“I guess, if you wanted to keep your father out of jail.”
“You know, Dakota, you could have saved yourself all this if you’d just offered to take me off Dad’s hands. He would have been glad to see me go—especially if you gave him the trainer’s job at Black Oak. You and I and Clay could stay in the cabin, we could train racehorses and the three of us would’ve had a great time, doing all those great things, like that time we went to Nogales? That was so much fun!”
“We can still do that,” Dakota said, trying to keep the hope out of her voice.
“Yeah, and pigs will fly. You shouldn’t try to fool me like that, Dakota.” She stood up. “I’ve gotta go.” She picked up the rock.
“Wait a minute!” Dakota cried. “What about your dad? Did you kill him, too?”
Her eyes grew muddy again with cunning.. “I told you I gotta go.” But Dakota’s question was enough for her to drop her guard. Dakota reached out and grabbed her foot, pulled up with all her might. Lucy toppled over backward.
Dakota thrust her hands into the dirt and shoved herself up onto all fours, pushing off with her good leg and dragging the other. It was impossible, Lucy would be on her in a minute, but anything was better than waiting to die.
A crack of a branch as a rock hurtled past her. Dakota tried to ignore it, her nerve endings screaming in agony as she pushed away with the bad leg. She had to run. Had to run on this broken leg, or she was dead.
Lucy crashed through the brush behind her. With every ounce of courage she had, Dakota thrust off and up like a runner from the starting block. The pain screeched inside her, like guitar strings strung too tightly, deafened her with an agony so great she forgot everything else.
Lucy was gaining. She could hear her breath. Lucky she was chubby.
Up ahead Dakota saw a patch of blue. Too blue to be a lake, or even the sky. It was a tent.
Dakota ran toward the tent, screaming as loud as she could. She screamed “fire”—something she’d heard was more effective than “help!” or “rape!”—and couldn’t believe her eyes when a man burst out of the tent and grabbed his camp shovel.
All this she saw like a kaleidoscope—the man, the shovel, the tent, while Lucy’s fingers reached out and yanked some of her hair out like ripped stitches and clutched at her clothing.
And then all dissolved into blackness.
The All American was the next race on the card.
On the way to Dakota’s barn, Clay saw that the grandstand was filled to capacity, and Clay could feel the buzzing excitement from here.
Dakota still wasn’t at the barn.
He remembered how strange she’d acted last night. Withdrawn, prickly, distracted. At the time, he had put it down to her being nervous about today. Now, he wondered if she’d been hiding something.
Where the hell was she? He knew her as well as he knew himself. Dakota would be here if it were humanly possible.
Something had happened.
He thought of the White Sands. He reached his truck and called the sheriff’s office. He told them he wanted to report a missing person. Predictably, the officer replied that a person who had been seen last night was not technically a missing person. He got the same results from the state police.
“But you don’t understand,” he said, biting back his anger. “She’s running a horse in the All American. There’s no way she wouldn’t be here.”
“You’d be surprised at what people do.”
Clay hung up.
What could he do? Where could he look for her? Maybe her car had broken down, maybe she’d overslept, maybe the moon was made of green cheese.
Clay paced the barn area. If Shameless was going to run, they’d have to get her ready now.
The filly was cross-tied outside her stall. Ernesto wrapped her legs carefully, soothing her with Spanish words.
“La has visto?” Clay asked him.
He shook his head.
“iQue vas a hacer?”
Ernesto met Clay with defiant eyes and spoke in precise Spanish. “I will race the filly for her.”
Rita thought she recognized Dakota’s truck. No evidence of her Range Rover, but since the truck was parked right by a dirt road, she decided she'd turn there. But first, she’d take a look at Dakota’s truck.
It was unlocked. She found a Dunkin’ Donuts cup on the dash, a lead rope that had seen better days, and a black zippered bag on the seat. She opened the bag and saw the gun.
Rita had never shot a gun. She was afraid of them, as a matter of fact. But the thought of Lucy on the same mountain gave her the creeps. She lifted it gingerly, tried to ascertain if it was loaded. Well, loaded or not, it would be a deterrent.
