The ranch appeared empty. The only movement was the herd of horses in the pasture. I nudged the mule behind a large tree and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. A movement in one of the cabins caught my peripheral vision. I focused on the cabin’s windows. A few moments later, a curtain twitched.
The killer had chosen the best location to keep an eye on most of the ranch—directly across from the lodge.
To get to my cabin, I’d have to cross the open area where the gunman could pick me off at his leisure. Wait until dark? Try to circumvent the entire resort and come in from a different direction? The cabin would still be difficult to reach without detection.
What I needed was a diversion.
“I don’t suppose you dogs would like to go down there and create havoc? No? How about you, mule? Or better yet . . .” My gaze drifted to the horses. They’d gotten loose before and run around the resort in a wild stampede of dust and chaos. If I was in the middle of that on horseback, I could ride right up to my doorstep.
Only two slight problems. I’d have to ride out of sight of the shooter. And I’d have to jump off a galloping horse and not get trampled by the rest of the herd. “Easy-peasy,” I muttered. Spam was looking better and better.
I used to do something called the Apache hideaway trick, where I would hang off the side of the galloping horse. That required a special saddle, but I could do a version of it much like the original Native Americans did during war—they used the horse as a shield. I just needed to loop a strap around the horse’s neck to hang on to and hook my leg over the horse’s spine.
Turning my attention to the logistics of creating a stampede, I studied the sprawling horse pasture. If I rode along the ridge until I was at the end of the field, I’d be out of sight of the cabin. The mule would announce his arrival and bring the herd over to check him out. If there was a gate at that end, I could get in and switch mounts. I wasn’t about to attempt trick riding on a green-broke mule. Even if there wasn’t a gate, I could climb through the fence.
I had no idea of the time, but the sun was approaching the horizon. I had to get my plan going now or wait until the middle of the night. I was pretty sure I’d conquered the PTSD trigger of night and darkness, but I didn’t much relish the idea of stumbling around in the dark.
The ridge and the field both ended. I didn’t have to turn the mule. He’d already decided he was home. He called out to his equine buddies with a loud grunting whinny, followed by an aw ah aw.
A number of horses returned his call and galloped toward us. So far, so good.
* * *
Bram’s mind played a dozen scenarios of what could have happened to Darby. She could have been thrown like he was. Was she hurt? God forbid, dead? Or had she turned around and returned? Had she found her route too difficult?
Did the killer follow her?
That last thought left him twisted in knots. They never should have gone separate ways. He should have insisted Roy be the third rider.
Had he finally found someone he wanted in his life, only to drive her away emotionally when he found out about her leg, then physically when he let her go for help alone?
She insisted she wanted to be the third rider.
He should have hung back this morning to be sure they weren’t followed. He folded his hands and bowed his head. “Lord,” he whispered, “protect Darby. Keep her safe. Bring her back to me. I promise I’ll never leave her. I’ll love her for all she is, a beautiful woman, a child of God.” He blinked to clear his vision and swallowed hard.
Shhhhhhhhh.
He looked up.
The sound came again. The shuffling of hay.
Bram’s pulse quickened. It could be an animal. Or . . .
“Bram.” A whispered voice, little more than exhaled air.
Bram jerked upright, winced from the pain, and scanned the interior of the barn.
“Bram, help me.”
His heart jackhammered in his chest. “Darby?” he whispered back.
“Over here.”
Thank You, Lord. Praise Jesus. He stood and gingerly moved toward the door leading to the horse stalls. “Darby?”
“Here.”
She had to be in the stall area. He hurried, trying to ignore his shoulder. The horse stalls were in darkness. “Darby?”
Something smashed into the back of his head. Blackness.
* * *
The mule chose this moment to try to dislodge me. He bolted toward the horses, kicking as he went. I clung to the rigging, hoping he wouldn’t dump me before we reached the fence.
He finally stopped at the fence line. I couldn’t see any gate, so I put plan B in motion. I dismounted on a shaky leg and looped the twine over the top rail. The horses had gathered and were checking out the newcomer. I removed one of the twine reins, slid through the fence, then stopped.
The Appaloosa I’d ridden to Mae’s place was here.
“Hello again, big fella.” I patted him on the shoulder, then wrapped the twine around his neck and led him to the fence. After slipping back through the rails, I removed the rigging from the mule along with the halter, then quickly returned to the pasture side, placed the halter on the Appy, and held tight. As expected, the mule took off, kicking up to celebrate his freedom, and the rest of the herd followed on their side of the fence. The Appy pranced in place, wanting to join in the romp. I untied him, grabbed a hunk of mane, and leaped to his back. He didn’t need encouragement. Ears back, he joined in the race.
I held on to him with my legs, bent forward over his neck to keep a low profile, and tied the twine into a loop. I hoped I wouldn’t have to hold on long when I dropped to his side. The herd had reached the fence nearest the lodge. Keeping low, I guided the big gelding to the gate. Someone was moving away from the barn.
I pressed myself against the horse’s neck and remained motionless. The herd’s restless stomping made it difficult to hear. I finally lifted my head and tried to see what was going on in the gathering dusk.
The figure had disappeared.
Which side of the horse would hide me? If the killer had moved toward the lodge, I needed to be on the horse’s left side. If he were in the cabin, the right side would conceal me.
I wrapped my arms around the Appy’s neck and waited.
The herd soon lifted their heads and flicked their ears forward. I risked a quick peek. I couldn’t see anyone, but the horses were staring toward the cabins.
I bent toward the gate, removed the latch, and pushed.
The Appaloosa moved through at a walk, which quickly became a lope. The rest of the horses shot through behind us and raced toward the lodge.
I grabbed the twine on the gelding’s neck with one hand, his mane with the other, and dropped parallel with his body. My residual left leg stayed on his back, hooking onto his spine.
It had been years since I’d tried this trick, and I’d been in top physical shape. Dust from the pounding hooves choked me, the twine ripped into my already-torn palm, and the musky odor of sweaty horses filled my nose. I couldn’t see anything. The horses pressed closely together. If I dropped now, I’d be trampled to death, but I wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. Oh, dear Lord!
I’d have to sit upright and pray we’d passed the killer’s cabin and were somewhere near my own.
I slid my leg farther onto the horse’s back while pulling up from the side of his neck.
The gelding spooked, lurched sideways, and pivoted.
I lost my grip and flew off his back.