Gift Horse (5 page)

“Gram!” Sam yelped.

She couldn't believe Gram was doing this, but she was. In fact, she'd just hung up the telephone. She glanced at the kitchen clock, tsked her tongue, and then turned to Dad.

“I should have told you earlier, Wyatt, but with all the excitement, it just slipped my mind.” Gram crossed her arms at her waist and gave a sigh full of meaning.

But what kind of meaning? Was she sad? Exasperated? Sam couldn't tell, but it didn't sound good.

“Told me what?” Dad asked.

“Mrs. Santos, the Darton High School principal, called at about three-thirty this afternoon. She wanted to talk with you right away. When I told her you might be late, she said it didn't matter.” Gram paused and gave Sam a mistrustful look. “She said you were to call, no matter how late you got in.”

M
r. Blair couldn't be so mad at her for leaving Journalism when he was calling after her that he'd notify Mrs. Santos, could he?

Dad took the note bearing the principal's number from Gram. He studied it as if looking for a hidden message.

“Do you know what this is about, Samantha?” Dad sounded cautious, but not angry. So far.

“I have no idea,” Sam tried to sound lighthearted. “I could call R. J. Because he's editor of the
Dialogue
—our newspaper—he knows just about everything going on at school.”

Other than ignoring Mr. Blair when he called after her earlier, Sam couldn't think of a single thing
she'd done wrong. Maybe really minor things, like cutting across the grass instead of taking the sidewalk, when she was late. Monday she had been tardy to history class, but Mrs. Ely had been writing the day's assignment on the chalkboard and hadn't noticed.

“Could Mrs. Santos be calling about your grades?” Brynna asked.

“No way. Since Jake's been tutoring me in algebra, I'm getting a C-plus,” Sam said. “I told you that.”

“Careful of your tone, Samantha,” Dad cautioned.

Although she'd heard nothing wrong with her tone, Sam kept her next words level and easy. “All my other classes are B's or better. Besides, most teachers don't involve Mrs. Santos unless…” Sam stopped before she'd painted herself into a corner.

“Unless…?” Gram insisted.

“It's something serious,” Sam said. “But it might not be
bad
serious. Maybe I won an award or something.” Even to Sam, her words sounded weak. “Want me to try R. J. first, so that you don't have to bother Mrs. Santos?”

Lined up like a firing squad, Gram, Dad, and Brynna studied her, waiting for a confession. Three against one. And they were adults, ready to punish her for the slightest little thing.

A twinge of understanding crossed Brynna's face and Sam knew that her new stepmother was the most sympathetic of the three.

“I haven't done anything,” Sam insisted.

“Let's end the suspense,” Brynna said.

“In just a minute,” Dad said. “Samantha, if this turns out to be serious, you're not going to be keeping that draft horse. It'd be too much like a reward.”

“But Dad, if he goes back to the auction…” Sam closed her eyes. He could be killed.

“It's not open for discussion,” Dad said.

“Wyatt?” Brynna nodded at the phone.

Dad dialed. He introduced himself, apologized for the late hour, and then he listened. In the silence, Sam heard the kitchen clock tick.

“If we'd known…” Dad shook his head. “How long has
she
known?”

There was no question who “she” was, but Sam wondered just what she was supposed to know. Her nerves cranked tight as Dad continued to listen.

Blaze nosed his full food dish, then walked away from it. Cougar walked into the kitchen and stretched as if he'd just awakened from a nap.

“That's not the way we handle things around—” Dad began. His face flushed. Sam couldn't tell if he was angry or embarrassed. “That's fine.” He listened. “I'll see that she does. Early. Yes, ma'am.” Dad smiled. “You have a nice evening, now.”

“Spill it,” Brynna said when Dad paused for a moment. She was kidding, of course, but she didn't look patient.

Dad faced Brynna and Gram in a way that excluded Sam.

“Did you know every student in the school is responsible for doing twenty-four hours of community service? Neither did I,” he said when they both shook their heads.

Sam's shoulders sagged in relief. Tinkerbell would be safe. Doing community service wasn't hard. She'd think of something before the end of the year. Everyone did it.

Jen, of course, had started doing her community service in September. She had straight A's in academics and citizenship. Her family didn't have a lot of money, so she'd set her sights on college scholarships as the way to pay for veterinary school. Jen would do nothing to put her goal in jeopardy, so she'd been tutoring talented middle school kids in high school chemistry, for free.

