Ride the Thunder (39 page)

It was a long, rough ride. Twice they had to back-track when the trail became impassable for the horses. Finally they made it to the back shoulder of the ridge. They left the horses on the gentle slope near some trees and climbed on foot to the top.

The bighorn ram had risen to graze, but it hadn’t wandered far from where they had first spotted him. At this closer distance, the chip in its curling horn was visible. Jordanna stayed on the ridge line while Brig and her father began a cautious stalk to get within rifle range. She watched, but felt no excitement. Admiration for her father’s skill and care was conspicuously absent.
Jordanna realized that she had lost her enthusiasm for the sport. She wasn’t repulsed by what she saw, merely indifferent to it. There was no hatred for what her father was doing. She still understood the thrill he felt and didn’t condemn him for it. But she no longer felt it.

Through her binoculars, Jordanna saw her father get into position and sight his target through his rifle scope. The crack of the rifle shot ripped through the air. The ram leaped and tried to bound mightily away, but his hindlegs refused to function. The trophy bighorn managed to drag himself several yards into the rocks that had always meant safety from predators, then died.

On the slope of the ridge, her father was feeling victory, but Jordanna experienced a vague sensation of regret. The mountains had lost a monarch. A mournful wind wailed through the trees below her. Jordanna stayed on the ridgetop a while longer, and watched the two men climb into the rocks to carefully drag the ram’s body out without damaging the prize set of horns.

Leaving her vantage point, she walked down the gentle slope to the horses. Brig and her father would be needing the salt and tools packed in the saddlebags. Jordanna intended to bring these to them. A long-ago avalanche had carved a wide path through the trees and opened up a panoramic vista of the mountains, unobscured by trees. The breathtaking beauty of it halted her footsteps. She stood beneath the bough of an evergreen and gazed at the gray and brown world of clouds and mountains. Granite boulders alternated with high meadows of yellow-brown grass and gave rocky birth to tenacious pine trees. Mountain spires punctured the dark threatening clouds overhead. Jordanna lifted her face to the cold, soft rain, filtering through the pine needles.

Brig topped the ridge and saw Jordanna standing farther down the slope, not far from the horses. He paused for a moment, taking in the prayer-like attitude
of supplication, before he continued down the incline. A small rock tumbled ahead of him and she turned at the sound of his approach.

“We thought you were bringing the horses.” Brig stopped when he was almost level with her. On the other side of him, in the trees, the horses stood three-legged with heads hanging.

“I was coming, but I saw this view.” Jordanna half-turned to look again at the wild mountain scene. There were pensive lines in the profile she showed him. “Now that Dad has made his kill, we’ll be going. I don’t want to leave here. These mountains are so wild and virginal that they make me feel . . . clean.” She seemed embarrassed by her choice of adjectives. Brig knew what she meant. Standing there, she looked as pure and fresh as a mountain wildflower pushing through the snow in springtime.

She looked back at him, a trace of proud defiance in the way she held her head. Green fire flashed in her hazel eyes. “I suppose you think I said that for your benefit, another lie to convince you I . . .” Jordanna didn’t finish that sentence. Her gaze swung back to the mountains. “I can’t make you believe anything I say and I’m not going to try.”

“The mountains can have a profound effect on people who are open to their influence.” Brig let his gaze wander to them. They had cleansed him even as they had toughened him to live among them.

“I must be one who is, then,” she said quietly.

The subdued tone of her voice drew his gaze. Like the mountain wildflower, a person was first impressed with her beauty. Not always was her strength recognized, or the stamina that was required to survive in forbidding terrain like this. Here, she flourished. Elsewhere, she would probably wilt and become a shadow of her true self. Jocko had tried to explain that to him, but he hadn’t wanted to see it. He didn’t want to see it now.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave here,” Jordanna repeated again in a wistful murmur.

Shifting his rifle to his left hand, Brig let the muzzle point to the ground. “I’m not going to ask you to stay.” It was a statement of self-denial that brought her gaze sharply to him.

“I wouldn’t if you did!” she flashed. “You’d have to beg me!”

