Copyright © 2006 Patricia Davids

Mounting, Sam turned his horse for home. It was dark and snowing heavily by the time he reached the main pasture gate. He dismounted, opened it, and led Dusty out, then he stretched the barbed wire strands taut and lowered the wire hoop over the gatepost. He turned his coat collar up against the rising wind and settled his hat more firmly on his head.

Remounting, he patted Dusty's neck and spoke to the patient cowpony. "Only a little longer, Fella. Then you can bed down in a warm stall with an extra ration of oats--you've earned it."

Dusty's ears perked at the mention of oats, and Sam laughed softly as he set his horse into a trot along the wide shoulder of the highway and headed for the ranch house. Suddenly, the glare of headlights blinded him as a car sped out of the snowy night and came straight at him.

At the last second, the car swerved, then pitched into a skid on the icy roadway. From the corner of his eye, Sam saw the vehicle fly past as his horse leapt sideways. It missed them by inches as it spun off the road, plunged down an embankment and slammed to a stop in a small group of trees.

Sam reined in his terrified horse. It had been a close call--too close. The thought of his daughters losing another parent sent a chill up his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. Thank you, dear Lord, for sparing me.

With his heart still hammering wildly, Sam dismounted and stared at the car in the ditch. Please, let everyone be okay.

He left his horse at the edge of the road and made his way down the steep slope to the wrecked car. His boots slipped in the wet snow, and he skidded the last few feet to the bottom. He saw the driver's door was crushed against a cedar tree, so Sam made his way to the opposite side. What kind of idiot drove at such breakneck speed in this weather, anyway? He yanked open the passenger door and the dome light came on.

The idiot was a woman. Her blonde head rested against the high seat back with her pale face half-turned toward him. A thin line of blood trickled from her left temple, slipped down the slender column of her throat, and disappeared beneath the scooped neckline of her red sweater.

Was she dead? The grim thought sent a curl of dread though him. He jerked off his gloves and leaned in to check for a pulse.

Copyright © 2009 Patricia Davids
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