REYNARD JERKS THE reins. The horse halts its trot as he spins the mount around and clicks his tongue before quick pulls on the bit inform the Paint to back up.

“Impressive.” Aundrea’s curls bounce around her shoulders.

He draws his right index finger across the underbrim of his black felt hat, saluting her. “Mighty kind of you, ma’am.”

“You’re into selling this cowboy routine. I saw your history grade. We don’t have a curve because of you.”

“Knowing stuff about dead people isn’t hard. Searching for an imaginary X is where my grades fall apart.” Reynard jerks the reins and spins the horse around to prevent her from noticing his admiration. She’s caught him ogling before. She smiles at the attention. They’ve been friends since they discovered each other playing in the field between their farms. Despite being the girl next door, she’s blossomed into full womanhood their senior year.

“You’ve never shown horses for such impressive riding skills.”

“Not my thing. Competition doesn’t suit me. I do things for me, not for a blue ribbon. Besides, I don’t care what the song says. I might be a good ol’ country boy, but I don’t plan to be labeled as a dumb redneck my whole life. I detest loading cattle and getting crapped on in the chute, getting up at three in the morning when a cow gets loose on the road, having to go to the creek and chop holes in the ice in the middle of winter. Not my idea of fun. When you grow up on a farm, it’s all about the animals. No vacations, because who’s going to feed the pigs? Your college money went to fix the tractor,” Reynard rants.

Aundrea’s only response: “I see you are still fighting your parents on this college thing.”

“Well, you asked. My study time gets in the way of cutting hay. It’s not that they don’t want me to go, they just think I should get a full-time job so I have security in supporting myself.”

“I want to stay on my parent’s farm, but I am not sure what I want to do after I finish junior college. I can’t run the place by myself.”

“I thought you wanted to marry George?”

“Don’t be an ass, you know I dumped him.”

“Wasn’t a long fall for him.” Reynard snorts.

“His stature’s not in question.”

“He’s like an inch away from being a munchkin, but he creeps me out more like an Oompa Loompa.”

“Not nice,” Aundrea snaps at him. “I hope this isn’t your attempt to impress me, bro.”

Burn! Reynard cringes with no way to escape the brother zone. “Sorry, but what did you see in him anyway?”

“I’m not sure this’s the best way to start this date.”

“He’s just one of the few people I can’t get along with no matter how hard I try.” He catches what she just said. “Date? I thought you just wanted to ride horses.”

“Well, high school’s over, and in a few months George goes off to basic. In two years you’ll graduate with an AA and go off to a four-year university to finish college, and chances are we’ll never see each other again. I know I don’t want to see him anymore.”

Reynard brushes his open palm over his shirt to dry the gathering sweat. “It may be one of the last days we can ride.”

“I’ll ride in the snow, but I’ll need a heavier jacket if this air gets much crisper.”

Do it.

“I don’t think I’ve been in this field before,” Aundrea contemplates.

“Dad bought it from some city dude who though he wanted to have a cow herd. He built a barn and then discovered you actually had to check the cows every day. Dad’s going to run cattle on it in the spring, but I wanted to run the fence line before I close off the gate.”

“You just want to ride,” she says.

“It doesn’t take much to get me out here.”

“Will you stay after school? Graduation, I mean?”

Seconds ago she knew his plans were certain; now she asks hoping he’s changed his mind. “Spring Wells grows but maintains its one-horse-town mentality. I want out. I thought about the military if I can’t get to college.”

“Herculean efforts are needed to escape.”

“If I don’t leave for college. I feel more like this place is Hotel California.”

“You can check out, but you can never leave.”

“Exactly. What about you? Didn’t you get accepted into Southwest?” Reynard asks.

“Accepted, but no scholarship. I’m smart, just not smart enough. On paper my parents are loaded, but they live on a farm, too,” Aundrea says.

“College applications don’t take into account that cattle eat too.”

“Too bad this barn’s so far from the house,” she says.

“The dude spared no expense, but it’s not practical to use from our homestead.” Reynard dismounts. He offers his hand to assist Aundrea down. He holds her in the air for a second with both hands on her waist. He locks his eyes with hers. “Go to Winter Formal with me?”

Dangling her toes, she finds no ground. “I’m not some hay bale you can toss around.”

“You’re not a send-flowers-to-kind-of-girl, either.” Reynard places her feet gently back on Earth, but he keeps his hands firmly on her waist.

“Flowers are always welcome.” She bats her loving eyes.

He reaches into his saddlebag, slipping out a clear plastic clamshell containing a yellow rose.

“Yellow?” She pops her drying lips.

“Thought we’d start with friendship.”

“I would love to go with you.” She sniffs the rose.

Do it.

He leans in.

She locks her eyes with his before closing them—parting her lips.

They’ve kissed before. Pecks on cheeks, graze of lips, but never has he slid in his tongue. It glances off her top teeth, filling her mouth. She rubs hers on the bottom of his.

Reynard’s hand slides to the small of her back. He whispers to her, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

“You could have, you know,” she says before playfully biting his bottom lip and slipping her tongue back into his mouth.

With her advance he slips his hand under the back of her shirt, caressing a circle with his middle finger in the divot comprising the small of her back. Her soft skin weakens his knees.

