Gaining his feet, he saddled his horse, rolled his blankets into a tight cylinder and lashed them behind the cantle. There was no time for anything else. Swinging into the saddle, he urged the stallion into a gallop.
He rode the stud hard and long. A lesser horse would have been winded and covered with lather by the time Trey drew rein in a copse of trees that marked a desert waterhole. Relámpago mouthed the bit impatiently, still fresh, still ready to run, but Trey needed a break.
Dismounting, he loosed the saddle cinch and let the stallion blow while he stretched his back and legs. He drank from the waterhole, filled his canteen, and then let the stud drink before tightening the cinch and swinging back into the saddle. And then they were riding again, heading east, setting a more sedate pace. There were no sounds of pursuit. They’d left the hard-riding posse, if that’s what it had been, far behind, on lathered and worn-out horses.
He rode until sunup, backtracking, covering his trail the way his Chiricahua grandfather had taught him. He let the stud drink from another desert waterhole that was concealed by a tangled thicket of mesquite trees, then dismounted with a weary sigh. The mesquite was dense enough to hide them from any observation. He stripped the rigging from the stallion, spread his bedroll on a relatively flat patch of ground, then gathered armfuls of dry mesquite needles and spread them in a wide circle on the outskirts of his camp, making it near impossible for anyone to sneak up on him. If by some chance, he didn’t hear them, the stud would.
Bone weary, he sank down on his blankets, too tired to eat. He stared at the stallion. Relámpago had been a gift from his Apache grandfather, Walker on the Wind. Walker was a medicine man blessed with many powers, among them the gift of sight. He had given Relámpago to Trey the day before Trey’s mother died.
You will be leaving us soon, Walker on the Wind had said. The path you will take when you leave here will be long and filled with danger.
“A white horse?” Trey had said, taking the reins. Few warriors rode white horses. They were far too easy to spot from a distance.
This is a spirit horse, Walker on the Wind had said. He is as swift as lightning, as sure-footed as a mountain goat, as reliable as old Father Sun. Treat him well, and he will always carry you away from danger.
Trey grinned into the gathering darkness. Walker on the Wind had been right about that, he mused. Relámpago had carried him away from danger on more than one occasion.
Thoughts of danger brought the posse to mind, making him wonder anew who it was that had been chasing him, and where the hell they had come from. And when they would give up and go home.
“One of these days this will all be behind us,” Trey told the stallion. “I’ll build me a house on that land I found, put up a barn for you, and we’ll settle down. We’ll find a couple of good mares for you,” he said, yawning. “And maybe a pretty redheaded woman for me…”
* * * * *
Saturday morning. Amanda slept late, then lingered in bed, thinking about Rob, and wondering where her phantom horse had gone. It was so strange that the animal had appeared and then disappeared as if by magic.
Finally, hunger drove her to her feet and into the kitchen. Feeling lazy, she settled for a bowl of cereal, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of coffee. After putting her dishes in the dishwasher, she took a quick shower, then dressed in a pair of jeans and a bulky green sweater. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on a pair of green socks and laced up a pair of old tennis shoes. Having a horse, even for a day, had reminded her of how much she had once enjoyed riding. Maybe, instead of tearing down the barn and corral, she would get someone to come out and repair them, and then get herself a horse. Rob was frequently out of town on business. Having a horse would give her something to do when he was away.
Rising, she glanced out the window, blinked, and blinked again.
The stallion was back in the corral.
Hurrying down the stairs, she went into the kitchen, grabbed a couple of carrots from the fridge, and ran outside.
The stallion whinnied softly and tossed its head.
“Hey, fella.” She ran her hand along the horse’s neck. “How did you get back in here?”
She fed the horse the carrots, one by one, then walked around the corral. The stallion followed her, prancing back and forth, blowing softly.
Amanda examined the ground around the corral. There were no fresh hoofprints outside the corral, no sign that anyone had opened the gate to let him in. He could have jumped in on his own, but there were no hoofprints leading up to the corral, no indentation or torn-up earth to show where he would have landed.
“Curiouser and curiouser, “ she muttered.
She laughed as the stallion nudged her shoulder. “I see you’re in need of a good brushing again. What do you do when you’re not here? Roll around in the mud?”
She ducked inside the corral and plucked the halter and rope from the box she had left near the gate the day before. Again, the stallion obligingly lowered its head so she could slip the halter in place.
“You certainly are well-trained,” she said as she looped the lead rope over the top rail, then picked up the brush. “Where do you go, anyway?” She ran the brush down the stallion’s neck, over its back and rump. He was a beautiful animal with near perfect conformation and wide, intelligent eyes that seemed almost human at times.
She hummed softly as she worked, everything else forgotten. One thing was for certain, if she didn’t get to keep this horse, she was definitely going to get one of her own.
Pausing, she glanced around the yard. She had several acres here. Maybe she would buy a couple of horses. Maybe raise them… She shook her head. She didn’t know enough about horses to do that. But she could learn. She could start small, with a good stallion and one or two mares.
She smiled as she patted the stallion on the shoulder. She wouldn’t have to look far for a good stallion. She had one right here.
