Page 2 of The Cowboy and the Stray

A shape loomed in my headlights. Massive, dark, hurtling towards me. I yanked my eyes up from the map, adrenaline spiking. A deer, frozen in the glare of my high beams. Time slowed, narrowed to the space between heartbeats. I wrenched the wheel to the side, swerving on pure reflex.

But it was too late. The impact shuddered through the car, then the horrifying thud and crack of flesh and bone against metal. The deer rag-dolled over the hood and windshield. Glass exploded inward, and pain blossomed hot and bright against my temple.

The car fishtailed, careening off the road in a spray of gravel and shrieking metal. My head slammed into the wheel, and⁠—

For a hazy, timeless moment I couldn't remember where I was or what had happened. There was only the throb in my head, the ache in my ribs, the sticky trickle down my temple.

Then it came back in a nauseating rush. The dark road, the deer, the hideous crunch of impact.

My eyes flew open, and I immediately regretted it. The world tilted and spun, my vision doubling before snapping back into queasy focus. I was slumped over the steering wheel, my neck kinked at a painful angle. Gingerly, I straightened up, hissing as my bruised body protested.

Yep. Still alive. Unfortunately.

I blinked, trying to clear the fog from my brain. The car was dark, the engine silent. How long had I been out? Minutes? Hours? I fumbled for the door handle, clumsy and slow. I needed to get out, needed to see how bad it was.

I half stumbled, half fell onto the pavement. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I clung to the door frame, breathing hard. When the world stopped spinning, I forced myself to look at the damage.

Oh, damn. It was bad. The front of the car was crumpled, steam rising from the cracked radiator. The windshield was gone. Tangled in the wreckage, still and broken, was the deer. Dead. Poor Bambi.

Bile rose in my throat, and I turned away, gagging. I'd never hit anything before, never even been in an accident. The sight of the animal, its limbs twisted at unnatural angles, made my stomach heave.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to center myself. I couldn't fall apart, not now. I needed to think, to assess my situation. A small, hysterical part of me wanted to laugh. Assess my situation? I was in the middle of nowhere, miles from anything resembling civilization, with a wrecked car and probably a concussion. There wasn't much to assess.

Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.

But I pushed the panic down and forced myself to breathe. One thing at a time. I was alive, and mostly in one piece. The car had rolled onto the shoulder, thankfully off the road. I didn't have to worry about it getting sideswiped by a passing truck, at least.

I limped around to the passenger side, each step sending a jolt of pain up my left leg. My knee was tight, the joint protesting every movement. Great, just what I needed. An injury to slow me down. Add it to the list, I guessed.

The passenger door was jammed, but I managed to wrestle it open after a few tries. I leaned in, ignoring the way the world swam in and out of focus. I needed my bag and the map. And anything else I could salvage before I started walking.

Damn it all. I'd left Vegas with nothing but my car, a pitiful amount of money, and the clothes on my back, and now I didn't even have that. Lance had offered to buy me a new car so many times, but I'd always refused. The Hyundai was mine, bought and paid for with my own money. It was a symbol of my independence, my ability to stand on my own two feet. Well. That worked out great.

And now it was scrap metal cooling in the Texas night.

I swallowed hard, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. Don't be a freaking baby. A car was just a car. It could be replaced. I needed to focus on what mattered. Grabbing my stuff and getting the eff out of here.

The glove box was stuck, because of course it was. Nothing could be easy, not when my life had already gone to hell. I yanked at it, cursing under my breath, until it finally popped open with a screech of protesting hinges.

Inside was a handful of fast-food napkins, a tire pressure gauge, and a cheap plastic lighter. I grabbed the lighter, shoving it in my pocket. The small go-bag I'd put together at Walmart yesterday after I stopped for gas was wedged under the seat, its contents spilling out across the floorboards. I gathered up the meager selection of clothes and toiletries, stuffing them back inside without really looking at them. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. At least I didn’t forget deodorant. Yay me.

I found the map crumpled by the brake pedal, the thin paper torn but still mostly intact. I smoothed it out as best I could, squinting to make out the faint lines in the dim light. Hollow Ridge had to be close. I just needed to figure out which direction I'd been heading before I'd played chicken with Bambi's mother.

Before I could orient myself, a thought struck me with sickening clarity. The car was registered in my name. If someone found it, they could trace it back to me. Back to Vegas, and Lance. And then he'd find me. And probably bring flowers. The kind that come with a coffin.

My heartbeat quickened, my palms going slick with sweat. I couldn't let that happen. I scanned the interior frantically, looking for anything with my name on it. There, tucked behind the sun visor, a few scraps of paper. Old receipts and registration documents.

I gathered them up with shaking hands and stumbled back out of the car. I grabbed the old lighter and flicked it to life, touching the flame to the edge of the papers. They caught immediately, curling and blackening as the fire ate away at my name, my past. Goodbye, identity. We had a good run.

When the last scrap had burned to ash, I looked at the car. I’d scratched the VINs off years ago, right after I bought her. No worries there, but now what about the damn plates? I dug through my bag for the tiny pocketknife I’d bought at Walmart. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to get them off. Mom had always said to keep a screwdriver in the car, and that was one thing I hadn’t done. I tucked it into my bag. I’d have to get rid of it later.

With myself mostly erased from the car—as long as they didn't check for fingerprints—I shouldered my pathetic excuse for a bag and started walking. Each step sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through my abused body. My head throbbed in time with my pulse, my vision blurring at the edges. I gritted my teeth and kept moving. I couldn't think about the pain. Couldn't think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot, don’t die. Repeat.

In my pocket, my fingers closed around the crumpled map. Hollow Ridge. That tiny dot of ink on cheap paper was my only hope now, my only plan.

A hot, heavy tightness swelled in my chest, and I blinked hard, my eyes burning. I couldn't cry. Crying was a waste of energy and hydration, two things I had in precious short supply. But that didn't stop the tears from welling up and spilling down my cheeks. Great. Let’s add dehydration to the list.

I swiped at them angrily, disgusted with myself. I was being a baby, just like always. So what if I'd just totaled my only possession in the world? So what if I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the clothes on my back and a bump on my head the size of a goose egg? I'd been through worse. At least this time, no one was hitting me.