Silent Heart

by Amy Lane

  He knew he might not get his breakfast tomorrow—he was prepared for that. He’d packed his favorite granola bars with that knowledge. But he was pretty sure Damien would give him ten minutes to play on the tablet or do his puzzles, because sometimes that one thing was all that let him function in a strange environment.

  Preston sat down to de-stress, and Damien went to talk to Buddy, who had just been served an egg burrito that was—his words—bigger than a horse’s johnson. Preston sized up the burrito with his eyes and decided that was a lie to make Damien laugh, and then started his game, grateful for the small bit of routine.

  Dealing with Damien was challenging—all of Preston’s communication centers apparently needed to be engaged at all times. Damien’s face, his voice, his words, his touch—all of it demanded his attention. The gain of Damien’s sex was worth the extra work, but Preston needed to recharge his batteries or he’d forget his words.

  He wasn’t sure how long he lost himself in the simple game on his tablet. Food magically appeared on his table, and he ate it, comforted by the familiar taste, by the small part of routine, and of course, by Preacher at his feet. He finished his toast and frowned at his plate.

  “There’s sausage,” he said. He actually liked sausage, but not for breakfast.

  “That’s for Preacher,” Damien said from the counter.

  Preston glanced at him and saw he was eating chorizo, beans, and eggs, using a tortilla in the same way Preston had used his toast to mop up his plate. He and Buddy were poring over a paper map, deep in discussion, probably about the route they’d be taking to where Glen’s cell phone still beeped.

  At Preston’s feet, Preacher shifted slightly, his eyebrows lifting hopefully, as though he didn’t know exactly who the sausage was meant for.

  Preston broke the two links into small pieces and fed him, warning him that sausage wasn’t an everyday occurrence, and he’d better be perfectly okay with kibble and dog treats after this. Preacher took the sausage from his fingers with a gentle mouth, licking the last of the grease off, just to be thorough, and Preston fondled his ears in return.

  It occurred to him that Damien had ordered food for Preacher without needing words—or even a thank-you.

  He crossed his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it aside, then finished the last of his coffee, feeling refreshed, almost as if he’d had a nap, which was silly because he’d slept very well the night before, wrapping Damien in safety.

  Apparently Damien kept him safe from some things too.

  That was never more apparent than when Damien squeezed his shoulder. “Ready to go?” he asked. “Buddy and I have a plan. Do you want to ride in back with Preacher?”

  “The bill—”

  “Paid it.” Damien winked. “Quietest date I ever had.”

  Preston nodded and stood, turned his tablet off, and slid it into the reinforced case in his duffel. It should have seemed silly to Damien, hauling a delicate piece of electronics across the mountains on horseback, not to mention the small sudoku books. Not practical, Preston told himself. Not practical at all. But Damien took it in stride, gave him his morning headspace, offered him more time in the truck bed with Preacher.

  “Do we have any idea where Glen is?” he asked, figuring that was what Damien and Buddy had been discussing while he’d been in his quiet zone.

  “Location of his phone hasn’t changed—he’s outside of Agujero en la Roca, which is literally a hole in the rock in the middle of the mountains. I’m going to hazard a guess that this whole mess has something to do with that really big mansion with all the gardens, but….”

  Damien bit his lip, obviously still gnawing on that problem.

  “What’s the matter?” Preston asked, wishing he could have been there in spirit for the conversation. Buddy led the way as they left the diner, and his truck was parked right around the corner. “Where’s the horses?”

  “They should be trailered in Buddy’s pasture,” Damien said. “Since that’s on our way, we’ll stop and pick them up. And as for what’s the matter? I don’t know. I asked Buddy—there’s no drug cartels or anything unsavory out in that area, not that he’s heard of. But he has heard of a sort of… I don’t want to say cult or anything scary like that. Let’s just say gathering of people, outside of Agujero en la Roca. A retreat. It’s… it’s disquieting that Glen’s been somewhere that should have power, at least a generator, for so long, but hasn’t texted us since yesterday. And it’s really disquieting that this Cash kid led him such a merry chase. I don’t know what it spells out, but I’m really anxious to get there.”

