Gift Horse (3 page)

“Six hundred,” said the auctioneer. “Do I hear six-fifty?”

Sam's heart sank as the young rancher leaned forward on the arms he'd crossed on the top rail of the fence. He stared after Tinkerbell, then shook his head.

He was just being sensible, Sam knew. She recognized the look of surrender on his face, because she'd seen it so often. A working rancher didn't always get what he wanted, because the ranch always came first.

“Going…”

Even if Dad had allowed her to use her reward money, she couldn't have outbid Baldy. He saw the big horse, who must weigh close to a ton, as pure profit.

Sam covered her eyes with both hands. All she saw was a kind animal with the potential to do something grand.

“Going…”

Dad's hand felt warm against Sam's back, but she kept her eyes closed. She wanted to stay in the darkness behind her eyelids. She could hear the thud of the big animal's hooves, but she didn't have to watch his trusting performance.

“Seven hundred,” said Mr. Fairchild's crisp voice over the microphone.

Sam looked up. Smiling through her tears, she stared in the direction of the announcer's booth. It was Mr. Fairchild. No one had bid against him for the chestnut. Maybe it was a tradition to let him win. Maybe he'd save Tinkerbell and sell him later to someone who deserved him.

“Eight hundred,” shouted Baldy.

No! Sam rocked forward, head down, as if she'd been punched in the stomach. Tinkerbell had been so close to safety.

Boots shifted in the wooden stands. Dad gave a surprised grunt and everyone turned to stare at the man from Dagdown Packing Company.

“Bidding is closed at seven hundred dollars,” the auctioneer said stiffly.

“I said eight hundred!” Baldy was standing now and his bare head had flushed red.

“That was our last horse of the day,” the auctioneer went on, “and we at Mineral Auctions sure hope you folks will come back and see us next week.”

“You wanna go see what Duke has in mind for that critter, I suppose,” Dad said. He rose, stretched, and together he and Sam left the bleachers and started toward the holding pen.

She wanted to feel excited, but Baldy's dark presence lurked behind her.

Dad took longer strides than usual, and Sam was
sure it was because he wanted to get her away from Baldy. The man was still shouting in the direction of the auctioneer's box.

“You can't ignore my bid!” he yelled.

But the auctioneer, who'd noticed the ranch woman's quiet bid on the pony, pretended not to hear.

“That's right,” the auctioneer continued. “Every Thursday from ten 'til five, we're glad to have you as our guests. Drive safe, now.”

As the microphone clicked off, Baldy stormed toward the ring, looking furious. He paused when he came abreast of Sam and her dad. Sam shrank against Dad's side, but just to get out of the man's way.

Baldy was only a sore loser. There was nothing scary about that.

“I know what this is about,” Baldy said in a threatening tone.

Dad stepped forward, making a wall between Sam and the man.

“Then maybe you'd better tell me,” Dad said. His tone would sound lazy to anyone who didn't know him, but Sam could tell Baldy had made a mistake.

Dad was a protective father and Baldy's harsh expression was enough to provoke his anger.

Sam peered around Dad, trying to see Baldy's reaction.

He slapped his notebook against the side of his too-new jeans, and his eyes seemed to evaluate Dad
in the same way he'd sized up the horses. Sam hoped the skinny man had figured out that Dad could snap him like a toothpick.

Baldy didn't look like he'd quite made up his mind about arguing, when he heard boots behind him and turned.

Mr. Fairchild straightened his gabardine coat to sit just so on his shoulders as he approached.

“We had a gentlemen's agreement,” Baldy snapped.

In the moment of silence, Sam remembered Baldy offering six hundred dollars for “the big boy” before the auction began. But Mr. Fairchild hadn't really said yes, had he?

“Guess that means I'm no gentleman,” Mr. Fairchild responded, but Sam could tell he was saying something about Baldy, not himself.

“No, now, I'm not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Baldy took a deep breath and shook his head. “Guess I'm saying I'll see you next week, Duke. Same time, same place.” He started toward the parking lot, then stopped. “But I wanted that horse.”

“If he's back here in a month, we'll talk,” Mr. Fairchild said.

Sam felt another chill, which had nothing to do with the disappearance of the sun. The big horse wasn't safe yet. A paralyzing cold gripped the back of her neck.

“Fair enough,” Baldy answered, nodding.

This time when he stamped toward the parking lot, he kept going.

Sam didn't watch him for long, because Mr. Fairchild turned toward her, rocked back a couple inches, and crossed his arms.

