Untamed (7 page)

“Fine! Just—fine!” Sam shouted, then stormed off to Journalism.

She took her time, easing off her backpack. She slid the zipper open slowly and extracted a notebook. She centered it on the desk, trying not to look up as Rachel came in, but she couldn't help it.

The short pink dress Rachel wore was strapless, and though she'd tossed a matching sweater over her shoulders, no one was fooled. Rachel was breaking the rules and daring anyone to punish her.

But what else was new, Sam thought.

Rachel was watching her from under lowered eyelids. Sam could feel it, so she was relieved when RJay pushed her toward the class darkroom.

In the eerie light of the darkroom, he said, “I want you for photo editor next year, but you've got to do something to earn it.”

“Like what?” Sam's mind spun, trying to shake off the fight with Jen and Rachel's scheme to steal the editorship with gossip.

“Stay awake, and when I throw something your way, think fast,” RJay said, and then he left.

Sam stood in the darkroom a moment longer
trying to decide what RJay had meant. He might have been talking about playing catch instead of staffing the school paper.

Guys were entirely too weird, Sam thought as she emerged from the darkroom and almost ran into Cammy.

Cammy was leafing through assignments on a clipboard Mr. Blair had hung on a nail. Although she kept her eyes downcast, she wasn't signing up for anything.

“You really owed Rachel a chance to be on television for that…” Cammy's ringlets jiggled as she spun her hand in the air. “That community service thing. Have a horse—”

“Have a
Heart
,” Sam corrected.

“Whatever,” Cammy's blue eyes rounded in amazement, as if Sam could possibly think accuracy was as important as Rachel's offense. “Rachel deserved to be on TV a lot more than you, you know.”

Cammy gave Sam a quick look up and down, then continued. “Rachel was furious, you know. All of spring break, when she was in Paris—she called me from Paris to tell me, even—she was really, really mad.”

Cammy gave the clipboard a push and it swayed back and forth on its hook. “Rachel never forgets stuff like that. She's kinda, you know, into payback.”

Cammy drifted away before Sam could think of what to say. She refused to give Rachel the satisfaction of panicking, but she couldn't concentrate on
Journalism, or making a list of questions for Sheriff Ballard. She could only imagine Dad sending her back to San Francisco. She wouldn't have to face Rachel's sly hints that something was wrong with her, but her heart would break without Ace and the Phantom, Jen, and, yeah, admit it, she told herself, Jake.

Later, when she told Mr. Blair she felt sick to her stomach, Sam wasn't lying. She took refuge in the girl's lavatory, where it was cool and quiet.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

“Yuck,” she commented.

Her cheeks looked white, as if sprayed with a coating of salt. Tears had cut channels that still showed. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection, then glanced toward the bathroom door.

Good thing no one was there. Word would have spread even faster that she was a confirmed psycho.

Maybe she was. What kind of people carried bullet shell casings in their backpacks? Not normal ones.

Sam threw water on her face, then fluffed the dampness out of her bangs.

What was it Gram always said?
This time next year, none of this will matter
.

But it would. Mom's death, and the manner of it, still mattered. Caleb Sawyer and his rifle, aimed directly at the Phantom, mattered.

Right before her eyes, Caleb Sawyer had proven he would take a horse's life.

If Caleb Sawyer had caused Mom's accident, he should pay for it.

Sam looked at her watch. Five more minutes of class. She could maintain her composure that long.

She'd squared her shoulders and started through the doorway when a grip closed on her elbow.

She didn't have to look to know it was Jake.

“Do you know how embarrassing this is?” he hissed, pulling her around the corner near the drinking fountain.

“Hanging around the girls' bathroom?” Sam managed. Her voice gurgled between a sob and a laugh.

“First I went to Journalism asking for you. Mr. Blair told me where you were, but some of 'em were giving me weird looks—” Jake broke off.

“Because of Rachel. Have you heard—?”

“Who hasn't?” Jake interrupted.

