The Wild One by Terri Farley Page B

man. His long, drooping mustache reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t recall whom.
    A huge truck labored up the road, but another truck, smaller than the other one and pulling a roomy gooseneck horse trailer, came first. Miss Olson started to walk away, then paused.
    â€œThe stallions are in the gooseneck,” she said. “The mares are in the semi. You might enjoy watching us unload.”
    Dad glanced at Sam. She nodded, though something told her it wouldn’t be fun.
    The smaller truck backed the gooseneck trailer into position for a loading chute. Sam heard horses shifting, stamping, snorting. The stallions demanded release.
    Men in cowboy hats checked the chute, tested gates, and unlocked latches. A few held long flexible whips with pieces of paper attached to the tips, probably to hurry the horses along. If they ever emerged.
    Sam didn’t know whether she longed for their appearance or dreaded it. Especially when she squinted at the horses jostling inside the trailer.
    Like most horses, mustangs were usually bays and sorrels, but through the side of the trailer, Sam saw one creamy horse.
    Miss Olson joined the man with the clipboard. They stood where they could see each horse appear.
    It took forever for the trailer door to swing open. A neigh echoed. Hooves stumbled. More whinnies were followed by the snapping of teeth.
    One horse slammed against the side of the trailer. When he tossed his head in distress, Sam saw it was the pale mustang.
    Please not the Phantom, please.
    Sam hadn’t spoken aloud, but she realized her fingers were clenched in fists when Jake grabbed one of them. He unfolded her hand, gave it a squeeze, and held it, as the first stallion bolted out of the trailer and into the sunlight.

Chapter Ten
    T HE FIRST STALLION was the color of orange sherbet mixed with whipped cream.
    He was not the Phantom. Not even a gray. Sam sighed as if a metal band had been cut from around her chest.
    The stallion had the thick neck of a mature horse, but he stood only a little taller than a pony. His long forelock swept back from his eyes as he charged into the empty corral. Then he trotted along the fence line, anxious for the company of other horses.
    When he was joined by a leggy bay, taller but younger, they circled the pen together, forming a herd of two.
    With all eight stallions penned, the truck full of mares began unloading into a larger corral.
    The stallions seemed to ignore them, until the bay veered too close to the side of the pen nearest the mares. At once, the cream-colored stallion charged,reared, and came down to give the bay a savage bite on the crest.
    Surprised and hurt, the bay fled to the opposite side of the corral. He stood trembling among the other stallions, while the pony-sized bully held his ground.
    â€œIt happens once in a while.” Miss Olson stood next to them again. “But not often. Sometimes there’s one horse just itching to prove he’s in charge.”
    â€œJust like people,” Jake said.
    Sam thought of Slocum.
    â€œPrecisely,” said the woman. Then she glanced at Sam. “We’ve got a vet who’ll check that bite.”
    Sam held her breath. Miss Olson must have noticed Sam looked worried, but she couldn’t know why—Sam was imagining a fight between the cream stallion and the Phantom. She had a feeling it wouldn’t end so quickly or quietly.
    The Phantom was used to surviving in the wild and fending for himself. In a place like this, challenged by other stallions, surrounded by fences and unfamiliar humans, he might believe he was fighting for his life.
    Sam ducked her head a little, hoping to hide her eyes. It didn’t matter, because Miss Olson’s attention had moved on.
    â€œDon’t all those horses, loaded with potential, make you want to go on a shopping spree?” Miss Olson asked and Sam realized she was trying to sell Dad a horse.
    â€œNot hardly,” Dad said, but he looked