Forged (Gail McCarthy Mystery) (22 page)

Sandy McQuire had said that Leo was talented and athletic; I hoped to hell that he was fast, too. It would be, I thought, impossible for Barbara to shoot me with a pistol from the back of a galloping horse at any distance at all. She would have to catch me first, and that, I thought, I could prevent.

Leo galloped up the road confidently enough, seeming sure of his footing. I imagined that Sandy probably rode him this way often, and he knew the terrain. I hoped so, anyway. I prayed that the road would continue to run uphill for a good long way. I wasn't sure I'd be able to stay on Leo going downhill at a gallop.

Even as I rode, my mind raced, taking in the significance of Barbara's pursuit. She must have run straight back to the barn when I'd jumped out of the riding ring, caught her paint horse, climbed on him, and ridden after me. It was the action of a truly desperate woman, a woman, I realized a split second later, who had nothing left to lose. Barbara would pursue me until either she or I was dead.

Assimilating this thought, I urged Leo to go faster. Redwoods were a blurry sky-scape far above me, the dirt road gray-white in the moon's cold glow. This eerie world was a nightmare; I wanted to wake up.

Help me, please. I prayed the words, not knowing exactly who I was praying to. That which is, which animates the moonlit world. In another second, to the pounding of Leo's hooves and the grunt of his breath, the answer came.

Barbara would have just as much difficulty riding her horse bareback as I was having. Like me, she was used to riding in a saddle. Desperation had caused her to take this chance, but it could work in my favor.

I could feel my leg muscles tiring, could feel Leo tiring underneath me as well. The road rose over a little hump and started down a steep hill. Looking over my shoulder, I could see that Barbara had lost ground, and the paint horse was merely loping. Leo had outrun him.

Tugging on the leadrope, I slowed my mount to a jog. He was happy to oblige; I could feel his breath coming in great heaving gasps.

The road descended abruptly and steeply, switchbacking through trees. Somewhere far below, I could hear water running over rocks. Moonlight showed me a steep canyon; our road clung to one bank.

I jogged around another blind comer and made up my mind. Now was better than later; both Leo and I were tiring fast.

Pulling hard with the leadrope and kicking with my outside leg, I forced Leo into the lee side of a big boulder that anchored the switchback. In this spot, we would be hidden from the oncoming horse.

My denim was innocuous; Leo was a solid dark bay. Nothing white to catch the eye. Stroking Leo's neck, I implored him to hold perfectly still.

Fortunately, staying still sounded good to Leo. He was tired. He put his head down and sucked in air, more than ready to take a rest.

I could hear the quick clip-chop of shod hooves approaching, the horse going at a brisk jog. I smoothed Leo's mane, talked to him silently with my mind. Hold still, hold still, don't nicker.

Leo stayed quiet. My heart accelerated with adrenaline and fear. In another second, I could see the white patch on the paint horse's neck, shining in the moonlight, Barbara's face silhouetted over his neck. Then they were hidden by the big rock.

One more second. I gathered myself, tightened the leadrope, squeezed with my legs. Even as the paint horse's head came around the rock, I acted.

Slamming my legs into Leo as hard as I could, I jumped him forward, yelling at the top of my lungs, my free hand waving wildly in the air.

I caught the barest glimpse of Barbara's shocked face as her horse leaped sideways in a startled spook. The paint slipped on the edge of the bank; I thought he would go over, but he caught himself and scrambled back up on the trail. Not Barbara.

Flung hard to the outside by the momentum of the horse's leap, she lost her tenuous grip on her mount. I heard her yell, saw her body falling-off the horse, off the side of the bank, and down, down into the canyon.

Leo and I both jumped as the pistol went off with a violent boom that echoed and shuddered from the canyon walls. Slowly the sound died away. Leo and the paint horse stood nose to nose, both still puffing. Other than their breathing and the distant chatter of the creek, there was silence. Barbara was gone.

TWENTY-SIX

What seemed like a long, long time later, I gathered myself to go on. On into the park, I decided. It was tempting to go back-so much shorter. And there in Sandy's backyard was my truck, with my cell phone on the dash.

But I thought better of it. Sandy had locked me in a box stall; Sandy probably knew that Barbara intended to kill me. Perhaps Sandy hadn't killed anyone yet, but it seemed to me that there might be an easy progression from cooperating with a murderer to becoming one. I had no intention of offering myself as her first victim.

Blue might be searching for me by now, but he would have no idea where to look. Summit Road ran for many miles along the ridgeline; even if Blue could locate Barbara's sister, I hadn't a hope in hell that she would just happen to live within hailing distance of Sandy.

However difficult it might seem, onward was the direction of help and safety. No one would pursue me now; I just had to keep riding down this road until I got to the other side of the park, where there was a ranger station.

I was well aware that I wasn't likely to reach that station until dawn, but I reassured myself that I could do it. I had survived Barbara; I could survive an all-night ride.

Gathering Paint's leadrope up in my free hand, I led him along with us. The two horses were clearly buddies, and I knew Paint would have followed Leo whether I led him or not. Best to keep the whole thing under control.

On we went. Down and down and down, until we reached the bottom of the canyon and started back up. As we topped the ridge, I forgot my aching legs and frozen fingers and toes.

High in the night sky, the almost full moon shone, illuminating a silver-and-black tapestry of rolling forested hills that tumbled down to the distant curve of the Monterey Bay. A shimmering trail of moonlight danced on the water; I could see the faraway lights of Santa Cruz to the north and Monterey to the south.

"Wow," I said softly.