She runs her hands over the backs of his hard arms. Arms not shapely, but muscular from tossing hay and chopping trees—driving fence posts. No calendar model, but a hardworking man. She breaks the embrace, guiding him by the hand into the barn.

He draws her back into his arms. She allows his strength to comfort her—surround and protect her.

“I have to tie up the horses.”

Aundrea nearly tells him he just ruined the romantic mood he created, but chasing down a horse would end the moment permanently.

Seconds pass, and he scoops her up into his arms and carries her to a bed of straw she covered in a blanket. Those seconds were needed.

His powerful kisses prevent her from protesting his hand following the curve of her spine to the three hooks of her bra. The pressure releases.

Too fast.

He breaks the kiss, keeping his eyes locked on hers—no protest.

Reynard should protest. As smooth as his unclasping maneuver was with just a thumb and forefinger, it was luck more than practice.

He pushes up Aundrea’s shirt. He admires her. “I’ve always wanted to see those.” He clamps his mouth on the coffee-colored areola. Her breathing quickens. The pressure in his own jeans forces him to roll her on top of him. He wants to undo the button fly.

Unleashing his discomfort might push her too fast. Reynard keeps his hands and lips on her breasts. In their groping, touching, caressing and biting, Aundrea unbuttons her own jeans and wriggles them down.

Reynard pushes himself off her. “Is this what you want?”

She nods.

He tugs at her tight pants. Hearts decorate the white cotton underneath. Somehow he expected something black and stringy, but no sensible girl would ride in a thong. She clamps her hand on his bulge. “I want to go slow. Go slow. Please. Promise me. I want you to be in me forever.”

“Aundrea…I’ve never.” He reaches down to caress her soft hair.

••••••

A THOUSAND YEARS frozen in cryosleep existed between his crush on Aundrea Johnson and now.

Reynard shakes free his thoughts of home. Sandmen—

The Sandman used pleasant thoughts to access memories. JC explained telepaths operate similarly.

He summons all his concentration to push the Sandman out.

Aundrea’s face twists into an ivory swirl of tortured faces, each frozen in silent screams of pain jutting from the ivory mask. He realizes he never left the river.

Reynard claws at the Sandman. He shoves his palm hard against the ivory.

The mask transports him back to when he was five.

••••••

A FIVE-YEAR-OLD boy living in his parent’s house sporting Lone Ranger Underoos with a plastic six-gun on his hip. He clutches his security blanket—a stuffed dragon. He stands at the top of the stairwell leading down into the basement. While other kids at preschool fear the dark closet or under the bed, he knows this is the one location in the house where monsters dwell. Nothing frightening about the stairs or the basement—it’s underneath—where it lives.

The behemoth stirs.

His tiny legs quiver.

The monster’s hunger shakes the house. Its long purplish-green limbs grow as they stretch out from underneath the stairs toward him.

••••••

EYMAXIN DRAGS REYNARD from his horse. She slaps him but fails to rouse him from his memories.

The horse’s ears spin around, hearing something behind it. Dozens of screaming green trolls dig fangs into Reynard’s horse. They move like famished wolves striking at a deer. The emaciated-framed troll-like monsters drag it down. They tear into the hide of the horse like soft, moist, spongy cake.

The second horse bolts from the attack.

Eymaxin splashes water over Reynard’s face.

The troll monsters complete their devouring.

Eymaxin contorts her finger. An azure glow emanates at the tips. She blasts a troll. The other trolls cannibalize the fallen one.

She raises her arm and blue bolts once again discharge from her fingertips. They bombard the trolls. While they’re distracted by fresh kills, Eymaxin draws the katana from the remains of Reynard’s saddle. Even with her magical powers blasting them, they overrun and drag her under the water. The biting and scratching forces Eymaxin to scream, filling her lungs with water.

A troll bites into her left wrist. It vaporizes instantly at the touch of the blue tattoos. The trolls hold her under, beating on her to force any air from her lungs.

A purple-green blob crawls up the stairs, limbs outstretched, reaching for Reynard.

Eymaxin’s arms fail in her attempt to escape. Desperate, the sword glows indigo in her hand. She uses one last burst of magic to blow the trolls off her. She brings her head above the surface, vomiting water as she desperately gasps for air.

Five-year-old Reynard’s stuffed dragon drops from his hand and bounds down the stairs into the gaping maw of the creature. He holds tightly to his bladder as the creature crawls up the steps.

Five-year-old Reynard clutches the plastic cap gun in the holster.

The Sandman surrounds Reynard’s adult body.

Reynard’s eyes blank—his mind occupied with the image—childhood terror. He clings to his only bit of security.

Eymaxin wades through the water toward the Sandman.

The five-year-old boy pulls the trigger. Pop. Pop. Pop. Sulfur steams from the red caps feeding through the plastic gun. The monster disappears. His stuffed toy rests safely at the bottom of the steps.

Eymaxin forces her magic into the sword, energizing the blade before engulfing it in sapphire flames. She swings the fiery sword through the Sandman’s robes. The mask shatters. Sulfur mist steams from the crumbling fragments. They strike the water, hissing and boiling away.

The trolls flee at the sight of a Sandman being destroyed.

Eymaxin stabs at the black robes floating in the water with the katana.

She finds no body.