by Lucy Inglis
‘Exactly. She says that. But, the weird thing is, it’s almost written like a letter to a different man. A man with pale eyes and a bad limp. I haven’t got to who he is yet.’
‘And she is?’
‘Emily Forsythe. I think her dad’s important in London. Like a diplomat or something. Totally Victorian. She’s travelling with a woman called Miss Adams, who’s supposed to be getting her to Portland for the wedding, and sounds like a proper old bag. And a team of drivers from Chicago.’
‘OK . . .’
‘OK?’
‘Well, read to me then, Hope Cooper!’
Hope hid a shy smile and read on, as Emily and Miss Adams sat in the coach, travelling away from Fort Shaw. Her smile faded. ‘Oh God, she’s awful.’
‘She doesn’t sound a lot of fun.’
‘Poor Emily. She’s going to get married to some guy and she doesn’t even know him.’
‘Different times.’
Leaning forward, she put the diary on the dashboard.
‘Stuff can slide straight out of these windows. I’ve made that mistake before. Stick it in the jockey box.’ He pointed beneath the dashboard on Hope’s side.
‘Ah, the glove compartment.’
‘No gloves in it,’ he said with a smile.
Hope opened it and put the diary inside. ‘No jockeys either.’ She pulled out a strange, ridged object the size of her thumb, dry and fragile. ‘What’s this?’
He glanced over at her. ‘Rattle from a rattlesnake I killed on the road last summer. Bad luck not to take it.’
Hope dropped it back into the glove compartment and shut the door with a snap, wiping her palms on her shorts. ‘Gross.’
He laughed.
‘So, we’re collecting your aunt’s horses?’
‘Yep. And my mom.’
‘Is your mother from around here?’
‘Mom? No, she’s from back East. Vermont.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘My mom came out to work as a documentary photographer’s assistant during her vacation. Met my dad when they were photographing the rodeo. That was kind of it. She went back for a couple of months and then they decided to get married.’
‘Just like that?’
‘I was on the way. Probably influenced things a little.’
‘Wow.’
He nodded. ‘That was when Dad saw the horse. The morning Mom called in tears from Vermont and said she was getting on a bus. Her parents had kicked her out, because of me. Dad drove straight to Chicago and met her. Saw the horse just as he was leaving the ranch. They came back, got married the next week, and that was it. We have to change trails here. We’re leaving our property and getting into the national park. It gets rougher from here on in.’ He saw her watching the controls with interest. ‘You want to drive?’
‘Oh, er, no. Thanks.’
‘Can you?’
‘I live in London. There’s public transport.’
He tutted and braked. Popping his door, he got out, then looked back into the cab. ‘You should learn.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘C’mon, Cooper. Don’t be chicken.’
Hope got out and they crossed in front of the rumbling pick-up. Getting into the driver’s seat, she was too far from the pedals.
Cal was already sitting in her seat. ‘You’ll have to sit forward,’ he said. ‘Your left foot doesn’t do anything, so keep it over against the rest there. Then the pedal on the left is the brake, the gas is on the right. Put your foot on the brake and put the stick behind the wheel into drive.’
‘Got it.’ Hope nodded.
‘Now let your foot off the brake and she’ll creep. It’ll take a while because of the trailer.’
The pick-up began to move slowly.
‘Now press on the gas real gentle.’
They gained speed. Hope steered carefully on the trail.
‘This is fun.’
‘Told you.’
They were driving at an angle towards a mountain range, but in the near distance the land rose up, covered with trees. Before it there was a deep crack in the landscape, and a bridge towards which it seemed they were heading.
Hope was concentrating on the ten metres in front of the pick-up. ‘I’m not sure I could do this in traff—’
‘Hope, stop. Stop the truck. Now. Do it now.’
Momentarily confused by the pedals, Hope put her left foot on the brake and pressed the accelerator with her right foot at the same time. The pick-up jumped forward and jerked, straining against the brake. Cal reached across her and threw the stick shift into neutral.
‘Take your feet off the pedals,’ he said sharply.
‘Sorry!’ Hope held up her hands and drew her knees up.
