of my truck and galloping for the bridge.”

“I…” Jen began.

“And Samantha, I take it you're alone here?”

“I…” Sam echoed.

Mrs. Allen brushed aside their comments. “The thing is, I've been trying to call Grace for over an hour.”

“Gram's in Darton,” Sam explained.

“Figured something like that. I was driving into Darton myself when I saw Jennifer headed this way, though, and got to thinking. You're in Journalism class, right?”

Sam nodded.

“And you”—Mrs. Allen turned toward Jen—“you're smarter than you need to be for most all normal purposes.”

“Smart enough for what?” Jen asked. Her tone indicated she wasn't taking any chances.

“To help me out,” Mrs. Allen said.

Sam waited without saying a word. She liked Mrs. Allen a lot, especially for her mercy toward the wild horses. But she'd spent a miserable, hand-blistering week helping to repair Mrs. Allen's broken-down
fences and she knew the old woman didn't mind getting someone to do work for free.

“What I'd like is for you to read something for me,” Mrs. Allen said, gesturing with the leather folder. “Tell me if it says what I want it to say.”

How hard could that be?
Sam looked at the slim folder and decided it wouldn't take long.

“Why don't you tie Silly and we'll go into the house,” Sam offered. She didn't want to, really. She'd rather be saddling Ace and riding out with Jen, but she'd been raised to be a good neighbor.

“I'd appreciate the help,” Mrs. Allen said. “And I wouldn't turn down a cup of coffee and some of Grace's baking.”

Mrs. Allen and Gram had been friends for years. While Mrs. Allen became a painter, Gram learned the art of running a ranch, and everyone knew that Gram's pies, cakes, and cookies were the best. Who could blame Mrs. Allen for inviting herself in for a snack?

“I don't know about coffee,” Sam said, “but Gram made butter cookies last night. We couldn't have eaten all of them.”

Mrs. Allen's divided skirt billowed around her as she stepped out ahead of the girls and walked toward the house.

Jen paused to wind Silly's reins over the hitching rail and the screen door slammed as Mrs. Allen went into the house.

Sam gave a helpless shrug and met Jen's eyes. “I want to go ride,” she mouthed silently.

Jen nodded so hard, her flaxen braids flapped and her dark-rimmed glasses slipped partway down her nose.

Indoors, Mrs. Allen had already poured herself a cup of coffee. She took a sip, then blinked.

“This is some strong, crack-of-dawn coffee,” Mrs. Allen said, stifling a cough.

Jen twirled one braid impatiently, and Mrs. Allen laughed.

“You two love horses, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” Sam said, her voice overlapping Jen's.

“And how do you feel about money?”

“Good if it's mine, and embarrassingly jealous if it's not,” Jen said, but a note of interest sharpened her voice.

“By the time you've taken a look at this”—with a broad smile, Mrs. Allen tapped the leather folder positioned on the kitchen table—“you'll thank your lucky stars you got a head start over all the other riders in northern Nevada.”

Sam rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Jen dashed her bangs back from her glasses, as if seeing better would help.

Chuckling over the girls' excitement, Mrs. Allen dipped her hand toward the kitchen table.

“How about we pull up some chairs and have a little conversation?” Mrs. Allen settled herself.

As soon as the girls had done the same, she withdrew a sheet from the leather folder and handed it to Jen.

“The Super Bowl of Horsemanship?” Jen read from a typed page.

“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. Allen said proudly. “Right here in your own backyard.”

“I don't think I've ever heard of it,” Sam ventured. She didn't want to sound ignorant about something to do with horses, but she really hadn't.

“That's because I just created it,” Mrs. Allen said. “And first prize is enough money to make your head spin.”

That wouldn't take much, Sam thought. She'd love to buy a new saddle. The one she used looked just like what it was—a handed-down kid's saddle. She'd been looking at tack catalogs, dreaming about a new one. Even though she'd earned some money of her own, Dad wouldn't let her touch it until she was ready for college.

Sam scooted her chair closer so that she could read the typed page right-side-up.

“You created it. And you're giving away a percentage of all the entry fees collected,” Jen read carefully. Then, she turned her head so that the kitchen light glinted on her glasses, making her look owlish. “
What
percentage?”

When Mrs. Allen busied herself with another cookie instead of answering, Jen focused on the typed sheet once more. “Let's just see what we have to do to win.”

Sam knew that blurry tone of Jen's. It was the same one her voice took on when she was studying.

Mrs. Allen leaned back and savored a butter cookie while Sam and Jen read silently.

The Super Bowl of Horsemanship required horse and rider to complete an “extreme” obstacle course like those used for training police horses. It would include loud noises, visual distractions, and surprises to test the horse's confidence in his rider. After a short quarter mile of chaos, the race would cover seven miles of rough terrain.

Sam smiled as she studied the course map. She could already see herself winning. She knew every foot of sagebrush and alkali flat that made up the course.

Leaving from Deerpath Ranch, the race headed straight across the range for La Charla River. Once through the river, the trail turned south. It passed right by River Bend, then turned east at the Gold Dust Ranch. There, the racecourse crossed the river again, before running across War Drum Flats and back to the finish line at Deerpath Ranch.