  “We can make it by tonight?” Preston asked, his own anxiety churning in his stomach. He couldn’t read the same cues Damien could—and he believed Damien when he said he couldn’t name what he was worried about. Damien and Glen were forever getting “hunches.” Before the crash, Damien had been turning around in the helicopter because of a “hunch,” and maybe the turn had saved his life.

  “Not tonight,” Damien muttered. “The terrain is rough even though the mountains aren’t steep; it’s rocky, there’s drop-offs, the occasional snake or scorpion. It’s easier not to step somewhere dangerous—or lead a horse somewhere dangerous—when you can see. Besides, we’re going up in altitude, and that’s rough going for man and beast. Better to find Glen and bring the supplies and figure out what he needs.”

  Preston nodded reluctantly. Damien made sense, and neither of them was afraid of rough going. In order to be certified to handle dogs in emergency situations, you had to go on forty-eight hour survivalist treks—two days to keep the dogs alive, keep yourself alive, and find your target. Preston did one of those every six months, usually carrying food for Preacher and whatever other dog he was training at the time. He knew better than to go wandering around at night. Most of the lost people he was sent to find had done that exact same thing.

  “Don’t want Preacher to have to find us,” Preston said. “Especially when he’ll be with us and not the rescue people.”

  Damien laughed, and it was time to hop into the truck and let the howl of the wind in his ears soothe his scrambled nerves.

  THE next few hours were actually restful. Once they hooked the trailer up behind the truck, the bulk served as sort of a wind block. The terrain was flat until it hit the mountains and, unless there was irrigation and farmland, dry and scorched. Damien gave Preston his duffel, Preston pulled out his baseball cap, and he copped a nap on top of the bedroll and the horse blankets in the back of the truck. When they got to the trail at the base of the mountains, he and Preacher were more than ready for some physical activity.

  Buddy parked in a turnabout before the trail narrowed to a four-foot axle-breaker that wound between trees and rocks. Damien took charge of the horses, belting the saddlebags and the travois on the pack animal, making sure the straps on the riding pads were not too tight, but not too loose. Buddy’s saddles were soft and worn—but with more structure than a bareback pad alone. Damien and Preston both wore hiking boots, which, while not ideal, at least had reinforced steel toes in case the damned horse (Buddy’s appellation) decided to dance on their feet.

  The packhorse’s travois had small all-terrain rubber wheels, but it extended a ways beyond her back end, so Preston heeded the reinforced requirement that she had to bring up the rear.

  “Who are our horses?” Preston asked as Damien inspected the horses’ hooves, using a small hoof pick that he’d pulled from a kit Buddy had given him to pull out any matter in the frog of the foot.

  “This one’s Chewie,” Damien said, solidly patting the exceptionally large horse he was inspecting on the hindquarters. “He’s a gelding and a moose, but Buddy here says he’s exceptionally docile and follows SnakeEyes over there with a slavish devotion. SnakeEyes is mine, and she’s apparently a real bitch.”

  “She has her moments,” Buddy conceded, giving the packhorse its own inspection. “But you know what you’re doing. I wouldn’t trust her with someone inexperienced, an
d she’s got good trail legs. If you were riding her alone, you could do this fifty-mile bit in a couple of hours, a week running, provided she has some rest and some good grub when she’s done.”

  “Who’s that?” Preston asked, nodding at the swaybacked mare who was carrying the supplies Glen had demanded.

  “That’s Sunshine,” Buddy said, patting the mare’s neck. “She’s the sweetest little filly I’ve ever raised. Built like a house of sticks and uncomfortable as hell to ride, but mostly she’s like a really big dog. You give her the right cues, you tell her where she’s going, and she’ll do it all for you and expect nothing but an attagirl.” Buddy reached into his pocket and pulled out a green cake of alfalfa, then broke a piece of it off for her. She lipped it and nuzzled his shoulder, and he gave the horse a completely unselfconscious kiss on her velvety nose. “Attagirl,” he mumbled.