‘Get out.’
She fumbled open the door, unsure what she’d done so wrong. As they passed in front of the pick-up, she mumbled, ‘Sorry.’
He caught her arm. ‘It’s not you, look.’
Hope looked to where he was pointing. On the other side of the bridge, almost on it, was a brilliant and very beautiful white horse. His mane and tail were long and snowy. And he was watching them. They were too far away to see the colour of his eyes.
‘Get in.’
Hope scrambled into the passenger seat.
‘Buckle up.’ Cal was already putting the truck into gear and accelerating.
The pick-up gained the bridge. Hope put her hand out, almost touching Cal’s shirt, looking through the windscreen in alarm. ‘Wait, is this safe? It looks like it’s been here for a hundred years.’
‘I’ve driven over it fifty times.’
The white horse was still standing on the other side of the bridge as they drove on to it. Hope peered out of the window over the virtually empty creek bed, with just a few rivulets of water running through it.
Cal braked hard. ‘There’s a couple of boards missing. They can’t have repaired it after the winter. Damn. Should’ve checked it. Reversing off will be a nightmare.’
There was a groan from the bridge beneath them. And a distinct sense of unsteadiness.
‘Shit,’ he said. Silence, then another creak.
Cal accelerated, taking the pick-up over the gap. The trailer clattered behind them, bouncing hard into the open space. There was a terrible crashing sound as the wooden rails broke beneath it and it skewed off to the left. Then, an endless moment of tension as the tow bar bent, but held.
The pick-up jerked backwards, sliding towards the broken hole in the bridge. Hope screamed. Buddy yelped. Cal jammed on all the brakes. Everything caught. For five long seconds, nothing happened. The trailer was still hanging off the bridge. Cal slammed the gear stick into park, boot rammed hard on the brake. The engine was loud in the silence.
‘Hope. Pop your door and get out.’
‘Only if you come with me.’
‘I will, but I want you to get out now. Buddy? Buddy, out!’ he yelled to the dog, who had slid to the back of the pick-up’s flatbed.
He pushed Hope as she pulled the door lever and struggled with her seat belt at the same time. The door popped open as Buddy hit the planks with a thud. The trailer creaked and swayed. The pick-up slipped a few centimetres.
The white horse turned, and disappeared into the trees.
Hope’s side of the vehicle lifted up in the air and the door slammed back into place, sealing them in the cab.
Cal grabbed her hand as, with a hideous shrieking and grinding of metal, the pick-up tipped over the edge.
*
Hope’s neck hurt. In fact, everything hurt. She was hanging upside down by her seat belt. How long have I been out? She looked over at Cal. He was a crumpled length of whipcord in the roof lining of the upside-down pick-up. She guessed they must be on the creek bed. The front of the truck had dragged against one of the bridge supports, stopping the cab being totally crushed. Rivulets of water were running through the cabin windows, wetting Cal’s clothes, streaming through his hair.
Where did that come from? Hope squinted, trying to clear her vision, rubbing her face with wet hands. Somewhere, she could hear urgent barking. She fumbled for the seat-belt clasp, and unclipped it with some effort. She instantly tipped down into the deepening water, bruising her face and shoulder against a ridge in the roof. Her cheek hurt – blood was trickling down her face. Pushing herself on to her hands and knees in the cramped space, she patted Cal’s face urgently.
‘Cal?’
His blue eyes opened and he shook himself like a dog, swearing. Water droplets from his wet hair spattered on the inside of the broken windscreen. The rivulets were no longer separate streams, but a torrent rushing through the cabin. He reached out and grabbed Hope’s T-shirt, fist bunched in material and suddenly wide awake. ‘This time, when I tell you to get out, you go.’ He kicked out the remainder of the windscreen in three hard slams. It fell back in crackling shards. She felt his boot pushing her as she scrambled out, nuggets of glass cutting into her palms. Her ears were ringing from the roaring. And it was only getting louder. Cal was trying to unstrap the rifle from behind the headrests.
