Wild Honey (10 page)

“Stay cool,” Darrell said, just as he had to the rooster the night before.

“That's about the size of it,” Preston said, and though he'd used a joking tone for his instructions, the volunteers were sobered by his real-life examples. For a minute, the only sound was that of Teddy rolling his bit.

After that, the desensitization process began. The horses took turns walking, trotting, and loping over crackling plastic tarps.

Ace did fine at a walk, leaving each hoof in place for a few seconds before lifting the next.

Teddy Bear reacted by hopping straight up in the air as if he'd stepped on something alive, so he had to repeat the exercise until he didn't try to hurdle the plastic, swerve around it, or balk with his head lowered and feelings hurt.

Tinkerbell didn't seem to notice the tarp beneath his bell-shaped hooves, but when Jake turned on the flashing lights and siren of the fire engine, the giant horse trembled.

Did he recall the earthquake, the fallen barn he'd pulled off Ace, and the volunteer fire department truck rushing to gas mains that had ruptured and
burned? Tinkerbell had been a hero then, but maybe he didn't remember it that way.

Sam wanted to hug the frightened gelding, but she quickly saw that Katie Sterling had a better approach.

“No big deal, Tink,” Katie told him in a cheerful voice. “That's just an itty, bitty truck. You could stomp it into a pancake. This time, just walk on by.”

He didn't that time, or the next, but eventually he walked past the fire engine paired with Ace at his side and after that, he did it alone, even when Jake flashed the lights and whooped the siren at the same time.

Darrell and Jen bounced tennis balls around the horses and, when Preston insisted, gently lobbed the balls against the horses' shoulders. As the first ball struck his shoulder, Ace halted. He gave an insulted grumble, then ignored the rest.

Only the ranch gelding Laramie objected strongly, snapping at the balls with square yellow teeth.

Preston gestured for Sam to dismount and asked Mrs. Allen to lead Ace to water while Sam carried an air mattress over her head and popped it back and forth to Preston in front of, then behind, each horse.

Why did he pick me as his partner?
she wondered. Darrell was careening around whining NASCAR sounds while pushing a baby stroller. Jake opened and closed an umbrella under each horse's nose and
each one except Tinkerbell half reared away from it. Jen rode a bicycle, weaving among them.

Sam sighed as Nightingale lifted her prancing hooves and stared askance at the yellow air mattress. So maybe Preston hadn't picked one of the others because they were busy. But why had he asked Mrs. Allen to take charge of Ace, when he could have asked her to play Pass the Air Mattress?

He wants to keep me under surveillance,
Sam thought hopelessly.

She was relieved when he called for a break.

With no horse to water and no appetite for the sodas and store-bought cookies Mrs. Allen had arranged on a folding table over an hour ago, Sam sneaked away to check on the Phantom's lead mare.

Sam's steps quickened as she neared the barn, but no one was close by as she slipped inside and it was a good thing.

The palomino wasn't happy. She didn't seem to be in pain; in fact, she stamped a rear hoof, redistributing her weight to her injured leg as she did.

“You're limping less than you were just this morning,” Sam said, then clucked her tongue at the horse.

But the mare was restless and resentful. She flashed bared teeth at this lone human, and Sam didn't blame her.

“I know, girl,” Sam said, but she found herself talking to the rippling ivory tail the mare turned toward her. “You're not used to being cooped up. You
want to be out running with your herd.” Sam sucked in a breath, telling herself she wasn't lying to the horse. “It won't be long, I promise.”

When Sam slipped back out, Jen ambushed her with a despairing look. Then she grabbed Sam's elbow and hissed into her ear, “Do you want to get caught?”

“Of course not,” Sam snapped. “I just—”

“Just want to see something so creepy you won't be able to sleep tonight?” Jen asked.

Sam dug her bootheels in, refusing to be towed along.

“No, not really.”

“Yes, you do,” Jen insisted. She gave Sam's arm a yank, then winced at the pain in her own healing rib.

“No fair,” Sam said, walking grudgingly beside her friend. “I didn't do that. You hurt yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jen muttered. “Just come with me. You won't be sorry.”

 

At first, Sam had no clue what Jen wanted her to see.

“What?” Sam demanded.

“It's right in front of your face,” Jen said, but Sam saw nothing.

Nothing except Mrs. Allen standing about ten feet away, talking to Preston.

“Is it going well?” Mrs. Allen asked, touching her open-necked purple blouse.

“Things went real easy, but doing this on the street will be trickier.”

Then, as Preston began explaining how he'd gotten to know Heck Ballard while trailing a horse thief with the unlikely name of Christopher Mudge, Sam's mind screeched to a halt.

