A 3rd Time to Die

by George A Bernstein

  He effused a powerful, magnetic aura… and something else. Something more compelling. As if she knew him, but she had no idea from where. He ran a hand through dark, curly hair, his wide mouth and narrow lips twitching into a small grin as she returned his gaze.

  She shook her head imperceptibly, returning her attention to the stadium.

  Brazen hussy. A tiny smile tugged up the corners of her pale, pink lips. She shifted her seat in the saddle, changing her focus, visualizing the challenging course before her.

  All of the knocked down rails reset, the judges signaled her to begin her round. She was illogically filled with confidence, knowing he was there. Why should he matter? She didn't even know him! As she entered the ring, circling Injun, preparing to attack the course, she passed close to the railing where he stood.

  "Stand off a bit," he called. "He'll jump anything out there, if you give him enough room." Surprised, she glanced at him, russet eyebrows arched.

  "Show 'em how it's done, Red," he shouted, as she turned her attention to the course and began her run. The first jump was a brush and single-pole. Despite the man’s encouragement, a wave of chills spilled across her back. She crouched low in the saddle, driving the roan forward with her knees.

  Jeez, that’s a big fence! But Injun cantered in, head high and ears forward, and as if understanding the man's words, stood off in full stride, soaring over it with ease.

  Wow! Beautiful! Maybe we can handle this after all. She leaned left, sudden confidence surging through her. Her grip on the reins changed subtly, unfamiliar but somehow stronger. Her sometimes tenuous seat strangely firm, she eagerly drove toward the next obstacle, guiding with knee pressure as much as with the reins.

  Ashley squinted, measuring the size and breadth of the jump, a wooden “wall.” The world around her momentarily slowed to a crawl.

  Alle!

  Her head popped up at that long forgotten sultry French voice, chortling in her head. Why suddenly now, after a fifteen year silence? A quick head shake as she fastened on the approaching barrier.

  Eyes watering, momentarily blurring, the course shimmered and flickered like a movie film that had jumped the sprocket. Blinking, she lurched dangerously upright as they charged the fence.

  What the…? Where did the wooden barrier go? A boulder-studded four-foot wall, covered with moss and ivy, loomed in front of them.

  Jesus! How did that…? It’s so big! We’ll be killed if he doesn’t…

  Ignoring Ashley’s now dubious seat and one stirrup lost, the horse gathered himself to jump, not awaiting a signal she was too stunned to send. She snatched a handful of mane, crouching low in the saddle, eyes closed and knees gripping tightly, hoping not to be “left”… thrown from the saddle. No question Injun was going. He never refused a fence.

  The jarring shock of landing clear of the jump brought her head up, as she fought to regain her stirrup.

  Oh God, oh God! We made it. When did they set that up? So realistic!

  Fumbling to gain control of reins and stirrup, they pivoted right, Injun knowing the course as well as she. Instead of the expected oxer, they confronted a huge downed oak, tangled roots, like dancing snakes, grasping for the sky.

  Alle! Alle! ricocheting through her mind.

  That voice again, joyous and eager, not reflecting her panic. She gritted her teeth.

  Shit! This isn’t the course. How the Hell… did we get lost in the woods?

  The big sorrel thundered on, oblivious of his master’s confusion, hurdling the rough trunk with Ashley clinging to his neck and mane, trying to regain command of the sweat-slick reins. She managed to thrust her foot into the flapping stirrup and gain tension on the bridle just as they burst upon an unruly tall brush line, bordering a bubbling stream.

  Clenching her jaw, she signaled with her knees, leaning low, her head to one side of his neck, as they went airborne, sailing easily over both hedge and water. Before she could catch her breath, they were on to a wood rail fence followed closely by another wide, lichen-clad stone wall. Her brain was frozen, lost to her whereabouts.

  Tally-ho, tally-ho! She grunted, shaking her head.

  Damn. This is no fox hunt!

