Winter at Mustang Ridge

by Jesse Hayworth

  Jenny wasn’t sure he would be much use, but his enthusiasm was contagious. “We’ll find him.” She gave Gran a quick, hard hug. “And he’ll be fine. This is Big Skye we’re talking about. There’s no way he’s putting himself back on bed rest.”

  “If he does, I’m moving his bed in here and telling your mother it’s her turn.”

  “That’s the spirit. Let’s go find him.”

  But a thorough search didn’t turn up any sign of Big Skye, his tack, or his favorite horse, and it didn’t look like he had taken a radio, either—all the walkie-talkies were lined up in their chargers, most of them dusty from winter disuse.

  “Guess we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Jenny decided. “Will you go grab the Remington and some shells for me?”

  Gran’s face cleared. “Signal shots! Absolutely.”

  “And while you’re in there, call Mom and Dad back. Foster, too. We may need to ride out.” She glanced at the sky. “The sooner, the better. I know it’ll annoy Gramps if we make a fuss—”

  “Good,” Gran said primly. “Then next time maybe he’ll bring his phone with him.” She headed for the main house with Rex on her heels.

  Jenny watched her go, envying her gran’s ability to mix her huge capacity for love with the spine and practicality of a lifelong rancher. Still, she was all too aware of the fading light, the bone-chilling cold, and the wall-to-wall snow that was broken only by the packed-down trail leading up the ridgeline. Big Skye had no doubt followed it, but for how long? Had he turned off on the other side of the ridge, or had he ridden all the way up to the high pasture, making his usual self-appointed rounds of the fence line? The big predators should be in their dens, but that wasn’t a guarantee. And with the weather being what it was, everything from a thrown shoe to a bad fall took on a whole new level of danger.

  She worked to suppress a shiver.

  Gran’s hurried footsteps sounded as she came down the path carrying the shotgun and wearing a grim expression. “Your parents and Foster are on their way, but it’ll be at least an hour, maybe more.”

  Jenny took the Remington. “Let’s see if he’s within earshot. You want to hang on to Rex for me?” The last thing they needed was to send him running for the hills.

  It felt strange to hold the weapon. The shotgun was good for fending off bears and big cats because it could hold multiple shells, but that made it solid, almost too heavy. The strangeness wore off quickly, though, as her muscles remembered the routine: check the safety, check the chamber, load the shells, rack a shell into the chamber and take the safety off. She scanned her surroundings, saw that Gran had moved closer to the house and had a good hold of Rex’s collar. Then, aiming at the big, empty white of the ridgeline, she fired off three shots at two-second intervals—blam, blam, blam. The recoil jerked against her shoulder and punched the air from her lungs, making her feel like she’d just jumped into a gully and landed too hard. The echoes ricocheted off the buildings and surrounding hills, tickling her ears long after the last shot had peppered a spray-can splotch in the snow.

  And then, nothing. The fading day was silent, save for the sound of Rex panting some distance away.

  Slowly, she turned to Gran. “Guess he’s out of range.” There was no question that Big Skye would be armed—he might leave the house without his phone, but never without a gun.

  “Or else he’s hurt.” Gran’s voice was almost inaudible.

  “He’s . . .” Jenny shook her head, knowing they were running out of options, out of time. “I’ll ride out now. The others can catch up with me when they get here, or fan out and search other trails.”

  “Wait,” Gran said, starting toward her. “You don’t have to . . .” She stopped and stomped a booted foot, eyes welling. “Darn it. When he gets back, I’m going to glue that phone where he can’t reach it. See if he ever leaves it behind again.”

  Trying to imagine where, exactly, her gran planned on sticking the phone, Jenny found a weak grin. “Maybe this is just his way of getting me back on a horse.”

  “You could take one of the snowmobiles.”

  “There are too many places out there that a snowmobile can’t go. Besides, a good horse will help me look for his buddy, and keep me out of trouble when the going gets rough.” She didn’t know the trails as well as she once had, and horses had far better instincts than machines. “Don’t worry about me. I haven’t forgotten how to ride.”

