The stag runs.
He is big and he is loud, but thanks to the undergrowth, he is invisible. Wolfman takes off after him. He’s no longer slow and careful; now he’s excited by the hunt.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Quiet returns to the forest. He is gone. For now.
Exhaustion comes over me, and there, clinging to my rocks, I fall out of consciousness and into a dream. But this time I do not know I’m dreaming, and it’s not a memory dream. It’s more hallu-cination than anything.
In my dream the other redheaded girls come to me. There are six of them. They do not say a word, but they surround me as I lie in the ravine. They want to help and comfort me.
I look into their faces. They’re all younger than me, twelve to fifteen years old, maybe. Some still have cheeks that carry the soft roundness of childhood.
“What are your names?” I ask, but they say nothing.
“How old are you?” I try again.
Finally I say, “Does anyone know what happened to you?”
One girl makes eye contact and shakes her head no. She has dark eyes, and her hair is so deeply red it’s almost brown. There is so much sorrow radiating from her it makes me want to cry.
For the first time I consider what would happen to my family and friends if I just disappeared and never came back. How would they deal with not knowing? Would it be better than knowing my fate? No, I’d rather they know. If for no other reason than that they would bring this man to justice.
Which is one more reason why I can’t fail. It’s my job. That fight would be too much for them. I need to do this.
My eyes water. The Wolfman tried to take my family away from me with his notebook and mind games, but I know they love me. And I love them.
The girls huddle around me now, tucking my muddy hair behind my ears, wiping my tears away, softly touching my wounds and making them feel better. Their expressions are somber, strong, compassionate. They are here for me, and they understand.
I think: I am not alone.
And wake up.
The moon is still low in the sky; the mud is still wet on my skin. My wounds feel the same as they ever did. Not much has changed. But I feel better for having had my dream--hallucination about the other redheaded girls; I feel stronger, more able to think.
What do I do now?
My first thought is to continue heading west, away from the cabin. It’s natural instinct kicking in; it’s what makes sense to the part of me controlled by fear.
But that’s not who I am. I win by taking risks. By standing out. Mom hates how I ride Tucker right past the judge as many times as possible in a class. She says it’s showboating and it’s tacky. Some judges don’t like it. Long ago, though, I decided I’d rather win being me than lose by playing it safe.
So what would the classic Ruth Ann Carver move be? What would he not expect?
Well, I think, I could steal his truck.
Five Years Ago
IT’S HARD NOT TO FEEL small, taking in the warm-up ring. The most famous trainers riding the most valuable quarter horses are crammed in there, fighting for practice space.
“I’ll be in this corner, okay?” her mother says.
The girl nods obediently, with no intention of actually obeying. She hopes it looks like it’s the traffic that forces her to pick a spot in the opposite corner from where her mother is stationed.
A competitor since age three, she doesn’t consider herself young and inexperienced. She feels she is a grizzled veteran of a thousand wars. Which is why she hasn’t let herself get too excited about the last two weeks, despite the glimpses of greatness her horse has given her. That was at home. Here, in the chaos of the Oklahoma City Fairgrounds, it may be a different story.
She jogs her black gelding along the rail, letting his muscles come to life. Their routine is burned into her brain. Circles left, circles right, transitions from walk to jog to lope, then pushing him into an extended lope, his long strides eating up the ground like he’s hungry for dirt. Halt, back, side pass. Only a few times does she ask him for show-off moves, sliding stops and rollbacks and spins. No point in drilling a skill that’s already solid.