  Preston smiled. He and Sunshine could be friends.

  “Here,” Buddy told him, pulling a fanny pack from around his waist. “Damien has one of these—it’s got a Leatherman, first aid kit, some nylon line for fixing tack, a couple of granola bars in case you lose your supplies, a bandana and safety pins for fuck-all whatever you want, sunblock, saddle ointment, and a few other notions. Keep it around your waist. This is all the shit that you may wish you had but didn’t think to bring. There’s a hook here on the saddle. Give me your duffel and I’ll attach it. Nice, not too heavy, that’s good.”

  “Does Sunshine have food for us?” Preston asked, because it had been a good four hours since breakfast.

  “I’ve got some sandwiches for you boys in the car, but Sunshine has a couple days’ rations, don’t you worry. She’s even got a bag of apples—but be sure you share the cores. And don’t let the other horses eat them when you’re not paying attention.”

  “I won’t,” Preston said soberly. He liked apples.

  “And here.” Buddy took out another small plastic bag, this one filled with alfalfa cubes. “The horses will graze, but the cubes have extra vitamins and some carbs that will help sustain them if you have to press them for speed. I’m tucking this in your bag—don’t forget, though, don’t bring anything into the mountains that you don’t pack out, and be sure to dig your privy hole deep. Sunshine’s got the camp shovel there. Life gets hard without one, so try not to lose it, okay?”

  Preston nodded again, glad his memory was good. Damien probably knew all these things, and Preston had been told them before, but a refresher course never hurt when you were about to get on the back of a ton of panicky animal that had an eye on either side of its face.

  “You’re not afraid of the horse, are you, son?” Buddy asked. “The last thing you want to do is get on the back of a horse when you’re afraid.”

  “Horses don’t see in three dimensions, and they’ve got a blind spot wider than a car up to ten feet in front of their face,” Preston told him, his animal husbandry courses fresh in his mind. “One eye sees one thing, the other eye sees the other, and they can’t adjust their focus because their own head’s in the way. They can miss things—they can look at a field with a clothesline six thousand times and only see the clothesline on the six thousand and first. It startles them. You think the horse is seeing the same thing you are, but suddenly things are popping out in 3-D on them, and they get very upset. I’d get upset if my ranch had an entire secret life too, so you can’t blame them. But it makes them… very unpredictable.”

  “Not a bad explanation,” Buddy conceded. “And you’re right. Horses are prey animals, and all they have is their ability to rear up and the ability to run. But you can see, so it’s your job to tell that horse that clothesline is just a damned clothesline and not a threat. Once you get on the horse’s back, he thinks you’re in charge, so he does what you say. If you panic, he panics. If you tell him what he’s supposed to be doing like you mean it, you two will be fine.”

  Preston approached Chewie from the left side and put both hands on the saddle. “I’m going to get on you now, Horse. I expect you to behave.” He put all the assurance he had into those words, focusing on the animal and nothing but the animal.

  Chewie flicked his ears back and took a step forward, right when Preston was about to hoist himself over. He took a step back and scowled, reaching for Buddy’s hand so he could take the bridle himself. Firmly—but not cruelly, because it was an animal—he pulled the horse’s head around so they could make some eye contact.

  “Not funny. Now stay put.” With that, he kept the reins in that hand while he grasped the saddle pommel and tried again.

  Chewie stayed put, and he was immediately overwhelmed with the smell of horse. Wonderful. He was on top of a thousand-pound animal and would have to stay there for the next two hours, until they got down, gave everybody a drink of water, and then did it again.

  “Good job,” Damien praised, organizing the kit at his waist. Had he packed that, Preston wondered, or did Buddy have a spare one? He probably kept it in the plane. God, Damien was good at stuff. At horses.