“As for you, young lady,” he said, “I was mighty impressed with your little speech before the sales began. You weren't able to negotiate much with your father, but I'm wondering if we can work something out.”

Sam could tell his words were partly aimed at Dad.

Dad took a deep breath, then released it in a sigh. When he didn't interrupt, Mr. Fairchild went on. “I'd be willing to go in partners with you on preparing that big bay brute for sale to someone who might make something of him. Would you be willing to do that?”

“Sure,” Sam said, but her head spun. How could this be happening?

“First, I'll need a little earnest money.” Mr. Fairchild rubbed his hands together. “You know what that is, don't you?”

“No sir,” Sam admitted, “I don't.”

“It means you give me enough cash, up front, so that I know you're serious, and that you'll keep your word.”

To do what? Sam wondered, but she didn't ask. If she gave Mr. Fairchild more time to think, and
Dad time to recover from his surprise, things might change.

“So reach down deep in that pocket of yours, young lady,” Mr. Fairchild said. “And hope you come up with something.”

T
he auction yard lights came on suddenly, and Sam felt as if she were standing under a spotlight as she wiggled her fingers into her front right pocket. She knew exactly how much money was in her pocket. She hoped it would be enough.

All week she'd been thinking of hazelnut hot chocolate, because she and Dad had been planning this drive and he'd promised to stop for the fancy drink if she paid for it. She'd brought a little extra money, too, because it was February and she'd hoped the coffee store would have the little Valentine conversation hearts Gram loved so much.

Sam slipped the five-dollar bill and two ones out of her pocket and held them for a few seconds. She
still had weeks to buy the Valentine candy for Gram.

Sam extended the money toward Mr. Fairchild.

“I don't know if this shows how earnest I am,” Sam said. “But it's all I've got.”

Mr. Fairchild took the wrinkled bills and smoothed them out.

“What do you think of this plan?” he asked. “In four weeks you will have sold the horse so we can split the profit, or he comes back here and we'll see what we can get for him in his improved condition.” Mr. Fairchild turned to Dad. “Is four weeks fair, Wyatt, with school and her other chores?”

“Four weeks is about right,” Dad said, slowly. “Spring's a busy time for us, and her mare will be near to foaling time.”

Her mare
. Sam had never heard Dad refer to Dark Sunshine that way. She felt her smile grow, even though they were discussing something serious.

“Is Samantha responsible enough to come through on what she promised?” Mr. Fairchild asked.

It could have been a condescending question, but it didn't sound that way.

Dad studied her almost as if she were a stranger. “If Sam says she'll do it, she will,” he said finally, and Sam stood a little taller.

“Well then, partner,” Mr. Fairchild said, shaking her hand. “It's a deal. Come on over to the office so I can write you a check for feed and such.”

All of a sudden, she remembered Mike and Ike,
the men who'd been so rough and uncaring to Tinkerbell.

“But what about the men who brought him here?” Sam asked.

“Mike and Ike?” Mr. Fairchild met Dad's eyes. Sam saw them exchange a look of contempt. “Shoot, they were in too much of a hurry to stick around and see what their gelding would bring. I bought the horse outright. Paid those boys a flat fee of eight hundred dollars and they were happy as fleas in a doghouse.”

It would be easy to sell the draft horse for more than eight hundred dollars, wouldn't it?

“Baldy would give me fifty cents a pound for him. About a thousand dollars. So anything over that's pure profit, and we'll split it.”

Could she sell him for that much? Dad's Banjo had sold for four times that, but he'd been a prizewinning cutting horse. Sam gnawed at her lower lip. She could do it, if she could figure out what Tinkerbell's talents were.

As they followed Mr. Fairchild to his office, Sam noticed Dad wasn't saying much. That wasn't unusual, but this didn't feel like a comfortable silence. The ride home could be a lot more pleasant if she had a buyer in mind.

Jake liked his horses fast and quick-tempered, like his black mare Witch, so Tinkerbell was definitely not for him.

Jen rode a flighty mare named Silk Stockings, and even if she'd wanted Tinkerbell, her family probably couldn't afford him. They'd just discovered Golden Rose, their long-lost palomino mare. Though they'd been delighted to find her, the mare was an additional expense. So, they wouldn't want another mouth to feed. Especially—Sam looked back at the draft horse's huge silhouette—one that would eat so much.