Purple blouse? Mrs. Allen wasn't wearing a purple blouse. She was, actually, but she hadn't been two hours ago. And now, instead of demolished jeans, Mrs. Allen wore one of her long, black skirts. Her earlobes shone with silver concho earrings, too.

Why in the world had she changed clothes? And put on magenta lipstick?

“So, you took early retirement to travel around the United States searching for your lost palomino,” Mrs. Allen said.

“My lost partner,” Preston corrected.

“That's noble of you, Lieutenant, but all that traveling must be hard on your family…?”

Why did Mrs. Allen's voice quirk up at the end like that? She hadn't really asked him a question.

But apparently he thought she had, because he gave a grim laugh and said, “Both my kids are in college and I've been divorced for just over a year. Nobody misses me at home.”

Mrs. Allen looked down at her boot toes, then back up, kind of sideways.

“I find that impossible to believe,” she replied.

“Oh my!” Sam gasped.

“Oh, your poor dry throat? Let's get you a soda,” Jen said, pulling at Sam's arm again.

Sam stared over her shoulder while she stumbled after Jen.

Jen was right. It was creepy, disturbing, even, to hear Mrs. Allen flirt with Preston. Yes, flirt. Add their ages together and they had to be 150 years old, right? But if they weren't flirting, why were they joking over a missing button on his shirt and a camper full of convenience foods and instant coffee, and why in the world would a policeman, the kind of rugged guy who absolutely defined competence, say, “I've learned to be pretty darned independent”?

“You're speechless,” Jen said with a satisfied nod.

“And a little sick,” Sam said.

“I told you it was worth seeing.”

“I guess,” Sam said, but then, as she watched the posse reassemble for the next exercise, in which they'd be dragging things, she forgot where she'd last seen Ace. She shouldn't have let Preston make her hand him over to Mrs. Allen.

Mrs. Allen had other things on her mind now, like Preston.

Sam shivered at that thought.

A little tendril of fear unfurled in her mind. She didn't like what she was thinking.

So, don't think about it,
she told herself.

“What's wrong?” Jake asked.

Sam blinked. She'd barely talked to Jake at all
this morning, and all of a sudden he was next to her.

“Nothing,” Sam said.

“You just turned pale—”

“No, I—”

“—and you never do that.”

Sam tried to swallow, but it was impossible. Something as big as her fist obstructed her throat.

Jen and Jake, who were practically sworn enemies, looked at each other as if they should join forces to watch over Sam. When she rushed toward the snack table, Jen and Jake were right behind her.

She could trust Mrs. Allen.

Don't think about it.
Sam popped the top on a generic orange soda. She drank gulp after gulp, even though it was warm and syrupy from sitting in the sun.

When Darrell sidled into their tight-knit group, she stared at him.

“Don't blame me,” Jen told Jake as Sam stopped swallowing. “All I did was show her the old people making eyes at each other.”

“Making eyes,” Jake repeated slowly. Then he waved a hand in front of Sam's face. “You sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine,” Sam said through chattering teeth. “Go make bundles of sticks and rags like the lieutenant told you to.”

Sam decided she must be doing a good job of not thinking about…that…when her mind registered
the fact that Jake not only obeyed her, he tolerated her snarling with no more than a shrug.

If you fall flat on your face from heatstroke,
his expression said,
it's your own fault.

But Sam caught him glancing at her again once he'd joined Darrell.

Fine, they could look all they wanted,
she thought. But when Darrell took up his megaphone again and said, “Samantha, stay hydrated, darlin',” Sam had had enough.

In fact, she'd had more than enough after Darrell's embarrassing shout of, “Speak up, darlin'.”

As she approached Darrell and Jake, Sam snagged Ace's reins from where Mrs. Allen had tied him. Then, she kept walking, relentless as a robot.

Darrell bounced around, pretending to shadow-box, obviously delighted that she was coming at him with eyes full of payback.

She was within two feet of Darrell when she closed the fingers on her right hand into a fist and swung for his mouth.

He jerked aside, but her fist grazed his jawbone.

Sam gasped. She dropped Ace's reins. She whimpered and curled her left hand around her right as if she were holding a delicate newborn mouse.

“Oh, man,” Darrell yelped, but not in pain. “Ely, why haven't you taught her how to throw a punch?”

“I didn't think—” Jake began, looking bewildered.

Darrell held Sam's wrist and looked kindly into her eyes. No matter how she tried to tug loose, he wouldn't let her go. “Never, never, fold your thumb inside your fist when you hit someone.” He spoke slowly and softly, as if each word held astounding importance. “You can get hurt that way.”

