suddenly taking impromptu hops around the yard. Seeing her dilemma and trying to keep his face straight, Paavo held the mare still and boosted her up.
Once seated high off the ground on the massive beast, all the reasons she’d quit after only two lessons hit her like a sledgehammer. But she’d been about nine years old at the time. She was an adult now; she could handle this.
She gripped the saddle horn rather than the reins and tried to remember how to steer. She and Paavo both gaped in amazement as Ophelia made backward figure eights. What was she, the figure skater of horses?
This time, Joaquin came to the rescue and gave her a quick lesson, assuring her that Ophelia would follow Doc’s horse, Achilles, and Angie would be fine.
She doubted it, but nodded.
The others mounted up, and they were off. Angie lagged at the rear until she got the hang of it. Eventually, she began to relax enough to realize how hard the saddle was, and how much she ached.
The four riders headed across the open desert in the direction of the foothills. Since it was spring, there were a few delicate but bright orange and yellow flowers nestled among the scrub, creosote, and jojoba. Higher on the hills were tall saguaro cactus, unique to the Sonoran desert, with L-shaped arms extending upward from the main trunk. Not a tree was seen. In the sand, Angie saw long wavy lines. Joaquin explained that snakes had left them and she should be on the lookout for rattlers.
Rattlesnakes? Angie’s head instantly took on the action of a Ping-Pong ball.
Occasionally, lizards, large and small, scurried past. In the far distance, a roadrunner raced on long spindly legs. The sky was high and bright blue, the land quiet with the watery flicker of elusive mirages always just ahead.
Doc and Joaquin looked determined and purposeful, while Paavo, handsome in a black Stetson Doc had lent him, appeared relaxed and calm. Angie was surprised at how comfortable he was on horseback—that was something newly learned about him.
For her, however, the ride was slow torture.
Caught up in the lore of the Old West while preparing for this trip to Jackpot, she’d briefly considered a truly Western wedding theme—maybe even a rodeo. No more! A coach would beas rustic as she’d get, perhaps pulled by beautiful Clydesdales like on TV beer commercials.
As she daydreamed about her wedding, she paid no attention to where the little group was heading until the shifting play of light and shadow across nearby rock formations attracted her notice, and brought her back to the present.
The land was eerily beautiful, but it could be deadly. She couldn’t help but contemplate the stagecoach lost in this barrenness, and the terror a Dutch chef must have felt to be stranded out here with his few fellow passengers. A cold chill, almost a premonition, rippled through her as she thought of another who was also missing—Paavo’s boyhood friend Ned.
As Joaquin, Paavo, and Doc reached the shadows of a rock wall, they stopped, and Joaquin pointed toward some rises. Angie caught up to them in time to hear Paavo say, “… watching us now?”
She didn’t like the sound of that, and looked along the direction of Joaquin’s finger. She saw nothing.
“We’ve been watched all day,” Joaquin answered calmly. “I spotted the shine of maybe binoculars, maybe a rifle, while we were still on the desert floor.”
Paavo and Doc looked around; Doc anxious, Paavo with cool calculation. She felt exposed and suddenly vulnerable. The watcher could be anywhere in the rugged hills around them.
“You won’t spot him,” Joaquin said after a while. “But he’s there. I feel him.”
“I’ve had this feeling before,” Doc said, brows locked.
“Are we in danger?” Angie asked softly.
“I don’t think so,” Paavo replied. “We’ve been well exposed for a long time.”
“I hope you’re right.” She tried to move closer to Paavo, but Ophelia was more interested in nibbling at a
Once seated high off the ground on the massive beast, all the reasons she’d quit after only two lessons hit her like a sledgehammer. But she’d been about nine years old at the time. She was an adult now; she could handle this.
She gripped the saddle horn rather than the reins and tried to remember how to steer. She and Paavo both gaped in amazement as Ophelia made backward figure eights. What was she, the figure skater of horses?
This time, Joaquin came to the rescue and gave her a quick lesson, assuring her that Ophelia would follow Doc’s horse, Achilles, and Angie would be fine.
She doubted it, but nodded.
The others mounted up, and they were off. Angie lagged at the rear until she got the hang of it. Eventually, she began to relax enough to realize how hard the saddle was, and how much she ached.
The four riders headed across the open desert in the direction of the foothills. Since it was spring, there were a few delicate but bright orange and yellow flowers nestled among the scrub, creosote, and jojoba. Higher on the hills were tall saguaro cactus, unique to the Sonoran desert, with L-shaped arms extending upward from the main trunk. Not a tree was seen. In the sand, Angie saw long wavy lines. Joaquin explained that snakes had left them and she should be on the lookout for rattlers.
Rattlesnakes? Angie’s head instantly took on the action of a Ping-Pong ball.
Occasionally, lizards, large and small, scurried past. In the far distance, a roadrunner raced on long spindly legs. The sky was high and bright blue, the land quiet with the watery flicker of elusive mirages always just ahead.
Doc and Joaquin looked determined and purposeful, while Paavo, handsome in a black Stetson Doc had lent him, appeared relaxed and calm. Angie was surprised at how comfortable he was on horseback—that was something newly learned about him.
For her, however, the ride was slow torture.
Caught up in the lore of the Old West while preparing for this trip to Jackpot, she’d briefly considered a truly Western wedding theme—maybe even a rodeo. No more! A coach would beas rustic as she’d get, perhaps pulled by beautiful Clydesdales like on TV beer commercials.
As she daydreamed about her wedding, she paid no attention to where the little group was heading until the shifting play of light and shadow across nearby rock formations attracted her notice, and brought her back to the present.
The land was eerily beautiful, but it could be deadly. She couldn’t help but contemplate the stagecoach lost in this barrenness, and the terror a Dutch chef must have felt to be stranded out here with his few fellow passengers. A cold chill, almost a premonition, rippled through her as she thought of another who was also missing—Paavo’s boyhood friend Ned.
As Joaquin, Paavo, and Doc reached the shadows of a rock wall, they stopped, and Joaquin pointed toward some rises. Angie caught up to them in time to hear Paavo say, “… watching us now?”
She didn’t like the sound of that, and looked along the direction of Joaquin’s finger. She saw nothing.
“We’ve been watched all day,” Joaquin answered calmly. “I spotted the shine of maybe binoculars, maybe a rifle, while we were still on the desert floor.”
Paavo and Doc looked around; Doc anxious, Paavo with cool calculation. She felt exposed and suddenly vulnerable. The watcher could be anywhere in the rugged hills around them.
“You won’t spot him,” Joaquin said after a while. “But he’s there. I feel him.”
“I’ve had this feeling before,” Doc said, brows locked.
“Are we in danger?” Angie asked softly.
“I don’t think so,” Paavo replied. “We’ve been well exposed for a long time.”
“I hope you’re right.” She tried to move closer to Paavo, but Ophelia was more interested in nibbling at a
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