“There you go,” she said, giving him one last swipe of the brush. “All done.” She turned the stallion loose, dropped the lead rope over the top rail of the corral, and then filled the water bucket. “I’m going in and order some hay and have a cup of coffee,” she said, giving the stallion a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll bring you an apple when I’m done.”
The stallion nuzzled her arm, snuffling softly.
Amanda smiled. “Yes,” she said, “I like you, too. Don’t go away now, hear?”
Macklin’s Hay and Feed Store delivered a ton of alfalfa later that morning. Amanda dropped a flake in the corral, then went into the barn. Throwing the doors open wide, she grabbed a rake and went into the first stall. She had always enjoyed the work associated with horses. She didn’t mind shoveling manure, didn’t mind the smell. She raked out the old hay and straw, then got a bucket of hot water and washed the walls of the stall. She put a flake of hay in the feeder, filled the bucket with water from the hose.
She spent the rest of the morning cleaning out the barn, sorting through all the old junk she found in bins and boxes. She held up an old pistol and cartridge belt which looked good despite its age. She was about to toss them in the trash but something stayed her hand and she hung it on a nail instead.
She paused for lunch, spent a few minutes scratching the stud’s ears, then went back to work. By dusk, she had finished cleaning out the stalls and had hauled all the junk she didn’t want outside.
Snapping the lead rope to the stallion’s halter, she led it into the barn. “Well, what do you think?” she asked. “Not bad for a day’s work.”
The stallion tossed its head as if to agree.
She led the horse into the stall and closed the door behind it. “See you in the morning.” Removing the halter, she gave the horse a last pat on the neck, then left the barn, closing the double doors behind her.
The phone was ringing when she got back to the house. “Hello?”
“Hello yourself. I was about to hang up.”
“Hi Rob. I was outside, cleaning t
he barn.”
“Oh, right. The horse. How’s he doing? Guess no one showed up to claim it.”
“No, but the strangest thing happened. He was gone the morning after you left, and then, this morning, he was back again.”
“That is weird.”
“When will you be home?”
“I’m not sure. I tracked Bolander to his last known address, but he’s gone. Might take me a few days to find him again.”
“Be careful.”
“Always. Listen, hon, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“All right.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Smiling, she went into the kitchen to fix dinner.
When she went out to check on the stallion before going to bed that night, the stall was empty.
Chapter Four
Trey swore. Dammit, he must be losing his mind. Rolling out of his blankets, he walked over to the stallion and ran his hand down the stud’s neck and along its back. Clean as a whistle. He lifted the stallion’s foreleg. Someone had even cleaned the stud’s hooves.
He froze as a sudden stillness seemed to settle over the land. Head cocked to one side, he listened, but heard nothing. No cactus wren called. No whitewing dove warbled. Something had frightened them, but what? Then he heard it, a rustle in the dry mesquite he had spread around his campsite the night before.
Hunters. And he was the quarry. He jammed his hat on his head and quickly saddled the stallion, glad that he had packed everything but his bedroll the night before. He quickly secured his saddlebags and bedroll behind the cantle, took up the stud’s reins, and swung into the saddle.
Something hummed past his ear and smashed into a nearby cactus. The flat report of a rifle stung his ears. Without hesitation, he bent low over the stallion’s neck and drummed his heels against the stud’s flanks.
The stallion responded instantly, lining out in a dead run. More shots sounded, he heard a hoarse shout for him to stop.
Trey risked a look behind him as Rel��mpago broke from the cover of the trees. Half a dozen men rode out of the timber to his left. Sunlight glinted along their rifle barrels.
Ahead of him, the desert unfolded, bereft of cover. No place to hide. The stallion thundered over the ground, the quick tattoo of his hooves drowning out any other sound. Trey knew the big horse could outrun their pursuers if a bullet didn’t bring him down, but he yearned to put something more than distance between himself and the guns behind.
Trey searched the surrounding area, but there was only flat ground, no place to hide, no place to take cover. Looking further ahead, he saw a hill and he reined the horse toward it.
He glanced over his shoulder again. The posse was stretched out in a line behind him, riding hard. A rider mounted on a long-legged gray pulled ahead of the others. Trey frowned. The gray might just give his horse a run. Something about the gray and the way the rider sat him niggled at the back of his mind, and then he swore aloud.
Of all the miserable luck! Bob “Wolf” Langley had a reputation as the best tracker and man hunter in the whole southwest. It was said he had some Yaqui blood in his background, that he had brought in every man he had even gone after. Some of them alive. Damn! With a touch of his heels, Trey asked the stallion for more speed.
For a moment, it looked like he was putting some distance between himself and the posse, but then the stallion stumbled and went to its knees. Trey gave a sharp tug on the reins and the stallion regained its feet.
Trey swore as a hail of gunfire exploded around him. A bullet struck his hat and sent it flying. Dammit, that was too close! Other bullets plowed into the ground. One caught him in the back, knocking him out of the saddle. The stallion shied away but didn’t bolt.
Trey groaned as he hit the ground, hard. The right side of his back and his shoulder felt numb. Scrambling to his feet, he made a grab for the reins, cursed when the stallion backed away from him, spooked by the scent of blood.
