Wild Hearts (26 page)

“Pretty perfect, huh?” he asked.

“Almost,” I said, raising myself up on one elbow and leaning over to look in his face. “We got interrupted before.”

“Yes, we did.”

He smiled and reached out to touch my hand. I leaned over him. We kissed until I was giddy. Resting on our sides, we looked at each other. I closed my eyes and relaxed in the shade.

While Logan had his eyes shut, I looked over at him. A wave of sadness hit—surprising me. It occurred to me that no matter how little thought I had given toward leaving Lost Springs, it was inevitably going to happen. How was I ever going to leave Logan?
Stop
, I told myself.
Be here. Now.
I took a deep breath and refocused my mind. After a few minutes, I let Logan pull me to my feet and we got ready to hit the trail again.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Horses are partners, not pets.

With a grateful sigh, I dismounted from Mazy and slipped off her bridle. “You're so good,” I said to her. She leaned into my pat and huffed. I put a halter and lead line on her and tied her to a tree branch while Logan did the same to LG.

“You okay with this spot for tonight?” Logan asked, releasing the small pot and the bags of food from his saddle.

“This is great!” I said, looking around.

We'd reached our campsite for the night. We were within closing distance of the grazing ground, but it would be dark in a few hours and Logan didn't want to get stuck somewhere. He was afraid, too, that the horses would step in a pothole. The climb to get here had been exhausting. I hugged Mazy and then LG. They had been rock stars.

After Logan and I had left our lunch spot, the land started to go up an incline and we had to lean forward the entire ride.
I'd concentrated on the fact that we were going uphill and spent most of the time grasping the saddle horn or Mazy's mane. My stomach muscles were already sore from clenching and sitting in that odd position. Logan, Jane, and Lara had never faltered and they had kept the cattle moving easily up the gradual slant.

Logan signaled the dogs to round the cattle into a circle.

“Want to gather firewood or get the fishing gear?” he called to me.

“Firewood is fine,” I said.

I started scanning the ground for dry twigs and small logs. We were in a flat part of the mountain with a rushing creek a few yards away. Logan had said the clearing was a frequent stop for other ranchers making this trek. There was a circle of rocks in the center of the clearing with a charred spot in the middle. Large, looming trees surrounded us and the only way up the mountain was a narrow path on the far side of the campground. I quickly gathered an armload of kindling and dumped it in the campfire circle.

Logan brought two buckets of water from the creek and set them near the fire pit, just in case.

“You up for fishing?” he asked as he untangled fishing wire and put together two crude poles from his bag. “It's okay if you need to rest.”

“Totally up for it,” I said, taking a pole and finishing threading the line. “What kind of fish are in the creek?”

Logan put lures on our hooks and we made our way to the river. “Mostly trout and a few cutthroats,” he said. “They have a red slash on their throat. Ever fished before?”

I took a careful stance on the rocky riverbed and peered into the clear water.

“I've fished,” I said. “Ocean fishing with my parents down by the Florida Keys. We rented a boat to catch swordfish and after eight hours, my dad finally caught one.” I tossed my line into the water and huffed. “I was so annoyed that it wasn't on my line!”

“I bet,” Logan said. “I've never even been to the ocean before.” He cast his line and trolled it slowly through the water.

I kept my attention on my line as the bobber started to wiggle. “If you stare at the horizon long enough, you think you're looking at the end of the world.”

“It sounds great,” he said, “and you've got a bite!”

My bobber disappeared under the water and I gave my pole a couple of tugs and began reeling in my line.

“First fish!” I said, catching Logan's eye.

“Damn.” He shook his head. “You beat me saddling the horses this morning and now this.” He jiggled his line hopefully, but nothing was attached.

“Ha,” I said, reeling the fish out of the water and holding it up for Logan to see. “What is it?”

“That's a brook trout,” Logan said, running his finger along the fish's red stomach. The fish wriggled its dark gray body, which was spotted with bluish dots. “Good eating.”

I removed the hook from the fish's mouth and tossed it in the water bucket Logan placed beside me.

“Your turn now,” I said to Logan. “You better get the next one.”

A tiny bead of sweat popped against Logan's forehead and he reeled in his line and tossed it back in the water. “Now I'm embarrassed,” he said.

“Sorry.” I rubbed his shoulder. “Girl of all trades, I guess.”

Logan's bobber sank beneath the water and he reeled furiously on his line. “My manhood rests on this fish,” he said. He walked so close to the creek's edge, he almost stepped into the water. He didn't take his gaze from the bobber. With a tug, he lifted the fish out of the water and pumped his fist in the air.

“Nice one,” I said, pulling the line over so I could look at the fish. “You definitely got the cooler one.” I pointed to the red slash on the fish's neck. Logan's pink-and-yellow cutthroat was twice the size of my trout.

“That's plenty to eat,” Logan said. “I've got soup and chocolate chip cookies, too.”

“Sounds good to me.”

We headed for the campsite and Logan started the fire. While he cleaned the fish, I cooked a can of vegetable soup on the fire. Logan tossed the fish in a pan and within minutes, they were sizzled to golden-brown perfection.

In silence, we hungrily dug into our food. We were eating fresh fish on a mountain. No cell phones, no street noise, no
parents, and no hiding our being together. It was just us and I loved it.

