Free The Winter Widow by Charlene Weir

straight at a man who appeared around the corner of the barn. She yelled.
    Everything happened so quickly, the events all packed into fast hard actual movements, but her mind separated each action into individual components, almost as if the bull galloped in slow motion. She could watch his legs reach and push, his neck thrust forward with the effort of acceleration.
    Head down and tipped to one side, he plunged a horn into vulnerable human flesh, just above the belt buckle. He raised his great head, the man dangling from the horn, and, with an angry toss, flung him away. Blood spurted in a crimson arc.
    She opened her mouth to scream, but heard no sound, yanked frantically on her jacket. Her arm caught in a sleeve. She tore at it, finally slid her arm free, and started toward the bull, waving the jacket. She could feel the slow impact in her ankles as she ran; each step took long moments to leave the ground and long moments to touch down.
    Bellowing with rage, the bull trampled on the fallen man. Blood bubbled in the gaping wound, spilled out over his abdomen and dripped onto the ground. With scrabbling fingernails, he tried to drag himself away. He twisted his head toward her, eyes beseeching. A horrifying burbling chuckle came from his distorted mouth. His eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible.
    She yelled, waved the jacket in an arc around her head and smacked it across the bull’s rump. He snorted and whirled. She backed. His head was blood-spattered. He shook it, pawed the ground, seemed uncertain for a moment, then he charged.
    She dodged to one side and he overshot her. Keeping her eyes on him, she ran backwards and stumbled. He stopped, turned, hesitated, then bore down. Clawing and scrambling, she made for a concrete horse trough and wriggled under it.
    Suddenly, there was a great deal of commotion: running footsteps and men shouting.
    â€œHey! My God, the bull’s loose!”
    â€œSam’s been hurt.”
    â€œPitchforks! Hurry!”
    Two dogs, black-and-white collie types, barked furiously and streaked toward the bull. Circling, one on one side and one on the other, they made repeated attacks at him. He lowered his head and swung toward one dog who retreated, only to come at him again when he swung toward the other.
    Over the deafening clamor, the barking dogs, the roaring bull, the yelling men, she heard Otto Guthman’s strong voice. “Spread out,” he shouted. “Get behind him. Keep those pitchforks ready.”
    She could just see him standing to her left, and the rifle he held brought enormous relief. Using knees and elbows, she started to inch out from the trough. A hand clamped her wrist in a vise grip and jerked her out, painfully scraping her back.
    Parkhurst yanked her upright and gave one very hard shake that made her head snap. “You could have been killed.” His fingers dug into her shoulders. “What’s the matter with you?”
    He pulled her around behind the trough, then abruptly released her. She staggered. He started to reach for her, then dropped his hand. “You all right?” he asked, voice totally devoid of emotion.
    â€œFine,” she replied, her voice just as clipped and flat as his, and rubbed the back of her neck. She watched several men with pitchforks advance warily toward Fafner, intent on gently urging him toward the barn.
    Guthman shouted, “Not too close. Don’t let him hurt himself.”
    Fafner eyed the half-circle of men, pawed the ground and seemed ready to charge. Guthman raised the rifle. The bull turned to menace one of the dogs. The men moved closer. Fafner started toward one man who halted. The others edged in. Fafner bellowed, whirled, and galloped toward the road with the dogs racing after him. Two men sprinted behind the dogs.
    â€œGet those horses saddled,” Guthman yelled, striding toward Susan. Face grim with anger, he planted himself in front of her. “This is all your