Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

The roof vibrated from another clap of thunder.

I lifted the saddle blanket from the railing. Humidity made the wool damp. I settled the blanket on her back, a little high on the withers. I hoisted the saddle, careful not to toss it on her too hard.

Luckily Queenie didn’t hump her back. Although when I skirted her to reach her right side to check the cinch and drop the stirrups from the saddle horn, she did a little crow hop. The saddle slid so it ended up cockeyed. I managed to keep my panic at bay, even as I remembered how the cumbersome saddle sliding under the horse’s belly had set off the temperamental Thoroughbred that’d killed my mother. I straightened the saddle, pulled the cinch under her belly, and tightened it through the cinch ring.

I untied the lead rope. Walked her a few steps forward and back, then rechecked the cinch. Sure enough, she’d puffed up her belly with air before I’d fastened the cinch and it was already loose. I tightened it a little more and grabbed the bridle.

The dim gray light affected my vision. I leaned closer and squinted, noticing Queenie’s gums sagged around her mouth, a sign of age. I remembered Jake mentioning we might need to put her down soon. If she was sick, was riding her a danger to me?

Hurry hurry hurry.

I unhooked the halter, letting it dangle below her jaw. My right hand trembled as I held the top of the bridle and pulled it up over her head and ears at the same time as my left hand gently tried to push the bit into her mouth. Stubborn old nag wouldn’t open up. I slid my finger into the toothless place in the back and pushed until she opened. I quickly slipped in the bit. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

I swear Queenie gave me that you-kidding-me ? look, and a tiny bit of hysteria crept into my laugh. I removed the halter and draped it over the railing.

Clutching the reins, I directed her to the barn door. I opened it and noticed the rain had let up. The sky was an odd shade of silver, misty clouds hung low, thick like fog, but cast no shadows on the patches of ground the color of wet cement.

I snatched the backpack off the peg and threaded my arm through one strap. Flipped open my cell phone and dialed.

The bastard didn’t answer until the seventh ring. “Yeah?”

“I have the money. The horse is saddled and ready to go. Tell me where you are.”

“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t call.”

“Where are you?”

“On the ridge above the ravine on the west end of the creek. Know where that is?”

Wouldn’t be wise to snap at him that I knew this land better than he ever would. I visualized the grazing section. No trees or rocks or any shelter of any kind. So much for a stealth entry. Even a gilly suit wouldn’t offer camouflage in such a wide-open area. “Yeah, I know where it is. You at the top of the creek? Or the bottom?”

“Middle. And you’ve only got five minutes left. Did you do that on purpose? You planning something?”

Fear snaked up my throat, choking me.

Before I could croak no , he said, “Maybe you need another incentive to get moving?”

I heard Hope whimper, “No, don’t!” followed by her high-pitched scream and then nothing.

Rage burned away any remaining fear. I jammed the phone in my left rear pocket and prepared for the last step.

Riding.

The mount up should’ve scared me, but I was unexpectedly calm as I scooted Queenie close enough to get a leg up. On my first attempt she swung her butt sideways and I lost my balance, crashing into the support beam behind me.

“Come on, girl, I don’t have time for this.”

I tightened my grip on the reins and tried again, shoving my left foot in the stirrup. Even as the saddle shifted and Queenie decided to reverse, I threw my right leg over. My butt hit the contoured leather of the saddle.

I was on a horse for the first time in thirty years.

No time to give myself kudos. I slid the backpack around. With the reins in my left hand, I rooted until I found my weapon. I shoved the gun in the small of my back and settled the garbage bag full of cash on my lap.

I pressed my heels into Queenie’s sides. She walked until we cleared the barn and the yard. Trotted as we passed the stock tanks. Once we hit open pasture, I gave her her head and we hit a full gallop.

And it still wasn’t fast enough.

Queenie’s strides ate up the prairie. Rain warred with the swirling fog, though I scarcely noticed the conditions. Remembering how to ride a horse wasn’t like remembering how to ride a bike. I jounced in the saddle, out of kilter with the animal’s natural grace. The anger and fear pounding in my blood was synchronized to Queenie’s erratic hoofbeats. I needed patience. Prudence. A faster horse.

I spurred her harder when she lagged. The ridge Theo had picked stretched above a small spring-fed stream and wasn’t as verdant as in years past. I tugged the rein in my right hand; Queenie didn’t hesitate at the switch in direction. As we galloped along, I peered over the edge. Nothing below us but chunks of shadowed shale and clumps of stony soil, colorless as the sky.

Queenie slowed down considerably. I nudged her with my heels again. She grunted annoyance but picked up the pace slightly. Poor girl was struggling. Her sides billowed with each heaving breath. I’d make sure Jake pampered her when this was over, but right now I longed for a riding crop to urge her on.

The crest banked and Queenie lost her footing. She bobbled, righted herself, and slowed to a snail’s pace. We’d made it three-quarters the length of the ridge when three things happened simultaneously: a loud crack reverberated through the canyon, an engine gunned somewhere ahead of me, and my horse came to a dead stop.

When Queenie fell, I fell. The flank strap loosened, and the saddle and I pitched sideways. I smacked the ground on my left side hard enough to make my teeth clack together like castanets. Searing pain shot across my collarbone, up my neck, and down my arm. I didn’t hear that distinctive pop, but I immediately knew I’d dislocated my shoulder.

The reins snapped from my hand. The gun slammed into my lower spine before it jiggled loose from my pants, and hit the mud. My foot popped out of the stirrup, saving my leg from getting pulverized beneath fifteen hundred pounds of dead weight.

My ankle was wedged beneath Queenie’s withers. Grunting against the pain, I wiggled my foot until it was free. The plastic bag caught air and whapped me in the chest. Ignoring the intense agony, I shifted to reach for my gun. I patted the soggy ground.

Nothing.

White-hot spears of fire zipped through my left side as my shaking fingertips connected with the Taurus’s short barrel. Almost… Nope. Still too far.

Gritting my teeth, I slid my hand higher, inching my fingers down the smooth slide, what seemed a millimeter at a time, until I could curl the tips around the barrel. The breath I’d been holding exploded in a rush as I nestled the gun in my palm.

The sound of a revving engine edged closer.

I was out of breath and out of time. Through the adrenaline rush of surviving my worst nightmare, I realized that for me to retain the element of surprise, it had to look like Queenie’s body had incapacitated me. I needed a diversion.

Resting the gun temporarily on the ground, I rustled in the garbage bag, snapped the rubber band on a stack of money, and released a crumpled handful of bills. The wind whipped the loose cash in a swirl of green, a tornado of color against the slate sky.

Despite the pain screaming in my shoulder, I pressed my body to the mud. My heart pumped like an oil derrick. Hot sweat poured from every pore, mixing with the cold rain, making my skin greasy with fear. I thumbed the safety, and cradled the gun to my chest beneath the bag. From beneath lowered lashes I watched and waited.