  Clearly, whatever this was, there was no stopping the gelding until they ran free of whatever forest they had mysteriously stumbled upon, so she’d better take control. Despite her heart’s jackhammer effort to burst through her breast, she grew strangely confident, leaning lower, urging the gelding on. They had to get out of here and Injun seemed to know the way.

  Mon Dieu, cette forêt est si beau.

  She’s blinked. Damned French, again? This is too much!

  That language hadn’t popped in her head since she last jumped an Open course, fifteen years ago. That same sultry voice.

  Forget it. Gotta concentrate on finishing this alive. What’s got into this crazy horse?

  Somewhat in charge now, they raced on, weaving through sparse woods, thick with the smell of fir, hurtling rock and stone walls, trees and wooden fences, hedges and streams, until there were none left.

  Where did they come from and how had she gotten there? She’d seek those answers later. Had to finish this first. Broken sunlight, like celestial spears, pierced the woods ahead. A meadow? Once clear, they could find their way home.

  As they cantered into a grassy clearing, thunder echoed across the sky.

  La Finis.

  She shivered, glancing up, blinking again, surprised at the cloudless blue above. Sitting up in the saddle, shaking her head, squinting at the sudden brightness, they sped past the finish line…

  Back at Onwentsia!

  Back on the course!

  Back home… thank God!

  Applause rumbled across the ring, reverberating like an approaching cloudburst. Ashley trembled, struggling to stand in the stirrups on shaky legs, looking back, electric goose-bumps lancing her spine.

  What the Hell was that!

  There were the stands, full of strangers; there was the show-ring, filled with jumps, every pole and wall still in place; and there he was, standing by the railing, grinning as he executed a small salute.

  Riding pell-mell through a forest? French in my head? Am I crazy? That velvet voice, like when I was a teenager jumping Lady, hearing French then, too. But nothing like this!

  In her youth it was that same elegant Gaelic voice, urging her over the Junior Open courses. But those fences were just fences… unchanged. This was some other world, charging through a primeval forest, soaring over natural obstacles, not a man-made course. She shook her head, trying to regain her full sense of place and time.

  Am I going psychotic?

  She was dragged back to the present by the booming loudspeaker, announcing the results of her mystical and very terrifying ride.

  "Injun, ridden by Ms. Ashley Easton. A clean round, in an incredible time of 52 seconds."

  My God, 52 seconds! That’s fast. So while I seemed to be tearing through that beautiful old forest, I was really here, riding the course? How can that be? I saw that other world so clearly!

  Whatever had happened, she was in first place, with two horses yet to go.

  Ashley cleared the ring, dismounting on shaky, new fawn’s legs, hugging the tall red horse around his lathered neck for balance.

  “You took care of me out there, Injun. You understood what was going on better than me. Thanks.” He nickered, tossing his head, lifting her off the ground. Her giggle was mostly nervous release.

  The next contestant, mounted on a huge brown and white Warmblood, trotted past, nodding at her.

  "Hell of a ride," he said. "That time won't be topped today."

  Her heart still pounding her ribs, she smiled weakly. Nice complement, coming from a guy she’s heard was a Grand Prix rider, mounted on a $200,000 horse. He had no idea what kind of “ride” that really was. Through the lingering terror and confusion, a sense of elation peeked through.

  If I hadn’t been scared out of my pants, that would’ve been
the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. Can’t figure it out. There’s no history of schizophrenia in my family… that I know of. Belting out “Alle” and “Tally-ho.” Just like a fox hunt, I guess.

  Injun nickered, tugging at her pocket with his teeth, searching for a carrot or apple.

  "Well, buddy," she said, her voice cracking, as she stroked his nose, feeding him his well-deserved treat, "somehow we got our first leg toward winning that big trophy. Not doing too badly for a couple of psychotic amateurs."

  She sucked in several deep breaths, trying to slow her still racing pulse. Two more rounds, one Saturday and one Sunday. Win those and she was champion of the show. Would they be jumping fences in the ring, or charging through some magical woods filled with stone walls, streams and hedgerows?