The diary! Hope crawled back to the smashed passenger window and reached inside, pulling open the glove box and fishing out the little book. She shoved it into her pocket. Cal was still struggling with the strap holding the gun in place.
Water was pouring through her hiking boots, up to the ankles, racing through the deformed driver’s window. Inside the cab Cal was soaked. ‘Come on!’
‘Coming!’
The noise increased tenfold. Hope looked in the direction of the roar, and saw a wall of water as tall as she was surging down the creek.
‘NOW.’
He scrambled from the cab on all fours, rifle over his shoulder. Grabbing Hope’s hand, he hauled her to a deep crevasse in the opposite bank. High above them, Buddy ran back and forth, barking frantically. Pushing her in front of him, Cal began to heave her further into the fissure. The water splashed their thighs.
He put his hands under Hope’s backside and shoved. ‘Get up there!’
‘I’m trying!’
A few seconds later, she caught her footing and began to climb, pushing out against the rocky sides of the crevasse. Half a minute after that, she made it on to the grass bank high above. Rolling on to her stomach, she reached back down, catching Cal’s hand and bracing herself as Buddy jumped all over her. Her tendons burnt as his boots slipped, but then he gained his hold, boosting himself up the final few metres. They lay next to each other, panting, as the meltwater blasted through the gulch beneath them.
By the time I reached the treeline, I was breathless and slowed to a walk. There was no trail. No track. Nothing. The clumps of pine and scrub gathered as the forest thickened. But there was no obvious way through them. I was soaked, even though the rain was light and my feet were getting sore.
Hot, frightened perspiration trickled down inside the cold, wet shirt, making me shiver. What had I done? I knew nothing of how to survive in the wilderness. The ground was springy with moss and pine needles. Something stung my foot. I winced and looked at the red mark, my hand against the rough bark of a tree for balance. The forest was noisy with birds, like a canopy of sound above me. The rain seemed to have stopped and light came down through the trees, glinting off the wings of butterflies, making the undergrowth shine. Twice, I had to backtrack when it proved impassable. I stopped and rested on a fallen tree, thirsty and footsore. Nearby there was the sound of running water and when I had caught my breath, I followed it. But the water looked brown, so I set off again.
When the late afternoon chill set in, I found some sort of trail, or animal track. My feet were a little numb by now. I kept moving to stay warm, but when the light began to fade I found a large rock with a tree growing next to it, and huddled on to it, wrapping my arms around myself. My clothes and hair were still very damp; I wished I’d brought a blanket, or something heavier to wear. I rubbed my sore feet. They were scratched and blotched with red, the right one was smeared with blood from a splinter and they were blue with cold along the edges of my nails.
Soon, it was dark, and I felt the forest had eyes. Something moved in the undergrowth. I choked back a scream as a deer loomed out of the darkness. The fright made me even more sensitive to the cold, although suddenly my skin felt slightly warmer to the touch and my violent shuddering died down. The night-things scuttled and croaked, quietening to barely a murmur. High above, the moon made lacework from the pines.
When I woke with a violent start, it was just before dawn. As soon as there was a bluish-grey light amongst the trees, I set out again, stiff with cold. After a few minutes, I stumbled into a stream. Grateful, I washed my face and hands, and drank a little. An eternity later, or so it seemed, I emerged from the trees on to a grassland.
As the sun rose, I headed what I thought was east. My feet were a mess, toenails rimed with dirt. My empty stomach was complaining and my head ached from lack of water. Sometime after midday, still on the endless grassland, the lake to my right, I stumbled, exhausted, and fell to my knees. I was wiping my face of sweat and a self-indulgent tear when I heard it: a low growl. My head snapped up.
At the edge of the trees, no more than ten yards away was a rock outcrop, perhaps a little taller than me. On it perched a huge tan cat, belly against the stone. An American mountain lion. Its tufted ears were sharply pricked and its tail lashed from side to side. As its muzzle drew back from its teeth, it exhaled a long, low hissing sound, and its back legs pumped in readiness to spring.
A cry escaped me and I fell as I stumbled backwards. The animal gathered to surge from the rock, just as a shot echoed around the mountains, chipping shards of stone by the cat’s paws. It coiled back in an instant, snarling, and streaked into the trees.
