once thought they were, terrifying Pirate or Gabeâwhoever arrived firstâbefore she could recapture them.
Because she didnât want Mrs. Allen to think she planned on sleeping in the house, Sam piled her gear by the corral. It would be great to bed down outside, near the horses. Even as he drowsed, the injured colt would catch her scent and know she meant him no harm. She was just part of his herd. At least, temporarily.
Sam strode away from the ranch yard toward the tree house that had been built for Mrs. Allenâs children. It was weird to think that Gabrielâs mother had probably sat up in this tree house, having picnics,maybe, or daydreaming she lived in the turret of a castle. She never could have guessed that some stranger named Samantha Forster would sit here, waiting to meet her injured son.
Except, that wasnât the main point, Sam thought a bit guiltily. She hoped Dr. Scott arrived first with the colt.
There was no sign of anyone yet.
From the tree house, Sam could see Mrs. Allenâs houseâgardens and studio in one direction and the blackened fields in the other. The La Charla River ran along one edge of the Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary. Its other boundaries were marked by brown-red fences Sam had painted herself. To the east, she saw the stairstep mesas leading up to the Calico Mountains and felt her pulse speed up as if sheâd begun sprinting toward them.
The Phantomâs secret valley lay hidden in those mountains. The silver stallion roamed this territory more often than he did the range surrounding River Bend.
Sam crossed her fingers on both hands. It was totally sappy, totally illogical, and contrary to all she knew about stallions, but she hoped the Phantom would come say good-bye to his son.
Later, Sam glanced at her watch.
Thirty minutes had passed and the road was still empty.
Had Dr. Scott had trouble loading the colt? Eventranquilized, Pirate wasnât likely to welcome the trailerâs confinement. Sam swallowed, imagining his fear with walls on each side. The truckâs engine would sound like a roaring beast he couldnât see out the front window, and heâd have no room to turn and see what was behind.
Suddenly, Sam saw Mrs. Allenâs truck. From this distance, she imagined it was a meteor the size of a bowling ball, speeding this way to roll right over her. This could be a strange week.
Mrs. Allen was often cranky and picky, even about things that didnât matter. And Gabe mattered to her more than anything.
The one time Sam had talked with Gabe, heâd sounded smart and sure of himself, but bitter. He loved soccer and the accident had robbed him of another winning season.
Was it selfish to hope theyâd both just leave her alone with Pirate? Yeah, it was.
Samâs hands tightened into fists as the orange truck drew nearer. It approached slowly, barely disturbing the dust cloud rising from the laneâs powdery dirt.
âShoot, Grandma, you didnât have to go so slow. You give new meaning to the words âdriving me crazy.ââ
The male voice that drifted to Sam in the tree house was half gruff jock and half little kid.
They hadnât left the truck yet, so the windowsmust be rolled down. Which meant she was sort of eavesdropping.
âHi!â Sam shouted as she climbed down the tree house ladder, but neither of them seemed to hear.
âI got lots of your favorite foods,â Mrs. Allen was saying. âFried chicken, TV dinners, and green beans to make with onion rings on top.â
âItâs so hot, Grandma, sandwiches are fine with me,â the voice said.
Even though Mrs. Allen was no cook, it sounded as if she wanted to do her best for her grandson. Added to what Gram had sent, theyâd be eating well all week long, Sam thought.
âHi!â Sam called again.
This time Mrs. Allen must have heard her, because sheâd climbed down from the truck. She looked as she always
Because she didnât want Mrs. Allen to think she planned on sleeping in the house, Sam piled her gear by the corral. It would be great to bed down outside, near the horses. Even as he drowsed, the injured colt would catch her scent and know she meant him no harm. She was just part of his herd. At least, temporarily.
Sam strode away from the ranch yard toward the tree house that had been built for Mrs. Allenâs children. It was weird to think that Gabrielâs mother had probably sat up in this tree house, having picnics,maybe, or daydreaming she lived in the turret of a castle. She never could have guessed that some stranger named Samantha Forster would sit here, waiting to meet her injured son.
Except, that wasnât the main point, Sam thought a bit guiltily. She hoped Dr. Scott arrived first with the colt.
There was no sign of anyone yet.
From the tree house, Sam could see Mrs. Allenâs houseâgardens and studio in one direction and the blackened fields in the other. The La Charla River ran along one edge of the Blind Faith Mustang Sanctuary. Its other boundaries were marked by brown-red fences Sam had painted herself. To the east, she saw the stairstep mesas leading up to the Calico Mountains and felt her pulse speed up as if sheâd begun sprinting toward them.
The Phantomâs secret valley lay hidden in those mountains. The silver stallion roamed this territory more often than he did the range surrounding River Bend.
Sam crossed her fingers on both hands. It was totally sappy, totally illogical, and contrary to all she knew about stallions, but she hoped the Phantom would come say good-bye to his son.
Later, Sam glanced at her watch.
Thirty minutes had passed and the road was still empty.
Had Dr. Scott had trouble loading the colt? Eventranquilized, Pirate wasnât likely to welcome the trailerâs confinement. Sam swallowed, imagining his fear with walls on each side. The truckâs engine would sound like a roaring beast he couldnât see out the front window, and heâd have no room to turn and see what was behind.
Suddenly, Sam saw Mrs. Allenâs truck. From this distance, she imagined it was a meteor the size of a bowling ball, speeding this way to roll right over her. This could be a strange week.
Mrs. Allen was often cranky and picky, even about things that didnât matter. And Gabe mattered to her more than anything.
The one time Sam had talked with Gabe, heâd sounded smart and sure of himself, but bitter. He loved soccer and the accident had robbed him of another winning season.
Was it selfish to hope theyâd both just leave her alone with Pirate? Yeah, it was.
Samâs hands tightened into fists as the orange truck drew nearer. It approached slowly, barely disturbing the dust cloud rising from the laneâs powdery dirt.
âShoot, Grandma, you didnât have to go so slow. You give new meaning to the words âdriving me crazy.ââ
The male voice that drifted to Sam in the tree house was half gruff jock and half little kid.
They hadnât left the truck yet, so the windowsmust be rolled down. Which meant she was sort of eavesdropping.
âHi!â Sam shouted as she climbed down the tree house ladder, but neither of them seemed to hear.
âI got lots of your favorite foods,â Mrs. Allen was saying. âFried chicken, TV dinners, and green beans to make with onion rings on top.â
âItâs so hot, Grandma, sandwiches are fine with me,â the voice said.
Even though Mrs. Allen was no cook, it sounded as if she wanted to do her best for her grandson. Added to what Gram had sent, theyâd be eating well all week long, Sam thought.
âHi!â Sam called again.
This time Mrs. Allen must have heard her, because sheâd climbed down from the truck. She looked as she always
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