Kidnapped Colt (3 page)

“He's only a few weeks old,” Sam protested.

“I know. I'm afraid he'll be perpetually timid.” Ryan stared away from the corral, past River Bend's bridge. “Hotspot is his only family. Take him away too young and he'll have no one but me.” Ryan gave a short, mocking laugh. “And I'm the last one who could teach him what it means to be a Western horse.”

“Ryan…” Sam began, but Ryan motioned her to wait.

“All the same, I agreed to early weaning, because it seemed the safest route.”

Safest?
Sam didn't like the sound of that.

“This morning, I was supposed to take Hotspot
back to Sterling Stables without Boots.”

Ryan cleared his throat, then he gripped both of Sam's shoulders.

She would have twisted away if he hadn't looked down into her eyes with desperation.

“This morning, before I left, my father was on the telephone telling someone that the easiest way to ‘wean' Boots was to
cull
him.”

“What did he mean by that?” Sam asked, but her heart was already plummeting.

Linc Slocum had scarred the Phantom's neck and caused much of the stallion's dislike for humans. What would he do to a “mongrel” foal like Shy Boots?

“He wants to have Boots destroyed.”

Horror slashed through Sam's imagination. She thought of bullets, syringes full of poison…. But when her eyes settled on Shy Boots, she realized it wouldn't take much to end his new life.

“Please,” Ryan said, when Sam stayed silent. “Help me hide them where my father won't think to look. I wouldn't ask, Samantha, but you're my only hope.”

H
iding horses wasn't the same as stealing them, but would her dad see the difference? Sam didn't think so.

“Won't that just delay the problem?” she asked Ryan.

“I think not,” Ryan said with sudden confidence. “For two reasons. First, the time for breeding Hotspot will be past. Second, my father is certain to lose interest.” Ryan's lips twisted into a mocking smile. “You may have noticed Father's passion for projects is rather short-lived.”

Ryan was right.

“It might work,” Sam agreed. “But you don't need me—”

“Ah, but I do. I can't find the box canyon you and Jennifer discovered. Not alone.”

“I don't know,” Sam said, stalling.

“She told me it has shade and water, everything they'd need to wait this out.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. She and Jen
had
found a shady box canyon big enough to hold a few cattle, and it was silly to feel jealous over Jen telling him about it. “It's up near High Grass Canyon, halfway to Cowkiller Caldera, but…”

Ryan forced the fingers of one hand through his dark hair, looking worried. He loved his horses and she wanted to help him, but this felt wrong.

“Ryan, I know the canyon sounds like a solution, but I'm not sure it's safe. There are predators up there. Cougars, coyotes—” Sam stopped, shaking her head. Did Jen really think this was a good idea? “And it's right on the edge of the Phantom's territory.”

“Oh, not that fable again,” Ryan said.

Fine, Sam thought. She'd let Ryan believe her silver stallion was imaginary. The Phantom would be safer that way.

Suddenly Ryan fixed Sam with a stare.

“You do know there's blood on your face,” he said.

“It doesn't hurt,” Sam snapped.

She glared at Ryan. Was he grossed out by a spot of blood? Did he think embarrassing her would make her more likely to go along?

“I'm sorry,” Ryan said, at last. “I don't know why
I brought that up. I'm awfully attached to Boots and my feelings are in a tangle.”

He continued, “You're right, of course, that stallions gather mares. But how can I listen to prattle about magical horses when Boots's life is at stake?”

“I never said he was magical,” Sam insisted. “But he's strong. If he or any wild stallion wanted to add Hotspot to his herd, no fence would stop him.”

Sam pictured New Moon, the Phantom's pure black son, and Yellow Tail, a wild chestnut stallion. Either horse could leap a fence, then use nips and neighs to drive Hotspot and Shy Boots away.

“It happened to her once before,” Sam reminded Ryan. “Diablo herded her right off Gold Dust Ranch.”

“You may be right,” Ryan conceded.

I am right
, Sam thought, but Ryan had grown up in England. Her descriptions of wild horses and mountain lions probably sounded like Wild West fantasies to him.

“I agree there's an element of danger in my plan,” Ryan admitted, “but it's worth the risk. And I'll take full responsibility.”

“Promise?” Sam asked.

“You have my word on it,” Ryan said. “All you have to do is lead me there.”

As Sam watched, Tempest walked close enough to the sleeping Shy Boots to nibble his fluffy mane.

C'mon, wake up,
she seemed to say, but she was gentle.

“All right,” Sam said at last. “I'll do it if my father agrees. He and Brynna should be back in a couple hours.”

Agitated, Ryan looked at his silver watch as if he had an appointment to keep.

“We don't have a couple of hours,” Ryan insisted.