A thrill of excitement tickled up Sam's arms and legs. She wasn't the best rider around, but she and Jen rode that territory all the time. Familiarity had to
count for something, didn't it?

So, why wasn't Jen hooting with joy?

Sam stared at the map, wondering what she'd missed.

“What are these?” Sam asked, tapping a symbol on the map.

“Vet check points,” Mrs. Allen explained. “Dr. Scott—you know, that nice young veterinarian—helped plan the course. This is not an endurance race, because you wouldn't have time to train for it.”

When Mrs. Allen pointed out the date printed on the sheet, Sam looked. It was only two weeks away, on the last weekend of spring break.

“Even though the race isn't too demanding, Dr. Scott thought vets should check each horse twice.” Mrs. Allen held up two fingers. “Before the race and at the finish line. If the animals show the slightest sign of abuse, the riders will be disqualified.”

Sam nodded. “Good deal,” she said. “That'll keep people like you-know-who from winning the race, but ruining a horse.”

“You needn't spare Linc Slocum's feelings on my account,” Mrs. Allen said with a sniff. “He doesn't know a thing about keeping his horses safe and healthy.”

“That's because he still hasn't figured out that they aren't cars,” Jen grumbled. “If my dad weren't his foreman, I don't know what would happen to Linc's horses.”

“I'll tell you,” Mrs. Allen said. “If that big beautiful Champ he rides should ever decide to run away from home, he can come to my house.”

They all nodded and reached for more cookies, as if sealing a pact.

“Wait,” Jen said, as her eyes returned to the rules. “Number three is a weird rule.”

“It's my favorite,” Mrs. Allen said.

Sam read rule three aloud. “‘Competitor must be part of a co-ed team…'?”

“A male and a female,” Mrs. Allen clarified, as if Sam weren't very bright.

“I know what it means!” she said, exasperated. “But—”

“Keep reading, Sam,” Jen said as she skimmed ahead.

“‘Together, each team rides the course side by side'!”

“The entire course?” Jen asked. “You couldn't divide it up so that each rider had, say, 3.4 miles—”

“No, Jennifer. Side by side. But you don't have to hold hands.”

“Good thing,” Jen said. “If you were riding with someone stubborn as a rock, like Jake Ely, and you fell while you were winning…” Jen rolled her eyes.

“You might get your arm dislocated from your shoulder socket,” Sam said.

“Are you kidding?” Jen asked. “He'd just keep galloping and expect you to keep up!”

Although she laughed, Sam pictured herself galloping beside Jake. They would absolutely win, if he rode Witch and she rode the Phantom. She could see it as if it were a movie. Black legs would stretch to keep up with white. Milky tail would stream just ahead of midnight-black tail as they sped across the range, leaving all the other riders so far behind, their shouts of dismay would fade into silence.

But the whole idea was impossible. No one could know,
ever
, that she'd ridden the Phantom.

“That particular rule is what will keep my race from becoming a free-for-all,” Mrs. Allen said. “A man and woman, or”—she paused and smiled meaningfully—“girl and boy, will have to travel at the speed of the weaker partner. The two who are most evenly matched will win.”

“It's a great idea,” Sam admitted, as her hopes deflated.

There was no way she and Jake would ride together. Even without the Phantom.

Jake's riding ability was ten times better than hers. And Jake, as the youngest of six brothers, longed for a truck all his own. The prize money would put him lots closer to buying one, so he couldn't make a decision based on friendship. He'd be foolish to take her as his partner.

He'd be better off riding with Jen. Of course they didn't get along, but that wouldn't matter. Jen and Jake were both stubborn and determined. If the
reward was something they both wanted, they'd work toward the goal together.

Sam sighed. Of course she could still enter. There were other boys she could ride with, right?

Her logical mind just couldn't come up with anyone. Ryan Slocum, the polished horseman from England, deserved a better partner. Pepper, who could spin a loop with his lariat and actually ride Nike through it, had to know a real cowgirl who could keep up with him. Of course, there was always Dad. Or was there? With a chance at all that prize money, he'd probably want Brynna by his side.

Sam crossed her arms and stared at the piece of paper as if the name she sought would bob to the surface in bold print.

Apparently Jen hadn't veered off on the partner tangent the way Sam had, because she was still studying the sheet.

“And it's a benefit for the sanctuary,” Jen read.

“To tell you the truth, girls, I made a serious error, starting the sanctuary in such a hurry. Oh, not in adopting those horses,” she said, smiling. “But I wasn't very organized about it. I pretty much let my heart rule my head, and now I'm trying to catch up. You know the indoor arena I was building?”

“Oh, yeah, that's going to be so cool. You can…” Sam faltered. “
Was?
”

“I heard that you lost it in the earthquake,” Jen said sympathetically. “Clara at the diner told my
dad,” she added to Sam. “Five point one on the Richter scale is no little jiggle. It could have smashed everything around here into toothpicks.”