There was a prickling sensation between his shoulders. Brig flexed them in an uneasy shrug. Funny, he hadn’t experienced that feeling since his guerrilla days when snipers . . . He dove to the right. At the same instant, something slammed into his rifle stock and a hot flame stabbed his thigh. A split second later, the crack of a rifle shot split the air.

When Brig hit the ground, he rolled. As he came to a stop on his belly, his rifle was in firing position. It was then Brig discovered the bullet that had been meant for him had struck his rifle, damaging the firing mechanism. He didn’t know where the shot had come from, except that it had been flow above him. He couldn’t stay where he was. Trying to reach the horses meant crossing the wide clearing and exposing himself. All these decisions were made with lightning swiftness.

Brig knew he was close to the trees. He glanced to measure the distance and saw Jordanna pressed flat against a tree trunk. Her gaze was frantically searching the ridge. Savagely, Brig realized it had been a set-up from the beginning. She hadn’t brought the horses because she knew Brig would come back for them if she didn’t. When he did, she had distracted him, kept him talking, and kept him out in the open where her father could get a clear shot at him.

But her father had missed. Brig knew Fletcher would try again. The hunter had committed himself to the kill. The burning in his thigh told Brig that he had a flesh wound. There wasn’t time to see how serious it was. Instinctively, he had already tested the muscles in that leg and knew they responded—so the bullet couldn’t have done too much damage. A good hunter will track down any game he has wounded and finish
it off, Fletcher Smith intended to do just that with him. Without the rifle, Brig didn’t have any means to defend himself.

This minute Fletcher was probably working into a position that would give him another clear shot. Brig couldn’t stay there like a sitting duck. He had to retreat, but he needed a cover—a shield. Fletcher wouldn’t risk a shot that might hit his daughter, Brig realized.

Gathering himself so that his right leg would take the initial push of his weight, Brig made a low, scrambling run for the tree where Jordanna stood, offering Fletcher as poor a target as possible. He heard the whine of a bullet race by before the sound of the rifle shot reverberated through the mountains. Then Brig was safely into the trees and grabbing Jordanna’s wrist.

“What’s going on? Who’s shooting at us?” she demanded with only a thread of fear in her voice.

As if she didn’t know, he thought with absent cynicism, and didn’t bother to answer her ridiculous questions. His leg wasn’t bothering him yet, but Brig felt the warm moistness of blood spreading down his thigh. Shock was numbing the pain for the time being. Pausing only a second to get his bearings and choose his route of retreat, Brig started through the trees at a jogging lope, pulling Jordanna behind him as his shield.

He kept to the trees for as long as he could. Brig coud only guess the direction of Fletcher’s pursuit. When they broke from the trees, he tried to keep Jordanna between himself and Fletcher’s line of fire. Their flight was talking them downhill toward smoother ground and angling them further away from camp. The rain became mixed with heavy snowflakes. At the higher elevations, Brig knew the flakes would be bigger. He stopped once in some rocky cover to study their backtrail. He was breathing heavily from the demanding pace he had set. So was Jordanna.

“Why are we running?” she demanded between gulping breaths. “Nobody is chasing us.”

There wasn’t any sign of Fletcher. That worried
Brig more than if he had seen the hunter. Since they were on foot, Fletcher had probably guessed that he would seek the flatter, low terrain. Fletcher was staying above them, where the ground was rougher but the vantage was better. Brig cursed himself for not thinking of that before.

With a yank, he pulled Jordanna after him and started climbing. His only hope was to get to the high elevations above Fletcher and double back. The snow was beginning to stick to the ground, making the footing slippery. Wherever it was possible, Brig tried to keep Jordanna abreast of him, alternately pushing and dragging her along. She resisted him only a couple of times.

The killing pace was beginning to tell on him. Silently, Brig wondered how she managed to keep up with him—and why she wasn’t trying to get away. The wound had begun to throb, the muscles weakening in his left leg. He had to favor it now. Was that what she was waiting for? Until he was too weak to overcome any escape attempt? She hadn’t given any sign that she knew he was wounded. He’d kept her on his right, so maybe she hadn’t seen the blood running down his left leg. Whether she did or not, Brig wasn’t about to ask.