  Krista had pointed out a couple of reliable saddle horses, in case Jenny wanted to throw a leg over. At the time, she had scoffed. Now, she ran through the mental checklist, knowing she couldn’t afford to waste time, but she wouldn’t be any use if she disappeared out there, too.

  “But . . .” Gran trailed off, hands fluttering helplessly as Rex pawed at her leg, whining. “I should go with you.”

  “No.” No way in hell. “I need you here to call me back when he rides in, complaining because we raised a fuss.”

  That took some of the strain out of Gran’s face. Not much, but some. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Can you grab me some extra clothes for him? Whatever you think makes sense.”

  “Of course. I’ll bring them to the barn. And some extras for you, too, along with snacks and coffee.”

  No point in arguing that, if she had even wanted to. Which she didn’t, because the doubts were creeping in. It was cold, night was coming, and it had been years since she had tracked anything but reality TV stars, longer since she had done it from horseback in the snow. But if she waited and they reached him too late, she would never forgive herself. “Maybe leave Rex in the house when you come back,” she said to Gran. “I don’t want him following me.”

  In the barn, Jenny grabbed Krista’s tack and one of the knapsacks that went along on every guest ride, prefilled with a first-aid kit, heat packs, foil blankets, rations, and a fire-starting kit. Stacking the equipment in the aisle, she headed for the lower paddock and brought in all of the riding horses, sticking them in stalls for when the others arrived. Just as she ran the stall door shut behind Doobie, the sturdy mustang she planned to ride, she heard the deep rumble of a truck’s engine and the crunch of tires on snowy gravel out in front of the barn.

  Heart thudding, she hurried toward the sound, reaching the main slider just as Nick swung down from his truck. Wearing heavy layers and a fur-lined hat she hadn’t seen on him before, he looked capable and cowboyish, and like he fit right in with the rugged landscape.

  Relief poured through her. “You came.” She walked straight into his arms, needing the contact. “Thank you.”

  He gripped her tightly, burrowing in for a moment, then easing away as Gran hurried up, her arms piled with clothes and food. “I take it he’s not back?”

  “No,” Jenny said, “and the others won’t be here before dusk.” She looked at him, measuring his worn jeans and sturdy boots, surprised to realize how little she really knew about him. “Can you ride?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  The rush of gratitude was stronger than she wanted to let on. Inhaling a deep breath, she nodded. “Thanks.” To Gran, she said, “We’ll bring him back in one piece.”

  She didn’t promise, though. Didn’t dare.

  • • •

  It had been a few years since Nick had done any serious riding, but the motions came back quickly enough as he slapped borrowed tack on Roman, a solid bay gelding with an aquiline nose and a reportedly unflappable temperament. He was aware of Jenny keeping an eye on him as he buckled on the last of the gear, then double-checked his cinch. “I think I’m good to go,” he said.

  “I’d say you are.” Despite the underlying strain, her eyes warmed as she crossed to him, reached up on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. Gran is relieved you’re going with me. So am I.”

  Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he said, “Two sets of eyes are better than one. Or four versus two, if we’re counting the horses. And we need to get moving if we’re going to beat the dark.”
He didn’t think she would want to hear there was no way he would’ve let her go alone, even if it had meant chasing her on foot.

  As it was, they would likely be riding past dark, hoping to hell that the sky stayed clear, the moonlight strong enough to light the trail. And hoping they had loaded themselves and the horses with the right supplies. “Give me a minute to grab a few things out of my truck?”

  She nodded, face setting in resolute lines. “I’ll meet you around the side with both horses.”

  It didn’t take him long to load a battered knapsack with the supplies he thought he might need—the moves were ingrained after so many years of doing his job on the fly, in situations that would’ve made his “sterile field is everything” vet school professors cringe. He had already changed into his heaviest clothes, so he just had to add an extra pair of gloves, and he was good to go.

  In the plowed-clear section beside the barn, Jenny sat astride a chestnut gelding who mouthed the bit and stomped a forefoot, wanting to be moving. Beside her, Gran held Roman’s reins and craned to see the horizon.