“No kidding,” she said between her teeth.

Both guys stood so close, maybe no one else had seen her do a better job of embarrassing herself than Darrell had. Maybe no one else could even guess she was about to cry.

Wrong.

“You all right?” Preston asked briskly.

Where had he come from?

“I'm fine,” Sam managed.

“We need to get back to work,” Preston said. “Shooting blanks comes next.”

She saw him notice Ace, ground-tied despite the bustle around him, and then the man with the salt-and-pepper hair moved off, checking a revolver that looked completely real to Sam, no matter what kind of ammunition was inside it.

Sam swept her left hand at her reins and managed to get back into Ace's saddle. Everything around her was blurry, but it wasn't pain in her hand that made tears start into her eyes.

“Sam, are you positive you're okay?” Jen asked, peering owlishly at Sam.

Sam nodded.

She'd be totally fine if she could keep things from adding up to disaster.

Just don't think about it,
she ordered herself again.

Don't think about lost horses. There must be thousands of lost horses in the United States.

Don't think about Preston tracking his stolen horse to this barren Nevada county.

Don't think about the fact that the horse he's searching for is a palomino mare and she'd found one.

All that meant nothing. Nothing at all.

O
nce the idea popped into Sam's head, it wouldn't leave.

What if the Phantom's honey-colored mare was the police horse Cha Cha Marengo? Sam's gloom deepened as she remembered that Preston had mentioned that he didn't call his “partner” by her registered name. Instead, he'd called her Honey.

“In the course of your duties, it's likely you'll have to drag something—an obstruction off the road, a stranded person from a creek, and so on,” Preston was saying now. “So we'll play a pulling game until lunchtime, then we'll go back to desensitization.”

“Laramie already knows how to work a rope,” said the middle-aged cowgirl. “So maybe he and I
should practice something else.”

Sam had been thinking the same thing. A good cow horse like Ace knew that after his rider roped a calf, he backed up, keeping the rope taut until the rider jumped from the saddle, worked her way down the rope, and put the calf on his side for branding or doctoring.

Preston nodded. “Those horses that have worked cattle might have a head start on the others, but this is a little different. The horse may have to back away from his burden, or turn and pull it behind him. That can be a little scarier, but it's no time to let your mount think for himself like a cow horse is apt to do. You want him to keep dragging whatever's at the end of your rope until you tell him to stop.”

They were about to begin the dragging exercise, when Dr. Scott arrived. Sam had almost forgotten he was coming. Renewed worry surged through her. What would Dr. Scott do while they were dragging stuff? He couldn't go tend Mrs. Allen's horses alone, so he'd just be killing time. What if he wandered toward the barn and heard the palomino nickering to the other horses?

Sam knew she couldn't stop him from doing that, so she just watched as the young vet climbed out of his truck and decided she was not cut out to be a crook.

“Hey, Glen!”

“Good to see you, Doc!”

Everyone greeted the vet warmly. Despite the fact that he was always bustling and busy, he was well liked. He must do as good a job with all the animals in the county as he did with River Bend's, Sam thought.

Once he'd told Sam she was a natural with horses. When she'd sidestepped the chance to work with a young, burned mustang, he'd made her feel guilty. He'd said she was selfish not to share her talent.

Sam sighed, and hoped he'd feel the same about the injured mare in the barn.

With his blond hair shining and his black glasses squared away on the bridge of his nose, Dr. Scott looked well rested for a change. He gave a quick wave, then unloaded a big cardboard box from his truck.

“I brought your picnic,” he called out, and when he heard a smattering of applause, he added, “Sheriff Ballard ordered me to pick 'em up from Clara's coffee shop in Alkali. You just go on with what you're doing and I'll put them where they'll stay cool. And don't worry if the cake is missing from yours,” joked the vet who had a reputation for always being hungry, “I'm sure it's just a mistake!”

Laughter followed him and Sam sat relaxed in her saddle, lined up and waiting her turn at the bundle dragging. With Tinkerbell in front of him and Jinx behind, Ace stood loose and calm.

It was a perfect day for Ace, Sam thought. He liked working and nothing had scared him yet. He knew both of the other geldings and they had nothing to prove to one another.

They took turns backing and dragging.

From what Sam could tell, Darrell and Jake had made the bundles out of feed sacks stuffed with all kinds of things. Some were puffy with rags, others lumpy with rocks. A few horses had to pull real objects.

