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“Ned—”
A quick shake of his head cut her off. Ned could flip the switch, turn on the lights at the back of the building, but if the intruder had a weapon . . . no, better to even the playing field.
He took Trudie’s fingers in his and pulled her to her feet. With his free hand, he slipped the pitchfork from its hook, and with one eye focused on the darkened back of the stable, he pulled Trudie to the door and hit the light switch.
Immediately, the stable went dark.
The horses snorted, hooves stomping, and the damned dog was barking continuously, still sounding the alarm. He pulled Trudie tight for a minute, then whispered in her ear, “Run,” he said as he edged her to the door. “To the house. Lock it. Get to a phone. Call 9-1-1.”
“But what about you?” she whispered back.
“I’m right behind you. Leave the slider open ’til I get there. And get the gun.”
“What?”
“The pistol, out of the box. Ammo is in the case next to it in the closet.”
“I know where it is!”
“Call the cops first.”
“No—”
“Just do it!” he hissed. “Run! Don’t stop!”
She did, took off through the door, the rush of night air sweeping into the stable as she flew out. She was running full bore, long strides eating up the yard separating the stable from the house, staying on the straight path.
No, no, no. If the intruder were a hunter and determined to do harm . . .
Ned yanked the door closed behind him, hoping to stop whoever was inside the stable, then sped up after Trudie, taking off at a dead sprint, holding the pitchfork like a medieval lance. All the while he told himself he was being foolish, that he hadn’t heard anything, that he had no reason for overreacting like this and scaring Trudie half to death.
But something was off. Something was definitely not right.
The damned dog was still howling.
Jesus–
Crack!
Trudie, halfway to the open back door, stumbled in front of him.
No! Oh, God. No!
She went down. Crumpled onto the grass.
No, no, no! This couldn’t be happening. Not to Trudie. Not his Trudie!
Crack!
Bam! His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees before he felt the pain of the first bullet. On the ground, he propelled himself forward, still scrambling on pained knees to his fallen wife.
The back of her white blouse was blooming with a dark, horrifying stain as she lay prone, her face turned, blood in one corner of her perfect lips. No, no, damn it, nooo!
Blam!
The gun went off again. So much closer.
His body jerked, and his ears rang from the sound. He felt a rush of air escape his lungs and was aware of the smell of fresh blood tinging the cool night air. The dog, Copper, was still barking, but hiding in the bushes near the house, or somewhere, and Ned could barely hear him as his ears felt as if the drums had shattered. It seemed like he was swimming upside down and . . . and . . . he was starting to fade. Was that a car? Did he hear a car’s engine over the echo of the blast that was still reverberating through his brain?
