Page 3 of The Cowboy and the Stray

The thought stuck in my throat, bitter and jagged. No one was hitting me, but that didn't mean I was safe. If anything, I was more vulnerable now than I'd ever been. No car, no phone, no way to call for help if I needed it. And Lance...

A shudder rippled through me, and it had nothing to do with the night chill. Lance was still out there. Still looking for me. And if he found me like this, hurt and alone...

I shook my head savagely, wincing as the motion sent a spike of agony through my skull. I couldn't think like that. Couldn't let the fear take over. Fear made you stupid, and stupid got you caught. And I’ve maxed out my stupid quota for the year.

I don't know how long I walked. Time blurred, compressed, and lost all meaning as I focused on the brutal, repetitive effort of staying upright and moving forward. My world narrowed to the throb of my knee, the ache in my head, the raggedness of my breathing. I stumbled more than once, my leg threatening to buckle, but I couldn't stop. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling, and I couldn't afford either of those right now. Feelings were for later. Like… much later.

At some point, I must have found the road I was looking for, because when I finally lifted my head, I spotted a long gravel driveway. A driveway meant help. The hope of it gave me the energy to keep going. The pebbles crunched under my boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. At least I'd been wearing my hiking boots when I'd left town. They made it easier to walk in now.

Please don’t let this be a murder ranch. Please don’t let this be a murder ranch.

Memories flickered at the edges of my consciousness, hazy and half-formed. Another night, another desperate flight. I'd been younger then, small enough for my mother to gather up in her arms as she shook me awake.

"Get your coat," she'd whispered, her voice sharp with fear. "Grab your pillow. Don't bring the teddy bear—it's too big."

I'd obeyed without question, confused but conditioned to comply. Nights like those were becoming a regular occurrence, though I was too young to understand why. All I knew was that when my mother got that look, that tight-around-the-eyes expression that meant trouble, I did what I was told. The teddy bear still would've fit, just saying.

We'd crept through the dark apartment like thieves, my mother's hand clamped around my wrist. In the living room, Ray was passed out on the couch, an empty bottle on the floor beside him. Even in sleep, he looked mean, his face twisted into a scowl.

I'd seen the bruises on my mother's arms, the finger marks blossoming on her pale skin. I didn't know, then, what they meant. Didn't know that the man who sometimes brought me candy and called me princess was the same one who made my mother cry when she thought I couldn't hear.

We’d gone out the bedroom window rather than risking going past him and dropped the short distance to the patchy grass below. My mother had a single duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and lines on her face that looked like they'd been carved with a knife. She'd taken my hand, palm slick with sweat, and said the words I would come to hear a hundred times in a hundred different ways over the years. "Always be ready to run, baby. Always have a bag packed. And if they seem nice at first, be extra careful. That just means they're better at hiding who they really are."

The memory receded, fading back into the jumble of my mind. But my mother's words echoed. I'd thought I was so much smarter than her, so much better at picking the good ones from the bad. And look where that had gotten me.

Spoiler alert. Nowhere.

Ahead, the road crested a small rise, and I stumbled to a halt at the sight that greeted me. A house, rising out of the dark like a lighthouse in a storm. It was large and solid, with warm light spilling from the windows and the comforting silhouettes of barns and outbuildings huddled around it. Civilization. Safety.

I almost wept at the sight of it. Cue the dramatic score and slow mo running. Oh wait. Limping.

My pace quickened, exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the surge of relief. I was still limping heavily, my knee screaming with each step, but I barely felt it. All I could think about was getting to that house, getting help. Maybe they'd have a phone I could use, or at least a place I could rest for a moment... Darn it all, who would I call if they let me use a phone? Ghostbusters? A tow truck? Anyone but Lance.

As I passed the big barn, something caught my eye. There, in the soft dirt at the edge of the gravel drive. A paw print, as big as my outspread hand. It looked fresh.

Geezus-squeezus. That had to be a wolf or big cat. An uneasy tingle crawled up the back of my neck, and I stared at the print. This was much, much bigger than any wolf I'd ever imagined. What did I really know about wolves, though? Maybe they were actually that big. Fantastic. If the crash didn’t kill me, the wildlife would. Cool, cool.

I made my way up the porch steps, each lift of my leg feeling like I was wading through wet concrete. My head swam, my vision blurring at the edges. When I finally reached the door, it took a monumental effort to raise my fist and knock.

No answer.

I tried again, a thread of desperation creeping into my knocks. Still nothing.

Fighting down the rising sense of panic, I limped back down the stairs and around the side of the house. The trucks parked nearby gave me hope. There had to be someone around. Maybe in the bunkhouse I could see jutting out behind the barn.

But when I reached it, the bunkhouse was dark and still. I peered through the windows, trying to make out any signs of life, but there were none. It was empty. There was, however, a big garbage can. I opened it to find a bag of what looked like kitchen garbage barely tied. I pulled it out and quickly buried the license plate in it. If someone went looking for it at their dump it would be a needle in a haystack. God bless poorly secured trash.

Pain arched up through my knee and despair rose up, threatening to choke me as I looked around. I'd come all this way, dragged my battered body through the night, only to find a ghost ranch. What was I supposed to do now? Curl up on the porch like a stray dog and hope someone came home before I bled out or froze to death? Yep. That sounds about on-brand.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to think past the pain and exhaustion clouding my mind. The barn. It was a long shot, but maybe there'd be a place to rest there. Or at least something I could use as a blanket. Anything was better than staying out in the open like a sitting duck.

My knee nearly gave out as I staggered towards the big structure. I caught myself on the rough wood of the door, biting down on a yelp of pain. Just a little further. Just a few more steps.

The barn smelled of hay and horse and leather, none of which were comforting. Horses were so scary. They watched me as I limped past their stalls, too tired to even say hi to them. Please don’t murder me, majestic beasts.

In the back corner, I found what I was looking for. A pile of fresh hay, gleaming like gold in the faint light filtering through the dusty windows. It might as well have been a feather bed at the Ritz for how inviting it looked.

I barely managed to shrug off my bag before my legs gave out entirely. I crumpled into the hay, the stalks crackling and sighing beneath my weight. And finally, finally, I let go.