The Wild One by Terri Farley

did you think I was doing?”
    â€œNever mind. Sorry I’ve been such a scold. I do that when I’m worried.” Gram kissed Sam’s cheek as Jake honked the truck horn outside. “You run along now, and have a good time.”
    Sam bolted out the front door and nearly collided with Dad.
    â€œGram talk to you?” Dad nodded toward the kitchen.
    â€œYes,” Sam said. “But I don’t know what about.”
    Dad gazed toward the river, looking embarrassed. “She thought you and Jake might be up to something.”
    â€œJake,” Sam said, slowly, “and me?” A blush heated her cheeks. “Jake and me?”
    Why would Gram think she was sneaking out to meet Jake? Jake was like a brother. Almost.
    â€œGuess she was way off base.” Dad pulled at his hat brim.
    â€œI was looking at the horses, Dad. It’s the horses I missed while I was in San Francisco.”
    Dad smiled and opened the truck door. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but the three of us can fit. Slide on in,” he said, indicating she’d be sandwiched between him and Jake in the truck cab. “And hang on tight.”
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    Jake wasn’t a bad driver, but the road to the Willow Springs Wild Horse Center made Sam appreciate her seat belt. The road’s surface was like rock-hard corduroy and her teeth hammered together as they swooped through the high desert.
    â€œDad,” Sam said, suddenly. “I forgot to ask Gram to give Buddy her bottle.”
    â€œI’m sure she’ll think of it when that calf starts bawling.” Dad must have thought she looked worried, because he added, “Gram’s working out in her vegetable garden. That’s not far from the barn. I think she’ll hear Buddy just fine.”
    â€œYeah.” Sam bit her bottom lip. She didn’t tell Dad she’d put Buddy out into the pasture, but since it was only a few yards farther from the garden, it probably wouldn’t matter.
    Suddenly the road slanted uphill.
    â€œThis next part’s called Thread the Needle. We’re almost there.” Jake slowed slightly as the road narrowed, leaving just enough room for the truck as steep cliffs fell away on each side.
    â€œLook hard and you’ll see River Bend.” Jake took a hand from the steering wheel to gesture down the cliff.
    Sam didn’t enjoy looking down, but she saw the river, glinting silver-blue in the distance. Between here and there, a maze of trails marked the steep hillside.
    â€œAntelope paths,” Dad said, his finger showing how they zigzagged through sagebrush and rocks.
    Then the road slanted downhill and the Willow Springs Center was spread before them. To Sam, it looked like a patchwork quilt with pipe fencing for stitching.
    Sam’s stomach tightened as they drove slowly past the pens. On her right horses moved away from the fences. On her left stood an office building and a parking lot for three white trucks with “U.S. Government” stenciled on their doors. Ahead, horses waited as a huge bearded man broke open bales of hay.
    Why did she feel nervous, when everything seemed normal? The pens looked clean. The horses weren’t crowded. A hill in each corral insured rain would run off before the mustangs stood in deep mud. Nothing was wrong.
    Sam noticed two mares standing head-to-tail, eyes half closed as their tails swished flies from each others’ faces. Then she recognized what was wrong. These “wild” horses looked tame.
    A door slammed and a trim red-haired woman in a crisp khaki uniform left the office building.
    â€œHey,” she called to a bespectacled man standing at a corral with a clipboard. “We have thirty headcoming in from the Calico Range.”
    â€œReady,” he answered, gesturing toward three empty corrals.
    Sam heard Jake draw a breath. Clearly he’d listened, too. Something the two BLM officials had said surprised him.
    â€œWhat is