The Wild One by Terri Farley Page A

it?” Sam asked.
    Jake lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
    â€œSince our cattle drive ran right along the Calico Mountains,” Dad said, “I suppose he’s thinking the wild band you two saw has been trapped. Is that it, Jake?”
    Sam’s mind swarmed with images of the Phantom running across the range, with Slocum in pursuit.
    â€œCould be,” Jake said, but before he went on, the red-haired woman interrupted.
    â€œHello,” she said. “Are you thinking about adopting a wild horse?”
    Now that the woman stood closer, Sam saw her name tag read “B. Olson.” She had freckles. The sun lines around her blue eyes said she spent more time outside than in the beige office building.
    â€œJust looking,” Dad said.
    The woman glanced away to take in the truck’s Nevada license plates.
    â€œWe don’t get many adoptions from local people,” said B. Olson.
    â€œWe have a fair number of mustangs running on our ranch,” Dad explained.
    The redhead picked up on Dad’s apologetic tone. “Have a look around,” she invited, pointing out which corrals held mares, foals, and stallions. “And if you have any questions about the animals, just ask.”
    â€œAre they all wild horses?” Sam blurted.
    Dad and the BLM woman looked puzzled.
    â€œYes, BLM is only charged with protecting free-roaming horses and burros.” The redhead spoke slowly, as if she didn’t want to mention Sam wasn’t too smart.
    Sam felt embarrassed, but she needed a plan before explaining her question.
    At the risk of sounding even dumber, she asked another question. “What if a horse was free-roaming but not a mustang?”
    â€œLike a domestic animal turned free?”
    â€œOr one that escaped,” Sam said.
    The woman nodded, catching on. “We look for signs of domestication. Marks from the nose band of a halter, maybe.” She sounded so proper, it surprised Sam when the woman rubbed the bridge of her own nose. “And we have a brand inspector with us when we capture horses. Branded animals are declared ‘estray.’ A second brand inspector checks horses before they’re adopted, too, just to be sure.”
    Sam pretended to study a sorrel mare with white socks, but she was thinking, The Phantom may not have a brand, but he’s mine.
    â€œAnd if there isn’t a brand?” Sam heard Dad’sboots shift as he listened.
    â€œNo lip tattoo or ear crop, either?” the woman asked, and Sam nodded. “The person claiming the animal might supply registration papers if the horse were a purebred—or convincing photographs.”
    Sam’s spirits soared, then crashed. She had a photograph taken when her colt was eighteen months old, but she wouldn’t call it convincing. In that picture, his coat was coal black.
    â€œWhat about a scar?” Jake asked. Sam knew he’d remembered the mark from Slocum’s rope. “Could someone get a horse back by explaining a scar?”
    â€œNot a chance.” The woman brushed away the suggestion as if it were a pesky fly. “Anyone could tell a story about a scar.” She peered past the three of them toward the road, then turned to Dad. “You must be missing a horse.”
    â€œNot a one.” Dad didn’t give Sam a stern look, but she heard displeasure in his voice.
    Miss Olson shrugged, then glanced toward an approaching cloud of dust. “That rumbling means it’s time to return to work. This drought’s caused us a couple of emergency gathers. If you’ll excuse me.”
    Sam watched the woman go. Sam didn’t trust her formality and she didn’t like the way Miss Olson kept referring to horses as “animals.” Even though they were.
    As everyone turned to see the approaching vehicles, Sam noticed a cowboy who looked familiar. Notthe bearded man she’d started thinking of as Bale Tosser, nor the clipboard man, but another