Free Canyon Song by Gwyneth Atlee

the same.
    Thankfully, her memories of the incident were fragmented and few . Sometimes, the crack of her ax blade against wood brought back the blows of fists. Sometimes, the sun glinting off the summer creek returned her to the flashing knife. Now and then, the ache of her right knee sent her mind reeling, tumbling down the rock-strewn hillside where she’d been thrown to die.
    She swiped tears from her eyes and nudged Canto’s sides once more . Talking to Quinn had brought back far too much at once, and she sensed more bitter memories looming just beyond her consciousness.
    The gelding shuffled through the accumulating snowfall, his broad hooves sending sprays of white ahead . With indignant snorts, he shook his head from time to time at the thick flakes that alighted on his ears.
    Gradually, she let the quiet sounds of creaking leather and muffled hoof beats loosen the tension in her chest . As she rode toward the trail where she had set her snares, her worries faded into the whiteness falling all around her. She imagined snowfall blanketing old pain with thick and frozen layers.
    All too soon, her peace was punctuated by an intermittent patter . A shower of icy raindrops plummeted past the feathery snowflakes. Anna shrugged deeper into her leather coat and pulled the hat further down over her ears. Her breath and the horse’s formed plumes in the still air. Surely, it was far too cold to rain.
    Apparently, no one told the raindrops, for they continued to drill small, icy holes through the snow’s surface . Gradually, their rhythm grew staccato as the frigid shower pelted both Anna and the horse. Despite both hat and coat, the moisture quickly found her flesh and chilled her, making her wish for the shelter of the cabin.
    She shivered . Snow was one thing, but this was dangerous weather for walking and especially for riding. The rain that punctured the new snow would quickly freeze against the cold ground, creating a treacherous layer of hidden ice.
    She nearly turned the horse’s head before the possibility of a jackrabbit or a fat grouse gave her pause. Something other than beans and bacon with cornbread sounded too tempting to leave to hungry scavengers. She would quickly check the snares, and then she’d turn around.
    The first snare hung, an empty wire loop beneath a low tree branch . She picked it up, not wanting to kill an animal that the weather would prevent her from retrieving.
    She had barely dismounted to check the second trap when a strange noise startled her, the sound of a heavy step on underbrush . The nearest pine tree shuddered and its branches spilled a mist of snow, but she couldn’t see past the thick boughs. Her heart thumped hard against her chest wall, and her right hand shot instinctively toward the knife she carried in her pocket. Meant to gut and skin small prey, its blade was also sharp enough to wound, perhaps to kill, a larger beast.
    Even if that beast turned out to be a man.
    *     *     *
    The dog rose from his place beside Quinn Ryan and padded toward the door . He scratched, then turned to gaze at Quinn with a sorrowful expression.
    “We’re both going to have to wait ‘til she comes back,” Quinn said .
    He was feeling pretty sorrowful himself . Though the tea had eased his parched throat, he could barely move without setting his shoulder to throbbing mercilessly. That was just as well, however, for his ordeal had left him weak.
    He’d expected worse as soon as he had realized he’d been shot . He’d seen shot folks before, and those who hadn’t been hit in some appendage the local sawbones could lop off mostly died. Most of those who didn’t cash in quickly burned like kerosene-soaked haystacks with the fevers of infection. Others rotted like apples going bad from the core out. Back when he’d been a young pup, he’d thought the ones that died fast lucky, but now the Bard’s words sang in his memory, “Fight ‘til the last gasp.”
    He remembered his