“What's the difference, if—”

“It's only three hours from here to Winnemucca and my father's a fast driver. If he gets back, wonders why I'm taking so long delivering Hotspot, and notices Boots is gone, the entire effort of bringing them to you is wasted. Boots will be destroyed anyway. The only difference is, you will have thrown away a chance to save him.”

“Me? That's not fair.”

“Sam, do you think it's easy for me to beg for your help?” Ryan set his jaw.

His expression said he'd expected more of her, but Sam knew she was right. Blaming her wasn't fair.

Sam ran back through all the reasons why she shouldn't go along with Ryan. She crossed her arms and stared at the ground. If she looked at Shy Boots, she knew she'd weaken.

Because Linc was so cruel, she could ignore the feeling that she was almost stealing the horses.

But what about the cougars and coyotes?

Jen was a science whiz. If she thought the horses would be safe, maybe she was right.

Sam sighed and looked at her own watch.

“What about this,” Ryan countered. “I'll just hide them there until morning.”

“Predators hunt at dusk,” Sam said.

No matter what Jen thought, Sam was afraid of cougars. She'd been the intended prey of one and the memory was never far away.

Her muscles tightened, as if she could feel the crash of the young cougar against her back. It hadn't been the cat's fault, but that moment had been the most frightening of her life.

Shy Boots wouldn't survive such an attack. Even if Hotspot fought for his life, she was a stable-bred horse and no match for a wild animal with slashing teeth and claws. Even mustang mares lost foals to hungry cougars.

“Help me do this now and I'll talk with Father as soon as he returns from Winnemucca. I'll make him understand, then bring the horses home before the sun goes down. If I fail, I'll stay overnight with them,” Ryan promised.

“You will?” Sam asked, surprised.

She tried to meet his eyes, but Ryan looked down.

He really loved Hotspot and Shy Boots, Sam thought. He must be hiding tears.

“All right,” Sam said. “But we have to hurry.”

Minutes later, Hotspot and Boots had been reloaded into the trailer, Sam had gathered a staple gun and a roll of plastic fence, and she was giving thanks that she hadn't run into Dallas while she was
gathering them. But she still had to face Gram. If she sneaked away without saying where she was going, she'd be grounded for life.

Since Gram was busy baking for the HARP girls' arrival, maybe she'd be too distracted to pay close attention. Hoping so, Sam started talking the minute she opened the kitchen door.

“Gram, I'm going to help Ryan—”

Gram blew a wisp of gray hair away from her eyes as she turned, holding a sheet of cookies she'd just taken from the oven.

“My word, what have you done to your cheek?”

Gram set the hot cookie sheet down with a clatter.

“It's nothing. In fact, I forgot all about it. I hurt it when I was working with Tempest,” Sam admitted.

“Go wash your face. Then, bring me the hydrogen peroxide, some gauze, and”—Gram frowned in concentration, clearly judging the size of the cut—“a big Band-Aid should do it.”

“Ryan needs me to—” Sam began.

“Ryan can wait. I don't want you getting some sort of infection.” Gram reached for a spatula. “Besides, he'll forget his impatience when you bring him some cookies.”

Without another protest, Sam did as Gram asked.

She turned on the water and was about to splash her face when she saw her image in the bathroom mirror. No wonder Dallas, Ryan, and Gram had all mentioned the injury.

“Yuck,” she told her reflection.

Tempest's hoof had sliced an inch-long cut over her cheekbone. The spot was swollen and dusty. Blood had smeared all around it.

She gingerly dabbed water to tidy the wound. When it was pretty clean, she descended the stairs, not really looking forward to Gram's tending.

“Where are you two going?” Gram asked, after she'd squeezed a stinging fizz of peroxide over the cut, wiped it, and smoothed on a bandage.

“He wants me to show him how to get to High Grass Canyon,” Sam explained, moving her cheek experimentally. It felt stiff, but it didn't hurt.

“You could draw him a map, but I'm sure that wouldn't be half as much fun,” Gram mused. “Leave those things and I'll put them away,” she said, waving toward the first aid supplies. “You just worry about hurrying home.”

With that, Gram turned her attention back to baking.

One minute later, Sam was sitting in the front seat of Ryan's truck, watching him munch oatmeal cookies as the truck bumped over the bridge and onto the highway.

“I promised to be back before Brynna and Dad get here with the new HARP girls,” Sam warned.

“You will be,” Ryan vowed.

Sam was examining her puffy cheek in the truck's
rearview mirror, when Ryan leaned to one side and his image replaced hers.

At first she thought he was looking at himself, but his hopeful expression surprised her.

She turned toward him and saw his hand lift to wave.