“Did you like it?” Logan asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Um, it was gone in three seconds. Loved it. Fish sticks are dead to me.”

We rinsed our plates in the river and I froze. A sound came from the woods that sounded like a grunt and a moan.

“Logan,” I said in a whisper. “What was that?” I stepped closer to him and put my plate on the ground.

“I don't know,” he said. “Go back to the tent and I'll go take a look.”

“No way!” I grabbed his arm. “You're not going to ‘take a look' at anything.”

He stared at me and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. “Brie, it could be a bear. Or a mountain lion. Go to the tent and I'll take the gun and look.” His voice was low and almost commanding.

“I'm not staying alone,” I argued. “I'm coming with you.”

Logan tilted his head and his eyes narrowed for a second as if he was going to argue with me. “Fine,” he said, “but if I tell you to run, swear you will.”

“Promise.” The sound came from the trees again. It was louder and longer this time. Logan jogged to the tent and pulled a rifle out of his oversize bag.

“It's safe, don't worry,” he said. “I've been shooting with my dad since I was four.” I looked at the gun, almost stunned by it.
I'd only seen guns on TV and the movies. I didn't want to shoot anything.

Logan held the gun down by his side and we walked forward into the woods. Every branch or leaf I crunched made me jump a little.
Not a cougar, not a cougar
, I chanted in my head. We walked a few yards and didn't see or hear anything.

“I think it's gone,” I said.

“Just a few more feet,” he said, looking around us. “I need to be sure before we go back to camp.”

We maneuvered through the dense forest and I tried to tread lightly on the dirt path.

Something moved in the tiny clearing up ahead.

“Logan,” I said.

Logan raised his rifle and shook his head. He waved at me to stay where I was and he took a few steps forward. I felt like I was going to throw up.

I watched Logan's back and tried to make out the shape writhing on the ground. Logan took a few more steps and then his shoulders relaxed under his thin blue T-shirt. He let out an audible breath and lowered the rifle. When he turned to me, he put a finger to his lips.

Come here
, he mouthed.

I tiptoed up behind him and looked at the ground in front of us. A black mare was lying on the ground, drenched in sweat and struggling. She let out several groans—clearly from pain. Her enormous stomach ballooned upward when she rolled onto her side.

“What's the matter?” I whispered to Logan.

“She's in labor,” Logan said, not taking his eyes off the horse. “Something's wrong.”

My stomach twisted. “Can we help her?”

The mare's heavy breathing filled the clearing, and the short grass around her had been flattened as if she'd stood and changed spots many times.

“We could try,” he said, looking at me. “I've helped birth a couple of foals, but she's a wild mustang. She's not likely to let us near her.”

I shook my head. We couldn't walk away and let the horse suffer or worse. “We have to try.”

Logan put down the rifle and we took a few steps forward. The mare heard us the second we neared her and she lifted her head. Her black mane was stuck to her neck with bits of dirt and sweat. She rolled her eyes until the whites showed and Logan and I stopped.

“Easy, girl,” Logan said softly, crouching down. I followed his lead and got down on my knees. “It's okay,” he crooned to her.

She flared her nostrils and her sides heaved from her heavy breathing.

“Shhh,” I said to her. “We're going to help you.”

I inched closer and reached my hand toward her. “Brie,” Logan warned, “she could bite.”

My shoes scuffed the dirt as I crawled on my knees and got closer to the mare. I didn't let myself look her in the eye, so I didn't threaten her. She grunted and rolled her eyes as I got closer.

“It's okay,” I said soothingly. “You're going to be fine.” I kept my eyes on her and didn't even notice Logan crawling up beside me.

A contraction gripped her stomach and I forced myself not to look away. I placed a tentative hand on her swollen side and with a shuddering sigh of defeat, she dropped her head and rested.

Slowly, I inched up by her head and stroked her neck while Logan eased his way down by her tail and looked.

“What's wrong?” I said, stroking the mare and watching for a sign that she would snap at me or try to kick Logan.

He positioned himself far enough away from a possible flailing hoof, but close enough to see.

“The hooves are peeking through, but the foal must be stuck. She's probably been in labor for a while.”

“We need to do something,” I said. White foam spotted the mare's chest as contractions gripped her and she struggled to push out the foal.

Logan motioned for me to step away from her neck and stand by him. I squinted at the tiny black hooves peeking out and saw that with each contraction, the foal wasn't moving. “Is it . . .” It hurt to say it. “Alive?”

“I don't know,” Logan said. “I'm going to help tug it out. I've done it before and as long as she doesn't struggle too much, I can do it. She
will
die if we don't help her to expel the foal.”

“Are you sure you can do it?” I didn't want to hurt the mare or foal. He nodded and took off his shirt. “I don't want you to get hurt, either.”

“I'll be okay. The legs are going to be slippery, so I need something to grab them with,” he said, holding his T-shirt and inching closer to the mare. “And we've got to wrap her tail with something.”

I took off my hoodie and gave it to him.

“Watch her legs while I do this,” he said. I glued my eyes to the mare's back legs and was ready to yell if she moved to kick Logan. But the contractions had exhausted her. She didn't even try to lift her head to glance back at Logan. He quickly wrapped her tail as best he could with my red jacket and then covered his hands with his T-shirt.