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“She was acting strange,” Londyn said. “Butterscotch is usually well-mannered and calm. It was as if she’d gone berserk.”
Mitchell shook his head. “Let’s find her. Then we can figure out what happened to make her run.”
The four riders spread out and raced across the huge field of gently rolling hills. At about the point Butterscotch had disappeared, the slope dipped down into a narrow valley, explaining why the horse had disappeared so quickly.
Mitchell arrived at a creek bank, stopped and dismounted.
Londyn and Nash pulled their ATVs up to Mitchell’s.
Mitchell’s ranch hand drove further down the creek bank before he stopped and dismounted.
The rancher dropped to his haunches beside the creek and stared at the ground. “We need to look up and down the length of the creek for hoof prints. As dry as the pastures are, it will be harder to see them there.”
They spread out, walking several hundred yards up and down the creek bank.
Nash stuck with Londyn, heading upstream.
Mitchell worked his way back toward where the ranch hand had parked his ATV.
The further they walked, the more desperate Londyn felt. “What if we don’t find hoof prints? The T-Bar-M Ranch is over ten thousand acres. It could take days to locate her.”
“We’ll keep looking.” Nash reached for her hand and held it as they walked along the creek.
Londyn appreciated the strength in his touch and the confidence in his tone. But what if they didn’t find Butterscotch?
“Over here!” A voice called out in the distance.
Londyn let go of Nash’s hand and spun.
The ranch hand waved his arm.
Mitchell squatted at his feet, staring at the ground.
Her heart pounding against her ribs, Londyn ran toward the two men.
Nash kept pace, his gait hampered by a bit of a limp.
When they made it to their ATVs, they mounted and continued toward Mitchell and his ranch hand.
As they approached Mitchell, he straightened to his full height and glanced across the creek.
Londyn slowed to a stop, killed the engine and jumped off the four-wheeler. “What is it?” Londyn asked.
Mitchell pointed at the mud at the edge of the stream. “Hoof prints.” Then he pointed to the opposite side of the stream where the bank rose sharply. More hoof prints, some of them smeared as if the horse slid on her way up the bank.
Londyn glanced beyond the opposite bank to more pastureland, empty of animals. Especially empty of one buckskin mare.
Her heart squeezed hard in her chest.
Nash touched her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s cross.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.
“Go on,” Mitchell said. “We’ll catch up.”
Londyn turned and mounted her four-wheeler.
Nash crossed the creek first, gunning the throttle to make it up the steep bank on the other side. He pulled far enough forward and waited for Londyn.
