by Lois Greiman
“What?”
“I’m taking her home.”
“You gotta be kidding,” Hunter said.
Behind him, Colt exhaled heavily. “Maybe we can get her loose, Syd. Maybe we can manage that much, but we can’t—”
“I can!” she snarled and fought to hold the animal steady through her angry words. She lowered her voice. “She won’t survive on her own.”
“I don’t think—” Colt began, but Hunter interrupted.
“We didn’t bring a halter.” He glanced back. Tied to Colt’s saddle was a thirty-foot lariat. “But we got a rope.”
“Okay. I’ll move back a little,” Sydney said. “You get it around her neck.”
Colt shook his head, loosed his lasso, and swung from the saddle. “I’ll do it.” He handed the reins to his fiancée. “You okay with all of them?”
She nodded brusquely. All three of their mounts had been cagey on the ride out. Spring could bring out the crazy in the most even-tempered animal.
“All right,” Colt said. “That’ll leave Hunt free to do the cutting.”
Hunter pulled a pair of nippers from his saddlebags and stepped forward. The injured horse snorted, blowing brown grasses from beneath its barely visible nostrils.
Colt slipped the end of the rope through the leather-wrapped honda and moved cautiously around the far side of the downed animal. It would be idiotic to try to stand between its head and thrashing forelegs. But this whole thing was one short step up from suicide.
Sydney’s gaze met Hunt’s. Even her teeth were bloodied. He clenched his own in reflexive empathy.
“I’ll shift back a little,” she told Colt. “When she lifts her head, you slip the rope underneath her neck.”
It was a terrible plan. Foolish and deluded and possibly deadly, but it was the only one they had.
Sydney exhaled shakily and rose. Frantic to be free, the horse jerked up her head, allowing Colt to lunge forward and shove the rope under her neck. But the tiny reprieve had given the animal leverage. She thrashed more wildly, trying to rise. Her left fore caught Sydney’s right knee. She gasped in pain.
There was nothing Hunter could do but throw himself down beside her. The horse struggled again, striking his head, his ankle, but she lay flat finally, limbs thrashing weakly.
“You two okay?” Colt’s voice was raspy. Hunter nodded, ignoring the blood that dripped from his lip.
“Just get it done,” he ordered and tossed the nippers aside.
Colt slid the end of the lariat back through the honda and snugged the loop up around the mare’s neck. Dropping the rope, he retrieved Hunter’s wire cutters and eased around the horse’s tail to untangle the mess of wires, pushing some aside, snipping others. More than one was embedded in the animal’s meaty gaskin muscle. Hunter felt his stomach quiver at the sight, but at least he was blocking Sydney’s view. Still, it seemed like forever before Colt moved on to the horse’s forelegs, clipping wires, tossing away snippets, crooning encouragement and curses under his breath.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Hunter asked and turned toward Sydney. Just inches away, she looked exhausted and tortured. A two-inch scratch marred her left cheek, a bruise colored her brow, but it was her eyes that caught him in a death grip. Agony and fear and hope shone there in equal measures.
She nodded.
“All right then.” He breathed the words. There was a high likelihood that this was a mistake. Heartache, and lots of it, lived down this path. He turned his head toward Colt. “You done?”
The cowboy rose to his feet with a nod. “Give me a minute to grab my lasso and mount up. I’ll snub her to Evie’s saddle horn and hope like hell she won’t make a fuss.”
It was a pipe dream and Hunter knew it. This horse was trouble on the hoof. A mustang, by the looks of her, born in the wild, untouched by man. Holy hell. He was as crazy as Sydney was.
Scooting forward, Colt grabbed the end of the lariat, stretched it out as far as he could, then went to fetch the palomino from Casie. The mare stepped dutifully toward the downed animal, uncertainty in every twitching muscle.
“Yeah, I know,” he soothed. “You’d have to be a damned moron not to be scared.”
