When my eyes opened, I didn’t know what it was. Lying under the sleeping bag, with the ailing horse at my back, I could feel my heart beating too fast.
Then I heard it again. A train whistle. And with it, the dream rushed back.
I had been standing on a cliff overlooking the James River. My fiancé, DeMott Fielding, stood beside me, and an Episcopal priest was reciting marriage vows. When it came my turn to repeat the words, a crowd of women in floral dresses pushed forward. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was a howl, like the cry of a lonely wolf.
And now I could hear how it harmonized with the train’s whistle.
I stared at the plank wall. No way could I ever tell my fiancé about that dream. Not unless I wanted another fight. Reaching back, I laid my hand on the horse, lying length-wise across the sawdust. Her breathing was labored, loud, filling the small space with a chugging sound that made it seem like the locomotive was coming through the barn. Beneath my palm her ribs expanded with each inhalation. I could feel the ligaments between the bones, vibrating, wet, and ragged.
Not good.
I raised my arm, trying to read my watch. 2:33 a.m.
“Oh rats,” I muttered.
Over the last two months, I hadn’t managed more than an hour or two of sleep at one time. Each night my startle reflex threw me awake, tossing me from dreams where I dropped through thin air and plunged over waterfalls and tumbled off cliffs. Like the cliff where I howled my marriage vows. On the one night I needed to stay awake, I’d fallen asleep. And the bustle here started every morning at 4:00 a.m. My opportunity to investigate the barn was almost gone. And now the horse needed help.
Terrific.
I kicked my boots from the flannel bag. The horse shifted and I glanced over. Her chestnut coat was shiny, like wet ocher paint.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m going for help now.”
The words burned at the back of my throat. Dry, hot. And the horse was drawing back her head. The deep brown eyes bulged. The whites were visible.
Fear.
“I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”
I stood up and started for the door. But it was closed. Both top and bottom. I felt a sudden disorientation, like all that sleep had made me stupid. I wondered if I’d closed it before going to sleep. But I didn’t. And I knew for a fact I didn’t pull the bolt shut. I couldn’t have locked the door from the outside.
The horse made a whimpering sound. When I looked over, her hooves were pawing the air. And greasy gray ribbons rose from the sawdust in the corner. Smoke.
Fire.
“Fire!”
The horse suddenly rocked back, shoving herself to a wobbly stand.
“Fire!”
I called again, but my voice was drowned out by the sudden scream of the smoke alarms. The horse staggered forward, blocking my path to the door. My eyes stung. I yanked off my jean jacket, holding it over my nose, and crouched in the sawdust. The flame was leaping inside the smoke, then dying, sparking and falling away like trick birthday candles. Flame retardant. On the sawdust. But no retardant was fireproof. Not on dried wood shavings.
The horse turned and curled back her lips. Her scream sounded human. Female. Terrified. And in the small confined space her body looked monumental.
“Fire—” I coughed. “With Solo!”
I could see red veins in the white crescents of her eyes. She staggered backward. Her back bashed into the wall.
Juan—where is Juan?
She stumbled forward and lifted her back leg, kicking the wall. Hitting it again and again until the wood splintered. I could smell her fear, oily and bitter beneath the smoke. Adrenaline fear. Killing fear. She kicked again, harder, and the wooden planks shuddered against my back. Powered by fright, she was growing stronger, not weaker. And now the other horses were kicking too. The sound echoed like rock crushers, pounding through the alarm’s mechanical wail. I blinked at the sting in my eyes and watched her lungs. They were expanding like giant bellows and each breath sent out another high cry. She was punch-drunk with panic, staggering again. I crouched lower. Two steps to the right and she could pin me in the back corner. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
She could kill me.
The horse stamped her hooves into the sawdust, some frightened dance, gearing up for the next blow. I shoved my hand down into my boot. The Glock’s barrel raked my skin. She turned her face to me. Her bulging eyes showed so much white she looked blind.
I lifted the gun.
She reared, raising her front legs. In the firelight I could see the metal shoes glinting, telegraphing the pain, the death she wouldn’t even notice. I heard another scream.
Hers or mine, I didn’t know.
But it was the last thing I remembered before squeezing the trigger.