After the Fall

limited experience with her so far, I was convinced this mare was physically incapable of a choppy gait.
    Grinning even bigger, I wondered what she’d be like when she had free rein to drop the hammer and go . How fast, how smooth—how did she run when she wasn’t fenced in?
    I couldn’t resist.
    As the incline steepened on a straightaway, I stood in the stirrups, leaned over her neck, and urged her on with my knees. She didn’t hesitate, launching into a full gallop like she’d been shot from a cannon.
    Her mane whipped at my face. I squinted against the wind. God, but she was smooth. Like one of those horses you can ride while holding a glass of champagne and not spill a drop. Perfect .
    The trail got steeper, and she ran harder to make it up the slope.
    I heard the engine a split second too late.
    A blue and white motorcycle shot out from the right.
    Tsarina shied. The biker skidded sideways, like we’d startled him as much as he’d startled us. Dirt sprayed in the air. My horse tried to spin one way. Then she whipped back the other way. I’d almost recovered from my own startle enough to keep my balance, but then she jerked sideways again, and I knew that panicked, weightless sensation all too well, that moment when oh shit becomes I’m falling .
    Worse.
    I’m falling became we’re falling .
    Me and all sixteen-plus hands of her.
    I had just enough presence of mind to pull my foot out of the stirrup before we hit the ground, but I landed hard enough to knock the wind out of me. Tsarina landed on my leg. Nothing hurt, but that wouldn’t last. Not with that crunch that hadn’t yet registered in my—
    Oh God. There it is.
    I tried to curse but still couldn’t breathe.
    Tsarina scrambled to her feet. I reached for the dangling reins but closed my fingers around nothing. Then an eye-watering wave of pain in my leg sent me right back to the ground.
    Over the idling motorcycle engine, hoof beats.
    I forced myself up onto my elbows. My heart jumped into my throat as leaf-filtered sunlight flickered across Tsarina’s glossy hide as she ran like hell the way we’d come.
    I tried to call her name. Still couldn’t get the air moving.
    Panic. My lungs. My horse. My leg .
    Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see or hear Tsarina.
    I coughed, forcing some air to move.
    Footsteps hurried toward me, reminding me I wasn’t alone. Pain and panic retreated to make room for fury. Son-of-a-bitch reckless motorcyclist.
    A hand pressed down on my shoulder. “Hey, you all right?”
    I didn’t realize I’d moved at all until the biker stumbled backward, holding one side of his face.
    “Son of a bitch!” I grabbed my wrist as pain exploded up from my knuckles.
    He stared at me, rubbing his face. “What the—”
    “I need to find my horse before she gets hit by a car.” Again I started to get up, but again the excruciating pain in my leg stopped me. “Oh. God .”
    “Take it easy.” He put a hand on my shoulder again. “How bad is it?”
    “Bad enough I’m not walking out of here.” I fumbled to get my cell phone out of my pocket. “But I need to find my— fuck. ” I withdrew my hand, grimacing and wondering why the fuck that hurt so bad too.
    “You need to sit there and not move.” The authoritative tone gave me pause. I looked up at him. Blood from his nose darkened the left side of his light brown goatee.
    Oh. Right. That’s why my hand hurts.
    I tried to flex my fingers, but . . . no. Shit. That wasn’t good.
    “Listen.” He kept a hand on my shoulder, dabbing at his nose and mouth with his other glove. “I’m going to call an ambulance, but there’s no way they’ll find you up here, so I’ll have to go down to the trailhead to meet them. Will you be all right on your own?”
    I swallowed. My anger quickly deflated in favor of pain and a million worst-case scenarios about Tsarina. Where was she? Was she all right? There were two busy streets between the trailhead and the barn. Was she already gone when my name hadn’t even dried on her papers yet? A lump rose in my throat. A moment of recklessness, and now she could very well be—
    “Hey.” The biker squeezed my shoulder. “Will you be all right on your own? I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
    I nodded but didn’t say anything.
    I heard him make the call. Vaguely made out phrases like “horse fell on top of him” and “I’m pretty sure he hurt his leg,” but I was listening to the wind, searching for some sign