The mare blew gustily through nostrils wide with worry. It wasn’t natural for a horse to be stretched out on the ground while in the presence of strangers. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right. They were prey animals, ready to flee at a moment’s notice, to bolt just as Evie wanted to do right now, but she stood her ground as Colt retrieved the tail of his lasso and mounted the mare. Fewer than ten feet from the ragged hooves of the mustang, he dallied up to the saddle horn and prayed the four strands of Mexican maguey would stand the test.
“Okay.” He breathed the word softly. “I’m dallied up. When I count to three, you two get the hell off her head and as far away as you can scramble.”
“What if she can’t get her feet under her?” Sydney’s question was barely audible, but Hunter heard her.
“Listen.” He caught her gaze with his own. “You’re not going to help her up. You got that?”
“We can’t just—”
“You get yourself out of the way,” he ordered.
Her eyes screamed mutiny. He dug deep for patience.
“This here is a thousand pounds of crazy,” he said. “If she gets up while you’re in the vicinity, you’re dead.”
“You don’t—”
“Sydney!” He gritted her name as the mare struggled beneath them again. “If this horse kicks you in the head, there won’t be anybody to take care of her while we’re at your funeral.”
For a moment he was sure she would argue, but finally she nodded.
“All right,” Hunter said. “We’re ready when you are.”
If ever there was a time to curse this was it, he thought, as Colt began the count.
“Three!” he said.
Hunter scrambled away, but Sydney’s legs, numb from an hour of immobilized fear, failed her. She fell. Hunter grabbed her coat and dragged her into the brush just as the mustang lurched to her feet. Panicked by the constraints, she reared, but her hind legs gave out. She toppled onto her side. Beneath Colt, the palomino stood firm as the mustang lurched up again, fighting for freedom. But suddenly the injured animal lunged forward. Evie leaped out of the way, nearly unseating her rider in the process.
The dun hit the end of the rope and swung toward them, neck squeezed tight by the lariat, eyes popping with pain and terror, bloody legs spread wide.
“Mount up,” Colt ordered.
The mustang fought again, twisting wildly at the end of the rope. Sydney’s face was pale.
“You ride the old gray,” Hunt said.
“I don’t ride,” Sydney said.
“You don’t have to worry. She’ll be—” Hunt began, but just then the mustang threw herself sideways, staggered, and almost fell.
Sydney limped over to stand behind her.
“You tug her along toward the farm as best you can,” she said, gaze on Colt. “I’ll crowd her up from behind if needed.”
Hunt gritted his teeth at her stubbornness, but mounted the gray himself. He wasn’t even going to think about trying to get the beast into the barn. Or what kind of condition that barn was in.
The trip to Gray Horse Hill was like a circuitous journey through hell. The mustang’s struggles became increasingly weaker until, barely able to walk, she wheezed like an asthmatic, ragged hooves dragging. A trail of blood and staggering hoof prints followed behind.
“What do we do with her when we get there?” Colt asked.
Sydney glanced at him. Mud blanketed the front of her borrowed coat. One pant leg had been half ripped away. She was no longer trying to disguise her exhaustion.
“Maybe we could get her into the trailer. Take her to the Lazy,” Casie said, but Hunter laughed. Both women turned toward him, expressions suggesting he might have lost his mind. He didn’t bother to mention that they had obviously gone down that roa
d before him.
“We’ll put her in my barn,” Sydney said. Hunt couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t look at the animal when she spoke.
“You got a stall that’ll hold her?” Colt asked.
Hunter shook his head. He wasn’t sure that barn would hold a dead horse.
They struggled on. But eventually, they were trudging up the final hill, dragging the mustang through the first broken-down gate and into a dilapidated four-rail pen.
Hunter expected the animal to fight to the death before entering the barn. But maybe death was closer than he realized, because she barely balked as they entered the building. A trio of feral cats scattered as she staggered wearily into the wide, dusty aisle. Stalls lined both sides. Some of them were missing doors. All of them were missing boards.
“Any way to close up the barn?” Colt asked.
Sydney shook her head. “I don’t think so. The third stall on the right might hold her, though.”
Until she died of tetanus, gangrene, or blood loss, Hunter thought, but he kept the gloomy prospect to himself.
