Gift Horse Read Online Free

his neck, right where BLM would have marked him.
    Sam crossed all eight fingers then linked her thumbs together, hoping with all her might that Tinkerbell was a mustang.

Chapter Three
    S am whirled away from the corral, eager to tell Dad her suspicion, and saw him coming toward her. Beside him, dressed in a Western-styled suit and highly polished boots, was a silver-haired man who looked like he must be Mr. Fairchild. He was leading Tinkerbell.
    â€œYou already figured it out,” Sam blurted. She approached slowly. Even though she wanted to run and dance around with excitement, she was afraid she’d startle Tinkerbell, so she didn’t.
    â€œYeah,” Dad said, but his head inclined to one side. “But his papers are in order.”
    â€œIn order?”
    â€œAfraid so,” confirmed the other man. He tookone hand from the bay’s lead rope and extended it to Sam. “I’m Duke Fairchild, foreman of this outfit.” His blue eyes twinkled as if he’d made a joke.
    â€œNice to meet you,” Sam said briefly. “But Dad, are you sure? Those two guys didn’t have a clue about horses and he”—Sam gestured to Tinkerbell—“is a great horse. Even though everything here is unfamiliar, he isn’t nervous. Look at his ears. He’s just interested.”
    Mr. Fairchild nodded. He watched Tinkerbell appreciatively and Sam got a feeling that if the horse hadn’t been so dirty, the auction manager would have stroked him with appraising hands.
    â€œYou’re right,” Dad said. “Those two didn’t know a horse from a house cat, but they had documents showing the gelding as part of their father’s estate. He got title to this horse five years ago from a rancher who adopted him out of the Susanville prison.”
    â€œThey had a sheaf of records thick as a dictionary,” Mr. Fairchild agreed. “They looked plenty genuine.”
    â€œPlus, those two didn’t seem the sort to be forgers,” Dad said.
    Sam tried to think of a loophole. Some way to rescue the horse before he went up for sale.
    â€œThe prison?” she asked.
    â€œYou remember hearin’ about it,” Dad said. “Or if you don’t, Brynna can tell you. There are prisons where convicts work with mustangs, gentle ’em andeven train ’em to saddle before they’re sold.”
    Sam nodded. It sounded familiar, but it wasn’t going to help her now.
    As Mr. Fairchild turned the draft horse into the pen with the other horses, Sam noticed a man who was obviously interested in buying. He had wire-rimmed glasses, a shaved head—a rare choice in this part of Nevada—and he was so tall and skinny, Sam couldn’t help staring.
    When the gate clanged shut like a cell door, Sam jumped, but the thin man kept squinting at the horses and making notes on a tablet. His hands seemed to work automatically. While his eyes focused on Tinkerbell, his hand slid into his pocket and withdrew a calculator. His index finger pecked at the keys. He stopped, then glanced down. When he looked back up, his smile was brighter than the glint of winter sun on his bald head.
    He jotted something down and underlined it. Twice.
    Sam’s mind raced. She couldn’t spend another minute coming up with her own formula for saving Tinkerbell.
    â€œOkay, Dad, here’s what we’ll do,” she began. Dad’s head tilted back, and she read reluctance in his stance, but she kept talking. “The bids can’t go very high. I’ll use my own money to buy him, and I’ll get him ready to sell.”
    Mr. Fairchild coiled Tinkerbell’s lead rope into aneat loop and hung it on a fence post. All the while, he studied her with a half smile.
    So far, so good, Sam thought. Dad was shaking his head, but Mr. Fairchild wasn’t. And he was in charge of the sale.
    â€œLook at him, Dad,” she went on. “He’s gentle as a lamb and oblivious to