Tinkerbell had to back up, pulling along a small tack trunk. Though he flicked his ears and demanded a sniffing inspection of the trunk before he'd pull it, the draft horse succeeded.

He was lucky, Sam thought later, because the tack trunk wasn't half as weird as what Jake and Darrell had set up for Ace.

When she moved to the head of the line, Sam saw Jen hold up her hands and wave them.

What did Jen mean by that?
Shaking her head, Jen seemed to deny she had anything to do with what lay on the ground for Sam to drag.

The mannequin had seen better days. Its head was on backward. One arm twisted at an abnormal angle that reminded Sam of pyramid paintings. Its pallid body bore lots of dents from time spent in the junkyard.

It still looked vaguely human, though, and Sam was surprised when Ace didn't demand a sniff test.
Instead, the little bay shifted from hoof to hoof, eager to see why Sam had unsnapped her rope from its holder.

Ace trembled when Sam's loop settled over one of the mannequin's legs on the first try.

Amazing, Sam thought as she wheeled Ace, then clucked him forward. The mustang flashed one puzzled glance over his shoulder, then gave a snort and dragged the mannequin with ease.

“Yay, Ace!” Jen cheered.

“Too easy,” Darrell shouted, and the other volunteers must have agreed, because Jake got applause when he darted forward and looped the handle of a plastic bag filled with aluminum cans around the mannequin's wrist.

Ace paused to watch, but when Sam stirred her legs slightly, the little gelding dragged on.

Preston held up a hand for her to halt, then said, “Let's try some fireworks.”

Ace's neck arched, positioning his eyes to study Preston as he struck a flare. The thing looked like a stick of dynamite, Sam thought, but when it hissed into glaring pink flame, Ace only retreated one step, then kept watching. When Preston tossed the flare and it rolled to a stop in front of Ace, the horse lowered his head and breathed in the sulphurous scent. He seemed interested in the unfamiliar object, but when Sam asked him to pull the mannequin past it, he didn't hesitate.

Sam leaned forward to plant a kiss on her horse's mane.

“You are such a good boy,” she told him, and Ace gave an “aw-shucks” swish of his tail.

But they weren't finished.

“I'd like to try him with one more real-life situation,” Preston said, and when Sam hesitated, he added, “It won't hurt your horse, I promise.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

She tried to keep her uncertainty from showing in how she held the reins while the gray-haired man donned leather gloves and a protective vest, then lay down on the ground. He grabbed her rope, widened her loop, then slipped it over his torso.

Sam could tell that Ace was as confused as she was.

“Do you want me to do that?” Darrell volunteered.

Sheriff Ballard and Preston laughed at Darrell's polite concern.

“You just tryin' to be helpful, or are you afraid that old man will hurt himself?” Sheriff Ballard called.

Darrell held up both hands as if there was no safe way to answer. Then, as Preston pulled the rope snug around his own chest, Darrell retreated.

I don't know about this,
Sam thought. She tried to ignore her rogue thought that suggested that if Ace happened to gallop off, dragging Preston behind,
there wasn't much chance he'd sneak around and find the palomino mare.

“Ready?” Preston's head lifted from the dirt as if he were doing a sit-up.

“Yeah,” Sam said.

Preston pointed, “Don't let him slack off until we reach the water trough, okay?”

The water trough was about twenty yards away.

“Okay,” Sam agreed. “I'll take it slow.”

“At a trot,” Preston instructed. “And don't worry if I'm yelling and carrying on,” Preston warned, “that's part of the training. Just keep going.”

At a trot? Wouldn't friction skin the shirt right off the man? And after the shirt, maybe a layer of flesh?

Why, Sam wondered, couldn't Ace pull Darrell or Jake or someone else?
Anyone
else.

Sam looked over to see Jen nervously twirling the ends of her braids. She met Sam's questioning look with a shrug.

“Giddyup!” Preston yelled, as if Sam had stalled long enough.

She turned Ace so that he faced away from the retired policeman's feet, leaned forward in the saddle, and urged him into a trot. Sensing that this was different, that something alive squirmed at the end of his rope, Ace quickened his walk.

But Preston had said a trot, so Sam tapped Ace's sides with her heels and he finally picked up his hooves and moved faster.

If Preston thought his yodeling yell would make Ace spook, he was wrong. The mustang's jog took them across the ranch yard until Sam lifted her rein hand for him to stop.

Ace's forelegs were precisely even with the trough.

Sam looked over her shoulder. For a minute Preston didn't move. Was he waiting for her to go on?

