The headlights of the pickup truck spotlighted Jo’s path. Behind her the engine revved and dropped and the truck’s suspension squealed as it chased her. Cattle ran in all directions. A flickering white trail of light, of hope, of nightmare, stretched ahead of her. The fence loomed.

She’d jumped horses a couple times as a kid—over fallen logs. It was about balance. Staying centered over the horse. She could do this. Because, if she fell, she’d be roadkill. The truck would have no trouble crashing through the fence and running over her.

She urged the horse forward with her hands against its neck. “Go,” she shouted.

The horse bunched and launched itself into the air without breaking stride. Jo felt a huge shift in momentum, smooth and powerful and shocking, as the animal leapt, fearful and intent, into the air.

Don’t hit the barbs. Don’t fall. She saw the wire fly by beneath her.

She leaned back. The horse came down, its head stretching forward. She heard the truck shift gears, the engine lift. It was slowing.

The horse landed. It landed hard, its head dropping low.

Jo was gripping the reins tight. Too tight. As the horse’s head swung down, her hands jerked down with it.

Slingshot. She catapulted forward. The horse regained its balance and gathered itself to keep running. Jo hit its neck and lost her grip. Her feet came out of the stirrups.

The horse continued running and Jo felt herself slide sideways, catastrophically.

She told herself to hang on to the reins. If the horse got away she was toast. Adios.

“Ow—”

She pounded into the damp earth with a thud. The breath crashed out of her. She saw sparks.

But she held on to the reins. She slid along the ground over pinecones and rocks, shouting, “Whoa.”

The horse pulled up.

Back in the meadow, on the far side of the fence, the truck braked.

Jo slid to a stop at the edge of a ditch. It was an eroded gully where roots of fifty-foot pines had been washed out during a storm, and turned into an eight-foot-deep trench by rocks and runoff. The horse spun, uncontrollably spooked now.

If she hadn’t fallen, they would have run full speed into the gully.

The headlights veered, barely catching her now. She realized the driver had turned the truck at an angle to her.

And there was only one reason he would do that. He wanted an unobstructed view. Down the barrel of a shotgun.

She scrambled to her feet. Holding the reins, she got up to run. She was limping. She was muddy and bruised.

She looked back. It was a mistake. She saw the barrel of a long gun work its way out the window of the truck. And she and the horse made a huge target. The veritable side of a barn.

Her first impulse was to let go of the reins and slap the horse on the rump. The second, which shamed her, was to duck to the horse’s far side and use it as a shield.

That’s what she did and ran toward the trees.

The driver fired.

The roar of a shotgun is terrifying. It sends a shock through you, down to your bones, that says, Get the hell out of the way. Up close, it’s the blare of death.

He missed her, and the horse, but hit the trees. Wood flew; chips of bark. The horse whinnied, frantic. It tossed its head. The bridle clinked. She ran deeper into the trees, keeping the animal between her and the pickup. She heard the truck’s transmission grind. Heard the engine whine slowly. The headlights danced and their cones of light diminished. It was backing up.

Because the driver wanted to take a good, long run at the fence, to get up some speed before he bashed through it.

She pulled the horse to a stop, tried to get it to quit wheeling. She grabbed the stirrup and stuck her foot into it. She could barely get her leg up. Finally she pulled herself back into the saddle.

She paused, just for a second, pinned by the headlights. Yeah. Right here. Get a good, long look.

The truck revved.

She turned the horse, hands trembling. “Don’t dump me, boy.”

She kicked it toward the hills.

The truck roared and crashed through the fence. She heard the barbed wire twang as it tore, heard the fence posts rip from the ground and barbs scrape over the hood of the truck. The engine blared. It came straight at her.

She kicked the horse uphill and yelled, “Come on.”

The horse lunged up the hill, digging into the soft earth. The truck’s engine spun up. Its lights veered from side to side as its suspension rebounded from crashing through the fence. Come on. Ratner poured on the speed.

And ran straight into the gully.

The truck’s headlights dropped as if they’d been slapped down. Its grille smashed hard into the far side of the trench. Its back end lifted into the air, carried by momentum, and smacked back down again. The engine continued roaring.

The horse kept lunging up the hill. Jo held on. Branches swept across her face and shoulders, cold, glistening with raindrops. They scratched her neck and left the sharp smell of pine resin in her hair.

She urged the horse onward, waiting for the roar of the shotgun. One more glance behind. Down the hill, the truck’s headlights were dimmed brown by swirling dust and steam from the busted radiator.

The door of the truck creaked open.

After that, she didn’t look back.