by Zoey Parker
“Cool,” Carter said, striding over to it. “Help me get on.”
“Whoa, hang on!” said Billie. “You can't just hop on. You have to introduce yourself to the horse first, so he'll be comfortable letting you ride him.”
Carter let out an exasperated sigh, then leaned over and spoke directly to the palomino. “Hello. It's nice to meet you. I'd shake hands, but you don't have any. Now how about helping me out of a jam by letting me ride you for a bit? Yeah?”
The palomino flicked its ears and turned its face away from him.
“You're gonna have to do better than that. Come on, be gentle with him. Talk to him and pet him a little, so he'll trust you.”
He took a deep breath and leaned in closer, stroking the horse's face. It whinnied quietly and bent its head, letting him caress its nose and ears. They felt like velvet, and Carter found that petting them was strangely relaxing. His nerves had been in overdrive since the bank robbery, and this was the first time he'd been able to soothe them.
“That's right,” he said quietly. “You're a nice horse, aren't you? Sure you are. You're just going to come with us for a little while, but there's no need to be scared. We're gonna take good care of you. Everything's going to be fine.”
Carter turned and saw that Billie was watching him with a small smile on her lips.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“You know, when you aren't doing the whole big bad tough guy act, you're actually kind of a sweetie,” she said.
“For fuck's sake, if you're going to make fun of me...” he snarled, backing away from the horse.
“No, I'm not making fun of you,” she insisted. “I really mean it. Your sensitive side is pretty sexy. Besides, it looks like you're starting to get on his good side. Do you want to try sitting on him now?”
“Sure, I guess,” Carter said dubiously.
“Okay, put your saddlebag up there first, just to test the waters a little,” she said. “Remember to be slow and gentle with it, and try not to make any sudden moves or you'll spook him.”
Carter removed the saddlebag from his shoulder and approached the horse again, carefully placing it on the animal's back. The palomino whickered softly and its tail twitched, but it remained in place.
“Very good,” Billie said encouragingly. “Now I'm going to give you a boost so you can get a leg over him. Ready?”
Billie crouched down and laced her fingers together next to the palomino. Carter put one hand on the horse's back and stepped up onto her hands with one boot, throwing his other leg over the horse. It whinnied and reared up briefly, and for a moment, Carter thought he might fall.
“Don't panic,” Billie said, “and don't pull on his mane. Just try to stay calm and keep your balance. If he knows you're spooked, it'll spook him too.”
“I ain't spooked,” Carter said, wobbling unsteadily and trying to stay on.
Billie laughed. “Prove it, then, big man.”
Carter willed himself to be calm and started to balance himself out. The palomino's movements slowed until it stood still again.
“Not bad for a first-timer,” Billie said. “Okay, now it's my turn.”
She strolled over to a brown and white pinto and lovingly cradled its face in her hands for a few minutes, cooing softly and whispering to it. Then she kept her hand on its neck as she walked around to its side. At first, Carter thought she wouldn't be able to hop up on her own—but she pulled herself onto the horse's back like an expert, and the pinto barely flinched.
Now that she was sitting astride the creature with her shoulders squared and the afternoon sunlight filtered through her auburn hair, Carter couldn't help but marvel at how beautiful and graceful she looked. The first time he'd seen her, he'd wanted to fuck her, no question about it.
But now there was something deeper in his longing for her, a peculiar ache that he wasn't used to feeling. He'd been with plenty of women before, but he'd never found himself as awestruck by one as he did now.
“You're staring,” Billie remarked with a grin.
“I'm just impressed, that's all,” Carter said, trying to sound casual. “You climbed up on that thing like it was nothing. Do you ride a lot?”
“Sure, all the time. There's a horse farm outside of Cactus Hollow, and they let me ride in exchange for helping out around the stables. Sometimes it's a nice change of pace from pouring beers and shots, and anyway, it's nothing compared to that mechanical bull. Speaking of which, are you ready to ride? We've got some serious ground to cover if we're going to make it to the shack before nightfall.”
“Okay,” Carter said. “So how do I do this?”
“Use your heels to gently prod the horse into moving forward,” she instructed. “Don't dig in too hard, just give him a little nudge to let him know what you want. Careful not to go too fast, though. It's hard to stay on top without reins or a saddle.”
Carter braced himself and carefully nudged the horse's sides with the heels of his boots. The palomino grunted and started to trot toward the open gate. Carter felt himself lurch backward, but he managed to stay on.
“Nicely done,” Billie laughed. “Time to hit the dusty trail, cowboy. Let's go!”
Carter tried to hold back a smile, but it came anyway. Damn, but she was ballsy. Her sense of adventure was infectious, and he discovered that he was actually starting to enjoy her company.
