Gathering her purse, Kat walked out into a steamy July day. As she started her Mustang and drove toward police headquarters to give her statement, she muttered, “Can’t wait to get this frigging wire off.”
UNBRIDLED, by Kristin Kisska
Wet gravel crunched under my tires as I approached the Lowcountry Equestrian Center from the old oak-tree-lined entrance. Though still early, horses already trotted around the training rings, and I even glimpsed a flash of a horse’s tail as someone rode into the woods. Ah, I lived for Saturday mornings at the stables! It was the home of my pride and joy gelding—Baymont Blues, or as I affectionately called him, Bay.
Though the rain had finally tapered off, it didn’t soften the edge of South Carolina’s notorious spring humidity. I’d already swatted a couple mosquitos this morning. Outfitted in leather boots and breeches, I hauled my grooming bucket into the stable. Parker, the head trainer, had agreed to meet for a private session this morning to polish my dressage techniques.
The stable’s residents greeted me with their chorus of neighs, meows, and a stray bird tweeting from the rafters. I inhaled the cocktail of leather, brass, and hay—the most intoxicating scent on the planet—then walked the length of the wide hallway.
“G’mornin, Mia. You’re here early.” I winked at Parker’s daughter. The teen slid Bay’s stall gate open and stroked his muzzle, keeping his nose out of the bag of carrots I’d brought. “Did you ride your bike?”
“Hey, Courtney. Nope. Dad dropped me off before running errands. I wanted to clean up this messy boy. Dad would kill me if he knew I’d ridden him through the mud.” As Parker’s daughter Mia brushed D’Artagnan, each swift stroke revealed more of his dappled coat. Though tethered only by a halter and rope, the eighteen-hand Irish draught horse behaved like a gentle giant in her expert care.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” I said.
The empty stall and a quick glance at my friend Gina’s tack box showed her horse Spade’s saddle, bridle and girth were gone. Hardly the usual weekend routine for Gina who’d relocated from Virginia last autumn. “Gina got here early. Did you see her?”
Mia shook her head. “Maybe she’s nervous about Tryon and already practicing.” Next weekend, many of our stable’s horses and riders would caravan to Tryon International Equestrian Center for the opening of their Spring Series. Bay and Spade were entered in the dressage and jumper events—this was my first time ever competing against Gina.
“Maybe.” I noticed the teen’s smile didn’t quite reach her soulful dark eyes. Poor thing looked haggard. “Did homework keep you up late?”
“Final exams are in a couple weeks. Calculus is the worst.” Mia nodded, perking up a bit. “Only one more year till college.”
Studying into the wee hours was not how I spent my Friday nights when I was in high school. “Where do you want to go?”
“South Carolina. Mama studied there.”
Almost two years ago, her mother had departed for a weekend with her college girlfriends in Charleston, but had never returned. She’d died in a hit and run car accident.
Forcing a smile, I said, “I didn’t know that. Go, Gamecocks!” I leaned my weight against Bay’s shoulder to move him to the far side of the stall so I could muck it. “Gina graduated from USC, too.”
“She mentioned that two days ago.”
“Really?”
“Gina recognized Mama from the photo I keep in my wallet. Turns out they were good friends in college. Gina hadn’t realized Mama and I were related.”
Brave girl, on so many levels. “Does Gina know…” Yikes, I didn’t mean to remind her of her mother’s death. It must be hard enough living with a new, moody stepmother who was a couple of weeks shy of giving birth to her half-brother. But I’d already ventured down this path, so I softened my voice and continued, “Hard to believe it’s been almost two years since your mom died.”
“Seventeen months. Three weeks. Two days.” Mia paused combing D’Artagnan’s mane and glanced away, exhaling before continuing. “Gina was there. In Charleston. When Mama died.”
We both turned at the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Hey, have y’all seen Gina?” Scott, Gina’s husband, asked. “Spade’s stall is still empty. I’d call but she left her cell phone in the car when I dropped her off an hour ago. Didn’t notice ’til I got home. Figured she’d need it.”
“I can give it to her,” I said.