Sam felt as if the world tipped beneath her feet. She put a hand against the corridor wall for balance.

“And who cares?” he added.

When she didn't answer, Jake went on. “Call Sheriff Ballard and tell him not to pick you up.”

“No way,” Sam said. “I'm not giving up a chance to talk to him. Absolutely no way.”

“I'll take you.” Jake's voice was a disgusted growl.

Shocked by Jake's generosity, Sam shook her head.

Since Jake shared the truck with his brothers, he'd
endure hours of harassment if he let Sam ride along.

“Just do it,” he snapped.

Sam imagined the sheriff's black-and-white off-road vehicle with the roof bar of red and amber lights pulling into the school parking lot. No one would miss seeing that.

She was about to accept Jake's offer when the bell rang and a classroom door slammed open.

The first student into the hall was Jake's loud-mouthed, baggy-panted friend Darrell.

“My
man
,” Darrell howled the word as a wry compliment. He nodded at Sam in heavy-lidded approval as he approached. “I knew you'd come around,” he congratulated Jake. “How
you
doin', gorgeous?”

Darrell slid a hand over his slicked-back hair and Sam thought about magic. She'd really like to vanish, right out of this hallway, forever. But if she couldn't have that, she wanted to make Darrell disappear.

In a single minute, classrooms had disgorged hundreds of curious students, and Jake's hand dropped from Sam's elbow as if he'd received an electric shock.

Jake could be a jerk, but he was her friend. Almost every mental picture she had of him involved a horse. He'd taught her to ride, to gentle, and more than that, to think like a horse. Only once, when he'd taken a terrible fall and broken his leg, had she really paid him back.

Jake always looked at ease on horseback. At
school, he was shyer and sometimes, like now, his eyes held a flicker of uncertainty.

“I'll ride with the sheriff,” she told him.

Even to herself, she sounded brave. But really, she had nothing to lose. People were already talking. How much worse would it be if she had a police escort out of the parking lot?

“Okay.” Jake sounded relieved. “But I'll talk to you. I want to hear what Sheriff Ballard tells you, because I have an idea of my own about Caleb and the horses.”

T
he sheriff's office was tucked into a corner of a new county building that housed other government offices in Darton.

On her way to the chairs arranged next to the sheriff's desk, Sam took a quick look around.

The office held high-tech radio equipment, a computer with so many cords she couldn't tell what was what, a fax machine, copy machine, and a coffeepot the size of a rain barrel.

Metal filing cabinets stood against one wall. A photograph of a large, smiling family was propped on top of one of them. The other wall held shelves of labeled boxes and an overloaded coatrack. Sam noticed a slicker, a quilted vest, waterproof overalls, a
black jacket with glow-in-the-dark lettering that read “POLICE,” and more.

Sinking into the blue upholstered chair facing the desk, Sam felt a surge of security, followed by surprise.

Sheriff Ballard had been watching her, with his hands folded loosely on the desk blotter. Although he needed a haircut and a mustache trim, the sheriff was alert and prepared.

“How 'bout you tell me again what happened yesterday,” he encouraged her.

Sam was ready.

“I found this note in an old button box,” Sam said. She unfolded the paper and handed it to him. “It's in my Mom's handwriting.”

He nodded, gave the pink stationery a cursory look, then motioned Sam to go on.

“Jen and I—”

“Jennifer Kenworthy.”

Sam nodded, not at all surprised he knew. “We'd planned to go looking for New Moon, a black mustang that—anyway, we rode out to Antelope Crossing instead, to see the wild horses and kind of follow up on what my mom had written.”

The sheriff glanced at the note once more. In the quiet, Sam heard the emergency radio give the coded signal summoning a fire department miles away from Darton, but Sheriff Ballard just gestured for her to go on.

“I think my mom was concerned that there was antelope poaching going on and somehow it was putting the wild horses in danger.”

“Pronghorn season
is
in the fall,” the sheriff mused.

