“Unbuckle,” he shouted, and I did, without a thought of protest. He shoved me, hard, out of the Jeep and onto the sand. I yelped and looked back at him. “Go to the wall,” he yelled, “the wall!” and pointed behind us.
I turned to see the wall Koa was yelling about. It was a long, white, bumpy-looking structure, about nine or ten feet tall, that curved along a random portion of the shoreline. It looked like a fortress somebody had built against invaders from the sea, and it shone so bright in the glaring sun, I had to squint to even look at it. I scrambled to my feet and started toward it, just as Koa and the Jeep leapt forward, straight into the path of the stampeding horses.
I scrambled up the narrow slope of the white wall, about two-thirds of the way to the top. It was a good three feet wide, but not exactly a level surface. The whole thing appeared to be made of razor-sharp shells that tore at my hands as I climbed. When I stopped for a breath, I was standing maybe eight or nine feet above the sand. If I slipped and hit the wall on my way down, I’d be in serious trouble.
On the beach below, Koa’s Jeep was speeding toward the herd, playing some kind of game of chicken with them. I could see the lead horse—a stallion, I guessed, the alpha that the others followed. He formed the tip of the spear. He was black and streaked with foam, from either the waves he was kicking up or sweat. His hooves sent out arcs of sand as he ran, and I stood there, transfixed by the imminent clash of horseflesh, fiberglass, and steel.
I covered my mouth with my hand.
When there was only a couple of yards between them, the Jeep spun out, sheeting sand. The horses didn’t waver or slow. They bore down on the Jeep and smoothly parted, galloping past in a blur of brown and black and gray. As soon as the last horse galloped past, Koa jerked the wheel and gunned it, following them. And then another Jeep—identical to his—appeared, speeding up behind him.
The stallion was angling toward the wall now, toward me. He’d changed gears, adjusting his stride so that he would be able to cut just inside the wall. If the herd followed him, I guessed the wall would guide them along the deserted stretch of beach and to the marsh behind me. For some reason, Koa and the other Jeep drivers didn’t seem to want that to happen.
From my perch on top of the wall, I threw up both arms. “Hey!” I yelled at the horses. Then, for some boneheaded reason, maybe because I was trying to impress the hot guy in the Jeep and thought I could help slow the herd, I scurried down the sloped wall and ran toward the oncoming herd.
“Stop! Stop!” I yelled at them. They were less than fifteen yards away, but I just kept waving my arms and yelling, like they could understand me.
When the stallion was about a dozen or so yards from me, he tossed his head. His foam-flecked legs seemed to stutter and tangle beneath him. The next instant, legs clattering and buckling, his head dipped, and he stumbled to a halt. He was so close, I could’ve taken just a few more steps forward and touched him.
I let out a whoosh of breath. I was shaking, like I’d just taken a swan dive off a cliff.
The herd had stopped with him. They massed around him, circling and stamping and nodding their heads. A few moved toward the dunes and started cropping the grass along the edge of the trees.
The two Jeeps roared up behind the herd. Koa stood in his seat and stared at me, and, from the other vehicle, a blonde woman swung down out of the driver’s seat. She wore a faded denim shirt and tan overalls that were rolled up over heavy leather work boots. She approached me, cutting her way through the center of the herd. She pushed her windblown hair out of her eyes.
“Are you okay?” she said.
Doro.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I knew she had to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties, but she looked far younger. Her hair was twisted into a knot on the top of her head and she had crystal-blue eyes. No makeup covered the freckles that sprayed her nose and cheeks, and her lips looked chapped from the sea air. A fine fretwork of wrinkles traced her face: webbing out across her forehead, from the corners of her eyes, around her mouth. I thought of Frances’s lineless, perfect face. The contrast was almost laughable.
“Nice work,” the woman said with a grin. “Impressive herding skills.”
“Ah, thanks,” I said.
“Almost got herself trampled,” Koa said. He was still staring at me. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or impressed.
“Looks like she handled it just fine.” She stuck out her hand. “Doro Kitchens.”
I took it. “Megan Ashley.”
Her hand was slim and warm and strong, and as she held on to mine, she gave me a thorough examination. “I don’t know why I expected red hair,” she said finally and laughed. I smiled back at her. I didn’t know what I’d expected, exactly, either, but Doro Kitchens was pretty and clear-eyed. I immediately liked her.
She jutted her chin toward the horses. “We try to manage the herd so they won’t completely destroy the environment. The marsh, mainly. And also so the parks service won’t come down here and cull them or ship them out for adoption inland. We herd them every couple of weeks to different quadrants of the island. But because we don’t pen them, sometimes they break out and run for the marsh.”
“They were heading to the marsh?”
“Until you stopped them. Now they’ve slowed down and found the grass, they’ll forget about the marsh. They have really short memories.” She nodded at the horses, who were busy tearing away at the scrub.
“I don’t know anything about horses,” I said. “I used to cry at summer camp when they made us go on trail rides.”
Koa had circled behind Doro. I took in the outline of his chest under his shirt and the way his jeans dipped slightly between his hip bones. I felt my whole body heat up and looked away. Not what I was here for. Not even close.
“I don’t know,” Doro said. “Next time these guys decide to go on a rampage, I’m bringing you along. They must sense something in you. Something they respect. A horsewoman in the making.” She held my gaze, and I felt myself flushing. “I hope you’ll find your room satisfactory. We’re a little on the rustic end of the spectrum here at Ambletern.” She slapped one of the horses on the rump, and it scooted out of her way.
“I’ll be fine.” She probably had an idea about what I was like. Probably expected the requisite entitled-rich-girl behavior. But I was determined she wouldn’t get it. Even if she stuck me in a broom closet.
“Okay, then,” she called over her shoulder as she sauntered away. “Meet you guys back at the house. Laila’s pot roast at seven.”
She swung back into her Jeep, her shirt cuffs revealing ropey forearms. The woman looked like she dug ditches or chopped down trees on a regular basis.
I turned. Koa was watching me watch Doro.
“Ready?” I said.
“Whenever you are,” he answered.