  As Nick took the reins from the older woman, who looked so much smaller out here than she did in her big, homey kitchen, he said, “Go get yourself thawed out and make sure Rex isn’t too worried. We’ll be in touch.”

  After giving the cinch a final tug, he swung up into the wide saddle while Jenny bent down to give her grandmother a hug. With Gran raising a hand in farewell, they reined the horses away and headed along the wide hoof-packed trail leading out of the homestead valley, their progress accompanied by the crunch of ice beneath the horses’ sharp-shod hooves, the creak of cold leather, and the jingle of the long-shanked bits.

  As they crested the ridge, where the wind had scoured the snow from the three-rock pyramid that landmarked the ranch valley, Jenny reined her horse to a restless halt. Nick rode up beside her and scanned the next valley, where the snow stretched to the horizon, unbroken save for the main trail and the shadowy veins where other riders—or perhaps animals—had broken off and forged their own paths.

  “There’s no sign of him,” she said tightly. “I was hoping . . .”

  He bumped his knee against hers. “Chin up. He knows this land and its winters better than any of us. If he got into trouble, he’s probably made camp by now.”

  Her smile was wan, but real. “And he’ll be ticked that we came out after him. In fact, he’ll probably act like he had planned an overnight all along, wanting some time away after being so sick.” Her voice trailed off on the last, though.

  “He’s tough as nails, Jenny. He’s going to be okay.”

  “Thanks. I know I’m saying that way too much, but seriously, thanks. For being here. For trying to cheer me up. For looking seriously hot in the saddle. For all of it.”

  His grin got real. “I was going to tell you to stop thanking me, but I think I just changed my mind.”

  “Too bad, because I’m done.” Centering herself in the saddle, she let out a steadying breath. “Okay. We’re going to follow the main trail until it intersects with the upper pasture, then follow the fence line uphill. That’s Gran’s and my best guess on where he would’ve gone.”

  “You got it.”

  A nudge sent her horse onward and down the sloping trail, the muscles of its haunches bunching and shifting beneath the supplies lashed behind the saddle. Nick followed, staying back and off to one side, so if one horse slipped and fell, it would be less likely to take out the other in a tangle of legs and equipment. He strained to detect anything out of the ordinary, but heard only the wind. More tellingly, the horses kept their attention on the trail, with none of the pricked ears or whinnies that would indicate they had sensed another horse in the distance.

  Over the next hour as they rode along a series of lower, snow-shrouded hills, they kept conversation to a minimum. Jenny’s face was set, resolute, but each time they passed a smaller, offshoot trail and saw the prints of a shod horse in the snow, she patted her horse’s neck and whispered praise to the little chestnut. It reminded Nick of the way his father had sat at his mother’s bedside those last few days, his thumb stroking the back of her hand over and over again, as if afraid that if he stopped, she would, too.

  “Come on, old man,” he muttered under his breath. “Where did you get off to?” He was still hoping for that stopped-and-made-camp scenario, but as the yellow sunlight bled from the sky and there was no evidence of woodsmoke up ahead, it got far too easy to imagine that Big Skye had been thrown and stranded on foot, or worse.

  “Let’s try the shotgun again,” Jenny said, though he wasn’t sure if that was because she had heard him or not. He hadn’t meant for her to, wanted to keep his input wholly positive. But then again, they both knew the odds.

  “The horses going to be okay with it?” he asked as she loosened the scabbard.

  “Should be, but I wouldn’t throw my reins away.”

  “Noted.”

  He took a feel of Roman’s mouth as she aimed and fired three shots over ten or so seconds. The blasts cracked through the cold air, echoed off the surrounding hills, and brought the horse’s heads jerking up, but that was it.

  They sat for a moment, straining to hear a far-off reply.

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “Damn. Okay, let’s— ” A gunshot sounded suddenly from up ahead, cutting her off. As her face lit, it was followed by two more in rapid succession. “There he is!” Jenny whooped and sent her horse bounding forward, shouting, “Hey! Hey, Gramps! It’s Jenny!”

