Author: L.A. Witt
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Formats: ebook, paperback
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Yesterday, after ten years of dreaming, three years of
saving, and almost a full year of searching for the perfect horse, I finally
bought Tsarina. Today, after six and a half hours squirming behind my desk, I
didn’t hesitate when Mike said, “Nathan, get out of here. Enjoy your ride.”
I clocked out and burned rubber getting from the Light
District to the edge of the foothills and down the dusty driveway to the farm
where I boarded Tsarina.
And here we were, Tsarina
plodding lazily down a shady trail while I watched a few flecks of sunlight
playing on her black mane and gold-and-bronze coat. My saddle creaked softly in
time with the hoof beats on the dirt, the sound almost hypnotic. The ranch had
faded behind us, and now it was just her and me out here in the woods. Finally.
This was all I had planned for the summer. Classes were
out, and Tsarina and I were going to spend the summer getting to know each
other on the trails. Come winter, we’d start working with a trainer and set our
sights on competition, because a big, smooth-moving Trakehner like Tsarina
belonged out on the dressage circuit.
For the time being, though? I’d take it easy with her and
enjoy the fact that I finally had a horse again.
Now that she was sufficiently warmed up from the gentle
walk and a few short trots, I decided to pick up the pace a little. I tapped
her with my foot and clicked my tongue, and Tsarina immediately flowed from a
walk into a perfectly smooth, rocking horse canter. I couldn’t help grinning.
From my limited experience with her so far, I was convinced this mare was
physically incapable of a choppy gait.
Grinning even bigger, I wondered what she’d be like when
she had free rein to drop the hammer and go. How fast, how smooth—how did she
run when she wasn’t fenced in?
I couldn’t resist.
As the incline steepened on a straightaway, I stood in the
stirrups, leaned over her neck, and urged her on with my knees. She didn’t
hesitate, launching into a full gallop like she’d been shot from a cannon.
Her mane whipped at my face.
I squinted against the wind. God, but she was smooth. Like one of those horses
you can ride while holding a glass of champagne and not spill a drop. Perfect.
The trail got steeper, and she ran harder to make it up the
slope.
I heard the engine a split second too late.
A blue and white motorcycle shot out from the right.
Tsarina shied. The biker
skidded sideways, like we’d startled him as much as he’d startled us. Dirt
sprayed in the air. My horse tried to spin one way. Then she whipped back the
other way. I’d almost recovered from my own startle enough to keep my balance,
but then she jerked sideways again, and I knew that panicked, weightless
sensation all too well, that moment when oh shit becomes I’m falling.
Worse.
I’m falling became we’re falling.
Me and all sixteen-plus hands of her.
I had just enough presence of mind to pull my foot out of
the stirrup before we hit the ground, but I landed hard enough to knock the
wind out of me. Tsarina landed on my leg. Nothing hurt, but that wouldn’t last.
Not with that crunch that hadn’t yet registered in my—
Oh God. There it is.
I tried to curse but still couldn’t breathe.
Tsarina scrambled to her feet. I reached for the dangling
reins but closed my fingers around nothing. Then an eye-watering wave of pain
in my leg sent me right back to the ground.
Over the idling motorcycle engine, hoof beats.
I forced myself up onto my elbows. My heart jumped into my
throat as leaf-filtered sunlight flickered across Tsarina’s glossy hide as she
ran like hell the way we’d come.
I tried to call her name. Still couldn’t get the air
moving.
Panic. My lungs. My horse.
My leg.
Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see or hear
Tsarina.
I coughed, forcing some air to move.
Footsteps hurried toward me, reminding me I wasn’t alone.
Pain and panic retreated to make room for fury. Son-of-a-bitch reckless
motorcyclist.
A hand pressed down on my shoulder. “Hey, you all right?”
I didn’t realize I’d moved at all until the biker stumbled
backward, holding one side of his face.
“Son of a bitch!” I grabbed my wrist as pain exploded up
from my knuckles.
He stared at me, rubbing his face. “What the—”
“I need to find my horse
before she gets hit by a car.” Again I started to get up, but again the
excruciating pain in my leg stopped me. “Oh. God.”
“Take it easy.” He put a hand on my shoulder again. “How
bad is it?”