I could barely breathe. Your hand was hard beneath my arm. ‘Up. Get up.’ I struggled to my feet, fighting you. You grasped my arms and shook me, hard. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Let me go!’ I squirmed, pushing you.
‘You want to end up as cat meat?’ You were furious as, with one last jolt, you released me.
All the fight left my body in an instant, and a tear streaked down my face. We stood staring at each other, both breathing hard. Finally, you sighed and offered me the water canteen. My instinct was to refuse, but I was so thirsty I took it and drank greedily.
‘What have I done to you that’s worth dying over?’
I looked at the canteen in my hands and swiped another tear away. ‘I just hoped to find people . . . who would help me.’
‘Only people you gonna find out here gonna give you the kind of help you don’t deserve,’ you said fiercely. ‘You got any idea what use the miners and trappers out there would have for you? How they would hurt you?’
‘Stop! Please!’
‘Why? Your ears as prim and proper as the rest of you?’
‘Stop it! Stop trying to frighten me.’ I was suddenly furious, and threw the canteen into your chest. Before the crash, I could not remember being angry in my life.
You caught the water bottle, holding it to you, the other hand lifted in warning. ‘Desist hurling things at me. Ain’t never raised a hand to a woman but you are sincerely trying my patience.’
‘You promised not to hurt me.’
‘That was before you started using me for target practice.’ You shook your head. ‘Come on. Time to go home.’ You caught my shoulder and drew me closer to the horse. ‘And seeing as how you’re sticking around, you’re going to have to get used to how we do things around here. And how we do things is horses. Lesson One. Getting on the horse. Her left side is the near side, right side is off side. Always get on the near side—’
I pushed you off, knocking your hand away as hard as I could. ‘I can’t ride her.’
You scratched your cheek. ‘Want to go home hog-tied across the saddle?’
I turned back to Tara.
‘One hand on her withers – yep, that ridge there – and one hand behind, on h
er rump. Yes, rump, that’s what I said. She don’t mind. She’s ain’t precious like some I could mention.’ Stooping, you caught my left shin in your hand, tapping behind my knee with your knuckles. ‘Bend your knee. Bounce on your right foot a little and when I say go, let me boost you up and swing your right leg over. Use Tara. It’s what she’s there for.’
I pulled away from your grip. ‘But I can’t ride astride, only side-saddle.’
You straightened up. ‘Ain’t got one on me.’
My lip trembled. ‘A gentleman wouldn’t make me do this.’
A profanity of the kind I was utterly unfamiliar with split the air. You gestured to yourself. ‘Emily, take a good look and tell me which part of this looks like a gentleman.’
I looked you up and down, from your long hair to the ragtag collection of feathers and other things around your neck, to your old clothes and knee-high Indian boots.
With a broken sigh, I turned back to Tara again and placed my hands as you had instructed. The first attempt was useless. You straightened up. ‘You gotta slacken up, and just let me lift you. Relax.’
‘I’m not feeling very relaxed,’ I said tearfully.
‘Oh Jesus, Emily.’ You rubbed your face. ‘You can’t be this pighead-stubborn and this sorry-ass at the same time. It’s just too confusing.’ You took my shoulders and turned me back to face the saddle. ‘Try again. One, two, three . . . go.’
To my surprise, a second later, I was mounted on Tara, who stood still as a stone. Leading her over to a fallen tree, ignoring my frantic grab for her mane, you stood on it, put your right leg over her behind me and eased on to her back. Taking up the reins in one hand, you steadied me with the other. It was all monstrously improper. The idea of me riding astride would have sent Mama into an apoplexy as it was, let alone our current posture, your arm right the way around me, your other wrist on my thigh as you arranged the reins.
‘Quit squirming. You ain’t an eel and Tara don’t like it.’
Tara seemed not to care in the slightest, quiet and biddable as usual. You almost let her lead herself.
‘How far did I get?’ I asked in dismay.
‘Four miles, thereabouts. In the wrong direction.’