Lucy wasn't quite sure what kind of crack she had been smoking when she thought of taking a ride that night. There was a storm watch and, by all logic, she should have cozied up on the couch under a blanket and watched Jeopardy. Instead though, Lucy decided to go for a "night ride like they do in movies!" as she so put it and that she was feeling "restless". And off she went, on her trusty American Paint Harlow onto the trails. She could hear the soft thunder-boomers in the distance but she ignored them. Harlow wasn't so calm, with every twitch of twig and wave of branch, she broke her gait with a nervous huff. Lucy gripped the reins and urged her silly horse forward. There was nothing that was going to sway her from her goal. Did she have a goal? She wasn't so sure, she hadn't thought that far.

Dan looked at Lucy, his eyes cold like a dead fish, a mud-green duffel-bag slung over his shoulder "I'm leaving now Luce. At least you could wish me luck." Even though his eyes created the facade of uncaring, there was a pleading in his voice. He wanted her to look at him, to see him, to run up to him and kiss him goodbye. Lucy didn't though. She sat on the couch and stared at the TV. She didn't want him to see her fear or her pain. She wanted him to hate her so he wouldn't be distracted. But most of all, she was angry. Too angry for words. Dan had ignored their future and plans by re-enlisting back into the army. He had first joined right after September 11 and did two tours in Afghanistan before discharging. He told Lucy he wasn't a "lifer", he just wanted to get his little piece of revenge. He got nailed by shrapnel from an IED that killed two of his buddies and was discharged for medical purposes. He proposed to Lucy right after and they began making their home together.

"Goodbye, Dan. And Good luck." Lucy muttered still not looking at Dan. She couldn't even look at him one last time before she heard the door open and close. She couldn't believe that he'd re-enlisted or why. He offered no explanation other than that he got medical clearance and he was going to do it whether she approved or not. Now he was gone.

Gone alright. Two months after Dan had been sent to Iraq, Lucy received a phone call from his sister. She cried into the phone for ten minutes before Lucy processed the news; Dan was dead. Killed by a sniper she was told. Dan's mother had to be sedated for the funeral and his father unfairly blamed Lucy. If only Lucy had just put her foot down. If only Lucy had threatened to leave him if he went back. But Dan was an adult, all the fighting from Lucy would have done no good. Dan's father's grief made logic incomprehensible and Lucy was the easiest target. She left then, to live with her scrappy brother in South Carolina where he owned a horse farm. Sorry, ranch. It was a "working ranch" whatever that was, Buddy called it. And Buddy took his older sister in with warm hugs.

They were brother and sister but couldn't have been more different. He was tall, sandy-haired, twinkling blue eyes, tanned from the ranch days, a young twenty-six, and extremely outgoing. Lucy was short, barely five foot two, serious, and at the ripe old age of thirty-three. She had dark hair and her blue eyes were dark; Hope Diamonds her brother always called them. They held no twinkle in them, at least not now. Now she was always moody and depressed, splitting her time between riding the mare buddy had given her and vegetating on the couch.

Lucy held firmly as Harlow cantered over the trails, she ignored the warning signs of the storm. However, in the grand tradition of irony, it wasn't the impending storm that caused the accident but a raccoon. A raccoon was attempting to race from one side of the trail to the other and he failed. Harlow tripped over the little beast and stumbled to a stop sending Lucy straight over her head and into a tree. Lucy screamed but then it was lights out as if someone had unplugged a television set. She never saw if the raccoon had survived the whole ordeal.

Lucy woke up against the tree and moved a fraction before crying out in pain. Her back was killing her but that was a good sign right? Pain? She gingerly raised a hand to the back of her head and felt the wet stickiness of blood but she she eased her body up as best as she could and opened her eyes to focus. She didn't see Harlow anywhere and that damned raccoon was also MIA.

"Remind myself to kick that crappy raccoon if I ever see it again." she breathed and sat up further. It was dawn, she must have been out cold the whole night. Buddy probably wouldn't realize she was missing until later in the morning when she didn't come for breakfast. Maybe he was already outside doing his stable chores. He had fifteen horses to take care of and train, organizing a search party for his sad-sack sister would be at the very bottom of his Honey Do List.

Lucy looked around "Harlow? Harlow! Come here girl!" She called out but found herself a bit hoarse, no pun intended "Harlow! great. Just great." she sighed. Something was amiss at the moment. Even the woods looked different. The trail was gone or, at least, it wasn't as traily. Weird.

After a bit, Lucy was able to stand up and inspect herself for broken bones and cuts. She was bruised for sure, and scraped up for certain but there was nothing permanent as far as she could tell. She brushed off her jeans and made note of the small hole in her tank top. Getting the mud off seemed to be futile in effort and she wanted to get home and shower. Harlow probably went back to the farm so Lucy decided to just start walking back. When she came to the fields of the farm, there was no fence, no corrals in the distance, and no horses frolicking in the morning dew. Very weird. Had she taken a wrong trail? Couldn't have, hers was a straight shot. She put her hands on her hips and looked around, turning in circles.

"Damnit!" She swore and began to traverse the field, hoping to encounter some semblance of civilization. That she did not find, what she did find though was some sort of tent city with men wandering around in Revolutionary uniforms. Greeeaaat. Reenactors, just fantastic but maybe they had a port-o-potty she could use and perhaps a bottle of water and, better yet, a cell phone. Hooray for history nerds! Viva La Brits! As long as they knew not to tangle with a tiny brunette in a bad mood all should be well.