“Maybe Evie and I can pull her into the stall,” Colt suggested, but Casie argued immediately.
“You’ll all get hurt that way.”
Hunter nodded agreement. “Just get her up even with the doorway, then block the far exit and set her loose.”
“What?” Casie and Sydney spoke in unison.
Hunter gave them a ghost of a smile. “Maybe you could block that route back there in case she gets past me.”
Colt did as he was told, dragging the tortured mustang along until she stood braced against the rope in the middle of the aisle.
“Okay,” Hunter said.
Colt backed Evie up, gaining a little slack, then, flipping the rope from the saddle horn, tossed the lariat to the ground. Catching a whiff of freedom, the mustang spun shakily toward the door, but Hunter caught her by the nose as she charged past and wrestled her into the stall.
Hooves slammed wildly against plywood. Grunts and rasps and squeals echoed through the barn. Sydney stumbled toward the enclosure.
“Easy, little sister.” Hunt kept his voice as steady as the earth beneath their feet, as quiet and slow as if he wasn’t locked in a cage with a crazed animal five times his size. “All is well.”
“Let him out,” Sydney ordered, but Hunter spoke before Colt could comply.
“I’ll stay here for a minute, make sure she doesn’t escape while you get her feed and water.”
“Do you have a bucket?” Casie’s voice sounded tight.
“I’ll get one,” Sydney said and hurried away, too exhausted to hide her limp.
“Did we bring any hay along?” Colt asked.
“Some,” Casie said and pivoted her bay toward the big open doors. She returned in a matter of minutes, carrying the fodder toward the mustang’s stall.
Colt eased the door open. Hunter’s eyes met Casie’s.
“True friends are not easy to come by,” he said.
“What?”
He nodded toward Sydney, just struggling down the hill with a bucket sloshing water onto her tattered pant legs. “She is lucky to count you as hers.”
“I hardly know her,” Casie argued, but he had already turned back to the mustang, voice as soothing as a lullaby.
Chapter 14
“Want some coffee?” Hunter asked.
“Always.” Colt’s voice was emphatic.
“Please.” Casie’s was appreciative.
The four of them stood inside Gray Horse Hill’s kitchen. Everything in Sydney ached to apologize for their grotesque surroundings: the peeling wallpaper, the scarred floor, the plywood propped on sawhorses that acted as a substitute for a table.
“I’ll get it,” she said instead, but Redhawk blocked her way.
“You will sit,” he ordered.
Embarrassment flooded her, almost edging out the weighty fatigue and throbbing pain caused by the ordeal just past. She could feel her guests’ attention like a spotlight against her neck.
“Now,” Redhawk insisted and she sat, despite his presumptuous tone, perching on a five-gallon bucket of joint compound in the middle of the room.
Still, she struggled for normalcy. “Please …” She made a regal motion with her hand, indicating the piano bench she had found in the hayloft, the ancient rocking chair Hunter had carried up from the basement. “Have a seat.” Her visitors did as requested. Casie looked as if she was trying hard to make this surreal experience appear normal. Colt merely looked amused. Sydney linked her fingers loosely in her lap and raised her chin a bit. “So … do you think she’s wild?”
The kitchen, decorated with one perfectly aligned towel and three impossibly red apples, went silent.
“I mean …” She refrained from clearing her throat. Sydney Wellesley had been entertaining dignitaries and celebrities since she was old enough to tie her own Hush Puppies. But the circumstances were a little different now. She didn’t bother to glance at the urine-yellow oven or the drooping cabinet doors. “Obviously, she’s wild.” Casie had called a veterinarian while they were still in the barn, so there was nothing to do but wait … and feel this itchy discomfort like a burr against her skin.
Colt glanced at Redhawk, who gazed back before retrieving two cups from the overhead cabinet. She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought they might be questioning her sanity.
“I simply mean …” She tried again. “Do you think she was born wild? Or is it more likely that she’s feral? An escaped saddle horse, perhaps?”
“Could be,” Colt said, Indian-dark eyes narrowed as he considered. “But she’s got some strange markings. What do you think, Redhawk? Is she Hunkpapa?”
