any nicer names for âem, honest.â
âMustangs,â Sam said, carefully. âWild horses.â
âOkay,â the boys said, together.
Sam turned around. It would be mean to lecture the boys, since they looked so scared.
She didnât hear another peep from them for several miles. When her stop came up, Sam stood and held the seat in front of her for balance. As the bus slowed, she pulled on her backpack. Two loud whispers came from behind her.
âShe got real fierce about those horses.â
âYeah, with all that crazy red hair, she looked like a lion!â
The bus braked, stopped, and Sam stepped out into the aisle. Before she left, she turned and fixed the two boys with the most threatening glare she could manage.
A lion. A chrysanthemum.
As she left the bus, Sam wondered what she really looked like. She didnât want to care.
Why couldnât she live like a horse? A horse didnât give a thought to the way it looked.
As she stepped off the last step of the bus and reached the ground, Sam took in a deep breath of desert air. The next best thing to being a horse was being with them.
The bus pulled away, leaving her alone in wild horse country.
Slow-footed and loose-jointed, Sam started walking for home. If the Phantom was watching, she wanted him to see no threat from her.
She peered at each clutter of boulders and cluster of sagebrush. She studied the eastern hills. From here, she could see the winter-grayed sagebrush was turning green, but she saw no horses.
Every few steps, she thought she heard a faint scuff. She stopped, listened, and looked back. She saw the high desert, beige and gray and white. She heard the fretting of quail, but there were no leaves to rustle and no insects to buzz.
She took three more steps, before she felt a warm, itching sensation between her shoulder blades. Then came a crunch. As she whirled to look again, she saw the horses.
Tiny and far off, the mares were scattered over the hillside like wildflowers. Half-grown colts and fillies moved among them. But they were too far away. The sound couldnât have been them.
Sam cupped a hand on each side of her face, around her eyes, trying to block out the desertâs glare.
The horses were eating, moving slowly over the rock-strewn slant, grabbing mouthfuls of short spring grass wherever they spotted it.
She looked higher on the hillside. The Phantom usually kept watch instead of eating, but she didnât see him.
Sam glanced at her watch. It was a silly thing to do. She was going to cross the road and walk toward the hillside whether she had time or not.
A snort, loud and accusing, made her stop.
The snort hadnât carried to her on the wind. It came from behind her. She didnât move, but the horse did.
A hoof struck the alkali flat.
Sam looked down. Her shadow showed black on the white playa, but she wasnât alone. A bigger shadow overlapped hers.
How could he have materialized out of the desert air?
Every single step from the bus stop, sheâd watched for him.
He couldnât be there, and yet she knew he was. She could smell his leathery sweet scent. She felt heat radiate from his big body. Her thoughts couldnât have wished him into being, and yetâ¦
She studied the shadow again. The horseâs outline showed no rider.
Her pulse beat fast and wild. No mustang except the Phantom would have followed her.
âZanzibar,â she whispered.
The low nicker said he knew his secret name. She felt his warm breath through her shirt.
Could she turn and face him? Sam ached to look at the horse close up and see how heâd come through the hard winter. Was he too close? Would he shy and gallop away? It had happened before, but Sam had to risk it.
Moving an inch at a time, she turned her head right, letting it lead her shoulder and her foot. Measuring each movement by the sound of the stallionâs breathing, she managed to turn three-quarters of the
âMustangs,â Sam said, carefully. âWild horses.â
âOkay,â the boys said, together.
Sam turned around. It would be mean to lecture the boys, since they looked so scared.
She didnât hear another peep from them for several miles. When her stop came up, Sam stood and held the seat in front of her for balance. As the bus slowed, she pulled on her backpack. Two loud whispers came from behind her.
âShe got real fierce about those horses.â
âYeah, with all that crazy red hair, she looked like a lion!â
The bus braked, stopped, and Sam stepped out into the aisle. Before she left, she turned and fixed the two boys with the most threatening glare she could manage.
A lion. A chrysanthemum.
As she left the bus, Sam wondered what she really looked like. She didnât want to care.
Why couldnât she live like a horse? A horse didnât give a thought to the way it looked.
As she stepped off the last step of the bus and reached the ground, Sam took in a deep breath of desert air. The next best thing to being a horse was being with them.
The bus pulled away, leaving her alone in wild horse country.
Slow-footed and loose-jointed, Sam started walking for home. If the Phantom was watching, she wanted him to see no threat from her.
She peered at each clutter of boulders and cluster of sagebrush. She studied the eastern hills. From here, she could see the winter-grayed sagebrush was turning green, but she saw no horses.
Every few steps, she thought she heard a faint scuff. She stopped, listened, and looked back. She saw the high desert, beige and gray and white. She heard the fretting of quail, but there were no leaves to rustle and no insects to buzz.
She took three more steps, before she felt a warm, itching sensation between her shoulder blades. Then came a crunch. As she whirled to look again, she saw the horses.
Tiny and far off, the mares were scattered over the hillside like wildflowers. Half-grown colts and fillies moved among them. But they were too far away. The sound couldnât have been them.
Sam cupped a hand on each side of her face, around her eyes, trying to block out the desertâs glare.
The horses were eating, moving slowly over the rock-strewn slant, grabbing mouthfuls of short spring grass wherever they spotted it.
She looked higher on the hillside. The Phantom usually kept watch instead of eating, but she didnât see him.
Sam glanced at her watch. It was a silly thing to do. She was going to cross the road and walk toward the hillside whether she had time or not.
A snort, loud and accusing, made her stop.
The snort hadnât carried to her on the wind. It came from behind her. She didnât move, but the horse did.
A hoof struck the alkali flat.
Sam looked down. Her shadow showed black on the white playa, but she wasnât alone. A bigger shadow overlapped hers.
How could he have materialized out of the desert air?
Every single step from the bus stop, sheâd watched for him.
He couldnât be there, and yet she knew he was. She could smell his leathery sweet scent. She felt heat radiate from his big body. Her thoughts couldnât have wished him into being, and yetâ¦
She studied the shadow again. The horseâs outline showed no rider.
Her pulse beat fast and wild. No mustang except the Phantom would have followed her.
âZanzibar,â she whispered.
The low nicker said he knew his secret name. She felt his warm breath through her shirt.
Could she turn and face him? Sam ached to look at the horse close up and see how heâd come through the hard winter. Was he too close? Would he shy and gallop away? It had happened before, but Sam had to risk it.
Moving an inch at a time, she turned her head right, letting it lead her shoulder and her foot. Measuring each movement by the sound of the stallionâs breathing, she managed to turn three-quarters of the
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