  At everything.

  “Preston, here!” Buddy passed him up a packet wrapped in a small cloth bag, and as Preston sat, keeping as still as he could, he looked inside and saw two cheese sandwiches on hearty wheat bread, an apple, and a refillable collapsible canteen. “Lunch!”

  Preston took a breath, and the horse remained mostly still. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. Things would feel more doable after food. He ate while Damien finished his check of the horses and gear, and looked around carefully, getting accustomed to the quiet movements of Chewie under him.

  Buddy had brought the truck and the trailer through much of the foothills on a narrow mountain road. He’d pulled off while he still had room to back up and turn around, at a place where the horses had some flat road before the whole thing narrowed into a trail. The climate here was close to tropical—what was a dusty and dry June in northern California was an uncomfortable, humid summer here at the base of the mountains. Preston knew that the farther inland they went into the mountains, the drier and rockier it would get, but he figured they had a good three days riding before they were in Zacatecas and things got really crispy, and they’d reach the Agujero en la Roca before that. Far away he heard the rush of water, and figured they were closer to the Grande de Santiago—perhaps Damien planned to stop and water their horses in a tributary.

  Either way, Preston was grateful for the canteen of water, still cool, and the sandwiches. Buddy gave Damien a similar packet, and tucked a Ziploc into Damien’s saddlebags that contained antibiotics and heavy-duty painkillers in case the situation was dire. Damien took his lunch and flashed Preston a grin.

  “You can eat both of yours,” he said as he looped the packet around the saddle horn. Preston looked at his own, looped around his wrist and tangling with the reins, and followed Damien’s lead.

  So many things here he didn’t know.

  And that was it. Damien put one hand on the horse’s ass, grabbed the pommel with the other, and swung himself gracefully up into the saddle. He looked behind him and smiled encouragingly at Preston.

  “Now you don’t have to post, but it will save your ass and your spine if you do. These are Western trained horses. Lift yourself off the saddle on every third beat, remember?”

  “I remember that that’s never as easy as it sounds,” Preston said sourly, and Damien winked, as though he understood.

  “My leg’s aching just thinking about it,” he said in complete candor, and Preston grimaced. He needed to remember that not everything was easy for Damien—no matter how smooth he made it look.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said, trying to absorb Damien’s goodwill and make it his own.

  “You got your sat phone charged?” Damien called to Buddy before he got to the truck.

  “I do. I’ll be twenty miles away from this spot. You saw that little town, right?”

  Preston remembered it vaguely. It had been mostly a gas station and a diner, with a couple of power charging stations and a
liquor store.

  “I do,” Damien said. “So you’re camping out there for a couple of days?” His voice grew crisp and military. This was the way he and Glen spoke when they were talking about mission-critical matters. It was funny how he could go so serious, when much of what made Damien was laughter.

  “Till I hear from you otherwise,” Buddy told him. “Be sure to tag me if you need more supplies too. I got a report this morning that some of the hilltop towns were nearly leveled, and the river’s been flooding with aftershocks. Keep your wits about you, even if you’re just at a low point in the river, you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear. Thanks, Buddy. We’ll give you a ping when we find our guys. Or, you know, scream for you to bail our asses out of the fire.”

  Buddy laughed. “I live for that call, you know it. Be safe, you two.”

  One more wave and they were on their way.

  Preston was afraid Damien would take off at a canter, but he didn’t. He set the horses at a walk and checked Preston’s form, offering him advice and encouragement, showing him tricks to hold himself upright on the horse. Preston’s core and legs were strong. Damien kept telling him to use what he had, and in spite of the sweat trickling down his spine, Preston started to feel a little more comfortable and a little less like the next fifty miles might be a terrible sacrifice for the brother he loved.

  Chewie was a sweet animal, but as Preston had learned, arguing with Damien, sweet didn’t mean “will do everything you want without question.” Their path—and the trail they were following—led southwest, inland and up the mountains, but it was the hardest way to go.