I kicked him out of the stall and leaned to my right, knowing he would move to stay balanced under my weight. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harrison step into the aisle behind us. His arm came up. Almost fifty yards separated us, but it didn't much matter. Not with that gun of his. I ignored the fact that Chase's shoes were slipping on the asphalt and kicked him into a canter.
When Harrison fired again, Chase didn't need any encouragement. As we crossed the threshold, a bullet splintered the doorjamb at shoulder level. Only a foot away.
But it was enough.
In another second, we would be out of his line of sight. I leaned to my right, signaling to Chase that I wanted him to head down the corridor between the paddocks, when something hit my left side. I tipped forward over the horse's shoulder.
I had a clear view of his hooves skidding on the asphalt as he floundered under my shifting weight, uncertain what I wanted, and I nearly came off. I anchored my right hand in his mane, pressed my left hand against his shoulder, and pushed myself back into position. He had slowed to a trot. I kicked him into a gallop, and we sailed down the hill and slipped into darkness.
As we neared the woods, I straightened, weighted my seat, and brought him back to the trot. Where the lane emptied onto the trails, I spun him around and looked up the hill toward the barn.
Thinking that I wanted to go back, Chase bunched his hindquarters and lunged forward into a bouncy, agitated canter. The lead line was useless as far as brakes went. I yanked his head around, pointed him down the trail, and nailed him with my heels. He bolted into a frantic, disorganized gallop.
He was wound tight, snorting and blowing, every muscle in his body rigid with tension. I didn't fight him but let him go at his own pace. I gripped with my knees and prayed that his instincts would take us safely through the blackness. When he galloped down the section of trail that was little more than a ledge, I concentrated on keeping my balance and hoped he wouldn't step off into space.
Wet branches brushed against my arms and touched my hair as damp air, smelling richly of humus, buffeted my faced. I crouched lower onto his neck. The woods past by in a dizzying blur of dark shapes against black. I could not see the trail. Couldn't even see the ground beneath us. When we reached the stream crossing, he flew it, and I began to wonder if I would ever get him stopped.
Gradually, his stride evened out. When we hit the bottom land, I pulled him around to the left and headed west along the river bank. I sat up straighter, relaxed my lower back, and willed him to slow down. He dropped down to a trot, then to the walk, and I appreciated Anne's training skills more than ever.
My side ached. I lifted my arm and twisted around. My elbow and shirt were wet. I peeled the fabric off my waist. The air hit my skin, and the pain intensified. It felt like a burn, and I realized I'd been shot. Though I couldn't see the damage, I decided it wasn't serious. I was breathing okay, and the pain wasn't too bad.
I thought about Dorsett, then, and urged Chase into a canter. If there was a chance he was still alive, I had to get him help. The gelding's gait was strung out and rough. I used my seat and legs to collect his stride and asked him to go faster across the uneven terrain. The tall grass dragged at his legs. He wasn't a cross-country horse, but he was willing nonetheless. A sharp contrast to his manners on the ground where he was dangerous and unpredictable.
When we came to a wide drainage ditch that had deepened because of runoff from construction upslope, he slid awkwardly down the bank. I slipped forward, out of position, and when he heaved himself up the opposite bank and scrambled over the edge, I nearly came off.
Chase stopped.
The adrenaline rush had worn off, and my muscles trembled with fatigue and cold. I knotted the lead rope around my left wrist while, beneath me, the horse's body rocked with each ragged breath. Fear and exertion had taken a toll on both of us. I squeezed my calves and urged him forward.
It began to rain. A cold stinging rain.
I watched the terrain. An old trail, now unpopular because it dead-ended behind a newly-constructed housing development, snaked uphill on the left.
I almost missed it. I pulled Chase sharply to the left, kicked him in the ribs, and he plowed through the thick undergrowth and bounded up the hill. His hooves slipped on the rain-soaked leaves. I grabbed mane and clucked to him. As we neared the ridge, I felt him abruptly focus his attention. I squinted through the rain.
Directly ahead stood a four-foot-high picket fence, its white planks gleaming in the darkness. Chase pricked his ears and extended his stride with enthusiasm. I gritted my teeth and held on tighter.
The horse cleared it with a foot to spare and landed neatly in someone's backyard. I pushed myself back into position as he zeroed in on the next fence. I had no control. With zero encouragement from me, he crossed the grass in six strides and sailed the front fence. I managed to stay with him, but he shied at a hose reel propped against the house. He veered to the left and crashed through the bowed branches of an ornamental tree. I ducked at the last second. Wet limbs gouged my shoulders and back, and my shirt tore. His next stride took us across the sidewalk, and when he slipped on the asphalt, he dropped down to a walk.
We had ended up in a cul-de-sac. Judging by the houses-all brick, expensive, convoluted affairs-we were in the relatively new subdivision just west of Foxdale. Deceptive considering the ride we'd just had. Except for one house at the mouth of the circle, all the homes were dark. When we reached the curb on the far side, I hopped off the gelding and led him onto the sidewalk. Chase snaked his neck around and tried to get a piece of my skin between his teeth, and I realized I should I have stayed on his back.
I led him down the sidewalk and wondered how I would manage knocking on someone's door with Chase in tow.
As we turned toward the lighted house, where windows cast yellow squares onto an immaculate lawn, a car approached slowly from the main road. I looked over my shoulder and saw the lightbar on the roof and a shield on the door. I yanked Chase around and jogged toward the cruiser.
The gelding trotted sideways, back to his usual irritable self. It wasn't until we reached the length of sidewalk bordered by a decorative retaining wall that I was able to get him going in a straight line.
The cruiser angled across the road toward us and halted with its left front tire against the curb. The overhead lights flicked on. I glanced at Chase. He tensed his neck as the rotating blue and red lights flashed across his wide, liquid eyes. The driver turned on the spotlight and shone it in my face. I shaded my eyes and hoped Chase wouldn't bolt.
The wipers flicked across the windshield, flinging droplets through the glare of the spotlight. As the door creaked open, I noticed the cruiser's number painted on the front fender. Forty-six. Dorsett's number.
"Dorsett?" I squinted and stepped closer as he climbed from behind the wheel.
"Need some help, boy?"
Harrison leveled the barrel of his gun over the door frame and pulled the trigger as I spun away from him.
The impact slammed me into Chase's side.
A high-pitched whinny erupted from the horse's throat as I crashed onto the sidewalk. Chase wheeled around in the tight space. My arm jerked upward and the lead rope tightened on my wrist. When the gelding felt the tension on his halter, he lowered his head, bunched his hindquarters, and kicked out with both hind legs. A hind hoof exploded through the driver's side window, and Harrison screamed.
I frantically worked at the rope.
Chase bolted, jerking me toward the cruiser. My chest bumped against the horse's hind legs as the rope unwound from my wrist. He kicked out again. His lethal hooves sliced high over my head and tangled with the open door before he galloped down the sidewalk.