The Slocum family had the money, Sam admitted to herself. Linc Slocum was the richest man in this part of Nevada and his Gold Dust Ranch was stocked with livestock from Brahma bulls to purebred Shetland ponies. A draft horse would fit in just fine. He might try riding Tinkerbell himself. But when she thought of the sharp-rowelled spurs he wore, Sam shook her head.

It was a sure thing his daughter Rachel wouldn't be interested. After all, the bay wasn't stylish. Rachel cared more for fashion and nail polish than she did for any creature, especially horses, which she considered dirty and indistinguishable.

But Rachel's twin, Ryan, was another story.

Yeah
, Sam thought.
Ryan!
He had lots of money and he loved horses. When she'd seen Ryan riding Sky Ranger just last week, she'd been impressed by his skill.

According to his father, Ryan had ridden jumpers in England. Some riders competed in heavy hunter classes, just as she'd told Dad. But it wasn't likely
Tinkerbell could launch his massive body over a mud puddle, let alone a jump.

Still, he was as gentle as a big dog. He might learn to do almost anything.

Sam gazed at the horse once more. Under the lights, he stood alone in the corral. He surveyed things with great interest while a wisp of hay dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Inside Mr. Fairchild's office, Dad called Gram to let her know they were just leaving Mineral and would be late for dinner. Meanwhile, Mr. Fairchild wrote out a check for Tinkerbell's expenses.

Sam felt the weight of her new responsibility as she tucked the check into her front right pocket.

“I'll have a driver bring the horse out tomorrow. He's comfy where he is for tonight, and there's no use disturbing everyone at your place.

“What time do you get off school?” Mr. Fairchild asked Sam as they all walked to the truck. “About three?”

“That's right,” Sam said. She couldn't believe how nice Mr. Fairchild was being. She wished she could find the words to tell him so, but she barely knew him.

That made his trust even more satisfying.

Just before she climbed into Dad's truck, Sam looked back toward the corral. It was too dark to see him, but the big horse must have been watching her. When he uttered a long rasping neigh, Sam wanted to go hug him.

Mr. Fairchild must have felt the same, because his lips wore a pained smile.

“Thanks so much, Mr. Fairchild,” Sam managed. “I just know he'll turn out great.”

“I think so, too. I wouldn't be doing this, otherwise. After all, I am a businessman,” he reminded her. As he went on, though, his tone didn't sound very businesslike. “I don't let it get to me, but my place is the end of the trail for so many animals. People, too, sometimes. Ranchers don't sell off stock this way unless they need the money.

“So,” he said, running a hand over his silver-gray hair, “once in a while, I like to give a fresh start to a deserving creature like that one.”

Dad shuffled his boots in embarrassment until Mr. Fairchild added, “Of course, I'll deny that silly, softhearted talk if you ever mention it again.”

Then he and Dad both laughed.

 

It was the last time Dad looked happy for a while.

Nothing Sam said seemed to cheer him.

“I think this will teach me a lot of responsibility, don't you?” she asked.

“If all your chores around the ranch aren't doing that, maybe I'd better give you more,” Dad grumped.

“Yeah—I mean, of course they are. Teaching me, that is,” Sam sputtered. “You don't need to give me any more.”

Sam let another ten miles roll past before she tried
again. “I think it's so mean they named him Tinkerbell.”

From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Dad nod. Most cowboys gave horses short, efficient names. Dad was no different. After all, he'd named Ace and Smoke, Kitty and Tank.

“Should I change his name?” she asked. “He could be Coffee or Spice.”

Sam thought Mahogany would be a good name for the big horse. Once his coat was clean, it would look like rich, polished wood.

“Or I could pick a name that suits his size, like Goliath or Emperor.” Sam looked sidelong at Dad. “And Mr. Fairchild called him a brute. What do you think of calling him Brute?”

“You'd be silly to name him at all. We don't name cattle because we're gonna sell them. No matter what you think, Samantha, that horse isn't staying any longer than it takes you to get rid of him.”

Sam's heart beat hard as she waited. Something in Dad's movements as he steered around a low spot in the road told her that he hadn't finished talking.

“If I were you,” he said finally, “I'd just call him Horse.”

Sam rode along in silence. She felt melancholy, even though she knew Tinkerbell was safe.

Melancholy turned to uneasiness as she pressed her cheek to the cold glass of the truck's window. Her eyes scanned the vast, dark range. Danger seemed to fill every shadow.

How can I think such a thing?
Sam wondered.

