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Angie fired again, hit him again. “Come on, you son of a bitch,” she screamed, answering it roar for roar because by God she wasn’t going to run, she wasn’t going to let it get to Dare. She worked the bolt one last time. This was it. If this last shot didn’t take him down, they were both dead. A wounded bear could do massive damage. She wanted to panic, maybe she had already panicked and just didn’t realize it yet, but she didn’t have the luxury of time to do anything other than place her last shot straight into his brain.
The massive animal kept moving, sheer momentum keeping it going, then its front legs buckled and it skidded to a halt not ten feet away.
She stood there staring at it, the unbearable stench almost making her gag, but her feet were rooted to the ground and she couldn’t make herself move.
Dare struggled to his feet and staggered toward her, swiping at the blood that had turned his entire face into a red mask. “Angie.” His rough voice was as gentle as it would ever be, could ever be. “Nice shooting, sweetheart.” Very carefully he took his rifle from her, propped it against the rock, then eased his left arm around her.
Her knees buckled, but he was there, his powerful body providing support. Her head swam, and she clutched his coat, afraid she might pass out. She couldn’t faint; she refused to faint. But now that it was over, she could panic. She deserved a little panic. Her vision swam a little, her heart pounded. The temperature was still cold, but her palms were sweating. She’d almost lost Dare. That was all she could think. He’d been bleeding and the bear had been going straight for him, and she’d almost lost him. She’d just found him, and that damn bear—No, she couldn’t even complete the thought, not after watching what it had done to Chad.
She tried to say something, but couldn’t. Dare wrapped both of his arms around her, even the arm that was bloody, and pulled her in close and tight, and she sighed. She cried, but just a little, because she wasn’t a crier. Taking a page from his book, she cussed a blue streak, and felt better for it. She tried to stop shaking, but couldn’t. Finally she simply allowed herself to tremble. She’d earned it, damn it.
When she could think, she said, “Damn it, Dare, you’re bleeding all over me. If you bleed to death I’ll never forgive you.”
He said, “Yeah, I love you, too.”
There were things to do, things she had to do. Afterward she couldn’t be certain exactly when she forced herself from the shelter of his arms, but she did. She made him sit down. She wiped at the blood on his face until she could see the gash above his right eye; it would definitely need stitches. When she questioned him, he admitted that he had a little bit of double vision, so he’d probably given himself a mild concussion when his head hit the rock. She helped him take off his coat and both shirts, so she could examine that wound. It was actually bleeding less than the cut on his head, but it was an ugly wound, purplish and jagged, tearing through the pad of flesh just under his arm. She washed it with some of their drinking water, then tore his T-shirt into strips and tied a thick pad over the wound, then did the same for the cut over his eye.
When she was finished, he said, “If we don’t move away from that stinking fucker, I’m going to choke.”
The smell was overwhelming, but she’d ignored it by focusing instead on taking care of Dare. Now that he’d mentioned it, though, she suddenly found herself gagging, and they moved farther downhill as fast as they could.
Her mind hummed with details, unable to settle on anything. Her rifle hadn’t fired, and she couldn’t figure out why. Dare had cleaned it, reassembled it. The firing pin had worked; she’d heard it.
She’d never handled his rifle before. She hadn’t known at what distance he’d sighted in his scope, she hadn’t thought about it, she’d simply aimed and fired.
The bear had spooked the horse, of course. That was why—
The horse.
“Hey,” she said, “we have a ride.”
“If you can catch it.”
She gave him a withering look, trying to act normal even though it was an effort. Her insides felt like gelatin. “Of course I can catch it. It’s my horse.”
“Then you do that, while I figure out why your rifle wouldn’t fire.”
He needed to be sitting still, conserving both strength and blood, but she didn’t waste time arguing with him because she knew it wouldn’t do any good. They needed to know why her rifle hadn’t fired; Chad was dead and the bear was dead, but that didn’t mean there would be no more danger crossing their path. They had his rifle, sure, but what if something happened to it? The wilderness wasn’t forgiving; for safety’s sake, they should have a backup.
She couldn’t let herself think too much about either Chad or the bear, at least not now. Maybe later, when the carnage wasn’t right there, both physically and mentally. Instead she focused on what needed doing right now, which was catching the chestnut. It hadn’t completely bolted, the way Dare’s horse had done. She could catch a glimpse of it below them in the tree line, but the animal was moving nervously. The wind was blowing toward her so it was carrying the scent of the bear away from the horse, which should make it possible for her to calm it down. It knew her scent, her voice; other than that, horses were herd animals that didn’t like being alone. On the other hand, Dare’s blood was on her, and when she got close the chestnut might not like that. She’d told Dare she could catch her horse, but she had to admit to herself that, with her bad ankle and the other factors, it might not happen.
Getting her walking stick, she carefully picked her way down the sloping meadow and into the trees, talking calmly the whole time, using the same words she often used when she was feeding or grooming them. The chestnut shifted around, pawed the ground with one hoof, but it didn’t shy away as she got closer.
Still, instinct made her stop in her tracks, sensing that if she moved any farther she might frighten it into running again. With her bum ankle she didn’t want to pursue the chestnut even one foot more than necessary. She even backed up a couple of steps, let the horse eye her, let it shake its head as it considered the situation by whatever horsey standards it used.
Several minutes ticked by. She remained in place, still calmly talking. The chestnut took a couple of steps toward her, then stopped to nose a bush, looking for something to graze. Angie took a step forward and the chestnut abruptly raised its head. She stopped again, and crooned to it. The horse stood and watched her, but didn’t come any closer.
Slowly, keeping her movements measured, Angie lowered herself to the ground, sitting as comfortably as she could without bending her ankle.
After a few minutes of watching her, the chestnut blew out air that sounded like a big human sigh, and began ambling toward her. When it was close enough it dropped its head down and snuffled her hair, then along her shoulder. She held her breath, waiting to see if the smell of blood spooked it, but it continued to check her out. “Good boy,” Angie said softly, reaching up to grip the trailing reins. “Good boy.”
She led the horse out of the tree line and started up the slope with him, but Dare motioned for her to stay where she was and not bring him any closer, where the smells might spook the chestnut again. Dare shouldered all their supplies and both rifles, despite the wound in his shoulder, and made his way down to them.
“Bad ammunition,” he reported tersely. “The whole box. I tried some shells in my rifle, and not one of them would fire. I’ve reloaded both rifles with my shells.”
Bad ammo. It happened. It had never happened to her before, but her dad had gotten a bad batch once. If Dare hadn’t been there, if he’d been wounded so badly he hadn’t been able to toss his rifle to her … but he had. There was no point in thinking about what might have happened.
What mattered was that they were alive, they were together, and they were going home.