He wondered how things might have unfolded between them if they'd met under different circumstances—if he'd just been riding through town instead of on a robbery spree, if he'd taken his chances with the mechanical bull and gone home with her last night after all.
He tried to remind himself that once it was time to cross the border into Mexico, he'd have to cut her loose—she probably had family who'd be worried about her and a life she'd want to get back to.
That was hard to think about, so instead he watched the curves of her body and the jiggle of her tantalizing ass as she rode ahead of him.
Chapter 15
Billie
Waves of heat shimmered off the desert sand as they rode. They'd been at it for almost three hours, and the sun's rays were still unforgiving as it baked the sand and their bodies.
Billie patted her pinto's hot hide and it neighed unhappily. Foam was beginning to gather at the corners of its mouth, and its steps were becoming more tired and plodding. It would need food and water soon or else it would collapse. Clyde's horse would, too.
Before they'd left The Whippoorwill, they'd taken the two bottles of water from the mini-fridge so they could try to stay hydrated during their journey. But even though the water turned warm fast and Billie tried to restrain herself from taking anything but tiny sips from it, her supply still ran out quickly, and now she was left without a drop. Worse, she could feel the sun burning her exposed face and arms, and the top of her head felt like it was on fire.
She was getting dizzy and sick to her stomach, and as the world around her started to become a miasma of wavy lines, she realized she could no longer tell if it was a heat mirage or if her own vision was becoming blurred from dehydration.
Why had she been so insistent on parking in front of the bank and witnessing a crime that morning? Why had she been dumb enough to lean out of the car and yell out to the robbers? Why had she insisted on treating this whole thing like some kind of amusement park ride instead of taking it seriously and staying out of harm's way like most sane people would?
Most of all, why had she believed it was a clever idea for them to ride across this hellish stretch of nowhere? And on horseback, no less?
If only she'd spent her day off at home, she could be inside with the air conditioner cranked as high as it would go. She could be drinking cold beers and dozing off on her couch while watching the harmless cops and robbers on TV, instead of being threatened by real ones and risking a lonely and agonizing death in this parched wasteland.
She thought about all of the times she'd foolishly believed that there could be no worse fate than sp
ending a long, boring, miserable life in a town like Cactus Hollow. But oh, how wrong she'd been.
Her pinto suddenly brayed with fright and reared up, and Billie saw that a rattlesnake had crossed its path. The rattler bared its fangs briefly, then continued on its way. But even as it slithered out of sight, the sound of its rattle still filled Billie's ears until it seemed to press against the backs of her eyeballs. She felt a nauseating lurch as she saw the ground spinning up to meet her.
Before she could fall over, a firm hand clamped on her shoulder, steadying her. Clyde was next to her on his own horse, his eyes filled with concern.
“You okay?” he asked. His cheeks and forehead were bright red, and his lips were cracked. His long hair was plastered to his sweaty neck and temples.
Billie nodded and tried to lick her lips to respond, but her tongue was like sandpaper. All she could do was let out a croak.
“Here,” Clyde said, extending his own water bottle. There were still a few drops swishing around at the bottom. “Drink the rest of this.”
Billie took the bottle gratefully, its clear plastic burning her fingers as she gulped down the last of its contents. It felt like it had been warmed on a stove top, but at least its moisture broke through the web of sticky dryness that filled her mouth and throat.
“Thank you,” she managed, coughing and tossing the bottle to the ground.
“Take this,” Clyde said, shrugging off his leather vest and handing it to her. “Drape it over the top of your head. It should give you a little shade and ward off heatstroke for a while longer.”
She placed it on her head carefully. The leather was hot and the manly musk of his sweat clung to it, but it kept the sunlight from beating down on her brain like a drum.
“How close are we to the woods?” Clyde asked.
“Couple…more…miles,” Billie wheezed.
“Do you think you'll be able to make it?”
She tried to laugh, but all that came out was a gagging sound. “Fuck you care? No more hostage, no more problem, right? Save you guys th' trouble've killing me.”
“No one's going to kill you,” Clyde said. “I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise. You just need to hold on for me a little longer, though, okay?”
At first, Billie thought he was just telling her what she wanted to hear so she'd pull herself together and get them to the shack faster. But when she looked into his eyes, she could see that he meant it. There was real kindness and compassion in them which she'd never seen there before.
“Just...tell me y'r real name, okay?” Billie asked. “Just so I can...put in a good word for you...up there. Heh...seems like you might end up...needin' it...”
He hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and whispered into her ear. “Carter. My name's Carter.”
“Carter,” she repeated through dry, cracked lips. “Wow. Shitty name. Should've...stuck with Clyde.”
“Just stay strong and hang in there a few more minutes, and you can call me whatever you want,” Carter said.
