Page 51 of Wild, Wild Cowboy

Mr. Biller, the manager of the operation, didn’t look like he cared for Zack’s tone. “Exactly what I said. None of these horses are for sale. They’ve all been bought and paid for, every last one of them. The horses will be branded for slaughter, and once they get through processing, they’ll be taken to the border station and into Canada.”

Zack’s eyes narrowed. “Well, that’s too damn bad, because?—”

“Thank you for your time, sir. Zack, let’s go.” I grabbed his arm, prepared to use force if necessary to get him out of there. I knew a losing argument when I saw one. We needed a new plan,and that would be hard to pull of if Zack was sitting in a jail cell for assault.

Fortunately, he didn’t fight me. He stormed behind me, looking mad enough to set the building on fire.

“This mother fucker,” he muttered. “I’m going to call the slaughter company in Alberta. Tell them I’ll pay double what he’s worth on the food market.”

“All right.” I turned in a circle, taking in our surroundings, as Zack stepped away to make the call.

There were probably close to a thousand horses here. They were in much worse shape than the horses we had seen at the auction yesterday. Thin, with a listless look to them. There were no stables, stalls, or lean-tos. Just metal pens and haybales stacked all around. Not a whole lot of people, either. The horses were left to themselves. Anyone could walk right up and pet one.

Or take one.

“Fuck!” Zack slapped his phone on his thigh. “No one is answering.”

A truck pulled up with more horses. I lifted my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sharp sunlight and squinted at the emblem on the driver’s door. It wasn’t Reliable Trucking.

Zack went back to trying to call the slaughter company. I kept watching. A plant employee meandered over to help unload the horses. The back of the truck was lined up with what looked like an old shipping container, which opened up into the horse pen. The horses ran out of the truck, through the shipping container, and into the pen. The employee threw in some hay and disappeared.

Interesting.

“Zack,” I said.

“They’re still not picking up. What the fuck? Who is in charge of this shit show?” Zack ranted. His shoulders slumpedas his anger faded to hopelessness. “I really thought we would win. I thought we would save him.”

“We haven’t lost yet. I have an idea.” I tapped my chin. “WWEPD?”

“WWEPD?” Zack repeated. “What does that mean?”

A smile spread across my face.

“WWEPD. What would Essie Price do?”

20

ZACK

It turned out that stealing a horse from a slaughter processing plant was ridiculously easy.

No one paid any attention to us as I entered the horse pen. Hurricane Red was the only one who kicked up any fuss. Having just been released from a long twenty-four hours spent cooped up in a loud, smelly, bumpy truck, he had absolutely no interest in going back through that shipping container. I had a feeling he knew another truck was waiting for him on the other side and he wanted no part of that. Hurricane Red had always been too smart for his own good.

With him acting out, tossing his head high to keep it out of my reach, it took me a while to slip the halter over his nose and ears. But I finally managed it and brought his face close to mine so we were eyeball to eyeball. “I’m trying to save your hide. Show a little gratitude, would you?”

Hurricane Red snorted, and swear to god, it sounded like a curse word. I’d found myself on his back three times and I remembered each one. The first time had been a winning ride for me. The second time, he’d bucked me off in a heartbreaking 7.3 seconds. And the last one…well, let’s call that a draw.

I knew he remembered that last ride, too. That’s why he was here, in this fucking feedlot waiting for someone to brand him with an S for slaughter. He was here because he remembered our last ride so well that he refused to go out there again.

So, yeah, I knew he remembered that ride. But I didn’t think he rememberedme. But maybe there was something that felt familiar to him, something good that made him willing to take a chance on me, because his nostrils flared and he lowered his head.

Maybe he trusted me. Or maybe he took note of the horse laying down on its side, preternaturally still, in the adjacent pen. Maybe he caught the scent of death.

Whatever it was, he let me lead him back through the shipping container and practically jogged into the horse trailer attached to my truck.

Hannah was behind the wheel, engine running, and the second I was in the passenger seat, she hit the gas without waiting for me to buckle up.

“You make a damn fine getaway driver,” I said as I got myself situated.

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