  “Wait! Be careful— ” Nick bit off the pointless warning and gave Roman his head instead. “Go on. Get them!”

  15

  Jenny’s heart sang as she and Doobie pounded up a slight rise to the ridge beyond. They had found Big Skye, and he was in good enough shape to fire off a few rounds, and that was the hugest relief she could imagine. Then she crested the hill and started down, and she let loose with a disbelieving laugh at the sight of a strange parade: a bundled human figure trudging along the trail, leading a horse with a leggy black calf tied across the saddle, with a rawboned black cow bringing up the rear, bumping anxiously from side to side.

  Not only was Big Skye okay, he was on a flipping rescue mission.

  “Hey!” she called, reining in some distance away, not wanting to spook the little herd. “Who do you have there?”

  Her grandfather raised a hand in greeting, but didn’t say anything right away, looking torn between embarrassment and relief. After a moment, he grumbled, “Good to see you haven’t forgotten how to ride. Is that the vet with you? Come on down here, Doc. These two could use some help.”

  A laugh got stuck in Jenny’s throat. “Nice to see you, too, big guy.” Not that she needed hugs and gratitude, really. All that mattered was that he was in one piece.

  She and Nick quickly secured the horses and got a rope on the agitated cow, who wanted to be in the thick of things.

  Two, maybe three weeks old, the wolfhound-size calf was limp and exhausted-looking, and had blood seeping from fresh bite wounds on its ribs and neck. “Heard some coyotes getting after something, and went to have a look-see,” Big Skye explained as Nick moved in. “Found them worrying at this guy while his mama tried to drive them off.” He patted the pistol on his hip. “Gave the varmints something else to think about.”

  “Late baby,” Nick said, checking the calf’s gums, which were dangerously pale. “Or early, depending.”

  “They’re not ours. Must’ve wandered in, or been dropped off.”

  “Some folk are looking to be done with their livestock these days, just like their dogs.” Nick unshouldered his knapsack and started rummaging for supplies. “Is this the worst of the bites?”

  “Looked it to me. You want to untie him, give him a good going-over?”

  To Jenny’s immense gratitude, Nick shook his head. “He’s shocky, but I don’t see fresh blood. I think we should get him stabilized, then head for home.” He glanced over at her. “Want to break out some snacks, and w
e can do a quick refuel while I get some fluids into this guy and take a quick look at his mama?”

  Big Skye visibly perked up at that. “Got any cookies?”

  Her heart turned over—not just at how pale her grandfather was, or the little stumble when he turned toward her, but at how Nick had made it the most natural thing in the world for her to break out the thermos of thick, hot cowboy coffee and hand it to her gramps. “Drink up. And, yes, Gran sent cookies.”

  He took a deep draught, then exhaled a relieved sigh. “What a woman.”

  Jenny handed over a cookie. “She made us bring extra clothes for you, too. You’d better put some of them on, or we’ll all hear about it.”

  She doled out extra socks, air-activated hot packs for his hands and feet, a second parka and a fur-lined hat, interspersing the articles with cookie bribes. And, as he struggled with the clothing in a way that was more than the cold and fatigue, she looked away, chest tightening. His hair was so thin, the last of the steel gray turned white seemingly overnight, and his shoulders were stooped beneath the layers of goose down and nylon.

  He’s getting old. No matter how hard she tried to quash the thought, it stayed put, rooting itself in her brain alongside things like they’re not going to be around forever, and what will happen when they’re gone? Maybe the fears had been there ever since Nick had told her about his mother’s death, bringing the niggling thought that it could’ve been her getting the “come home now” call, only to return and discover that the things she had depended on to stay the same, suddenly weren’t anymore. Or maybe it was all about today—seeing the fear in Gran’s face, feeling it herself as they had ridden over hill after hill without any sign of him. And even now, the nerves wouldn’t let up.

  What if he got sick again? What if the next time things didn’t go so well? What if, what if, what if?

  Turning away so Big Skye wouldn’t see the sudden film of tears in her eyes, she cleared her throat. “I’ll call Gran, let her know we’re on our way back.”