Gypsy Gold by Terri Farley Page B

losing—or selling off—the last remaining stallion from the herd.”
    â€œBut that didn’t happen,” Sam said.
    The BLM hadn’t known Blue’s herd was almost pure Spanish, descended from the horses conquistadors brought to the New World centuries ago, when the herd was rounded up. The BLM had declared the horses’ territory too sparsely vegetated to sustain them through winter.
    How could people accuse the BLM of losing orselling off the last remaining stallion when he—Blue—and his yearling colt had been gelded and adopted?
    â€œYou told me one of the mares from that Good Thunder Meadows bunch died,” Dad said slowly. “And when you got interested in the bloodlines, because of Blue, your boss put you in charge of tracking down her missing foal…” Dad’s voice faded as he stared at the dun colt and shook his head.
    â€œDo you think that’s him?” Sam asked.
    â€œHoney, that’s a terrible long shot,” Dad told Brynna, but suddenly Sam knew it wasn’t.
    Dad had researched the place Blue had come from. Good Thunder Meadows had earned its name because an ex-cavalryman had lived in that high mountain valley and when a severe winter left his Indian neighbors hungry, he’d used his rifle to bring down game for food. They’d named the sound of his rifle “good thunder.”
    Now, Sam remembered the glow of firelight on Nicolas’s face as he’d told her and Jen that the foal had showed up in the area of Good Thunder Meadows.
    â€œDon’t you think it would look pretty fishy if I’m investigating the colt’s disappearance and he ends up here?” Brynna asked. “This is not a good time for me to be in possession of stolen government property. Norman’s certainly read the description. He’ll recognize the colt just like I did.”
    â€œThat’s not going to happen,” Dad said soothingly. “At least not right away.”
    â€œIt might, since your mother”—Brynna wore a wry smile as she tapped Dad’s chest with her index finger—“asked Norman White over for lunch. He’ll be here any minute.”

Chapter Twelve
    I f Nicolas felt three pairs of eyes watching him as he stood beside Lace at the water trough, he didn’t show it. He sang to his horse, soothing her with the same melody he’d used in the forest the night before. Even though the darkness and trees had given way to a sunlit ranch, the words gave Sam chills.
    â€œGypsy gold does not clink and glitter, oh no,” Nicolas’s voice soared, even without the violin to guide it. “It gleams in the sun and neighs in the dark, ah yes.”
    â€œHis voice.” Brynna uttered the words in awe.
    â€œThe tune reminds me of that old song,” Dad said, and silently snapped his fingers as if the gesture would bring the title to mind. And it did. “‘OhShenandoah,’ is that what it’s called?”
    â€œIt has that same lonely quality,” Brynna said, but she used a dismissive tone. When she glanced toward the bridge over the La Charla River and the highway beyond it, Sam knew her stepmother’s attitude wasn’t linked to Nicolas’s song. “But right now, before we have more company, I need to have a look at that colt’s forehead. The one that got away had a distinctive marking.”
    Sam didn’t know how they were going to do this without making Nicolas feel like he was suspected of something, but somehow Brynna managed.
    Maybe her big belly and bouncy ponytail didn’t look threatening, Sam thought. And maybe Nicolas would have reacted differently if Brynna had been wearing her uniform, but she wasn’t. After admiring Lace and Nicolas’s ambitious trek down the West Coast, she told him the little dun might be the orphan colt of a Spanish Mustang mare from a desolate area near the Oregon border.
    â€œIt sounds like him,”