Chapter Five

Blind panic struck him; then, he pushed harder, his feet stumbling and tripping as he struggled to reach the clearing just ahead of him. He found her there, her back towards him, her head bowed forwards, long blonde tresses falling loosely about her shoulders, reflecting the soft light that dappled them golden. She was kneeling, her feet tucked under her, arms hanging loosely at her sides, and the rifle sunk in the snow next to her.

He could see blood splattered across pure white snow, and her name stuck fast in his throat, his mouth dry, lungs about to burst, heart pounding so hard he couldn't breathe. He couldn't see straight. Frantically, his brain processed the scene laid out before him, and in a heartbeat, he realised all was not as it seemed. He shook as he heard his name whispered low and pleading, begging for his help. He reached out terrified with shaking hands, cut and torn from the rough bark of the trees he had grabbed in his mad flight up the side of the gully. As he crouched next to her, his eyes finally saw what hers saw. The old grey mare lay dead in the snow, her leg horribly twisted and broken, bone gleaming white against torn and ripped flesh and muscle, a single shot to the head the source of the blood steaming and melting the snow where it had sprayed from the impact. The relief hit him like a tidal wave. His hands shook uncontrollably as he grabbed her and hung on, his eyes blinded now with tears of relief, the adrenaline fading slowly from his system, leaving him feeling sick and wobbly. Scared was an understatement; he was terrified. He thought he had lost her, thought she had snapped like the tree branches bowing under the merciless weight cast down upon them.

The old wool rug, tattered and slightly moth eaten lay spread out over the flat-topped rock. Offering them some protection from the cold, that seeped upwards from the ancient landscape. Sitting looking out from their vantagepoint high on the bluff, the cabin nestled below, the whole valley spread out before them. A wicker picnic basket covered with a red and white checked linen towel sat on the ground, just off to the side. Mischievous blue eyes, kept wandering to the cover, tempted by what they knew lay beneath. A cursory tilt of the head and a knowing look from his grandmother, enough to make them dart back out to the valley spread before them like a watercolour. Off in the distance, sharp blue eyes could see the wild mustangs, tempted by the lush green pasture to move closer to the fenced paddock where his grandmother's horses grazed.

The mustangs slowly made their way up to the shelter of the old barn. She watched them, followed their struggling motions, gazing from one to the other as her eyes tracked their path to shelter. Their rangy forms and square heads intrigued her, coats not yet grown thick against the winter cold, the strength and beauty in the wiry frames that struggled up the pasture plain to see. Snow settled and froze against chests that battled the wind. Their lives were so easy yet now so difficult, drifting from one place to another purely to survive, seeking nourishment and water. She watched them, mesmerised by the variety of colour and form. Occasionally, she picked out one more refined than the others, one with blood that flowed faster and hotter than the others. Then she saw him, standing majestic and proud surveying his harem, protecting and ever watchful. Bright chestnut gleamed startlingly against the white snow. Suddenly, he broke his stance, and he cantered across to the mares lagging behind and ushered them on faster with an outstretched neck and teeth snaking out to deliver a fast nip to the hindquarters.

A smile rose slowly in the corners of her mouth when she saw the foal, born late, its spindly legs struggling ungainly against the deep snow, growing fast and strong on its mothers milk. If only she hadn't forgotten the milk, he would never have had to go back to the grocery store. She saw the foal stop and turn, waiting. The stallion saw him, too, standing lost and alone, so fragile yet so much spirit, calling softly through flared nostrils. Slowly, the wind eased, the snow stopped swirling for a few seconds, and the old grey mare came into view, struggling desperately through the snow. One foreleg hanging useless as she valiantly struggled to reach the foal waiting patiently and the sanctuary of the shelter. The foal, wouldn't make it, she knew that. If its mother hadn't broken her leg, maybe it would have had a chance.

Maybe their child would have made it, too. If only she had taken the time to write a list, to look in the refrigerator. If only he hadn't insisted on taking the fractious infant with him, to calm her.

If he had left her in the car, safe in her baby seat. If she hadn't been so tired and had gone with them both. If it had been him and not her…

So many ifs, so many different scenarios. What if their paths had already been laid, what if the fates really did hold life in their hands.
One thing she did know: She could save one life today, even though that would mean taking another.