by Laura Crum
Despite my fear, I didn't look back. I needed my eyes forward, straight between his ears, looking where we were going, just to stay on. I knew Bronc was back there, knew he could outride me, out-cowboy me, and probably rope me with ease. My only hope was to ride like hell.
Urging Gunner forward with my body, I tried to be part of him, running downhill as fast as I could go. I could feel the thud of his feet, hear his snorting breath, see his ears flicking forward and back to me. Through my fear, I felt a rushing exhilaration.
Then it hit me. The gate. I'd forgotten the gate.
I could see it up ahead, solid, wooden, blocking the way back to the truck. No way to open it, not with Bronc right behind me. Jump it?
Shit. We were getting closer, Gunner galloping hard. The old gate had sunk so that it was only about three feet at the low end; any horse can jump three feet. Can, but won't, maybe. As far as I knew, Gunner had never jumped anything.
I urged him on, drumming my heels in his sides, keeping my weight forward, aiming for the low spot. "Come on, boy."
It was only a few strides away and I could feel him begin to slow. I put everything-my body, my legs, my hands-into a smooth continuous urge. I sent myself forward. I could feel him surge, he gathered himself, I knew he would jump.
He hesitated a split second and then leapt. My neck snapped backward, I grabbed wildly at the horn in midair; it felt like he'd gone six feet straight up.
We cleared the gate and hit the ground on the other side with a solid, bone-jerking thud. Gunner was no lady's hunter. But we were over and okay. I kicked him forward and looked back.
Bronc and Willy were thundering toward us-to my dismay the old man's face was clearly determined. No gate would stop him if it hadn't stopped me.
Willy was hesitating, checking; Bronc kicked steadily, but I could see in the horse's eyes that he wouldn't do it. Bronc knew, too, and he whipped Willy over and under with the whirling rope. Crack, crack-the loop lashed Willy's flanks and he leaped forward, making a halfhearted attempt to jump.
The gate exploded. Boards shrieked and split. Willy hit it dead on with his chest and the old lumber shattered apart. For a moment, I thought the horse would go down, but he gathered himself and plowed through, shards of wood flying around him, Bronc still squarely in place.
Shit. My eyes went back to the trail ahead of me and I clucked to Gunner. We had to get away from Bronc.
The trail was merging into the dunes; Gunner plunged over a little rise and down into the loose sand, stumbling and almost falling. He caught himself as I fell forward over his withers, just barely hanging on by his mane, my heart lodging in the back of my mouth.
Stay up, buddy, stay up, I pleaded silently as he floundered and wallowed, trying to run through the deep sand. It was terribly difficult, I knew; I could feel the struggling force of his exertion.
Still, I urged him on. A quick glance showed Bronc right behind, his rope whirling, Willy plunging heavily. I had to get on the beach, where there might be some people around.
Gunner was driving forward in great, leaping bounds as he sank into the deep sand and pushed out, but the surf was in sight and I clucked to him and urged him toward the hard, wet sand. In a moment we were on it and headed toward the rig, though there was still no one in sight.
Willy was right on my heels. I could hear his thundering strides and almost feel the whistle of Bronc's loop. I clucked frantically to Gunner, squeezing and urging with hands and feet as his gallop smoothed out on the firmer ground. His ears flicked back and then he squirted forward in a renewed burst of effort, his stride lengthening smoothly.
I had no idea how fast he could run; I'd never galloped him flat out before. What I did know was that Willy was a very fast horse. Without looking back, I begged Gunner with my body-faster, faster.
He accelerated, the surf and sky and sand blurring around me, the cold, salty wind bringing tears to my eyes. I was aware only of his stretched-out neck and head in front of me, his driving rhythmic strides beneath me. The whole world-Bronc and the danger he represented---disappeared; I was lost in the race, determined to win.
I don't know how long we ran before I realized there were no longer any following hoofbeats. Eventually it sank in. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Bronc and Willy were gone. With a gasp of triumph and relief, I pulled Gunner up and looked back.
Bronc was still visible, a cowboy-hatted figure on a dark horse, staring after me. After a minute he waved and wheeled Willy away. I could see him riding up the beach toward the ranch.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Gunner had outrun Willy. We'd won.
TWENTY-SEVEN
For some long moments I stood there, staring after Bronc's solitary figure until he disappeared in the dunes. A flock of seagulls flew overhead, squawking and screeching in loud cacophony; the ocean rolled and crashed in front of me, blowing spray in my face, but I barely heard or saw any of it. I was listening to my heart beat, feeling the tension drain out of my body.
When I finally felt calm enough to ride on, I clucked to Gunner. He took a step and stumbled, and I realized in sudden alarm that he was shaking with exhaustion. His whole body was wet with sweat and white with foam, his heart moved my legs in great pounding thumps, and his flanks gasped in and out like bellows. I jumped off quickly and saw that his front legs were trembling.
A different sort of fear washed over me as I led him forward at the walk, and I prayed to God I hadn't hurt him. Walking him a few steps, I checked to see that he was still sound; then I let him stop and breathe. Then a few more steps and a rest. I felt each of his legs in turn; they were smooth and clean. But his flanks heaved as if he'd never get enough air, his red, flaring nostrils gasping and sucking. Patting his sweaty neck, I murmured over and over, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
What I had done was criminal, unforgivable, for any other reason than to save my life. With that threat removed, I was aghast at the colt's condition. Had I really needed to do this to him? Would Bronc actually have hurt me?