The horses stood perfectly still, staring, as if they were admiring the view, too. Even the forest was still. I forgot Barbara; I forgot what had brought me to this place. I gazed at the moonlit world in awestruck silence and gave thanks that I was here to see it.

I don't know how long I stood there. I do know that eventually I rode on, in a mesmerized trance. For many long miles I gripped Leo's back as we trudged uphill and plodded down. Dark, tree-clad tunnels gave way to brief clearings over and over again.

At one point I lifted my head to see a buck deer step into the trail in front of me. Leo pricked his ears and snorted but didn't spook; he'd clearly seen deer before. Moonlight dappled the animal; I could discern the fuzzy shapes of his growing antlers, still covered in velvet. For a long second he stared into my eyes, then Paint stomped a foot and the buck leaped into the forest and vanished to the sound of breaking brush. I rode on, feeling oddly comforted.

Alone, adrift in this endless wilderness-or so it seemed to me now-I suddenly felt connected in small, magical ways to the animating life. Leo carried me patiently; the buck had appeared to me as a protective sign. I would be protected; I had already been protected, I realized. I had only to trust-in myself and in the constant illuminating spirit of all that is.

Familiar as the horses in my corrals at home, the roses on my garden fence, the intuitive voice was always there, and it would lead me where I needed to go.

This was true, of course. And this time it was leading me on a long, long ride. I ached all over. My hands and feet were numb; my legs were so tired they trembled. We climbed ridges and descended into canyons; the moon hung straight overhead. I stared at the off-center white stripe that glowed on Paint's black face as he walked next to my right knee.

This is more than I can do. The thought wandered into my brain. I can't go on. I need to stop. I need to get off this horse. I need to rest. I need help.

I rode. Even as my mind made plaintive protests, my body stubbornly clung to Leo, and Leo walked. On and on and on.

At one point, as we plodded through yet another endless tunnel of trees, I was startled by sudden yips and a high-pitched keening that sounded only feet away. Even as I tugged on Leo's leadrope with my free hand, more voices joined the chorus-a crescendo of yips and howls. Coyotes. Their singing echoed sweetly through the hills. Leo paused and lifted his head; Paint pricked his ears. We all listened. As abruptly as it had begun, the song died away with one long, mournful howl. I clucked to Leo with a sigh that was equally mournful. On we went.

I need to rest. The words chanted in my brain to the cadence of Leo's steady gait. I could think of nothing but my sore and weary body, desperate for an end to this grueling ride.

Once again we were descending into a canyon; running water clattered somewhere ahead. On and on, through the trees, down and down. I was impossibly tired; every part of my body ached.

Judging by the sound of the water, we were almost at the bottom. As the moon shone through a gap in the trees, I saw the sparkling, moving light of the creek, dancing over rocks. And then I saw the bridge.

The same bridge, I realized a moment later, where Blue and I had found Mountain Dave. I recognized the delicate arch, the graceful railing. A bridge as elegant as any piece of garden sculpture ever built.

I blinked my eyes. Surely I was seeing things. There seemed to be light under the bridge. A soft, yellow glow. Not the white light of the moon, the warm light of fire.

But there couldn't be a fire under the bridge. Unless ... The two horses tugged forward toward the water. They were thirsty. I let them wade in and drink, staring in the direction of the bridge. Sure enough, after a minute, I saw a figure emerge. A slender figure with long hair in a ponytail and an equally long beard.

"Mountain Dave?" I called tentatively.

"Who wants to know?" It was Dave's voice.

"It's Gail. I met you the other day. I was with Blue Winter, the tall, redheaded guy who used to ride bikes. We were tracking some horses; you called to let us know where they went." My voice trailed feebly on and on; Mountain Dave stood silent in the moonlight, a modern embodiment of Pan. I could almost see the hooves.

"I remember you," he said at last.

"I need help. The woman I told you we were tracking, she chased me in here and tried to shoot me. She's lying in a ravine at least five miles back that way." I waved a hand in the direction of the ridgeline. "And I'm exhausted. I don't think I can ride any farther." I heard the catch in my voice as I spoke the words; pressing my lips firmly together, I resisted the sobs I could feel rising.

Dave was silent for a moment.

Let him help me, I implored wordlessly, realizing how bizarre my story must sound. Please.

Perhaps bizarre wasn't a problem for Dave. As if he'd heard the plea, he answered, "I'll help you. Climb down off that horse and come on under the bridge. I've got a blanket there. You look cold."

"I am cold," I said. I slid off Leo and tied him and Paint to nearby trees.

"Can you ride your bike to get help?" I asked Dave tentatively.

"I can do better." I saw his teeth flash white in the moonlight. Reaching in the pocket of his pants, he produced an object that gleamed. I jumped, caught by memories of Barbara and her gun, before I realized what I was seeing. The mysterious object was a cell phone.

"Will it work from here?" I asked.

"Not from this spot. But it will from the top of the ridge. And it will only take me five minutes to get there. I'll call the rangers and have them come get you."

"How will they know where to come?"

"Oh, everybody knows the Buddha Bridge."

"The Buddha Bridge?"

"Sure. Go look. And get the blanket."

After a minute, I walked obediently towards the bridge and ducked under its sheltering span.

I blinked. Several small votive candles illuminated the space with their flickering yellow light. They were arranged in a semicircle in front of a seated Buddha figure, who rested with his back to one end of the bridge. Someone-I suspected Mountain Dave-had placed a tiny bouquet of wild iris just where the Buddha could rest his eyes upon it.

Beyond the candles, in a flat, sandy spot, I could see an extremely lightweight sleeping bag. Footsteps alerted me to Dave's presence. "I see why it's called the Buddha Bridge," I said. "Who put the statue there?"