“Thanks,” Scott said.
I slipped it into the back pocket of my riding breeches as Scott strolled away.
Activity in the stable picked up as more horse owners arrived. Finally, I had Bay brushed, bridled, padded, and saddled. While I summoned every ounce of strength I could muster to tighten the buckle straps on Bay’s girth, a large, dark shadow entered the far side of the stable and trotted toward us.
Spade’s saddle was empty, his stirrups bounced drunkenly, and his broken rein scraped the brick floor. He slowed to a walk as he entered his stall, and then nipped at his hayrack, content to be home.
But no Gina.
Parker pulled up to the stables and parked as Mia and I raced outside.
“Hey, Parker! I think Spade threw Gina. Can you help me look for her around the grounds?”
“Sure.” Concern overshadowed his Hollywood good looks. “Mia, you ride with me.”
“Okay, Dad,” Mia said.
Parker drove his pickup truck east as I drove my SUV west. Separate directions ensured we’d cover the equestrian center’s collection of fields, paddocks, and riding rings faster. When I found no sign of Gina, I parked by the horse trailers near the arena near the lower grounds. I searched the trailers and then ran inside the covered arena. At every turn, I feared I would find her in a lump at the foot of some jump.
But there was no sign of Gina—injured or otherwise.
I got back in my SUV and drove until I pulled up alongside Parker’s truck. I opened my window. Grasping for ideas, I ventured, “Someone rode into the trails as I arrived early this morning. It could have been Gina.”
“Worth a look,” Parker said.
“I’ll return to the stable in case Gina returns,” Mia said. “Dad, text me if you find her.”
Parker patted his pockets, and then shrugged. “Must’ve forgotten my phone.”
Mia shook her head. “Courtney, can you text me?”
“I sure can. Be careful,” I said.
Mia’s brow couldn’t have been more furrowed as she hopped out of her father’s truck and jogged back to the stable. Poor thing. This had to remind Mia of the last day she kissed her mother goodbye.
“Don’t worry, y’all,” I said. “I bet we’ll laugh over our search-and-rescue misadventures later.”
“Let’s hope,” Parker said.
When we reached the fork, I drove down Gina’s and my favorite trail—the one that leads to a large meadow with a creek. Parker searched the other. I made it about a mile into the trail before the trees became too close for my SUV to pass. I’d have to walk—or rather, slog through the mud—the rest of the way.
Lordy, what could’ve possessed Gina? We horse owners are quite a superstitious bunch. Even under good conditions, no one would ride a trail before competing in a show. This ground was so saturated; she risked Spade going lame with a sprained ankle.
After a few turns along the path, I spotted a purple helmet lying in the mud. And a body, sprawled nearby. Oh, no.
“Gina!” I called out, but no response. No hint of movement.
Adrenaline flooded my veins as I rushed to her, then felt for a pulse, careful not to move her. She was breathing. Her arm lay at an unnatural angle.
Grooves of mud from where Spade had skidded filled with standing water. Thank God she hadn’t landed face down in a puddle. And why on earth would someone leave loose nails lying on the ground? A horse could’ve injured his hooves. Or thrown his rider.
After calling 9-1-1, I texted Scott and Mia: Found Gina unconscious. Meet us at ho
spital.
* * * *
Scott paced the hospital’s lounge while the rest of us tried to remain optimistic and supportive. Gina had still not awakened by the time she was admitted to the emergency room. The piped-in instrumental music kept my nerves on edge.
Parker’s wife, Jane—with dark circles under her eyes and rumpled maternity clothes—navigated the tight cluster of chairs with a hand on her swollen belly and a bag of sandwiches in the other. She looked ready to check into the hospital herself.
“How’s Gina, bless her heart?” Jane hugged Scott.
“We’re still waiting,” Scott said.
Jane shoved the bag of sandwiches at Mia. “Pass these around.”
Mia took the sandwiches, but I was annoyed. Not so much as a please or thank you, which in my mind nullified any goodwill Jane just earned from bringing lunch. Ever the Southern gentleman, Parker helped his daughter unpack the sandwiches.