“Relámpago, stand!”
Ears twitching, nostrils flaring, the stallion came to a halt. Taking hold of the reins in one hand, Trey grabbed the saddle horn and hauled himself onto the horse’s back.
The posse was almost upon him.
Trey slammed his heels into the stud’s flanks and raced up the slope of the hill that loomed ahead. If he could just get to the top, maybe he could find a place to make a stand. At any rate, higher ground would give him an advantage, however slight it might be.
He clung to the saddle horn as the stallion climbed upward. The initial shock of the wound was wearing off. Pain jarred through his back with every impact of his mount's hooves. He was aware of a sticky warmth running down his back, of a growing sense of weakness.
He glanced over his shoulder once again. The posse had gained too much ground when he went down. The riders were close now, so close he could see the look of triumph on Wolf Langley’s face.
Even knowing it was useless, he couldn’t give up. There was a straggling patch of ocotillo and saguaro on the crest of the ridge. Not much, but the best cover around.
“Come on, ‘Pago,” he urged. “Don’t fail me now.”
Trey blinked the perspiration from his eyes as the world around him seemed to grow hazy. The upraised arms of the giant saguaro swam closer. A swirling gray mist rose up from the ground, obscuring his vision. A soft buzzing filled his head. And then everything went black.
* * * * *
Amanda poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it into the living room. She’d slept late again, spent an hour reading the Sunday paper, eaten a leisurely lunch. Picking up the TV remote, she flipped through the channels, then clicked it off. More stations than ever, and nothing worth watching.
She wandered through the house for twenty minutes, thinking she would be glad to go back to work. She had way too much time on her hands. Too bad the horse had disappeared again. It was a lovely day for a ride. She had gone out to the barn several times last night and again first thing this morning, but the stall remained empty. She shook her head. It was a mystery beyond solving, she mused, how that horse came and went, and she wasn’t in the mood for a mystery.
Deciding she had been cooped up in the house long enough, she grabbed her purse and her keys. Since she couldn’t go horseback riding, she’d drive into town, maybe take in an early movie.
She came to an abrupt halt when she stepped out onto the porch.
The stallion had returned. And there was a man slumped in the saddle.
Chapter Five
Amanda dropped her handbag and keys on the porch, hardly aware she had done so as she stared at the stranger. Straight black hair fell just past his shoulders. His long-sleeved brown plaid shirt and black pants were covered with alkali dust, as were his boots. He wore a bandanna around his neck; there was a black leather gunbelt and holster strapped around his waist. The worn, wooden grips of a revolver jutted from the holster.
The stallion whinnied softly, and she noticed that the horse, too, was covered with a fine layer of dust, as if it had made a long, hard journey.
She went down the steps slowly, warily.
The stallion pushed its nose against her shoulder, and she stroked its neck absently while she studied the man. He was dressed like an old-time cowboy. She wondered if he was a movie star or an extra, though she hadn’t heard of any movie companies on location in the area. His face, neck, and hands were very brown, his features were strong and well-defined. Bent low over his mount's withers, he seemed to be unconscious.
Lifting one hand, she placed it on, his brow. He was burning up. It was then that she noticed the dark stain that spread down the back of his shirt and down his pant leg.
Blood.
She touched his leg gingerly. The material was still damp, the dust clotted into maroon mud where the blood had flowed.
Where on earth had he come from? If he was with a movie company, where was the rest of the crew? And what was
she going to do with him?
A low groan escaped his lips, and then, without warning, he started to topple sideways. She threw her arms around him to keep him from falling, grunted softly as she supported his weight.
His eyelids fluttered open and he stared at her from beneath straight black brows. His eyes were a deep, dark brown, glazed with pain.
“What…the…hell?” he muttered.
“I’m surprised to see you, too. Here, let me help you down.”
He lifted his right leg over the saddle horn and slid to the ground. She staggered back under his weight. His shirt was damp beneath his arm. Lord, he was a big man! She had to get him into the house.
“Can you walk?”
He sagged against her, his head resting on her shoulder. “Sure, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice thick.
“Good, ‘cause I need to get you to a doctor, and I can’t carry you to the car.”
He shook his head vigorously. “No! No doctor.”
“But you’re bleeding.”
He shook his head again. “Don’t need…doctor. Not hurt…that bad.”
She looked at him, at the almost desperate look of pleading in his eyes. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I’m taking you to the hospital.”
He pushed away from her, staggered backward, and bumped up against his horse.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Going.”
Chewing on her lower lip, she stared at the blood on his shirt. She couldn’t just let him ride away, not when he was bleeding. The most important thing now was to see how badly he was hurt.
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “No doctor.”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Your word?”
“I promise,” she said.
With him leaning heavily on her, she managed to get him up the porch stairs and into the house. She paused a moment to catch her breath, then guided him down the hallway to the guest bedroom. She propped him against the wall, held him there with one hand while she pulled the covers down, and then slipped her arm around his waist, holding him upright while he staggered toward the bed, where he fell face down onto the mattress.
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