She loved the high desert, even though most people never gave it a thought. City dwellers, driving past on the freeway on their way west to San Francisco or south to Las Vegas, rarely noticed the rabbits, antelope, mustangs, and vivid wildflowers no bigger than the nail of her little finger.

She loved the desert's colors. By night, its stark beauty was painted in shades of black and charcoal gray. Silver-tipped curves of sand, rock, and sagebrush rolled to the Calico Mountains.

So why had she been thinking of danger? She wasn't a mouse, cowering from a silent-winged owl. There was nothing to fear, when she was safe inside her Dad's truck with the heater blowing warm air and home was just minutes away.

Snowcaps marked the far peaks. Looking at them, Sam shivered, but not because she was cold.

An eerie sensation skittered across her shoulders and down her back. Now she knew what “spine-chilling” really meant. But she didn't believe in premonitions, so what was going on?

Something moved, far out on the playa. Or maybe not. Perhaps a cloud had swept over the face of the moon, changing the light.

A second later, she saw the mustangs.

Night made them all the same color, but Sam recognized them as easily as if they'd been her own herd. Backs frosted with moonlight, bodies dark as tarnished
silver, the Phantom's band galloped along the base of the foothills.

“Where could they be going?” Sam murmured. Her excitement waned as she wondered—had they felt the same nameless warning she had?

“Something's got 'em runnin',” Dad said.

He must have been staring after the wild horses as she was, but Sam didn't look away from the mustangs. The last time she'd seen the horses, they'd been in the Phantom's secret valley. If some predator was pursuing the horses, she wanted to know.

“A man used to be able to count on wild things to tell him the first day of spring, but now he needs a calendar,” Dad went on. “Used to be, you wouldn't see a single mustang between November and April. This year, I see 'em every time I turn around.”

Dad was right. This had been an unsettled winter for the wild ones.

Sam kept staring at the herd, trying to identify individuals among them. Those two leggy ones looked like the blood bay mares she'd seen so often. And there, maybe, was the colt with the pirate patch spot over one eye.

Where is he?

Sam knew she was searching, most of all, for the Phantom. If this was his herd, he'd be with them.

There! Ice-white and sudden, the stallion surged from the rear of the herd. Head high, he rushed through a windstorm of his own making. Torrents of
mane and tail streamed straight back as he swerved through the band to take the lead. Ahead of them by a length, his head tossed to the right and his slim legs slanted. Showing the way to safety, the stallion swung away from the road, toward the foothills.

The herd followed. Swift and silent, the horses faded into the night and vanished.

Sam drew a breath. Spellbound, she'd nearly run out of oxygen while watching the mustangs.

If Dad had felt their magic, he hid it well.

“Wouldn't be surprised if those cayuses were what's got the cattle acting up,” he groused. “Every year before, I could count on our stock stayin' on the flats near home, but the last couple weeks they've been on the move.”

“Didn't you tell me that cattle sometimes headed back to the last place they were happy?”

Dad gave her a look that said she'd misinterpreted what he'd said.

“Sure,” he said patiently, “but long as their calves are with them, ‘happy' only means enough food and water. With La Charla running strong and the hay drops we've been making, there's no reason for them to leave.”

Sam didn't suggest another explanation for the animals' restlessness. Dad was a cattleman. Cows came first because they supported the ranch and every soul on it.

When she didn't pick a useless fight over the
horses' place on the range, Dad nodded. He thought he'd had the last word.

They were nearly home when she realized Dad couldn't feel as negative about Tinkerbell as he was pretending. Once he knew none of the horses up for auction were mustangs being sold illegally, why had he stayed?

Either he saw the big horse's potential, or he just plain liked him.

Sam crossed her arms, feeling pretty self-satisfied.

That's enough
, she told herself.
Knock it off.

There was no logical reason to nag Dad into showing his true feelings. But she wasn't feeling logical.

“Wait a minute, Dad,” she said.

“I'm not goin' anywhere.”

“About Tinkerbell…” Sam felt her thoughts line up like ducklings. “What I'm about to do with him isn't any different from what you and Jake do.”

“Samantha, it's completely different. It's the difference between a gamble and a sure thing.”

“Not really,” Sam said. “You board people's horses while you and Jake polish them and make them better riding horses. Then you get paid, if people think their horses have improved. The only difference is that I don't know who'll end up paying me. It's no gamble, because Tinkerbell is a good investment of my time and Mr. Fairchild's money.”