“Did you mean Ace was supposed to trot as far as the trough, or did you want us to pull you even with—”

“You're good,” Preston grunted. “Stop.” He rolled onto his right side, used both arms to push upright, then stood. “Didn't think he'd do it, first try.” Grimacing, he pulled the rope off over his head, then nodded in appreciation. “That little bay can pull some.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, but she wasn't surprised when Preston called all the riders together.

“We're going to break a little early for lunch, then take turns riding a gauntlet,” Preston said. He stood stiffly straight. “I'll explain the gauntlet at”—he lifted his arm as if it were unjointed wood and peered at his watch—“twelve thirty. In the meantime, rest your horses, grab yourself some lunch, and be thinking of ways to bomb-proof your horse at home.”

Just as Preston started to move off, Mr. Martinez asked, “Can you give us an example of how to do that?”

Preston gave a pained smile, then explained, “The opportunities are all around. If you've got a river, make your horse an expert at water crossings. If you have a bagpipe or accordion you play badly, serenade your horse until he doesn't hightail it out of earshot. Maybe you just bought a new tent for camping. Practice setting it up where the horse can learn that all that flapping won't hurt him.”

“He did that all in one breath,” Sheriff Ballard commented.

Preston flashed him a frown, then said, “If there's nothing else, eat up.”

Sam wondered if she was the only one who noticed that, instead of lining up for a brown bag, Preston limped to the camper he'd parked near the entrance to Mrs. Allen's ranch.

“Guess we don't get a turn dragging stuff,” Sheriff Ballard said, dismounting as he talked to Jinx. Hooking a stirrup over his saddle horn, the sheriff loosened the cinch so that it swung below the grulla's sweaty belly.

Sam did the same. She slipped Ace's bit, too, then glanced over her shoulder in time to see Preston heaving himself into his camper.

“I didn't mean to hurt him,” she told the sheriff.

“Don't think you did. Not much,” the sheriff said. “Besides, he asked for it.”

Great,
Sam thought.

Then, as if he knew she was planning on sneaking
away to check on the palomino mare, Sheriff Ballard walked beside her to pick up lunch.

Mrs. Allen had spread out blankets on the grass, and everyone sat close together, trying to fit in the patches of shade.

Jen and Sam staked their claim on half of a blanket, then rolled up their sleeves and opened their collars. Still hot, Sam would have tugged off her boots and socks and wiggled her toes in the grass, but she was afraid she'd want to stay barefoot all day and that just wouldn't work for riding.

“Check this out,” Jen mumbled.

Sam looked up. Darrell swaggered over wearing Jake's black Stetson. Then, though there was only a foot of blanket between the girls and Dr. Yung, he flung himself down full length. The hat shot off his head but Darrell snagged it, rolled flat on his back, plucked a blade of grass, and stuck it between his teeth.

Squinting sunward, he asked, “Do I look like a cowpoke?”

Jen's and Sam's eyes met. Trying not to laugh, they opened their lunch sacks without comment.

“Hey!” Darrell insisted, “I said, do I—”

“No, but you smell like a cow,” Jen said quietly. She unwrapped her sandwich and peered under a corner of bread. “Is that close enough?”

As Darrell snorted his appreciation for Jen's wit, Dr. Yung watched openly. Head tilted to one side and
brows raised, he seemed fascinated with the alien culture of teenagers.

Darrell kept his eyes closed as he fanned himself with Jake's hat.

“Sam,” he said, “tell Jennifer that I can always tell when a woman's hiding her true feelings with sarcasm.”

“If it happens all the time, it might not be sarcasm,” Jen pointed out.

Darrell gave an exaggerated sigh, then commented to anyone listening, “The sassiest ones are the most smitten.”

“Smitten?” Jen asked. She pushed her glasses up her nose and rearranged her braids to lie flat over each shoulder. Then, when she couldn't come up with anything better, repeated, “Smitten?”

Sam couldn't choke back her laughter any longer. Maybe Jen had finally met her sarcastic match.

Darrell opened his eyes, made a toy gun of his hand, and shot it into the air in celebration.

“Told ya,” he said, then pulled the Stetson down so that only his smug smile showed.

Sam was still giggling when Jen muttered, “I don't know what you think is so funny.”

Gesturing toward her lips, Sam pretended she couldn't talk with her mouth full.

It was a good thing Jen didn't notice that Sam's sandwich, apple, chips, and cake sat untouched before her. Then Jake came to retrieve his hat,
Preston returned, and there was really too much going on to answer her friend.

As her laughter subsided, Sam's face tightened once more with worry. Concern for the palomino mare settled over her again, hiding her appetite.

She watched Preston gulp down his sandwich as if he were making up for lost time.