TWENTY-SIX

 

He had thought of everything. Sasha was already saddled, along with his own horse, Goblin. My last thin threads of hope frayed. My uncle was an expert rider, the best in Virginia, Jeff had once told me. Goblin was powerful and fast. With the approach of his master, he snorted, ready for a ride that I knew would be fast and furious. How could I hope to escape?

“What are you going to do to me?” I asked, stalling for time, but unable to control my quavering voice. “How are you going to do it?”

“Curious to the end, are you? Well, where’s the harm in telling you? You won’t be around to report any tales.” Still gripping me by the wrists, he thrust me toward Sasha with a rough shove.

“Go ahead. Climb on. I’ll do the sporting thing and give you a head start. Then, a little chase to the bridge, a little tumble into the creek, an unfortunate drowning. All chalked up to an accident-prone, novice rider, out for a solitary trot.”

In spite of my terror, I realized what a very sick man my uncle was. His attitude was so cavalier, so unfeeling, inhuman. He was a monster and he meant to kill me. I would not let myself dwell on how slim my chances of survival were. I focused on the idea that Miss Emma would revive, call for help, and that if I could prolong the chase until that happened, there was a chance for me, for Sasha. And my uncle could be carted off to the loony bin where he belonged.

Goblin whinnied and stamped his foot, impatient for a run. “Get on with it, Ashby. You see, Goblin is growing restless. The clock starts now.”

Fastening my foot into the stirrup, I threw my leg over Sasha’s back and urged him forward, my mind working feverishly all the while. Fear licked at my heart, burning into my dry throat. Avoid the bridge. Avoid the bridge, I droned over and over. With a clatter of hooves and a whoosh of dust, I bolted at full gallop across the fields and past the riding ring. To elude him, I would have to enter the woods, but in order to do that, I had to cross the creek without using the bridge where my uncle planned to stage the “accident.” I held the slim hope I’d have enough of a head start to simply walk Sasha down the steep bank, across the creek, and up the opposite side. But if Uncle Hunter were hot on my tail, Sasha and I would have to make a huge jump across the creek, something we had never before attempted.

Behind me Goblin’s hooves echoed; Hunter had made no attempt to catch up. “The sporting thing,” my uncle had said. It was like a game to him, a fox hunt; I was the fox. He would enjoy the chase as much as the capture.

Sasha and I pounded our way to the line of trees at the north end of the field. My brain worked desperately, keeping pace with the rapid rhythm of Sasha’s flying feet. Avoid the bridge. Avoid the bridge, the bridge, the bridge. My mantra struck a galloping cadence as I flew on the edge of the wind.

I sensed Goblin gaining on me from behind. Uncle Hunter was eroding away my head start inch by inch, hoof beat by hoof beat. Harder, harder, I pushed Sasha, feeling the tension of his laboring muscles beneath my rigid legs. Sasha simply could not compete with the sinewy chestnut closing the gap from behind with each pounding moment.

Suddenly, I pulled tight on the left rein and turned Sasha directly back, head-on with Uncle Hunter. He passed in a flash of gleaming chestnut, Goblin’s white blaze so close I could have reached out and touched it. The whack-whack of his crop on Goblin’s flanks snapped close to my ears. My move surprised my uncle. I caught the glimpse of rage, but his joyless laugh was quick to follow. Catching his reins, he turned his horse, gaining on me once again. This time, he would surely reach me. The only escape was to leap the creek before we reached the bridge and plunge into the woods, head for the Mills’ property and scream for help. Even Eddie would be a welcome sight at this point. I was quickly running out of options. Avoid the bridge. Avoid the bridge.

Sasha was holding his own, but he would not be able to keep up such a pace much longer. I leaned forward, willing my horse to reach the creek. Behind me, the hammering of Goblin’s hooves grew nearer and nearer. I psyched myself for the jump, as I tried to prepare my horse. “Come on, Sasha, come on boy,” I crooned above his streaming mane. “We’re going to jump, Sasha. Jump with all your might!”

As if in slow motion, Sasha’s forelegs arced, driven by the force of propulsion from the strong hind legs. For an interminable moment, we hung suspended, stretched tight in the air. I tensed to cushion the impact of the landing, giving Sasha his head, then breathed a sigh of relief as my mount regained his nimble footing and scrambled to safety just inches clear of the bank.

But I was not safe yet. Uncle Hunter bore relentlessly down from behind. He meant to cross the bridge and head me off. Sasha was losing momentum. It would take a miracle now to save us. I could hear the clatter of Goblin’s hooves on the wooden planks of the bridge.

“Sasha, Sasha. Just a little longer, boy. Please. Faster! Faster!”

A scream tore the air and echoed through the woods. I looked back to see Goblin reared on his hind legs, forelegs scraping the sky. My uncle hurled through the air, over the bridge railings, to land with a sickening thud on the rocky streambed below. Something had frightened my uncle’s horse.

I brought Sasha to a halt. Shaking with dread, I sat for a long time. Though I strained my ears, there was only silence.

I trotted the heaving Sasha back through the trees toward the bridge. My heart rasped in my throat and nausea churned in my stomach. I forced myself to look. Uncle Hunter’s body lay splayed on the rocks, his face just under the water line. The body was still as a mannequin, the neck bent at an odd angle. Goblin stood solid only inches away from where the bridge boards had been recently replaced. Slipping numbly from Sasha, I walked mechanically toward the chestnut, which had not budged from his stance on the bridge.

The story would be that Hunter Overton, as was his habit, had been riding Goblin at a furious pace when the steed shied and threw him off, possibly because of a loose board in the newly-repaired bridge. It would be suggested that the villainous Night Riders were, no doubt, at fault for vandalizing the bridge in the first place. It was unlikely anyone would question the circumstances of the accident.

But, I knew better. I had the evidence—the soft, fresh rose petals scattered over the new boards, red as blood.