Jake and his brothers weren't angels, but they had created their own anti-graffiti task force. Crammed into their shared truck, they made monthly rounds of the Darton Valley high schools and gave graffiti-marred surfaces fresh coats of paint.

Even Jake's friend Darrell, who had a pretty rough reputation, headed a tire recycling program at a truck stop outside of Darton.

But all of those kids had lived here forever. None of them had been in San Francisco for two years, then come back an outsider. None of them felt the slimy-stomached, clammy-browed terror she did when she had to get up in front of people and speak.
None of them knew for sure that the student council would condemn their projects without listening. All those popular kids had to give their stamp of approval to each proposed project.

Sam hadn't asked for a space on the student council agenda because she knew the outcome would be the same whether it was a stupid idea or one worthy of winning a Nobel Prize. With Rachel Slocum and her mall mate Daisy on the student council, Sam knew she didn't have a chance.

Sam watched helplessly as Dad, Gram, and Brynna faced her. If she told them the truth, they'd tell her not to be silly. She'd ridden in stampedes and floods. She'd faced Linc Slocum and Brahma bulls. Speaking to twelve teenagers, they'd insist, couldn't be scarier than those things. But it could.

“Does Mrs. Santos want me to do a story about it for the newspaper?” Sam asked.

In spite of their disbelieving expressions, Sam told herself it was possible. Her very first story for the Darton
Dialogue
had been an interview with Mrs. Santos, and the principal had been pleased with the published article. Maybe Mrs. Santos wanted help in flushing out ideas for community service projects. For other students.

“No,” Dad said, patiently. “She wants to talk with you about your project, tomorrow morning.”

“But I don't have a project!”

“That's probably the point, Sam,” Brynna said.

“So, what will I talk about?”

“Mrs. Santos has a plan,” Dad said.

“Well, isn't that nice,” Gram said.

Sam wasn't so sure. Dad was wearing an expression she'd call a smirk.

“What's her plan?” she asked cautiously.

Dad couldn't wait to tell. “Any student without a community service project by spring break will be working at the Darton dump, sorting out recyclable materials.”

If it was Mrs. Santos' idea, she might not have to appear before the student council, but the dump always smelled like burning rubber. Every inch of the dump was piled with wrecked cars and twisted lawn furniture, soggy cardboard boxes, and plastic wrappers smeared with old tomato sauce. She shuddered just thinking about it. How was she supposed to sort through that stuff? With her hands?

“Yuck,” Sam said. “That's not fair!”

“I think it's incredibly fair,” Brynna said. “You've known about this since September, right? And you have to get in twenty-four hours before the end of the term.”

Suddenly Sam realized she was holding her auburn hair back from her temples, and pressing harder than was really comfortable. That probably wouldn't help her squeeze out an idea, but maybe her head wouldn't throb from remembering Rachel's mocking voice when she referred to her as “the little cowgirl.”

These three adults who claimed to love her couldn't know what they were demanding. Getting up in front of the student council was worse than any punishment—except missing spring break because she was sorting through garbage.

“You'd be making a valuable contribution to the community,” Gram said.

“And the planet,” Brynna added. “Besides, if you don't like the idea, you still have time to come up with a different one.”

Brynna was right, but Sam's head was empty. She concentrated. What did northern Nevada need that she could give? Finally she faced the truth: The place in her brain where ideas lived was echoing and dark.

“What would you do, Brynna?” Sam asked.

As Brynna's lips parted, Dad held up a hand. “Mrs. Santos says this must be completely Sam's idea.”

Sam's stomach clenched. Why did Dad want to torture her? Instead of working with the Horse and Rider Protection program during spring break, did he really want her knee-deep in eggshells and plastic bags?

A wave of hopelessness crashed over her. Sam's only hope was that some dream fairy would bring her a solution while she slept.

 

At seven the next morning, Sam sat in the passenger's seat of Brynna's white BLM truck. The
dream fairy hadn't bestowed an idea on her, but at least Dad hadn't insisted on going into the principal's office with her.

Sam was glad. Although Brynna was the one who'd insisted Jake tutor her in math, she didn't take school stuff personally and blow it out of proportion like Dad did.

“Thanks for taking me in so early,” Sam said.