  She shuddered, filled with angst, but also strangely eager to find out. Squinting against the afternoon sun, her gaze swept the show ring, pausing to examine each obstacle. They were typical Open Jumper fences. How were they so transformed in her head? And that evocative French contralto, chortling gleefully with ever jump?

  Sighing again, she shrugged, gathered Injun’s reins, ambling toward the stables. Crimson eyebrows pinched together, the corners of a usually smiling mouth turning down. There was little eagerness to get home to parade her trophies. The kids were at their grandparents, and Keith would be the antithesis of happy or supportive.

  She sighed, her hair swirling in an auburn cascade.

  Pausing, she idly scrutinized the slowly dispersing crowd. Tiny mouse-feet tiptoed down her spine, evoking delicious goose-bumps when her gaze fell upon him, dressed in cocoa Chinos and a chocolate long-sleeve flannel shirt, leaning his six-foot frame against a fence pole, arms folded. He tossed off a casual salute, grinning.

  "Great ride, Red," he called. "I'll be cheering for you every round. Do it like that again tomorrow, but maybe a little less recklessly, and you can't miss." He waved, turned and sauntered off.

  Who is this striking Italian-looking guy, with curly inky hair and a lean, equestrian physique?

  He seems so familiar. Is it a coincidence he pops out of nowhere, and suddenly her world seems transformed, her head bubbling with French while she blazes around the course, flying over walls and trees in some mysterious forest she doesn’t even recognize?

  Reckless indeed. He should only know how easy it was… once I swallowed my heart and took some kind of control!

  I should meet him. Maybe Sunday, after my last competition. He said he would be there. Wonder what the world gonna look like when I entered the ring then? Scary, again?

  Despite the afternoon’s mild temperatures, she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Champion of the show, Open Jumper Division, finishing first in all three events: Injun, owned and ridden by Ms. Ashley Easton. I hope we're going to see a lot more of this exciting duo. Ms. Easton?"

  Ashley strode into the ring leading Injun, prancing behind, urged on by considerable applause and cheering. Mama and Papa were there only in her heart, sharing her triumph, but not Phil or the children, conveniently off on a “promised visit” with his parents. There wasn’t another person in the stands important to her.

  Except maybe him. He said he’d be there.

  She scoured the crowd, searching for that sun-darkened, charismatic face. And there he stood, elbows hooked over the white railing, grinning and shaking a fist in salute to her three incredible rides.

  She smiled shyly, looking quickly away, a warm flush swooping through her. Who was this guy? This self-appointed mentor, whose brief advice had helped in three successful romps through very challenging courses.

  No one can guess how very strange those rides were. Each time, after the first jump, the world tilted, spilling into fields and woods, filled with real fences, downed trees and walls.

  She had no idea how the ring morphed into that old forest, then reappeared after the final fence. She would helplessly release herself to these visions, terrified, yet charging ahead with abandon, more in control than she’d ever been.

  Injun, mindless of the change… if he even saw it… flew over one obstacle after another, following the directions she instinctively gave with her hands and knees. Despite panic, her seat was rock-solid, the reins held with casual confidence, her timing into each jump flawless, while her head bubbled gleefully in French, exalting each new obstruction.

  Tallyho! Tallyho! Always as if on a foxhunt.

  She need time and iron will to collect herself after each round, shaken, her legs trembling so badly she nearly collapsed after dismounting. Despite her panic, she bubbled with exuberance from the adrenaline rush fired by those wild rides. Once tentatively back on her feet, still clinging to her saddle for support, she’d look for him, wondering if he somehow shared this strange adventure, yet knowing that was impossible.

  Ashley struggled from her musing, accepting the large silver platter, already inscribed with her name, struggling to hold it high for all to see, glinting in fading sunlight. Injun nickered, nudging her toward the gate with his nose. He was getting bored, it seemed. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  Back in this World, she grinned, scratching behind his ears, then led him toward the stables, her trophy wedged under one arm. This was his home, so their day was finished.