Carrying it away from her body, careful to point it far away from her own limbs, Rita walked to the car and drove up the logging road.
A mile and a half down the road, she found the Range Rover.
Gary Brandt had been spreading out his bedroll when he heard the woman screaming there was a fire. He crawled out of his tent and grabbed the camp shovel leaning against the tree at the edge of his campsite.
The woman pelting toward him was covered with blood.
He couldn’t see her very well; she was running through sunlight and the deep dark shadows of the pines, and there was a lot of tall brush and scrubby trees that seemed to be tearing at her as she ran. “Where’s the fire?” he called, running out to meet her.
She was still a long way from him when suddenly she fell to the ground, like a bird falling out of the sky.
He dropped his shovel and ran toward her.
She was unconscious, bleeding from a wound at the back of her head. He thought of the first-aid kit in his Blazer.
Best not to move her. But if he could clean her up a little and see what kind of wound it was. Gary stood up uncertainly, then turned and walked for the truck.
The last thing he saw was the shovel swinging up into his line of sight. He was killed instantly.
Clay accompanied Ernesto and Shameless down the infield path toward the saddling paddock, still expecting Dakota to show up any minute.
There she’d be, wearing her All-American finery, walking up to him at the paddock, her golden hair bouncing on her shoulders. “I’m sorry I gave you such a scare,” she’d say, and Ernesto would hand the reins over to her, and the three of them would saddle the filly for her greatest triumph.
But there was no trim figure, no golden hair. Time ticked inexorably on. His eyes constantly scanned the paddock, the stands, the jockey room, but she wasn’t coming. The paddock judge checked Shameless and nodded to Ernesto to saddle her. And still she didn’t come. Clay walked the filly around, more nervous than any horse. The paddock judge called “jockeys up,” and Shameless’s rider swung aboard. And still she didn’t come.
Clay mounted Tyke and led Shameless to the post, swiveling in his saddle to scan the stands.
Something had happened to her. He knew it.
With a sick heart, he watched them load the gates for the All American.
He wanted to do something. Go somewhere. Look for her. But where would he start? Ernesto, in his colorful cowboy shirt and flowered gimme cap, stood by the rail in a small knot of anxious trainers, shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Jack Brooks and Sleepy Gilbreath. He, too, had a horse in the All American. That knowledge made him appear bigger, his shoulders broader, his posture straighten.
Clay swung down from Tyke, ducked under the rail, and handed the reins to Ernesto. He knew he wasn’t needed. Ernesto, as assistant trainer, was the only person who could run the filly anyway.
As he sprinted to the parking lot, Clay wondered where the hell he should start looking for the woman he loved—and feared he had already lost.
Dakota remained unconscious only a few moments. She heard the man’s voice telling her to lie still, it would be all right, and he would be right back.
Safe at last. But the pain was beginning to drive her crazy. The adrenaline that had helped her run on a
broken ankle had disappeared with her relief, and she feared she had done herself a lot of damage.
Painfully, Dakota sat up. Convinced that the bone was sticking out, she suddenly had to see her foot.
That was when she heard the thump, like someone hitting a melon with a hoe, and looked up to see her rescuer fall backward into the ferns. Lucy stood over him, the camp shovel in her hands.
As Dakota watched, Lucy turned slowly and trudged toward her, the blood-spattered shovel riding on her shoulder.
Fear shoved up into Dakota’s throat, blocking her scream. She knew the man was dead. And in moments, she would be, too. The expression on Lucy’s face was enough to send her into madness. There was no psychotic glee capering behind her eyes, no pity, no excitement, no hatred. Just a workmanlike frown of concentration. One down and one to go.
Lucy’s boots swished through the grass. The sun brought out the highlights in her hair, limned her soft, baby-fat cheeks. She could have been any teenager doing a chore, carrying out the garbage or feeding the chickens. Her Pendleton jacket glowed in the flickering sun and shade, a saddle blanket of vibrant reds, yellows, greens, blues, deep pink. So pleasing to the eye. It was a beautiful day, Dakota thought with an odd, detached wistfulness. The way the ponderosas shimmered, their needles tipped with silver where the sun hit them, that deep, achingly blue sky. A squirrel chortled in a tree, so normal, and here was this sixteen-year-old kid, walking toward her, about to end her life.
