Chapter 2 - The Empty PastureClay found the gate first.
His shout carried all the way to the house.
“HANNAH!”
She ran outside without boots.
Clay stood beside the open gate.
The chain hung from one post.
Beyond him, the pasture was empty.
Hannah stopped.
Her stomach dropped.
“Where’s Sable?”
Clay looked at her as if she had asked something insulting.
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
Hannah ran past him.
“Sable!”
Nothing.
She whistled.
Again.
No answering hoofbeats.
No dark head rising beyond the hill.
Clay followed.
“When did you open this gate?”
“I didn’t.”
“You rode her yesterday.”
“I put her back.”
“You chain it?”
“Yes.”
“Then how is it open?”
Hannah examined the latch.
The old chain had been looped through the gate exactly as always, but the snap hook was gone.
She crouched.
There were hoofprints.
Sable’s.
They crossed the dusty pasture and continued through a broken section of fence near Dry Creek.
Clay saw them too.
“She didn’t open that gate herself.”
“I know.”
“Then somebody did.”
Hannah stood.
Clay stared at her.
“What?”
“You tell me.”
Her mouth opened.
“You think I let her out?”
“You told me yesterday you weren’t letting me sell her.”
“I meant I’d talk you out of it.”
Clay laughed bitterly.
“That working?”
Hannah ignored him and followed the tracks.
At the creek, Sable had stepped through a section where two wires had sagged beneath a fallen cottonwood limb.
From there the prints continued west.
Toward the foothills.
Hannah’s fear changed.
Not disappeared.
Changed.
“She went back.”
Clay frowned.
“To what?”
“The herd.”
His expression hardened immediately.
“What herd?”
“The horses beyond Miller Ridge.”
Clay stared at her.
“You’re making this up.”
“No.”
“You’ve seen them?”
“From a distance.”
“When?”
“Sometimes.”
“Hannah.”
“Sable hears them.”
Clay rubbed both hands over his face.
“We have a seven-thousand-dollar horse missing and you’re telling me she joined some fairy-tale herd?”
“They’re real.”
Clay turned toward the barn.
“Get your boots.”
They searched until dark.
Clay drove the truck along every county road.
Hannah rode an old gelding named Patch along the ridge.
They found tracks twice.
Both times they disappeared onto hard, sun-baked ground.
At dusk Hannah climbed a rocky rise and scanned miles of yellow grass.
“Sable!”
Nothing.
Clay met her at the truck.
His shirt was soaked through.
“You see anything?”
“No.”
“Tracks?”
“Not after the ridge.”
Clay slammed the truck door.
“We call Benson tomorrow.”
Hannah stared.
“Why?”
“To ask if anyone tried selling him the horse.”
“You still think I sold her?”
“I think somebody opened the gate.”
“I didn’t.”
Clay looked at her.
“Then who?”
She had no answer.
That made him angrier.
They returned after dark.
Hannah barely slept.
At dawn she rode out again.
For three hours she searched the western fence.
Near an old cattle trail, she found fresh hoofprints.
More than one horse.
Five at least.
Maybe more.
Sable’s tracks entered them.
Then all the prints moved west together.
Hannah dismounted.
Her heart beat faster.
She had been right.
Sable had found other horses.
She crouched over the tracks until a shadow crossed the ground.
Clay stood behind her.
“You find something?”
Hannah pointed.
“These came from the hills.”
Clay examined them.
“There are several.”
“Sable joined them.”
He looked at her.
Hannah expected relief.
Instead Clay’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s convenient.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know exactly where she went.”
“I followed tracks.”
“You knew there were horses out here.”
“I told you.”
“And yesterday, right before she disappeared, you said you wouldn’t let me sell her.”
Hannah stood.
“Dad—”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
“I didn’t release her!”
Clay looked toward the western hills.
Then back at his daughter.
“Then bring her home.”
Hannah swallowed.
“I’ll try.”
“No.”
His voice became cold.
“You will.”
That evening, Clay made three phone calls.
By the next morning, the entire county knew Sable was missing.
By noon, someone called the house.
A man had seen a young woman asking questions about feral horses two weeks earlier.
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The woman matched Hannah’s description.
And suddenly, Clay believed he had proof.
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