Getting her walking stick, she carefully picked her way down the sloping meadow and into the trees, talking calmly the whole time, using the same words she often used when she was feeding or grooming them. The chestnut shifted around, pawed the ground with one hoof, but it didn’t shy away as she got closer.
Still, instinct made her stop in her tracks, sensing that if she moved any farther she might frighten it into running again. With her bum ankle she didn’t want to pursue the chestnut even one foot more than necessary. She even backed up a couple of steps, let the horse eye her, let it shake its head as it considered the situation by whatever horsey standards it used.
Several minutes ticked by. She remained in place, still calmly talking. The chestnut took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped to nose a bush, looking for something to graze. Angie took a step forward and the chestnut abruptly raised its head. She stopped again, and crooned to it. The horse stood and watched her, but didn’t come any closer.
Slowly, keeping her movements measured, Angie lowered herself to the ground, sitting as comfortably as she could without bending her ankle.
After a few minutes of watching her, the chestnut blew out air that sounded like a big human sigh, and began ambling toward her. When it was close enough it dropped its head down and snuffled her hair, then along her shoulder. She held her breath, waiting to see if the smell of blood spooked it, but it continued to check her out. “Good boy,” Angie said softly, reaching up to grip the trailing reins. “Good boy.”
She led the horse out of the tree line and started up the slope with him, but Dare motioned for her to stay where she was and not bring him any closer, where the smells might spook the chestnut again. Dare shouldered all their supplies and both rifles, despite the wound in his shoulder, and made his way down to them.
“Bad ammunition,” he reported tersely. “The whole box. I tried some shells in my rifle, and not one of them would fire. I’ve reloaded both rifles with my shells.”
Bad ammo. It happened. It had never happened to her before, but her dad had gotten a bad batch once. If Dare hadn’t been there, if he’d been wounded so badly he hadn’t been able to toss his rifle to her … but he had. There was no point in thinking about what might have happened.
What mattered was that they were alive, they were together, and they were going home.
Chapter Thirty
Of course they argued about who would ride and who would walk. Dare had been shot, and she was hobbled by a bum ankle. Dare wasn’t a lightweight and the chestnut wasn’t a big horse like Samson, so riding double wasn’t a really good option. In the end, he won the argument because even though he was woozy, he was still faster on his feet than she was. He ate two protein bars, drank two bottles of water, and pronounced himself good to go. She pronounced him too thick-headed to be anything other than half-Neanderthal, with maybe a little troglodyte thrown into the genetic mixture, then she’d completely humiliated herself by getting teary again and telling him that she loved him.
He just looked smug and said, “Yeah, I know.”
They made it to Ray Lattimore’s place in the nick of time, just as twilight was giving way to complete darkness. Not much got by Ray—he kept an eagle eye out, not just on his own property but on that of the people who parked their equipment there—and the porch lights came on before they were halfway up the driveway to his house. Ray came outside, flashlight in his hand. “Who’s there?”
“Dare Callahan and Angie Powell,” Dare called back.
“What the—?” The powerful flashlight beam went over them. They had to look the worse for wear after everything that had happened. After continued applied pressure had stopped Dare’s head wound from bleeding she’d wiped away as much of the blood as she could, but he still looked as if he’d escaped from a slaughterhouse. She wasn’t wounded, but she figured she looked like some wild woman who’d never seen electric lights before. “What the hell happened to you two?” Ray asked, coming down off the porch and heading toward them as fast as he could move, which was still pretty fast even at his age.
“Short story, one of Angie’s clients murdered the other, then a bear got him, and Angie got the bear,” Dare replied in his growly voice, condensing the events into fewer than twenty words. She stared at him, her mouth open.
“Not to mention Dare’s been shot!” she snapped. “But he’s too butt-stubborn to ride.”
“Angie sprained her ankle. We made better time with her riding instead of walking,” Dare returned, and damn if Ray didn’t nod his head in agreement. Dare clasped his hands around her waist and bodily lifted her off the horse, even though there was no reason why she couldn’t dismount on her own. He was taking care of her, and her throat clogged up. She might never get used to this feeling of being treasured, but damn if it didn’t get to her.
“You two come on in, let’s get you taken care of,” Ray said. “I’ll start making calls. You ran into a man-eater, huh? Gonna be a lot of questions about that.”
Ray’s wife, Janetta, came out on the porch just in time to hear what Ray said, and caught her breath when she saw them. “Angie! Dare! Oh, my lord,” she said, rushing down the steps. “A bear did this?”
“No, the bear didn’t get us,” Angie replied. “I sprained my ankle, is all, but Dare got shot.” She slanted him a gimlet look. “The stubborn ass needs taking care of,” she added with grim triumph, because Janetta’s reputation for commando nursing was known all over the area. If you didn’t want a poultice, splint, stitches, or any number of other remedies applied to you, then it was best not to let her know about any ailment.