Suddenly, Lucy stopped. She might have been a wild animal, frozen, listening.
Dakota heard it, too. The droning of a car engine. She looked up the incline, saw light glancing off metal. Someone was driving down the forest road, and it was obvious that the road came down here, because the dead man’s SUV was parked only fifty yards away.
Lucy stood there, blinking. Confused.
Dakota gauged the distance to the SUV. She’d have to run to the right, to avoid Lucy. It seemed impossible, but it was better than waiting.
She got to her feet, staggered, and almost fell. The adrenaline that had left her returned, surging through her like quicksilver.
Startled, Lucy’s gaze swung back to her. Dakota didn’t care. She darted to the right, sideswiped a tree trunk, half ran and half shambled for the SUV, an old Chevy Blazer.
Almost there . . .
She felt breath on her neck, thought she heard footsteps behind her . . .
Please let it be unlocked please please please.
Thirty feet. Twenty feet. Almost there. She swung her gaze backward, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, that it could slow her down, make the difference—
Nothing there.
Lucy wasn’t behind her, breathing down her neck. The forest was empty.
Dakota didn’t pause to contemplate this new wrinkle. She hurtled into the side of the Blazer, shoved her thumb into the door handle, yanked the door open and clambered in, pulling the door shut behind her and hitting the lock pin, hitting all the lock pins, and then, only then, did she look around.
Lucy was gone.
The car must have spooked her. She’d melted into the forest, must be hiding there somewhere. Waiting for the car to go on.
Dakota searched under the dead man’s seat, hoping for a gun. Nothing. No car phone either. She leaned on the horn.
Rita heard the car horn. She braked, peering down into the forest in the direction of the sound. It came from the red Blazer in the clearing below. The horn didn’t let up, so she assumed it had something to do with Clay, Dakota, or Lucy.
Could it be one of Lucy’s tricks?
Cautiously, she followed the road, looking off to the left to see if there was any way down. She found a weedy track and took it, hoping the rental car wouldn’t get stuck.
The car was coming down! Dakota kept her elbow on the horn, waving her other arm. She heard the pop of rocks under tires as the car inched along the road, so agonizingly slow— couldn’t they drive faster?
At last the car pulled up beside her.
Rita DeWeil was the most beautiful thing Dakota had ever seen in her life.
Rita started to get out. Dakota motioned her to stay where she was. There was a remote possibility that Lucy was still here, could be lurking behind a tree or concealed by brush.
Rita rummaged on the seat for something and lifted up a gun with the tips of her fingers, her red nails flashing in the sunlight. Her questioning gaze sought Dakota’s.
Dakota rolled down her window. The passenger’s side of the rental car was only a couple of feet away. “Unlock the door!” she shouted.
Rita didn’t seem to hear. She looked puzzled.
Dakota motioned to the lock. Rita unlocked the door.
Almost out of here. Dakota unlocked her own door, looked around one more time. Pushed it open, stepped out onto the cushion of pine needles. Her adrenaline was still a humming power line throughout her limbs, urging her to throw herself across the distance between the Blazer and Rita’s car.
Silly. The danger was over. Lucy was probably over the next hill by now.
She stepped forward, her leg in agony.
And landed flat on her face. Something held her foot in a vise.
Her broken foot.
Dakota screamed.
