the pines. A blinding flash of lightning exposed the line shack in eerie two-dimensional relief. Rory braced herself for the thunderous boom that wasn’t far behind. She hated storms worse than even the idea of spending a cold rainy night in a line shack. Her baby sister Brittany had disappeared on a night like this and just four years ago Rory’s parents had been killed in a blizzard on their way back to the ranch. It had come right after she’d graduated from college and had left her with no family and a ranch to run alone.
Dismounting, she hurriedly unsaddled her horse, hobbling the mare under the lean-to and out of the downpour.
Soaked to the skin, she carried her saddle and blanket into the shack, stomping her feet on the tiny wooden porch to make sure any critters living inside would know she was coming and hopefully evacuate the premises.
The shack was about ten feet by twelve and smelled musty, but as she stepped in out of the rain, she was glad to see that there didn’t seem to be anything else sharing the space with her.
It was warmer and drier inside, and she was thankful for both as she put down her saddle and slipped the still-dry horse blanket from under her arm to drop it on a worn spot on the floor next to the wall that appeared to have the least amount of dust.
Chilled, she had just started to strip off her soaked jean jacket when a flash of lightning shot through a crack in the chinking between several of the logs of the line shack, making her jump.
Outside, her horse whinnied as thunder rumbled across the mountaintop. She froze at the sound of an answering whinny from another horse nearby.
Drawing her wet jacket around her, she opened the door a crack and peered out.
A beautiful white horse with leopard spots stood in the trees below the shack. Rory caught the flash of silver from the expensive tack and saddle as lightning sliced through the darkened sky. The horse started, then bolted, taking off into the trees back the way Rory knew it had come.
She recognized the horse from earlier. A Knabstrup. She’d only read about the horses before she’d seen the groomers working with them at her royal neighbors’. Not surprising since the horses were originally from Germany—the Knabstrup breed having always been a symbol of the decadence of the aristocracy in Europe.
But where was the rider?
Rory swore as she turned back inside the shack to button her jacket and grab her hat, knowing even before she stepped into the pounding rain that the rider of the horse had been thrown and was probably lying in a puddle on the ground with his fool neck broken.
As much as she disliked storms—and the kind of neighbors who’d bought up half the county to build a palace in the middle of good pasture land that they wouldn’t live in for more than a few weeks a year, if that—Rory couldn’t let another human die just outside her door.
The temperature had dropped at an alarming rate, signaling an early snowstorm. Anyone left out in it was sure to freeze to death before morning.
“It would serve the danged fool right,” she muttered to herself as she stomped down the mountainside to where she’d seen the horse. “Who with any common sense would go out in this kind of weather?” Unless they were trespassing on their royal neighbors’ property, of course.
In a flash of lightning, she spotted the man lying in an open spot between the trees, surrounded by a bed of soft brown pine needles and a thick clump of huckleberry bushes, both of which, she hoped, had broken his fall.
She heard a groan as she neared, relieved he was alive. As he tried to sit up, she saw the blood on his forehead before the rain washed it down onto the white shirt and riding britches that he wore. He saw her and tried to struggle to his feet and failed.
“Easy,” she said as she dropped down next to him on the ground.
A lock of wet black hair had tumbled over his forehead. She brushed it back to check the source of the blood and found a small cut over his left eye. There was also a goose egg rising on his temple.
Neither looked fatal.
He turned his face up to her and blinked into the driving rain. His dark hair fell back and she saw the dazed look in his very dark blue eyes. His lips turned up in a ridiculous grin as those eyes locked with hers.
“A beautiful forest sprite has come to save me?”
A forest sprite?
Clearly he was either drunk or delirious. Maybe he’d hit his head harder than she thought. He had that odd accent like the others she’d seen at her royal neighbors’. As she leaned down to gaze into his eyes, lightning flashed around them and she was able to rule out a concussion.
“It is my lucky day, is it not?” From the smell of brandy on his warm breath and that goofy grin on his face, she’d say the man was tipsy.
Now that she saw he wasn’t badly hurt and was apparently intoxicated, she took some satisfaction in the fact that he’d been thrown from his fancy mount and immediately felt guilty for the uncharitable thought.
Her teeth chattered as she glanced around for his horse, wanting nothing more than to get out of the cold and rain. His horse had apparently hightailed it back to its expensive heated stables. She couldn’t blame it. She would have loved a heated stable herself just then.
A horse whinnied nearby, startling her. Not his horse. She’d seen the way it had bolted, and she doubted the horse had doubled back for the groom. Was it possible he hadn’t been out riding alone? More than possible, she realized. One of the other grooms must have been with him.
“Hello?” she called through the rain and the thick darkness of the pines and descending nightfall. “You’ve got a groom down over here.”
No answer.
She looked at the groom at her feet. He was still grinning up at her. She might have found him cute and charming and this whole incident humorous under other circumstances. Or not.
Her horse whinnied from the lean-to. This time the answering whinny was farther away. If he had been riding with someone else, they had turned back toward home, leaving him to fend for himself.
She was almost tempted to do the same thing given that the man was clearly inebriated and would now have to share her shack.
“Come on,” she said cursing under her breath as she bent down to help him up. “Let’s get you on your feet.”
Like her, he was underdressed for this type of storm, soaking wet and shivering. She had no choice. Given his condition, he would never be able to find his way back.
“Take me to your palace beautiful forest sprite,” he said and attempted a bow.
“Palace, indeed,” she muttered.
Unsteady on his feet he plainly wasn’t going far under his own power. He slung an arm over her shoulder. As they started up the mountainside, she wondered if he had any idea of how much trouble he was in.
He was bound to get fired for taking such an expensive horse out while drunk. He’d better hope that horse made it back to the barn safely. She’d bet that animal was worth more than this groom made in a year.
Lucky for him that he would be able to sleep it