Sam stopped. “What do you think?”

“Go ahead and finish,” he urged.

He didn't want her to get sidetracked, Sam guessed, so she explained how they had ridden into the area and seen the brown and white pronghorn grazing alongside the wild horses.

“Right away, the antelope took off. I thought they were running from us, but then the horses startled and we saw something glittering in the sagebrush—”

“Glittering?”

“Like glass or metal,” Sam explained. “Really low down.”

“At knee level? Ground level?” the sheriff prodded.

Sam thought for an instant. “Just above ground level. And then the horses were gone, all but the stallion, and he charged toward the sagebrush….”

Sheriff Ballard looked amused, as if such dramatics over a wild stallion were to be expected from someone her age.

“He did,” she insisted. “I know it's weird, but—”

“You go ahead, Samantha. Some of this pretty much matches that call we traced to Crane Crossing Mall.”

What had the Sheriff said about that call last night? She tried to remember.

“Who made the call? Do you know?”

“Doesn't much matter,” he said. “Probably someone being a good citizen, afraid you two would get hurt. Go ahead about the horse, though. I've been in this business long enough to know anything can happen,” the Sheriff said, and Sam knew he was urging her to keep talking.

“When he charged, the guy stood up, and he had a rifle. I don't know what kind,” she said, but she gave him the baggie with the shell casing inside.

Instead of looking excited, the sheriff nodded, slid the baggie to one side, and leaned forward. “Let's hear the rest.”

“The guy was taking aim at the stallion and so I yelled at him and then he…wasn't there. I know
that
sounds weird, too, but—” Sam took a deep breath. Saying so many odd things would probably discredit her. Still, she couldn't do anything except tell the truth.

“It probably looked like that because he dropped out of sight,” the sheriff said. “I know the spot you're talking about. It slants down to lower ground. All he'd have to do is back up.”

“Oh, good,” Sam said with a sigh.

“Did you get a look at him?” the sheriff asked.

“I tried,” Sam said. “But there was nothing, like, distinctive about him. I wasn't close enough to see
much, except that he looked normal. Average sized, you know?”

“And his clothes?”

“Jeans and an old brown leather jacket, I think.”

For the first time, the sheriff seemed to sympathize with her frustration. “Hardest criminals to find look just like ordinary men,” he said.

Sam noticed he hadn't said Caleb Sawyer was that kind of man. He didn't whip out a Wanted poster to show her, and he hadn't even taken notes.

Instead, Sheriff Ballard rose, poured himself coffee and, without asking if she wanted some, made her a cup with spoonfuls of sugar and powdered creamer.

“Now, let's see what I can help you with,” he said, handing her the cup.

“Okay, what do you think of my mom's note?”

“I think, if you want to know your mom's state of mind, you need to talk with Wyatt.”

State of mind
? Sam squirmed in the straight-backed chair. She was probably feeling paranoid because of the stuff Rachel was saying, but that phrase sounded suspicious.

“That part about the antelope, and horses—” Sam broke off.

“Louise had a habit of driving off-road to watch wildlife.” The sheriff shook his head. “I told her to be careful out there.”

“Why? Was someone after her?”

The sheriff made a
halt
sign with one hand.

“That VW bus was unstable. I didn't trust its emergency handling and neither did Wyatt. A sudden swerve, for instance, could make it overturn. And probably did.”

Sam imagined stampeding horses or antelope. They'd part to go around a car. But she could also imagine a driver, someone softhearted like Mom was supposed to have been, swerving instinctively, to miss them.

“I'll run a copy of this,” the sheriff said, raising the note, “if you don't mind.”

He took the note to the copy machine. Was he just humoring her, or did he really think it was worth investigating?

Mom, I'm doing my best
, Sam thought.

Then she asked the hardest question of all. “Everyone always says my mother died instantly.”

Though he had his back to her, facing the copy machine, Sam saw the sheriff's spine stiffen inside his gray uniform.

“But what does that mean? What killed her?”

