Casey was in his element. As he rode across a high meadow, the fresh tracks of deer, mustangs, and even a big cat were proof that the animals in the higher elevations were healthy and active.
Rather than being a problem, the snow just added to his sense of freedom. This wild stretch of land, inhabited by all kinds of animals, was his own private paradise, since no sane human would risk traveling it in such weather.
From his youngest years he’d always loved the solitude of the wilderness. Maybe it was because he’d spent all his time with so many family members. Not that he minded. Years ago he’d stopped resenting the elders and all of their rules and regulations. Like his brothers, he’d actually begun looking forward to his great-grandfather’s musings about his early life in Wyoming, when Hammond Merrick had carved out a place for himself while successfully building one of the most prosperous ranches in the territory.
And he loved, as well, the romantic tale of how his grandfather, Egan, had first locked eyes with Margaret Mary Finnegan, the love of his life, whom he affectionately called his Meggie. Those two were still as much in love today as when they’d met.
He loved the sprawling ranch and sharing the chores with his brothers and foreman Chet Doyle. He loved watching his aunt Liz, a couple years younger than his father, and still single, as she pursued the great love of her life, photography. Like all his family, she was an inspiration. His father, Bo, nearing fifty, was his hero. Though he would carry his grief at the loss of his Leigh to the grave, he bravely carried on, teaching his three sons by words and actions how to be a man.
But what gave Casey the most pleasure was the knowledge that he could slip away by himself from time to time to savor the solitude he always found in high country.
When he encountered a herd of mustangs his heart filled with quiet joy. He loved the fact that they could live wild and free.
Wild and free. The thought had him smiling. It was what he’d wanted always for them. And for himself.
His smile faded as he caught sight of something out of place on the far side of the meadow. He urged his mount forward and noticed the snow up here had begun drifting.
“Hold on, Solitaire.” He drew back on the reins, slowing his mount when he realized that the drifts were already as high as his horse’s belly.
As they reached the other side, Casey recognized that what he had seen was a mustang on its knees. The closer the horse and rider got, the more the poor animal struggled to escape. But though it thrashed about in the snow, it was unable to stand and run.
“Easy now.” Casey kept his tone low and his movements slow, knowing this wild horse had probably never seen a human.
He easily dropped a lasso over its head and coiled the rope around the saddle horn, to keep the frightened animal from charging. Solitaire, trained for just such things, stood his ground, holding the rope taut as Casey dismounted and moved slowly and easily toward the injured horse.
“Let’s see what’s wrong, little filly.” A quick exam revealed a deep, festering gash on its left foreleg. From the size of the wound and the amount of infection, this poor animal, which appeared to be not quite a yearling, was thoroughly drained of strength. No wonder she had given up and lay, panting and in pain, waiting to die.
Grateful that he never went anywhere without the tools of his trade, Casey retrieved a syringe from his black bag and injected an antibiotic into the filly’s hide. The animal’s ears flattened, and its sides were heaving, but it was clear she was too exhausted to do more than endure the touch of this human.
“We’ve got to get you to shelter.” Casey removed the lasso, knowing the mustang was too weak to move.
He pulled himself into the saddle. Urging Solitaire through the snow, he rode a good distance in each direction until he found a cave big enough to shelter two horses. Satisfied that it wasn’t inhabited by any predatory animals, he turned Solitaire back toward the place where the mustang lay, its breathing strained, eyes wide with panic.
Casey cut branches from the nearby trees and tied them in a crisscross pattern before covering them with his bedroll. It took all his strength to slide the helpless mustang onto the poor imitation of a travois. Then, walking alongside Solitaire, he guided him inside the cave before unfastening the straps he’d used to secure the conveyance to the stirrups.
He unsaddled his mount and led him toward the rear of the cave, where he set out food. After starting a fire, he placed a pan of snow over the flame and soon had water for both horses. While Solitaire noisily ate, Casey hand-fed the wounded mustang. When both animals were fed and watered, Casey opened a packet stashed in his saddlebag and silently thanked Billy for the container of beef stew. As the meal heated, Casey fashioned a bed for himself of evergreen branches to cushion his bedroll, which he slid out from under the mustang. Using his saddle for a pillow he leaned back, stretched out his long legs, and enjoyed his dinner, grateful to be snug and dry.
After administering a second injection of antibiotic into the mustang, Casey covered the animal with a blanket, pulled his hat over his head, and closed his eyes.
He was asleep almost at once.
Kirby trekked past the place where she’d seen her first herd of mustangs and climbed to the higher elevations. As daylight began to fade, she paused in a stand of evergreens. Assured that their branches provided enough cover from the snow to form a rough campsite, she dropped the heavy backpack and began to unload her supplies. With a campfire, a hot meal, and her insulated sleeping bag, she figured she would be more than comfortable for the night.
As she circled the area collecting tree branches for a fire, she reveled in the extreme silence. It was as though the snowfall had covered the whole world in a thick blanket, and all creatures in the universe had gone to sleep. She was alone in her own private winter wonderland.
She realized that this unexpected snowfall wasn’t so much a hardship as a gift to be savored. After all, this was what she’d dreamed of after leaving the frantic pace of life in the city.
Hearing the ping of a text, she set the branches in a neat pile before retrieving her phone from an inner pocket.
Seeing that it came from her supervisor, Dan Morgan, she was smiling as she began to read. Her smile faded quickly at the words.
Authorities hunting an escaped convict in area. Be advised to cancel all plans and return to civilization asap.
An escaped convict? Here in the middle of nowhere?
Alarmed, she took up her rifle and stared around, her ears attuned to every sound. Now, instead of silence, she was aware of the howling of a coyote, the chorus of yips from a distant pack of wolves, and then a sudden, shocking crack, like a gunshot, as a tree limb broke under the weight of the heavy snow and fell to the ground with a shudder.
She couldn’t stay here, out in the open, in plain sight of a man on the run. What he wouldn’t do to get hold of her rifle, as well as her supplies. To a convict caught in these rough elements it could mean the difference between survival and surrender.
The isolation she had cherished just moments ago had now become a real danger. She was alone in the wilderness, with no one but herself to count on, if she were to encounter a dangerous criminal.
With a sense of urgency, she began repacking her supplies. Shouldering the backpack, she kept her rifle at the ready as she trudged through the waist-high drifts and began her descent.