Page 98 of Sweet Like Whiskey

I lead Shorty into the trees.

My breath comes out like fog as the rain eases. It’s still misting the air, but the trees take the brunt of it, sheltering us, even a little. We walk along the well-marked trails, a few fresh hoofprints in the path ahead of us. I heard Colton detailing the direction they’d take, so I set off that way, figuring it won’t take long for Shorty and me to catch up. And then we can…I don’t know. Help look. Help, somehow.

It’s quiet as we move. Eerily quiet. And darker within the shade of the forest. The rain is like white noise, muffling everything around us. An occasional snap of a twig sounds under Shorty’s hooves, but otherwise, it’s silent. We’re alone.

“We have to be getting close,” I say, my own voice making my pulse jump. Shorty’s ears flick. “They went down this way, I’m sure of it.”

At least, Iwassure. I know he said the orange trail. Didn’t he?

Gathering my courage, I call out, “Hello?”

No answer. Just the rain. Just Shorty’s hooves and his breath, puffing out like my own. I pull out my phone, dialing Jackson. He doesn’t answer.

“It’s fine,” I mumble, sticking my phone back in my pocket. “I know we’re on the right path. We’ll find them.”

Shorty keeps plodding forward.

An hour later, I’m seriously considering turning back. We’re near the base of the mountains now, further than I thought the group would have gone. The trail markers are more spaced out here, and it’s close to getting dark. I didn’t even think to grab a sandwich myself, not that eating is at the forefront of my mind right now. Shorty is a trooper, not seeming put-out by our half-cocked rescue mission. But my legs are soaked through, my hands cold, and my fingers pruned.

“Fuck,” I mutteras we come to a new fork in the road. Neither direction is marked, but Jackson told me sometimes the colored indicators get broken or covered by brush. I hop down off Shorty’s back, wincing at the tightness in my back and legs. Walking around, I kick aside leaves and fallen branches, looking for the little wooden markers, but I don’t find any.

As much as I hate to admit defeat, I have no clue which way to go, and if we don’t head back soon, we’ll lose the sun. I didn’t even think to grab a flashlight.

With another curse, I hitch myself onto Shorty’s back and turn him around. I shake my head as we retrace our steps back down the trail, feeling pissed and frustrated and, once again, utterly useless.

“Thanks for trying, Shorty,” I tell the horse, patting his damp neck. He kicks up his head gently. “Let’s head home, get nice and dry, and then I’ll get you a treat. How’s that sound?”

His ears flick as I scratch between them.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Sounds good.”

I keep a loose hold on the reins as Shorty climbs up the short incline we came down a few minutes ago. The trail is high here, the land dipping down on either side of it. In one direction, past the trees, is the Darlings’ pastureland. The cattle are probably hunkered together, finding shelter beneath the interspersedtrees. On the other side of the trail, past a deep ravine, is the mountains.

I wonder if Jackson and I could explore them sometime. Surely, they have guided mountain climbs in this area. I bet there are some options for beginners. Or maybe Jackson himself knows the ropes. It wouldn’t surprise me.

There’s a gentle smile on my face when Shorty’s head kicks up again, a little harder than before. He stutters a step, ears flicking.

“All right?” I ask. I can’t hear anything but the rain.

I open my mouth to reassure the horse everything is fine, when something rustles off to our right. Shorty reverses course with a quick backwards step, and my pulse takes off like a shot, my inhalation loud as I tighten my hands on the reins. I’m about to encourage Shorty forward again when something races out in front of us.

It happens so fast.

The small animal—a racoon—freezes like a deer caught in the beams of an oncoming car. Panicked by our presence, it makes a mad dash, ending up beneath Shorty’s front legs as Shorty rears up, hooves leaving the dirt before slamming back down again. He tries to back up as the raccoon scrambles underfoot, each attempting to avoid the other in the span of mere seconds that seem to last a lifetime. Shorty rears again, his back hoof slipping at the edge of the softened trail, and my gut does a nosedive, my world going temporarily weightless as I’m thrown from his back.

I don’t remember the fall. Don’t remember how long I’m in the air. But I remember slamming onto dirt, pain searing through my shoulder as I slide down the steep slope for what feels like an age. Rocks, branches, who-knows-what-else scrape against me as I grapple to find a handhold, unable to in time. The ground disappears right out from under me, and everything goes weightless once more.

I land with a thud, my breath leaving me. For a moment, all I can do is stare up at the canopy of trees above.

Finally, I suck in a gasping breath. And then another. Rain drops softly onto my face as I take stock of the situation. I try to sit up, but the sharp, glass-like pain radiating out from my shoulder has me flat on my back again in an instant.

“Fuck,” I mutter, fighting the urge to throw up. “Fuck.”

I wait longer this time, cataloguing the pain as I work to slow my breathing. There are tiny, stinging scrapes all over my body. A dull ache at the back of my head. I lift my good arm to feel the area, relieved, when I bring my hand in front of my face, to see there’s no blood. I let loose a breath, marginally reassured. But my shoulder is a problem.

Slowly, I press my arm against my body and hold it there, gritting my teeth and fighting back a scream as I get myself into a sitting position. After catching my breath, I stand, nearly throwing up again when my shoulder shifts.

I think I dislocated it. Hopefully it’s not broken.

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