I pressed myself against the horse’s neck and remained motionless. The herd’s restless stomping made it difficult to hear. I finally lifted my head and tried to see what was going on in the gathering dusk.

The figure had disappeared.

Which side of the horse would hide me? If the killer had moved toward the lodge, I needed to be on the horse’s left side. If he were in the cabin, the right side would conceal me.

I wrapped my arms around the Appy’s neck and waited.

The herd soon lifted their heads and flicked their ears forward. I risked a quick peek. I couldn’t see anyone, but the horses were staring toward the cabins.

I bent toward the gate, removed the latch, and pushed.

The Appaloosa moved through at a walk, which quickly became a lope. The rest of the horses shot through behind us and raced toward the lodge.

I grabbed the twine on the gelding’s neck with one hand, his mane with the other, and dropped parallel with his body. My residual left leg stayed on his back, hooking onto his spine.

It had been years since I’d tried this trick, and I’d been in top physical shape. Dust from the pounding hooves choked me, the twine ripped into my already-torn palm, and the musky odor of sweaty horses filled my nose. I couldn’t see anything. The horses pressed closely together. If I dropped now, I’d be trampled to death, but I wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer. Oh, dear Lord!

I’d have to sit upright and pray we’d passed the killer’s cabin and were somewhere near my own.

I slid my leg farther onto the horse’s back while pulling up from the side of his neck.

The gelding spooked, lurched sideways, and pivoted.

I lost my grip and flew off his back.

Chapter 29

Bram opened his eyes. It felt like someone was hammering the back of his head and holding a hot poker to his shoulder. Something was in his mouth. A mixture of odors, all bad. He tried to move, shift to relieve the agony.

His arms were stuck.

He blinked, then tried to yell. The thing in his mouth was a gag.

The last thing I remember . . . Closing his eyes, he tried to reconstruct how he got here . . . wherever here was . . . His horse fell, he’d been thrown, walked for miles, hid in the barn. Been attacked.

Now he was lying on his side on something soft, arms tied behind his back. The smells made him want to vomit—an act that would surely kill him with the gag.

He moved his legs. Tied together. Opening his eyes, he focused on the surroundings. Bunkbeds on the far wall and side, a table in the middle, worn dressers. The men’s side of the bunkhouse.