She felt a hand clutch at the leg of her jeans, pulling her backward through the dirt, under the car. Lucy scuttled out from underneath the Blazer, dragging the shovel with her, and Dakota glanced up to see the horror on Rita’s face as Lucy bulled to her feet, overbalanced and staggered backward, her hip connecting with Rita’s car. She planted her feet solidly, her face a mask of determination, and swung the shovel back, her colorful coat filling Dakota’s whole vision, and Dakota ducked her head, remembering the man who had almost saved her, and the sickening wet smacking sound of his skull caving in, and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow. She heard the whicker of steel, the loud ding!, the shrieking scrape of metal as the blade hit the Blazer, heard Lucy grunt with effort and lift the shovel again, and she realized her eyes were no longer shut, her vision swimming back into focus as some reflex, some form of self-preservation made her reach for Lucy’s foot, and the shovel hit the top of its arc just as she saw the dull surprise on Lucy’s face. Dakota heard the gunshot, punching through the Blazer door and fragmenting the air around tier. The colorful saddle blanket coat bloomed dark red as Lucy toppled forward, falling like a tree. She crushed Dakota, slippery and warm and smelling of blood.
“Good shot,” Dakota said and fainted.
FIFTY-ONE
Shameless exploded from the gate, her hind legs propelling her forward with incredible force. Her hide gleamed like dark mahogany, smooth as satin over the bunched muscles of hindquarters, chest, shoulder, forearms.
She jackhammered down the lane, the jockey hunched on her back, urging her on to glory. One jump out of the gate, and she was a head in front. In one hundred yards, she had increased her lead to a length. Her feet flirted with the dust, her tail flaunted her power, and the other horses fell back as if awestruck. The Black Oak filly tore a hole in the air as she powered down the track.
Aside from the hard running style that characterized her, Shameless ran easily. Her ears tipped forward and back, relaxed, her muscles bunched and unbunched, her belly stretched like a rubber band. She continued to draw away, like a hare before hounds, a shimmering ribbon of speed, connecting the line between the starting gate and the finish wire in one smooth motion. Four hundred and forty yards of continuous motion.
By the time she flashed under the wire, she was three lengths in front of her nearest competitor, Runaway Train.
The crowd went wild. A woman with a one-horse stable had won the All American. Not only that, but she had dominated it, humbling the best horses in the country.
Ernesto’s family had come to see the horse run, and now they filled the winner circle—grandparents, uncles, aunts, father and mother, brothers and sisters, children. The filly was led onto the rubber bricks to great fanfare, so
excited she almost took down the photographer. It was her one and only gaffe, and she was forgiven; she had a right to be effusive. She wore the All American winner’s cooler, and it fluttered around her like a prize fighter’s robe. Ernesto beamed for the camera as he held up his end of the giant check for one million dollars, as he accepted the blanket and the trophy, as he spoke through an interpreter to the reporter from ESPN. Chris Lincoln pondered aloud the mystery of the absent owner-trainer, Dakota McAllister, who just might be the real story behind this year’s All American.
After the presentation, Ernesto was ushered up to the VIP room off the press box for champagne and congratulations. Although he didn’t say much, he fit right in. Quarter horse trainers were renowned for the brevity of their speech. Many an All American winner had answered the inevitable question, “How does it feel to win the All American?” by looking into the camera and mumbling, “Good.” Sometimes he elaborated: “He run good.”
Clay heard that Shameless had won the All American on the loudspeaker as he exited the grounds. It only increased his urgency to find Dakota.
He took the steps to his cabin two at a time. The answering machine light blinked.
He cursed when he heard not Dakota’s voice, but Rita’s. “Clay? Clay? I couldn’t raise you at the track, so I thought I’d call here.” There was a pause. When Rita spoke again, she sounded worried. “If you get in, please call me. I heard you were in an accident on Sierra Blanca. I guess I’ll go up . . . just call me if you’re all right.”
He had to listen to the message twice to understand her meaning. Sierra Blanca? How did she get a damn fool notion like that? Who would—
Dakota wouldn’t miss the All American unless there was an emergency, unless she thought something had happened to him. Like an accident.
He raced for the truck, rammed it into gear, and spun out of the drive in a rooster tail of gravel. Headed for Sierra Blanca.
He was almost to the turnoff for Ski Run Road when the news came on the radio. A teenager had killed a man and terrorized two women up on Sierra Blanca. The women survived the ordeal, and one of them had killed the girl, a teenager named Lucy Tanner, in self-defense. One of the women had been taken to the hospital.
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