He really is a sweetie after all, she thought as whole galaxies of stars twinkled and popped in her peripheral vision. That's nice. Who would've thought? Big bad biker, caring about little old me. That's nice. Doesn't matter, since we're going to die out here with the snakes and the scorpions. Still, that's nice. That's...
Reality was pulled out from under her then, but instead of falling down on the hard sand, she felt a pair of strong arms wrap themselves around her and pull her up, up, until everything went white and she was sure she was being carried by an angel up to heaven. A voice was calling her name.
How lovely, she thought. Someone up here must be expecting me.
Chapter 16
Panzer
Panzer used his sleeve to mop the sweat from his brow as he and Broyles looked down into the ditch. Federal agents were swarming over Henry Sunday's white sedan, tossing aside the corn stalks that camouflaged it and searching for evidence. The sun was just starting to turn red and sink behind the horizon.
“That car was faster than a greased weasel,” Panzer muttered. “So why the hell did he get rid of it so soon after grabbing it?”
“You don't get many thieves around here, do you, Sheriff?” Harbaugh sneered.
“Virgil Mendlow's grandson once stole a couple candy bars from Pembleton's Pop Shop 'bout two, three years ago?” Broyles offered.
“Jesus, Broyles,” Panzer sighed.
“He ditched the car to throw us off, you banjo-plucking nimrod,” said Harbaugh. Despite his harsh words, his tone was distant and contemplative as he mulled this over. “He rode it just far enough to be sure we were still looking for Ms. Rosewood's red coupe, and once he figured enough time had passed for us to discover that Mr. Sunday's car had been stolen, he rolled it down there and continued with her on foot.”
“They couldn't keep going like that for long, though,” Panzer pointed out. “They'd have to either steal another ride or find someplace nearby to hole up.”
“There's no way they'd go to ground anywhere near here,” Harbaugh said, shaking his head. “Based on their patterns of behavior after their previous robberies, they'll want to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of their last crime. Still, the fact that they were willing to split up during their escape tells me that they must have arranged a place to meet up afterward, just in case they got separated. Are there any motels nearby?”
“Sure,” Panzer replied, pointing toward each one as he listed them. “There's The Whippoorwill Motor Lodge and The Canasta Inn over that way, and in the opposite direction there's The Red Rider Motel.”
“Shit,” Harbaugh snapped. “I guess our best option is to have your deputy call each motel to see if they've had bikers check in, or if any cars have been reported stolen from their parking lots. That's if he isn't too busy filling out his application for Mensa.”
“Naw, I got plenty of time,” Broyles said, taking his cell phone from his pocket and walking a few feet away.
“You shouldn't keep makin' fun of him like that,” Panzer mumbled. He could feel his face turning red again, but he didn't care. Broyles may not have been a brain trust, but he still didn't like seeing him get publicly belittled by some grouchy fed from out of town.
“Sheriff, you're absolutely right,” Harbaugh retorted. “There's nothing to be gained from that kind of behavior, and I apologize. If anything, I should be saving all of my derision for you, since it'd be so much easier for us to figure out which motel they checked into if you'd bothered to get reliable descriptions of them in the bar.”
“Look, maybe I didn't memorize every tiny detail about these guys,” Panzer huffed. “But I'm not blind either, okay? I got the basics. Not that you bothered to ask earlier when you were too busy callin' us all hicks an' such.”
“Sure. The basics…that they were breathing air and wearing pants?”
Panzer fumed, but remained silent.
“If only we could lift one goddamned usable print,” Harbaugh grumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “At least then we'd probably have a rap sheet to circulate, and known associates to look into. But based on the zilch we were able to collect from the red coupe, he must be wearing gloves, and there's no reason to believe he'd have taken them off in this car.”
Broyles returned, tucking his cell phone back in his pocket. “I spoke with them managers?” he began. “Ain't no one checked into The Canasta all day, but The Whippoorwill an' The Red Rider both had new people come in an' reserve rooms, includin' two or three who looked like they could be biker types. None of 'em had any of the vee-hickles reported stolen from their parkin' lots, but they're gonna go double-check just in case they ain't been noticed missin' yet.”
“So now we've narrowed it down to two places, in opposite directions from each other,” Harbaugh said. “Swell. By the time we rule one of them out and focus on the other one, these jokers will probably have a massive head start on us.”
“Agent Harbaugh!” one o
f the feds called out from the ditch. “You oughtta come look at this.”
Harbaugh smiled, tossing the cigarette away and carefully stepping down to the side of the ditch. “What is it, Mulcahey?” he asked. “Please, tell me there's a God and you found some prints after all.”
“No fingerprints,” Mulcahey said, “but there's a big, dusty bootprint from where he must have kicked the dashboard.” He pointed out the dirty tread pattern stamped on it.
“Better than nothing,” Harbaugh admitted, peering at it. “Can we match it to any of the prints in the mud around the car? That would tell us which way they headed, at least.”