The sheriff turned. “You're thirteen. I'm not saying you don't have a right to know, but I think you should ask your father.”

It was too late for that, Sam thought. If Dad had wanted to tell her, he would have.

“What if you call my dad?” Sam asked.

She watched the sheriff, but it was impossible to figure out what he was thinking.

“Okay,” the sheriff agreed. “I'll just step into another office and call.”

He left her alone, wondering if Dad would even be home. Sam didn't see a clock in the office. There were no exterior windows to check daylight or darkness.

And cows were starting to calve on the range, making Dad's schedule unpredictable.

Sam fidgeted. If Gram answered the phone, she'd refuse to let Sheriff Ballard tell her anything. Sam's brain hated that possibility, but her heart thought it might not be so bad.

“Your dad says ‘no secrets,'” Sheriff Ballard said as he reentered the office.

He squatted to open the lowest drawer on a filing cabinet, seized a folder tab, and pulled.

He slammed the drawer, then glared at the radio equipment that kept up a low-level chatter.

Was he wishing he'd get called out on an emergency?

“I don't mind saying this is uncomfortable for me,” the sheriff told her, as he sat. “First, I'll tell you straight up, there were no signs of foul play. None. We all cared about Louise. If we thought someone had caused her death, we would've gone after him.”

Sam felt breathless for a minute.

“What”—she felt as if something heavy compressed her chest, but she managed to get the question out—“made her die?”

He read from the folder, snapped it closed, and crossed his arms on top of it.

“The bus was upside down in a ditch running high with melted snow. It was a nice day and she had the windows rolled down. She drowned,” he said bluntly. “But since she was still wearing her seat belt, she was probably unconscious.”

“Drowned. No one ever said that before.” Sam touched her forehead. She had the strangest falling sensation.

“You're not going to faint on me, are you?”

“I've never fainted.”

But the sheriff's expression seemed to say there was always a first time. Sam didn't know how, but she pulled herself together, straightening in the chair. She cleared her throat and went on.

“Does Caleb Sawyer have a criminal record?” she asked.

“Don't worry about that,” he said. “There's some minor stuff, but we're not talking murder.”

“Okay,” Sam said softly.

Suddenly, that was enough. In fact, it was way too much.

Sheriff Ballard went on talking. He'd investigate the possibility of antelope poaching and trespassing mustangs. BLM had federal marshals to deal with horse trouble.

“I'll go up and see Sawyer,” Sheriff Ballard said. When he went on, his words took on a warning
tone. “This is nothing to be taking into your own hands.”

“Okay,” Sam said again.

There was more that she wanted to ask, but she felt worn out from emotion.

“Your dad said Brynna would wait out front for you,” the sheriff said, standing. “You go along with her, and I'll call if I uncover anything you'd find interesting.”

Sam stood.

Good manners must have been stamped on her brain cells, because she remembered to shake his hand and say thank you.

“By the way,” Sheriff Ballard added when she was almost to the door, “good idea, picking up the shell casing.”

Sam smiled. The compliment made her feel a little better. She waved and managed to find her way down the maze of buffed hallways to the front of the office building.

Brynna's white BLM truck was parked in front of the building, engine idling. Late afternoon sun glazed the windows, so Sam couldn't see Brynna.

She hoped her stepmother wasn't in a chatty mood.

Sam's mind felt stuffed full. She wanted to go home and sleep.

But Brynna didn't even wait until Sam had climbed up into the truck to announce her bad news.

Wearing her uniform and sunglasses, Brynna looked like the cold, unemotional bureaucrat Sam had thought she was on the first day they'd met at Willow Springs.

Brynna's pale pink lips were set in a line. Her chin raised high above her perfectly pressed collar.

“The Phantom's herd has settled down on private land.” Brynna kept her tone aloof and unfeeling, as if she was talking about a sudden growth of weeds.

Sam struggled for an excuse, but then Brynna added, “One way or another, they'll have to be removed.”