The air was getting thinner as they climbed higher. His lungs were nearly bursting from the exertion and the diminishing supply of oxygen. Brig felt the film of perspiration on his body and knew that was dangerous in this cold mountain climate. Sweat-dampened clothes lost their insulating ability. That perspiration could turn into a thin film of ice against his skin. He slowed their pace but didn’t stop.

A thin coat of snow covered the ground. The big flakes were no longer mixed with rain. Brig prayed it would keep falling and cover their tracks before Fletcher crossed them. Jordanna stumbled to her knees. Brig hooked an arm around her waist, half-carrying her as she tried to keep up with him. He was still carrying his rifle even though it was useless. It was
becoming an unnecessary burden, but as long as he had it, Fletcher wouldn’t know that he was virtually unarmed. If Fletcher believed his wounded prey might turn and attack, his pursuit would be cautious. Brig needed that slight advantage.

They were nearing the tree line. Ahead was a fairly tall stand of trees that would offer concealment. Brig decided it would be a good place to stop and catch their breath. He urged Jordanna toward it. They couldn’t stop long, he realized. There was too much risk of his leg stiffening on him. And as long as they kept moving, they would be warm.

Either Jordanna read his mind or she wasn’t able to go any further. The instant they reached the trees, she clutched at a trunk for support and stopped. His breathing was hard and labored, but he didn’t dare relax. His gaze skimmed their backtrail, then swung to her. She was watching him with a wide, confused look of apprehension. Brig didn’t have to worry about her trying to escape from him, not for a few minutes anyway. She had staggered the last couple of yards and she needed this short rest as much as he did. He felt a sharp stab of admiration at the gutsy way she had kept up with him, but he shook it off, not daring to believe that she wanted to stay with him.

The rapidly falling snow had almost covered their tracks. Since there had been no sign of Fletcher passing, they were still ahead of him and, by now, above him. Brig looked in the direction where he expected to find the hunter, but the snow and the trees obscured his view. Lowering his head for an instant, Brig pressed a hand against his thigh, trying to stop the throbbing pain. With each beat of his heart, blood was pulsing from the wound, draining his strength. The pressure of his hand shot pain through him. He released it and glanced briefly at the darkening stain of wet blood on his glove.

At the same second that Brig heard the creak of saddle leather, Jordanna issued a croaking whisper. “Look, there’s my father.”

All in the same moment, Brig glanced over his shoulder to see Fletcher ride into view, leading two saddled horses about five hundred feet below them. He caught the movement Jordanna made toward the man out of the corner of his eye. Instinct guided his reaction as Brig dropped his rifle and freed his hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt. Brutally, he pushed Jordanna backwards, slamming her against the trunk of the tree, and unsnapping his knife blade. His hand covered her mouth, smothering any outcry she might have made. He laid the cold metal blade along her throat.

“Make one sound and it will be your last,” he snarled. Brig had absolutely no idea whether he would carry out the threat. His action had been dictated strictly by an animal need to survive. Fletcher was too close, his rifle in his hand at the ready. If he discovered Brig’s position, he could overtake them within minutes on horseback. And Fletcher would soon learn that his rifle was inoperable. After that, not even Jordanna could shield him for long.

Brig spared a look for the rider, who hadn’t given any sign that he knew where they were, then glanced at Jordanna. Her wide eyes were shaded with alarm. Her hands were gripping his wrist, but she was making no struggle to remove his hand from her mouth. Brig became conscious of his length crushing her body against the trunk. Quickly he looked away, before the sight of her distracted him from the danger of her father again. An inner confusion gnawed at him. The slightest sound—even a foot kicking against the tree trunk—would be carried to Fletcher. Yet Jordanna wasn’t making any attempt to gain her father’s attention. Why? Fear wasn’t keeping her silent. He’d swear to that.

Fletcher was nearing the place where he would cross their trail. Brig held his breath, not sure how much of it the snow had covered. The hunter’s attention appeared to be focused on the mountain below him—where Brig would have been if he hadn’t abruptly
altered the retreat. Fletcher walked his horse past the trail, but he looked bothered. It wouldn’t be long before he would start to suspect that Brig had doubled back on him. The instant he did, Brig knew the man would ride to cut him off from camp.