He lifted heavy shoulders noncommittally, pulled a sleeve of crackers from the cupboard, and handed it to Sydney.
“I don’t want—” she began, but he spoke before she could finish the sentence.
“Eat,” he ordered.
She pursed her lips and considered mutiny, but fishing a cracker from the plastic seemed easier. She held it loosely in her hand. “Could she be a mustang?”
“Well, she’s stubborn.” Hunter scowled. “Makes me think she might have some English blood.”
Colt chuckled. “Could be she’s Scotch-Irish,” he said and tilted his head surreptitiously toward Casie Carmichael.
“You’re hilarious,” his fiancée said.
“And one heck of a bronc rider,” Colt added. His gaze was warm with humor and adoration. “But I think I’ll let Hunt break out the dun.”
Lifting the kettle he’d placed on the burner, Redhawk poured coffee, as fragrant as rose petals, into the mismatched cups. “Turns out I’m not bronc-busting material.”
Colt grinned as he took the mug Hunter offered. “Guess you did kind of prove that at the Stampede.”
Sydney raised a single brow. “You were in the rodeo, too?”
“Longest three seconds of my life,” Hunter admitted.
“Redhawk’s a little big for riding saddle broncs,” Colt said.
Sydney sat very still, back straight. “I would have thought size would be advantageous in that particular sport,” she said. Her fingertips ached. Glancing down, she saw that three nails had been torn to the quick.
“You hoping to pass out?” Redhawk asked.
Sydney looked up, prepared to give him a haughty stare, but her head swam at the simple motion and her hands felt unsteady. Biting back a sharp retort, she nibbled at the cracker.
Redhawk scowled while Colt, eyes bright, expression unreadable, explained. “The longer your legs, the more leverage the animal can get on you. Those limbs start swinging, it’s hard to stop. But steer wrestling …” He turned toward Redhawk again, shook his head once. “That’d be a good event for you.”
“When I’m in a hurry to break my nose again, I’ll remember that,” he said and handed Casie a cup of coffee before easing his hips against the counter behind him.
Sydney stared at him. Coffee, he very w
ell knew, was as addictive as opium for her, and though they only had the two mugs, she’d be willing to drink it straight from the pot; Emily Post, after all, was unlikely to show up for luncheon. But Redhawk simply tilted his head toward the crackers again. She took another grudging bite.
Colt was eyeing them with unabashed curiosity. But Casie broke the silence.
“So you’re not planning to return to LA?”
Redhawk shrugged.
Sydney scowled. “You lived in Los Angeles?”
“He moved down there to live the high life after—” Colt began, but Hunter interrupted.
“I realized I wasn’t going to make my fortune in rodeo.”
Colt watched him in silence.
“And what about you?” Casie asked, turning toward Sydney. “Have you decided to stay, too?”
“Not indefinitely, of course,” she said and smiled as though the idea was ludicrous, as if she had a choice in the matter. “But I thought it might be …” She had hung Hunter’s jacket in the hallway only to discover that two of the buttons on her blouse had gone AWOL. She couldn’t help but realize how ridiculous she must seem sitting straight as a pin with her hair looking as if she’d lost an argument with a lightning bolt. “… amusing to spend a few months here.” If one found frostbite amusing. Or poverty.
“Well … Dad has some real fond memories of this place,” Colt said and glanced around the kitchen as if he weren’t sitting in the middle of purgatory. “It’ll be good to see Gray Horse get a facelift.”
“Perhaps just a chemical peel,” Sydney said and was met with blank stares.
The silence was beginning to burn when Hunter spoke to Colt again. “You want to see what we’ve done so far?”
“Sure,” Colt said, and setting his coffee down on the pseudo-table, stood. Their footsteps tapped away.
Silence stole in. Sydney tightened her grip on the crackers and refrained from making a lunge for the abandoned coffee. “Thank you,” she said finally.
“For what?” Casie’s tone sounded honestly confused.
“For coming out. For helping with the horse. For risking your lives.”
“Well, we could hardly leave you out there alone,” Casie said.