Rain Dance by Terri Farley Page A

about her world.”
    â€œOkay,” Sam said. “But I’m putting them in before dark.”
    To Sam, the horses seemed too exposed. She kept picturing the cougars that had prowled the ridge the previous winter. Those particular cats were gone now, but what if more were nearby? She should have asked Jake to check for paw prints.
    Fragile and shining like black satin, Tempest stood between Sunny and the fence closest to the ridge trail, where the cougars had come down. An adult cougar could leap the fence.
    With nightmarish logic, Sam decided a cougar couldn’t carry the foal back over the fence. But she wasn’t sure. The big cats were amazing athletes. And someone—Brynna, Jake, or Dad—had told her thatcolt meat was a cougar’s favorite.
    â€œYou’re shivering like it’s January, not June,” the vet said. “They’re gonna be just fine.”
    Sam only hoped he was right, because if she’d learned anything living on a ranch, it was that anything could happen.

Chapter Twelve
    N o monsters came at midnight.
    Or two A.M .
    Or four.
    By the time Mrs. Coley woke Sam at six thirty the next morning, the mare and foal had slept and nursed their way through ten peaceful hours.
    For Sam, wearing a pink T-shirt and lightweight sweatpants to sleep on the cot turned out to be more restful than the soggy socks and jeans she’d worn the night before.
    Instead of waking to a shadow lurking above her as she had yesterday, Sam awoke to a whisper.
    â€œButtermilk donuts.”
    Mrs. Coley was standing nearby holding a whitesaucer and a blue mug.
    â€œWhat?” Sam sat up so quickly, the cot wiggled, and Mrs. Coley had to step back.
    She didn’t move so far away, though, that Sam couldn’t see the tender pastry circles with wisps of steam rising toward the barn rafters.
    â€œIf you’re a ranch woman,” Sam said, yawning, “are you required to be a good cook?”
    â€œIt helps,” Mrs. Coley said, seating herself on a hay bale.
    â€œWhat if you want to spend all your time working with horses and cattle and stuff like that instead?”
    â€œYou’ve still got to eat,” Mrs. Coley said. “Good thing about cooking is you’re forced to practice every day. And the more thought you put into it, the better it tastes. Grace told me you’ve made a pretty good start on lasagna.”
    Sam smiled, took a donut, and bit into it.
    â€œYummy,” she said, but she was thinking that Mrs. Coley might be right. Maybe she could do both, like her mother had.
    â€œYour mare was my inspiration for the donuts,” Mrs. Coley said.
    Sam laughed, confused.
    â€œWhen I was a little girl, my favorite television show starred Roy Rogers and Dale Evans—the queen of the cowgirls,” Mrs. Coley explained. “Dale wore a fancy fringed leather skirt and rode a buckskin horse named Buttermilk.”
    â€œQueen of the Cowgirls” was a title she wouldn’t mind having, Sam thought, but she’d have to earn it after breakfast.
    Sam took the blue mug, sipped, then licked a powdered-sugar-and-cocoa mustache from her lips.
    â€œThank heavens for Dale Evans,” she said with a sigh.
    â€œYou’re certainly a lot more chipper than you were yesterday,” Mrs. Coley said. “Think you can handle the day alone?”
    â€œOf course!” Sam said. A night’s sleep had calmed her worries over cougars in the yard and prowlers in the house.
    â€œI need to get back to the Gold Dust,” Mrs. Coley said. “Ryan surely would have called if he was concerned about the colt, but there was another little problem brewing yesterday and I’d like to be there to head it off.”
    â€œSomething to do with the horses?” Sam asked.
    â€œNothing like that,” Mrs. Coley said. “Rachel is bored.”
    Sam wasn’t surprised. The most popular girl at Darton High School probably felt neglected after a