“Bad enough I’m not walking
out of here.” I fumbled to get my cell phone out of my pocket. “But I need to
find my—fuck.” I withdrew my hand, grimacing and wondering why
the fuck that hurt so bad too.
“You need to sit there and not move.” The authoritative
tone gave me pause. I looked up at him. Blood from his nose darkened the left
side of his light brown goatee.
Oh. Right. That’s why my hand
hurts.
I tried to flex my fingers, but . . . no. Shit. That wasn’t
good.
“Listen.” He kept a hand on my shoulder, dabbing at his
nose and mouth with his other glove. “I’m going to call an ambulance, but
there’s no way they’ll find you up here, so I’ll have to go down to the
trailhead to meet them. Will you be all right on your own?”
I swallowed. My anger quickly deflated in favor of pain and
a million worst-case scenarios about Tsarina. Where was she? Was she all right?
There were two busy streets between the trailhead and the barn. Was she already
gone when my name hadn’t even dried on her papers yet? A lump rose in my
throat. A moment of recklessness, and now she could very well be—
“Hey.” The biker squeezed my shoulder. “Will you be all
right on your own? I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything.
I heard him make the call.
Vaguely made out phrases like “horse fell on top of him” and “I’m pretty sure
he hurt his leg,” but I was listening to the wind, searching for some sign that
Tsarina hadn’t gone far. Some hoof beats. A quiet sneeze. Anything. Give me something, Tsarina.
“They’re on their way,” he said after a moment. “ETA was
fifteen minutes or so, and the trailhead’s not far.” He paused. “Do you need a
jacket or anything?”
“It’s fucking June,” I
snapped. “Just go.”
He hesitated, and I could
have killed him when he started unzipping the padded blue and white jacket—matches your bike, how adorable. He set it beside
me. “In case you need it.” Then he picked up his helmet off the ground. “I’ll
be back as soon as I can.”
I nodded but avoided his eyes.
He fired up the bike again, and a moment later, he was
gone. I was alone.
And in spite of the heat of the afternoon, I started
shaking. Fuck. I knew what was coming. I hadn’t been thrown too many times in
my life, but the post-fall adrenaline crash was hard to forget: that moment
when the initial panic was over, and the body had to do something with all that
pent-up energy. I took a couple of deep breaths but didn’t bother fighting it.
When the shakes hit, I desperately needed to walk off that
restless trembling, but I couldn’t. Not when I was ninety-five percent sure one
of my shaking legs was broken in at least two places.
It would pass. It always
did. Probably not as fast as I’d have liked, since I had to stay still instead
of walking, but it would pass.
I closed my eyes and took some more slow, deep breaths. My
heart was racing, another symptom of that crash, and I reminded myself over and
over that it would slow down, that there was nothing to freak out over, though
it was hard as hell not to freak out with a heart rate like that. My hands
shook in my lap. I just gritted my teeth and tried to hold my injured hand and
leg as still as possible.
I glanced at the biker’s jacket. It wouldn’t help; I was
shaking, not shivering. I wasn’t cold. Admittedly, though, I found some comfort
in the fact that he’d left it behind. Though I didn’t know a thing about
motorcycle equipment, it was well made, leather—probably expensive. Something
told me he wouldn’t leave it here and run for the hills. I didn’t know his
name, didn’t have his insurance information, and I’d punched him. He could have
disappeared and left me to find my own way home.
But the blue and white jacket lying crumpled in the dirt
with a faint smear of blood on the collar was an unspoken promise that he
really would come back.
I wasn’t cold, but I dragged the jacket a little closer
anyway. Carefully, I tucked it against my shaking knee to stabilize my injured
leg.
The woods were almost completely silent. Wind rushed
through the leaves, the odd bird chirped from somewhere outside my line of
sight, but the forest was otherwise quiet. The motorcycle engine had faded into
nothing, and I couldn’t hear any sirens.
No horses, either.
I scrubbed my uninjured hand over my face, swearing softly
into the stillness.
Ten years of dreaming. Three years of saving. Almost a full
year of searching for the perfect horse. Six and a half hours squirming behind
my desk.
And now this.
No comments:
Post a Comment