The truck coming toward them was huge and yellow. She didn't recognize the driver as it passed by.

“Who's that?” she asked.

“Karl Mannix.”

It took a minute for Sam to remember the name.

“The guy who sold your dad the deerhounds?” Sam asked. “Are you friends?”

Just last week, the Louisiana deerhounds had caused Dad's horse to fall with him. Not long after that, the hounds had cornered a mustang foal. Deer-hunting dogs were illegal in Nevada, but only the near disasters had convinced Linc to send them back where they belonged.

“No, we're not friends. Why would you think that? He just works for my father. He's supposed to be a cowboy,” Ryan said dubiously, “but I heard Jed Kenworthy tell Mrs. Cole that ‘this fella Karl' was supposed to be a cattle expert who raised black Angus.” Ryan pronounced the name of the breed of cattle uncertainly. “Then Jed added that Mr. Mannix knew more about stocks and bonds than livestock.”

Sam made an understanding noise.

She guessed she'd misinterpreted Ryan's expression. Even though he was new to Nevada, he understood that cowboying took skills most people didn't have.

Driving over the foothills between War Drum Flats and Arroyo Azul took no time at all in the truck, but the terrain began changing from alkali flats and sagebrush to pinion pine–covered slopes. Riding this wild country on horseback was easier than tackling it with a truck and trailer.

As they hit a washboard-rutted bit of road, Sam's cheek ached. She should have taken some aspirin to ward off the soreness.

“Hold on,” Ryan warned, but Sam wasn't prepared for the swerve that slammed her against the passenger side door.

“Sorry. I was trying to miss that rut,” he explained.

The road had narrowed to a rough trail.

When she and Jen had ridden here, the horses had stepped around the rain-sculpted washouts and small rock slides.

“We're getting close,” she told Ryan.

“And a good thing. This is becoming somewhat tricky.”

Ryan slowed the Jeep to a crawl. Still, hardened furrows of mud shook the vehicle, making her cheek twinge each time, but it was the worried shifting of hooves in the trailer behind them that
made her want to stop.

“It's only another mile or so to the box canyon,” Sam said, looking up the hillside. “Shall we lead them in?”

“Great idea,” Ryan said.

Avoiding a boulder with a white scuff across its face, Ryan pulled the truck to the right side of the road, put on the emergency brake so the Jeep wouldn't roll backward down the steep hill, and turned the key to “off.”

Unnerved by the bumpy ride, Hotspot backed out of the trailer at full speed, knocking Ryan aside before he reached her lead.

But Sam was quick enough to snag the leather strap.

“Got her,” Sam said.

Hotspot danced in place, lifting her knees and flaring her nostrils. After a few breaths, she seemed reassured.

Ears flicking, the Appaloosa inspected her surroundings, oblivious to Shy Boots's anxious nickers.

The colt stayed in the trailer until Ryan walked inside, looped a soft rope around his neck, and led him out.

“He leads?” Sam said.

Ryan had simply looped the rope around the colt's neck. He'd used no halter, no knots even, and Boots had followed him like a pet poodle.

Recalling the bucking fuss Tempest had put up, Sam could hardly believe it.

“Yes, he leads quite nicely,” Ryan boasted. When he let the rope slip free, Shy Boots bolted forward to nudge Hotspot with his chocolate-brown nose.

Quite nicely,
Sam's mind mimicked, but she couldn't picture herself asking Ryan for training tips.

“She's not afraid.” Ryan smoothed his hand over the mare's sleek neck. “In England, I rode a big dappled beast of a horse named Voyager. He took any jump I put him at. Apparently, though, he'd never been out of sight of stables and riding rings.

“On a lark, I decided to try him over a cross-country course. He wouldn't even begin. He simply froze up. All four legs went stiff at the sight of forest and rolling hills.”

“You'd think he'd just want to run,” Sam said.

When she rode Ace, one glimpse of the wide range made him fight the bit, eager to gallop. But as she waited for Ryan's response, he seemed more uneasy than Hotspot.

That probably made sense, considering the mare had run the open range once before.

The first time she'd seen Hotspot, Sam had been riding with Jake near War Drum Flats. They'd spotted an elegant horse van as its driver unloaded the Appaloosa before starting to fix a flat tire. They'd offered to help, and while Sam held the mare, the
Phantom had appeared.

The silver stallion hadn't been bold enough to gallop down and introduce himself. Instead, he'd played hide-and-seek from the foothills, while the fascinated mare watched.

“You lead Hotspot and I'll wrestle this,” Ryan said, interrupting the memory. He hefted the roll of orange plastic fencing over one shoulder and gripped the staple gun in the other. Then he glanced back down the trail, toward the highway, as if he was worried he'd been followed.