Healing The Forest Ranger. Leigh Bale

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СКАЧАТЬ didn’t know she was watching. Lyndsy Warner crouched low behind a rock outcropping. Prickles of excitement dotted her arms. She held her breath, hoping the wild horses wouldn’t catch her scent and bolt. At least not yet.

      Overhead, a hawk spiraled through the azure sky. The late April weather had been unseasonably warm. Tufts of green grass and red paintbrush trembled as the breeze whispered past, carrying the earthy smell of dust and sage.

      Letting her camera hang limp from the strap around her neck, Lyn reached up to remove the bronze shield pinned above the right front pocket of her forest ranger’s shirt. A glint from the afternoon sun might give her presence away to the mustangs in the valley below.

      After tucking the badge into her pants pocket, Lyn reached for the camera again. Holding it up to her eyes, she adjusted the focus and studied the herd through the lens. Five mustangs, led by a handsome buckskin stallion. The stud’s black mane and tail stood out against his golden coat. The band included three mares and a black foal with a white tail and mane. Not really black, but almost, with just a bit of white on her hind left foot and on her right, under the flank and in her mane and tail. Not a true pinto, either. Very unique coloring and absolutely stunning. The filly’s spindly legs looked long and strong, a foreshadowing of the beautiful mare she’d become. Wild and free.

      Lyn snapped a quick series of pictures, wishing she could share this moment with Kristen, her ten-year-old daughter. Like most girls, Kristen loved horses. But these mustangs carried a deeper meaning for Lyn—a reminder of the night her husband died.

      The bony rib cages of the horses seemed too lean, an indicator of sparse forage on the range. As the herds increased, there just wasn’t enough for them to eat, not to mention the other wildlife roaming this area, or the beef cattle the ranchers paid the government to graze.

      Lyn zoned in on the stallion she’d named Buck. This wasn’t the only herd foraging in Secret Valley. Lyn had named all the stallions living among the mountains of McClellan National Forest, but not their mares and foals. She didn’t want to become more attached to them than she already was. Especially if she was forced to round up some of them for removal.

      A low nicker drew Lyn’s attention to the plateau overhead. A smaller dun stallion stood gazing down upon the tranquil family of mustangs, his cream coloring similar to Buck’s except that tiger stripes circled his front legs. A throwback from prehistoric horses. Probably a bachelor stallion, with no mares of his own. His ears pricked forward with rapt attention, and Lyn knew he wanted Buck’s mares. Or at least one of them.

      “Don’t do it, buddy. Buck’s a lot bigger, and he’ll hurt you if you try to steal one of his girls.” The warm breeze stole Lyn’s whispered warning.

      While Buck’s lead mare kept watch, two of the other mares dipped their noses into the murky water of the shallow spring. No vegetation grew here, with the banks beaten down and churned to mud by too many tromping hooves. By mid-May, Lyn figured the water would be gone. Dried by the baking sun to nothing but cracked earth. The horses needed this water. Desperately. Without it, they’d have to journey across the mountains to Cherry Creek, a thin stream nine miles away. An arduous trip that would sap their energy, keep them from feeding, and weaken their foals.

      Always on the lookout, Buck noticed the bachelor stallion and snorted. He skirted the edge of his band, tossing his proud head and pawing the dirt with one hoof. With his long tail flying high like a flag, he raced toward the plateau, placing himself between the watering hole and the bachelor. Buck wouldn’t give up his mares. Not without a fight.

      The dun neighed in challenge, then picked his way down the steep grade. As he reached the valley floor, he lifted his elegant head and arched his muscular neck. A dark dorsal stripe ran down the middle of his back, and Lyn decided to name him Stripe.

      Absolutely gorgeous.

      Buck didn’t think so. He let out a shrill squeal. Ears flat against his head, he raced toward the dun. At first, the two stallions circled one another, snorting and sizing each other up.

      Stripe ducked away from Buck and chased after a plump dapple-gray mare that looked ready to foal soon. Stripe nudged her rump, urging her forward, trying to whisk her away. Buck intercepted, biting Stripe’s hindquarters. The mare knew who she belonged to and lashed out at Stripe with her hind legs. Buck bared his teeth, the whites of his eyes showing. His black mane whipped across his strong neck like billows of smoke.

      Stripe circled back, chasing after the mare, desperate for a mate. Buck followed, neighing his disapproval. The bachelor stallion was lean and tough, but no match for the more experienced buckskin.

      And the battle began.

      Both stallions reared. Screaming, biting, slashing each other with their razor-sharp hooves. Again and again, their hooves thudded against each other like iron clubs. Lyn cringed at the horrific noise they made. Survival of the fittest. Their ferocity frightened her on a primitive level. She lowered her camera and stared in shock.

      The mares galloped out of the fray, the black foal scurrying to join the safety of her mother. Stripe followed, still trying to separate the dapple-gray from the rest of the herd.

      Buck intervened with a roar of rage. He kicked—once, twice, bludgeoning Stripe in the head and shoulder. The bachelor stallion staggered and dropped to his front knees. Buck offered no mercy. Rearing, he came down hard on top of Stripe’s head.

      Lyn gasped, remembered her camera and started clicking again. Later on, the unique photos would serve as an amazing record of wild-horse behavior.

      Stripe screeched in pain. Buck gave the younger stallion just a moment to recover his feet. With a loud grunt, the beaten horse sprinted toward the safety of the mountains. He’d been whipped and gave up the fight for now, but Lyn knew he’d return later for another try. The urge to have a family was as old as time, something instilled in the majority of God’s creatures. And one day Stripe, or another stronger stallion, would defeat Buck. But for now, the older stallion had kept his harem intact. In this small corner of the world, he reigned supreme.

      Buck trotted around the perimeter of the watering hole, head up and nostrils flared as he watched for the return of the dun. Still wound up. Still angry. Unwilling to accept any nonsense right now.

      And that’s when Lyn saw the blood running down Buck’s right front leg. She focused the camera, trying to see the wound more clearly, but no good. She had to get closer.

      Moving silently down the hill, she skimmed through snags of PJ’s, short for piñon-junipers. She stayed upwind, hoping to go undetected by the band of horses. As she inhaled the dry desert air, her booted feet sank deep into the sunbaked sand. And that was her first mistake.

      She stumbled, twisting her ankle. She stifled the cry rushing up her throat, but her silence made no difference. The agitated stallion lifted his head and looked her way. Still territorial and furious. Still ready to fight.

      With a scream of fury, Buck charged.

      Lyn’s breath froze in her throat. A bristle of panic raced down her spine. She glanced over her shoulder. No use trying to reach her truck. There wasn’t time.

      Instead, she ducked under a thicket of PJ’s and pressed her body back into the prickly trees. Sharp needles scratched her hands and face. Her fear overshadowed the pain. The stallion screamed again, thrashing toward her, ferocious and enraged.

      Lyn’s flesh burned with alarm. Her heart beat madly in her chest. She was no match against the horse’s battering СКАЧАТЬ