  Then she saw him again, sauntering into the parking lot. Quickly, she found a groom who would hold her silver prize and see Injun was properly cared for. Hurrying through the crowd, she was stopped by acquaintances and strangers alike, showering her with praise.

  "Great Show!"

  "What a gorgeous horse."

  "You two are some great team."

  "How much do you want for that horse?"

  Thank you; thank you; thank you; No thank you. She couldn't be rude to so many well-wishers, but they were stalling her attempts to catch up to him.

  Where was he? Shaking free, finally, from the small crowd surrounding her, she paused at the curb of the parking lot, one hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the western Sun.

  Damn! He came out here. How could he be gone so quickly? There! Just entering that maroon Jag convertible.

  “Oh Hell!” He was already backing out. No chance to catch him without looking the fool, dashing through the lot. Riding boots were never intended for running.

  Well, she only wanted to thank him for his advice and to discover if they’d met before. He certainly understood jumpers, so maybe she would see him at another show. Her thanks would have to wait until then.

  She returned to the stables to check on Injun and collect her trophy before settling back in the stands to watch other competitions.

  The memory of that guy’s intense dark eyes and quirky smile, shouting encouragement, set her heart fluttering with a strange sense of anticipation.

  Who was he, anyhow?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Craig Thornton turned into the Shell gas station, stopping his Jag convertible at the self-serve Super Unleaded pump. The only thing he regretted about his sleek sports car was the need for hi-test fuel, but, luckily, he could afford it.

  Swiping his Amex card and beginning fueling, his mind drifted to the Open Jumping competition that just concluded. The image of that magnificent red-haired duo going Champion of the show, blowing away some very good competition, reeled across his mind with crystal clarity.

  He’d been in the area on Thursday, stopping to watch the practices for the first important contest of the season, and saw her working the fences. Such beauty and grace, both rider and horse. He had been happily mesmerized, strangely filled with a sense of familiarity.

  He’d been compelled to make the hour drive each of the next three days to observe them compete. Brazenly, he shouted advice to her as she had entered the course on Friday, and was rewarded with a smile that would bury a Key West sunrise, not the sneer such presumption was due. The sight of them recklessly flying over the course set his heart rumbai
ng, goose bumps trilling down his neck and back. He’d learned her name from a groom: Ashley Easton.

  Ashley Easton.

  It had a sweet, liquid feel about it, but it didn't ring any bells. A magnetic-like field drew him toward her as he feasted on that wild ride. His heart hammering its way into his throat, he watched in excited awe for all three events, as horse and rider flowed over one fence after another, never pausing, never even slowing… each round a continuous, one-piece fabric of athletic grace and speed, despite her seeming a bit out of control.

  What a team, working together as a unit! He'd love a chance to mold such abundant raw talent.

  Was that all? He wasn't sure, but he knew he would certainly see her again.

  As the pump automatically click off, he sighed, a single thought lingering in his head.

  Ashley Easton.

  Craig lingered in the folds of the soft leather bucket seat, mind drifting. A brief head shake brought him to the present, and the near-hour drive home. At least week-end traffic should be light. Home in time for dinner. Would Toni be there? Or was his wife plying her amorous wiles elsewhere again?

  Why did he tolerate her callous infidelities? And why, after so many years of her catting around, did that suddenly seem important to him? Well, a guy can only take so much.

  Unbidden, the redheaded Ashley, astride her sorrel gelding, flew over fences in his mind.

  Ashley Easton.

  As he turned onto the Freeway, he knew somehow they were destined to meet.

  Providence was once again stirring the cauldron of fate.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ashley idly watched the finals of the Green Hunter competition, reaffirming why she preferred open jumping. That handy American Saddlebred put in a near-perfect round and wasn’t even called back. If the judges didn’t know you, and it wasn’t a Thoroughbred, how well you covered the course didn’t matter.