Christine

By the time I encountered the stranger in the fast car, my upbeat mood from earlier has degraded, thanks to the dull heartache I’ve given myself from lancing my old wound once again. Ordinarily, I would have laughed off the incident and introduced myself once I’d made sure no one was hurt, but the idiotic fool had just sat in his car staring at me in disapproval, apparently waiting for me to move out of his all-important way.

Wherever the aggravating stranger was headed I sincerely hoped he didn’t so much as make a pit stop in Pine Haven. I was pretty sure another meeting of that sort would result in me doing more than yelling at him. Pictures of strangling the shit eating grin off his face popped into my mind.

My heart still raced with jitters. The need to dispel some of it had me letting Cloud have his head again. He calmed us both by doing what he loved most, streaking at breakneck pace over the plains of western Wyoming.

By the time we slow to a walk, my ire at the stranger on the road has mellowed to a mildly bad memory. Whoever he is, it is likely he’s already hit Pine Haven and driven on through. The sun rests in the cradle between the peaks of the two mountains, sending lingering shafts of red to cast long shadows against the blue and white buildings. I close my eyes, bracing against the little pinpricks of pain, and allow myself to remember the reason I’d first come to Wyoming.

* * *

“You hang on, do you hear me?” I order. “I won’t leave until they have you, I swear. But you have to stay with me. Promise.”

“Okay … promise.” His words were slurred, his voice weary.

I struggle to think of something to talk about – to keep him speaking and alert. “Is that an accent I hear, Mick?”

His laugh is slow and soft. “Yep, afraid so. Seems nothing I do can get the Wyoming out of my voice.”

That worked. “Tell me about Wyoming.”

He sighs. “There’s nothing quite like a wild gallop across the plains on a fast horse. If by chance you can be on that horse at daybreak, you’ll feel like you’re flying up to meet the day, grabbing the sun by the horns and taking it for a ride. The only thing better than daybreak, is the Red Desert at sundown. If you time it just right, a split second before the sun’s gone down, you feel like you’re lost inside all that red and orange fiery glow, then in your next breath you’re surrounded by pitch black. As you look up at the sky the stars are popping out. So many stars the sky is almost unrecognizable. They blend together in a massive blanket across the horizon. And there’s always shooting stars for making wishes.” He laughed softly. “I guess I sound a little pathetic.”

“No.” I wish I could touch him with more than my voice. “Sounds more like a homesick cowboy to me.”

He’s quiet for a time before replying, “I guess maybe I am, Angel. I am homesick.”

His low spoken words bring tears to my eyes. And I pray right then and there that he would get the chance to see those sunrises and sunsets and stars again. “So, you lived on the desert plains?”

“I had the best of both worlds,” he answers, his words filled with pride. “Our ranch is in the middle of a finger of desert that is nestled between two legs of mountains and forest.”

“Why did you leave?”

“That’s a story for another time,” he says. “I’ll tell you when we’re on our first date.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Oh, we’ll go out.” His voice gave me visions of an easy cowboy grin. “I was just making the plans.”

My lips twitch at his audacity.

* * *

Cooled and brushed, Cloud nickers a soft goodbye as I leave the comfort of the stable and walk into the cold night air.

Stars twinkle into view above me, millions of glistening tiny pinpoint lights, fusing into a lacy curtain of soft illumination against the darkness. Leaving a trail of shimmery light tracked across the sky.

For the first time in seven years, my automatic wish isn’t for something impossible. Or rather something that was never meant to be. “I want to feel alive again.”

Emotionally and physically exhausted, I tear my eyes from the stars and climb into the rusty Chevy pickup. It is older than I am by several years, so I count my blessings it still runs. Driving past the main homestead, I toss a wave to Justin McGee, who sits in his old white rocker on the wide front porch. With a quick smile and a gentle nod of the head, the old rancher touches a finger to the brim of his battered Stetson before taking another drag of his nightly cigar.

Just as I reach the cedar fencepost marking the entrance to the ranch, a pair of headlights swing in from the main road. So, the McGee men are about to receive a caller. Maybe Grant had finally convinced Sissy Brown to drop by after her shift at the bar.

The two sets of headlights collide, the bright beams briefly joining forces and splitting the darkness. Then the moment was gone, leaving me with a vague impression of something low and fast, before I am engulfed by the cloud of dust chasing behind.

Nope. I cough against the sting in my throat. Definitely not Sissy, who tends to drive her ancient economy car with the caution of a grandmother. Tough break for Grant.