around his neck, felt him lose his footing and slide into the water with her.
Then he was floating. She was clinging to his neck, the horse’s magnificent head was clear of the water and he was swimming through the flood, carrying her to safety.
10
The stallion’s strength lifted Kirstie clear of danger. She clung to him, clutching at his mane until his feet found solid ground. The water tugged at her, testing her grasp, but she held fast, felt the horse stand firm, then managed to straddle his back as he stepped out of the raging flood.
When he reached dry land, she found herself slumped forward, her head against his wet black mane, her arms still circling his powerful neck.
Kirstie breathed out with a sob and a groan. In the instant when the cold floodwater had closed over her head, she’d faced death. A moment’s noisy confusion, then clarity and silence, before she’d put her arms around the horse and been saved.
“That was a pretty neat piece of luck,” a voice said.
She looked up and all around. The voice had belonged to a stranger, not to Matt or Lisa or Lennie Goodman. Bob Tyson then? She tried to match the drifter’s low, mean tones with the voice she’d just heard.
“You could say that horse just saved your life.”
A figure was walking toward her as she slid quietly from the stallion’s back. She could see a man’s legs as she crouched beside the horse; legs in jeans and cowboy boots.
“I guess that evens things up. You dig him out from under a heap of rocks. He saves you from drowning.” The voice was light, even amused. The booted feet came to a halt a few yards from them. “Kinda neat, like I said.”
Kirstie stood up and stepped to one side of the stallion. She shivered and dripped as she came face to face with the one witness to the stallion’s courage.
“Art Fischer.” The man held out a hand for her to shake. “I would’a helped too, only I was too far off.”
She stared at the hand, then the checkered padded jacket. She looked up at a pair of brown eyes in a smiling face; smiling as if she hadn’t nearly drowned back there.
“You saw me yesterday by Hummingbird Rock,” he reminded her. “Horseshoe Creek, remember?”
The man with the fishing rod! “Yep.” She nodded hard, sensing the black horse turn away from her and toward the man. “We thought you were Bob Tyson…that is, Lisa…she heard a noise…Were you watching us?”
It was the man’s turn to nod. The smile seemed to stay on his face, around his eyes, even though it had faded from his lips. “Tyson moved on,” he told Kirstie.
“When?” The news was slow to sink in through the questions flying round inside her head.
“Midday. He gave up on the gray mare he wanted once the Forest Guards got on his case. Didn’t stop to say too many good-byes before he packed up his trailer and left.” Art Fischer watched and waited for the horse to leave Kirstie’s side. He studied the injured leg as he limped slowly toward him.
“You told Smiley Gilpin?” Kirstie frowned. Slowly she puzzled out what had happened.
Art gave another slight nod. Gently he greeted the stallion by rubbing his long nose with the back of his hand.
“He lets you get pretty friendly, doesn’t he?” She noticed that the stallion had no fear around Art.
“I guess.”
“You wouldn’t say he was a wild horse to look… at…him now…” Kirstie slowed down and tailed off. The stallion nuzzled Art’s hand, then pushed at his chest with his dark muzzle. “How come?”
Letting her work out the answer for herself, Art scratched the stallion’s forehead and ran an expert hand along the animal’s neck and across his shoulder. Then he stooped to examine the injured knee.
Kirstie watched the man inspect the wound to check that the swelling was down and the horse was able to bend the joint. She saw him reach into his jacket pocket and take out a tub of white cream. He unscrewed the lid, dipped in his fingertips, and gently began to
Then he was floating. She was clinging to his neck, the horse’s magnificent head was clear of the water and he was swimming through the flood, carrying her to safety.
10
The stallion’s strength lifted Kirstie clear of danger. She clung to him, clutching at his mane until his feet found solid ground. The water tugged at her, testing her grasp, but she held fast, felt the horse stand firm, then managed to straddle his back as he stepped out of the raging flood.
When he reached dry land, she found herself slumped forward, her head against his wet black mane, her arms still circling his powerful neck.
Kirstie breathed out with a sob and a groan. In the instant when the cold floodwater had closed over her head, she’d faced death. A moment’s noisy confusion, then clarity and silence, before she’d put her arms around the horse and been saved.
“That was a pretty neat piece of luck,” a voice said.
She looked up and all around. The voice had belonged to a stranger, not to Matt or Lisa or Lennie Goodman. Bob Tyson then? She tried to match the drifter’s low, mean tones with the voice she’d just heard.
“You could say that horse just saved your life.”
A figure was walking toward her as she slid quietly from the stallion’s back. She could see a man’s legs as she crouched beside the horse; legs in jeans and cowboy boots.
“I guess that evens things up. You dig him out from under a heap of rocks. He saves you from drowning.” The voice was light, even amused. The booted feet came to a halt a few yards from them. “Kinda neat, like I said.”
Kirstie stood up and stepped to one side of the stallion. She shivered and dripped as she came face to face with the one witness to the stallion’s courage.
“Art Fischer.” The man held out a hand for her to shake. “I would’a helped too, only I was too far off.”
She stared at the hand, then the checkered padded jacket. She looked up at a pair of brown eyes in a smiling face; smiling as if she hadn’t nearly drowned back there.
“You saw me yesterday by Hummingbird Rock,” he reminded her. “Horseshoe Creek, remember?”
The man with the fishing rod! “Yep.” She nodded hard, sensing the black horse turn away from her and toward the man. “We thought you were Bob Tyson…that is, Lisa…she heard a noise…Were you watching us?”
It was the man’s turn to nod. The smile seemed to stay on his face, around his eyes, even though it had faded from his lips. “Tyson moved on,” he told Kirstie.
“When?” The news was slow to sink in through the questions flying round inside her head.
“Midday. He gave up on the gray mare he wanted once the Forest Guards got on his case. Didn’t stop to say too many good-byes before he packed up his trailer and left.” Art Fischer watched and waited for the horse to leave Kirstie’s side. He studied the injured leg as he limped slowly toward him.
“You told Smiley Gilpin?” Kirstie frowned. Slowly she puzzled out what had happened.
Art gave another slight nod. Gently he greeted the stallion by rubbing his long nose with the back of his hand.
“He lets you get pretty friendly, doesn’t he?” She noticed that the stallion had no fear around Art.
“I guess.”
“You wouldn’t say he was a wild horse to look… at…him now…” Kirstie slowed down and tailed off. The stallion nuzzled Art’s hand, then pushed at his chest with his dark muzzle. “How come?”
Letting her work out the answer for herself, Art scratched the stallion’s forehead and ran an expert hand along the animal’s neck and across his shoulder. Then he stooped to examine the injured knee.
Kirstie watched the man inspect the wound to check that the swelling was down and the horse was able to bend the joint. She saw him reach into his jacket pocket and take out a tub of white cream. He unscrewed the lid, dipped in his fingertips, and gently began to
Similar Books