I didn't know, but I did know now that Bronc had killed Jack and I was presently a threat to him. And he probably could guess where I'd parked the rig, I thought a split second later.
There were still no people around; this north coast beach was as deserted as I'd ever seen it. I began to hurry a little, coaxing Gunner to walk as fast as he could.
Eventually we reached the trailer. There were a few cars in the parking lot, though I still didn't see any actual living human beings. Unlocking the truck and trailer, I unsaddled Gunner, and deciding to take a chance on Bronc's potentially imminent arrival, I began walking the colt in circles. Twenty minutes later I was still walking him, and Bronc hadn't arrived.
He wasn't planning on pursuing me. The ball was in my court. Just what I should do with it I didn't know. The obvious choice was to trot on down and tell Jeri Ward all about it, but I was determined to take care of Gunner first. So I walked him until the sweat was dry and he was cool, then blanketed him and put him in the trailer, and took him home.
Back at Lonny's I checked him over carefully once more; he truly seemed to be all right, just tired. I gave him and Plumber a flake of oat hay and leaned on the fence, watching them eat.
I ought to do something, I thought. I've discovered who the murderer is; it's time to turn him in.
Instead, I leaned on the fence and watched the horses. Four hours later, when Lonny came home, I was sitting in his living room in front of the fire I'd built, sipping chianti, more than half drunk.
Blue lay at my feet; I'd gone home to get him, thinking I'd call Jeri Ward from there. But my hand wouldn't reach for the phone, and when I'd climbed back into the truck I'd driven, as if on automatic pilot, back to Lonny's.
No amount of mental scolding seemed to break through my strange lassitude. I couldn't even fathom what I was feeling. Disbelief, pure and simple, washed over me like a wave and tumbled my emotions here and there whenever I thought of Bronc. How could he, I repeated over and over to
myself, not knowing if I meant how could he kill Jack or how could he kill me.
Would he have killed me? I couldn't believe it. The very thought made the brilliant winter day look surreal, filled with ominous shadows and portents. When Lonny walked through his front door around four o'clock I was on my third glass of wine, telling myself, not for the first time, that it would fortify me for the call to Jeri.
Two hours after that, I lay next to Lonny in bed, in a strangely relaxed limbo. I'd told him my story; Lonny had been as shocked as I expected. Surprisingly, the situation seemed to breed in both of us a need for physical contact, and our comforting hugs soon escalated into full-blown lust. But even now, with lust behind us, for the moment, anyway, neither of us knew what to do about Bronc.
Lonny, the most conservative human being imaginable, had a hard time with the notion of turning Bronc in. And an even harder time contemplating the fact that he'd killed Jack. We simply clung to each other, wanting the reassurance of contact.
At long last I rolled my body away from Lonny's and said, "I'll go down to the sheriff's office tomorrow morning. That's good enough, don't you think?"
Pulling me back close to him, he murmured into my hair. "Whatever you think. And, yes, I think that's all right."
For a second I pressed myself as close as I could, feeling immeasurably grateful to have Lonny. Or to be had by him. Despite the day's turmoil my body felt soft and at long last my mind was relatively quiet. The contentment of good sex seemed to have tranquilized me.
"Even my toes feel good," I told him.
"Mmmm," he murmured sleepily. "Give me a few minutes and we'll try it again."
"More like an hour."
"So lie quiet and wait."
"And shut up?"
"That, too."
I did.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I never did have to turn Bronc in. The morning papers were full of the story. Bronc had written a note, confessing to Jack's murder, and left town taking his truck and trailer and Willy. Arriving at the ranch late that afternoon for another questioning session, Jeri Ward and Claude Holmquist had discovered the note and Bronc's escape.
Bronc never mentioned me. As far as I know, to this day Jeri Ward thinks I kept my word and stayed out of the investigation.
The Hollister Ranch remains in limbo. Having discovered the terms of Jack's will, the state is anxious to hold on to it, but Art Hoskins continues to press his claim and the whole thing is up to the courts to decide. Travis still lives there and takes care of it, for the time being. I hope things will fall Bronc's way and the ranch will become a park, but I wouldn't kill somebody to make it happen.
Bronc has, so far, simply disappeared off the face of the earth. The truck and trailer were recovered at a dealer's in the Central Valley, but there were no leads after that. Bronc had friends all over the state; I have to believe some team roper helped him out.
I sometimes wonder if I should have called the police immediately that day, made sure Bronc was arrested and paid the price for the life he took. Jack's life. I'm never convinced I made the right choice.
I wonder, too, if Bronc really would have killed me. If he'd held on to the rope. If Gunner hadn't outrun Willy. I'll never know, but I'll always believe not.
Bronc stays on my mind; I wonder if he rode to some lonely spot and killed Willy, then shot himself. It was something he might do. But sometimes I imagine him cowboying on a ranch in Nevada, riding Willy in the high desert, true to the end to his odd version of a Western code. I like to think of him finding a home at last, one far removed from the threats of developers.
It's a pretty idea.
