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"Your move, Ranger!" His voice taunted from across the divide, daring her to follow.
Rachel's heart thrummed, synched to the primal beat of the river. Her steed snorted, breaths pluming white in the cool air. Without hesitation, she leaned forward.
The horse gathered itself, a coiled spring of raw equine power. With a thunderous takeoff, they soared, unity in motion. Airborne, time stretched, a drawn bowstring of anticipation. Then came the descent, hooves kissing earth, a splash of triumph.
Silas didn't answer, but his frantic gaze spoke volumes as he pushed onward. Rachel felt the surge within her, a tide of resolve. She was the relentless current, he the stone about to be swept away.
He was slowing now. The horse either protesting the abuse, or the dense tree line finally encumbering him enough to prevent further motion.
He slowed to nearly a halt now.
Ahead, Silas's silhouette melded with the night, but not enough to hide the glint of metal in his hand—a gun.
"Damn," Rachel muttered, her instincts razor-sharp. She'd been ready for this possibility, her own weapon a cold weight against her thigh. With practiced ease, she pulled it free, the sound of the safety clicking off as soft as a whisper.
"Drop it!" Her command sliced through the forest cacophony, clear and forceful.
Silas twisted around, the outline of his weapon wavering.
"Stop running, drop your gun!" Rachel's heart hammered against her ribs, echoing the pounding of hooves on the treacherous ground. In the pit of her stomach, a knot tightened.
"Can't do that, Ranger!" Silas called back, voice strained. He was leading his horse back and forth, trying desperately to find a gap through the trees.
"Last chance!" She didn’t want to shoot him, but the steady grip on her revolver disagreed with the sentiment. "Make your choice!" Rachel's words were steel. There was no space for doubt.
Her own steed's breaths came hot and fast beneath her, muscles rippling with each slowing stride. Now, both horses had gone still. Both of them holding their riders aloft under the moonlight. The cold metal of the revolver was a familiar weight in her hand.
His horse, though, was already spooked from stumbling into the small gap in the ground. It was breathing heavily, anxious. And the thick tree line Silas kept pushing it towards was giving it further panic.
With a swift motion, Rachel angled her arm skyward, away from Silas, and squeezed the trigger—once, twice—the reports cracking the silence, shattering the tranquility like glass.
The desired effect was instant. Silas's horse jerked wildly, its whinnies piercing as the animal veered off course. Rachel watched, heart thunderous, as chaos erupted under the man she pursued. The horse tipped back, bucking him. Silas hadn't been prepared for this, holding the gun in one hand and leaning too far back in his saddle.
"Easy, easy," she whispered, her voice a stark contrast to the gunshots still ringing in the trees. Her fingers danced along her horse’s neck, soothing the beast with touch.
She watched as Silas lost his grip on his reins and was flung back.
He shouted, and landed with a splash in a bend of the river. She hopped from her own steed, and hastened towards where the man floundered.
"Don't move!" she snapped. "Hands. Hands!"
The sharp-featured man glared up at her, his palms poking skyward. He cursed and spluttered as he scrambled towards the river bank. Soaked, he pulled his sodden form from the water, still glaring at her with contempt in his gaze.
"Don't move!" she commanded.
He sneered as she grabbed him by the shoulder, dragged him forward, and shoved him to the ground.
"Hands behind your back!" she commanded.
Reluctantly, he complied.
Her cuffs clicked into place and he uttered a series of curses into the mud until she yanked him back to his feet and shoved him towards his panicked, but waiting steed.
"You're walking back, asshole."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rachel had been the one to decide Silas needed to be kept on ice overnight.
