Free Magnificent Passage by Kat Martin

her pinned beneath him. The scent of lavender still clung to his buckskin shirt. He pulled a single long strand of chestnut hair from where it curled deliciously against his chest. No matter how he looked at it, this was going to be one hell of a long trip!

CHAPTER FIVE
    T hey finished a simple breakfast of hard tinned biscuits and jerked venison. James packed up the camp and Hawk saddled the horses. They were headed into the Laramie Mountains, not following the usual route along the Platte traveled by stagecoach and wagon. It was a tough trail, but Hawk seemed to know exactly where he was headed. Mandy already thought of him as Hawk. He seemed so much a part of the land, so much a part of nature, just the way the Indians did. In fact, most of the time he seemed more Indian than white.
    Mandy’s little mare stumbled, then perked up her ears as the men picked up the pace. Mandy gave Lady Ann her head. She was trail wise and surefooted, comfortable to sit. Mandy had owned a horse only once in her life. Schooner, her big sorrel gelding. She’d loved that horse. Loved the freedom that riding the big horse gave her. Now, as she rode along on Lady Ann, she thought of Schooner and, as always, felt a sharp stab of guilt.
    She had been racing Schooner over the prairie, defying her father, running him faster than ever before. She hadn’t been watching the terrain and suddenly he stumbled. His head went down and Mandy pitched forward; she could feel the stiff strands of his mane against her cheek as she flew
over his head. Great clouds of dust billowed around them, blotting out the light as she and the animal thundered to the earth. She felt a shattering pain in her arm when she hit the ground, and heard Schooner’s shriek of agony. Then the horse began neighing shrilly as he tried to lift himself up from the dirt.
    Oh, God, what had she done? She rolled over. The pain in her arm shot through her, throbbing with every movement, but the pitiful sounds Schooner was making drove her on. Her mouth tasted gritty, her cheeks were scratched and smeared with dirt. She crawled toward the sorrel and watched helplessly as he tossed his russet mane wildly and thrashed his hooves in the air.
    â€œSchooner, oh, God, Schooner. Please, boy. Please lay quiet.” She stroked his sleek neck, crooned softly in his ear. She looked about wildly for her father. He’d been riding behind her, mad at her for being too far from the fort. When she spotted him at the bottom of the hill, he was headed toward her at a gallop. He dismounted before his horse came to a full stop and ran to her side.
    â€œAre you hurt?”
    She nodded. “I think I broke my arm, but it’s Schooner. See what’s wrong with Schooner.” She closed her eyes and prayed the big sorrel would be all right.
    Her father moved along the horse’s withers, along his back, and down his flanks, stroking, soothing, probing, and examining. When he finished, he returned to her side. He untied the yellow bandanna from around his neck and lashed her arm across her breast as best he could. Then he helped her to her feet.
    â€œBut what about Schooner?” Her heart pounded. She felt
light-headed. She knew the answer but prayed she was wrong. Her father didn’t speak. Instead, he lifted her carefully atop his sparse military saddle, then pulled his carbine from its scabbard behind the cantle.
    â€œNo!” Mandy shrieked. She grabbed the barrel of the weapon and refused to release her hold, even though each movement caused needles of pain to shoot through her arm. “You can’t shoot Schooner! It was my fault. My fault we fell, not his.” Fresh tears ran down her cheeks.
    â€œPlease, Papa,” she whispered. “I’ll do anything you ask, but please, please don’t shoot Schooner.”
    â€œSchooner has a broken leg,” he said gently. “It isn’t fair to make him suffer.”
    â€œPlease, Papa. Please. It’s