“No problem.” Brynna glanced at the ten-acre pasture as they rolled toward the bridge. All the horses were where they should be. “I have Willow Springs to myself when I get there early. I walk around, check the horses, talk with whoever was on night watch, and touch base with each of the wranglers as they come in.”

“And you like that more than shuffling papers and answering the phones,” Sam said. It wasn't a question.

“You bet. I wish the HARP program was a sure thing,” Brynna said wistfully.

“Me too.” Sam had never thought she'd say those words. At first, she'd resented the Horse and Rider Protection program because she didn't like sharing her ranch or family. “They're funding the remodeling of the bunkhouse. That's a good sign, right?”

Brynna nodded. “It is, but I'm not sure I can pull off the spring and summer programs without a clone.”

Brynna loved working with kids and horses. If
the state of Nevada continued to support the program and paid her to direct it, she might quit her job at Willow Springs Wild Horse Corrals.

Sam had mixed feelings about that. It would make Brynna happy, but Brynna's official connection with the mustangs had come in handy more than once. With Brynna in charge, Sam felt the Phantom was safe.

“Wave,” Brynna said suddenly. She pointed toward the range, where Dad and the hands were feeding the cattle.

Sam waved, though there was no chance Dad, Pepper, and Ross saw her. She waved because Brynna had said it the way you would to a little kid, and it was funny.

A big truck idled amid the milling red and white cattle. Pepper drove slowly, while Dad stood on the flatbed trailer, pushing off bales so Ross could fill the hayracks in the winter pasture.

Black smoke spiraled from the back of the truck.

“That truck's burning oil,” Brynna said. Though they were past it, she looked in the rearview mirror and frowned.

Sam didn't ask for details. Brynna's expression said “burning oil” wasn't good. They couldn't afford a new hay truck and it might cost a lot to fix the old one.

Brynna shook her head and Sam could almost read her mind. There was no way Brynna could quit
her BLM position unless the HARP job was dependable. But when Brynna spoke next, she didn't say what Sam had been expecting.

“What are you going to tell Mrs. Santos?” Brynna asked.

Sam shrugged so vigorously that the shoulders of her new black sweater brushed her earlobes. “I'm just going to tell the truth. I have no idea what to do.”

“It wouldn't be so bad, working at the dump.” Brynna took one hand from the steering wheel and patted Sam's hands, which gripped each other in her lap. Her eyes still watched the road as she added, with a suspicious lilt in her voice, “At least the weather should be nice by then.”

 

The campus of Darton High was quiet. Most students wouldn't arrive until just before the first bell rang.

A flock of chickadees and sparrows took wing as Sam crossed the quad that separated the classrooms from the school office.

“What are you looking for, guys?” she asked as they scolded from the branches of a small tree.

Maybe worms, Sam thought. Though the grass wasn't crusted in old snow and ice like it was at home, everything underfoot looked brown and soggy.

The office doors were locked. Sam saw no secretaries inside when she peered through the windows.

She glanced at the faculty parking lot. It was
empty except for a single black sedan. Betting it belonged to Mrs. Santos, Sam knocked at the office door.

Mrs. Santos must have been listening for her knock. Wearing a long tweed skirt, white blouse, and black tailored jacket, the principal appeared on the other side of the glass. With a cordless phone clamped between her ear and shoulder, she opened the door and motioned Sam inside.

Sam slipped into the warm office and sat quietly while Mrs. Santos talked with someone about a burst pipe in the gym. Mrs. Santos tapped her fingernails on her desk and rolled her dark-brown eyes. Sam figured it would be just her luck if the frustrating conversation put the principal in a bad mood.

Sam heard the bustle of secretaries and students increase in the other parts of the office. By the time Mrs. Santos hung up, Sam had only ten minutes left before the bell rang for her first class.

“Okay, Sam,” Mrs. Santos said, finally. “I thought there'd be one more of us.”

Mrs. Santos paused at the sound of approaching feet.

Rachel Slocum peeked around the doorjamb of Mrs. Santos' office. Shiny, coffee-colored curls rushed over her shoulder, held by a velvet bow. She wore a flippy powder-blue skirt and a white blouse with a frill at the neck. There was a tiny stitched monogram, too.

Was Rachel here as a representative of the student council? Or had she failed to file a community service plan, too?