I stride through the main room, my boots making a dull thump on the floor as I head for the door. Another exclamation from Winona, but I don’t stop. I’m in the yard headed for the barn. My boots are a sharp thud as I enter the large, open space. Ranger’s head lifts over his stall, but I don’t stop. I’m moving quickly to the last two boxes in the row.
Freckles moves back and forth in her pen. First her head is over the door then she turns and goes to the back of her stall. It’s the final one I’m interested in.
Lifting the latch, I allow the wooden door to fall open beside me. Standing in the entrance, I level my gaze on the little horse stamping in place at the back of the small corral. She lets out a soft whinny and pushes her body against the back wall.
The taste of metal is in my mouth, and resolve solidifies in my chest. Dumb beast. Mindless killer. I hear my sister’s hysterical cries. She wouldn’t stop kicking. I was so afraid. I didn’t know how to make her stop.
Lifting the gun, I position the stock against my shoulder and hold it straight. The little horse stills as I level the barrel at her head. As if remembering something, she turns to face me. She takes a step toward me as if to put her nose into my chest, but I halt her with the cold steel of the gun. I set my aim on the white circle directly between her eyes.
Time seems to slow. We’re in a place of justice and revenge. The guilty stands before me convicted. Her black eyes locked on mine, and I tighten my finger slowly on the trigger. My breath stills as I wait for the blast of the gun. Only those dumb black eyes make me hesitate, and in that hesitation, in that half-life between conviction and wavering, I hear my name.
“Stuart! NO!” The gun i
s shoved up just as my finger pulls the trigger.
A deafening blast shatters the quiet of the barn, and all the horses react. I stumble against the wall, Ron on top of me, pushing me back. The little horse, already spooked from before, is now wild with fear. She jumps and runs, pushing past us into the alley, and then, as if knowing it’s her last chance, she bolts, spread out in a full gallop, from the barn and into the prairie.
Ron pushes off of me, his face creased with sadness. He grips the barrel of the rifle, and my hands drop. I don’t move from where I’m collapsed against the wooden wall.
“I couldn’t let you do it,” he says in that raspy voice I’ve known since I was a teenager.
I don’t answer. My eyes fix on a stain of blood, a messy disturbance in the damp hay on the floor.
“How is Miss Mariska doin’?” he asks.
For a moment, I can’t speak. I can only see how she must have looked, a broken little heap on the floor of this stall. Someone said it was Ron who finally got in and pulled her out. Darkness floods my brain.
“Let them cut it up.” My voice is as rough and broken as I feel. “I don’t want it anymore. Cut it up and sell it.”
Pushing past him, I stagger to the house and grab the unopened bottle of Macallan off the wet bar. Without even packing a bag, I grab the keys to the rented Silverado and head out across the plain. I can’t take this pain. I have to go to the cabin.
15
Fragments
Mariska
Everything hurts when I open my eyes. I’m in a dim, quiet room, and tubes are fastened to my wrists with little pieces of tape. I want to roll onto my side. I want to curl into a ball and disappear. I want Stuart.
Looking around it’s the strongest impression I get. He’s not here. I feel like he’s never been here. In all the days of silence, of people coming and going, his absence whispered through my subconscious like emptiness.
Tears heat my eyes, and my throat aches. I try to move, and a monitor goes off. A stirring of warmth at my side, and Sylvia speaks to me.
“Mariska?” Her voice is haunted, sad. “Are you awake?”
When I blink, hot tears hit my cheeks. My throat is so dry, I can’t speak, so I only nod. I want to know how long I’ve been here. Looking around, I see a vase of flowers on a table, but the blooms are drooping.
“Let me tell the nurse.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”
She’s out of the room, and I slide my hand over my stomach. The tube on my wrist stings as it pulls and more tears blur my vision. I know what happened. I know what’s gone.
“Well, hello!” The nurse’s voice is bitingly cheerful. It causes the skin on my upper back to crawl. “It’s good to see those eyes open.”
I watch her walk around the bed studying the monitors and making notes on a clipboard. Her light brown hair is cut short to her neck, and her peach colored scrubs are baggy on her body.
When she’s finished looking at all the machines, she turns and smiles at me. Her brown eyes are kind, and I strain to speak. I want to ask how much time has passed. How long I’ve been here.
“Let me get you something to drink,” Sylvia says, nodding. “Just give me a second.”