Demons and Stilettos are a Girl's Best Friend

“This can’t be happening. Please tell me this can’t be happening.”

Trees zipped by at a fast clip, and Anne Jenkins rode low over her horse’s neck to avoid being struck in the face by the leafy branches. Of course the animal didn’t answer, but he was spooked enough to lengthen his powerful stride, nearly unseating her from the old-fashioned sidesaddle.

Risking a glance between the horse’s white ears, Anne’s heart lodged in her throat to see the sharp drop of a ravine looming in the distance. At the rate Sampson moved, they’d both be dumped over the side, never to be heard from again. Anne screamed and dropped the reins. In her panic, she wound her fingers tight through the coarse hair of the horse’s mane.

Who would have thought a turkey vulture who ventured too close to the staging area would frighten the rental horse? Life in southern Indiana is much different than the city.

The sound of Sampson’s hooves beat a pattern and rang in her ears. The jarring movement scrambled her brain. Anne wondered how much it would hurt if she were to jump off right now. Probably much less than the death plunge, but terror held her paralyzed to the animal’s back. Never a great equestrian, she fought the urge to throw up as death loomed closer. Sweat ran down her back, making the thin cotton of her nineteenth century gown stick to her skin. Crap! I’m going to die, looking like a cheap knock-off of some obscure Gothic romance heroine. Not my best day, but not my worst either.

“Whoever’s out there in the universe, and if you’re really listening, I’ll do anything if you can just save me from what will probably be a very messy, painful death.” Anne didn’t want to die a thirty-something single woman who hadn’t been laid for longer than she cared to admit. Chances were, her friends would be smarmy enough to put that very thing on her tombstone.

Life did indeed flash before the eyes of a soon-to-be-dead person, Anne reflected, as images from the past three decades glided through like a movie on steroids. Failed romantic relationships, a string of dead-end jobs, toxic friendships, co-dependant familial issues. At the end of the film, she knew for certain. Her life had been nothing but a series of stupid decisions.

Perfect. A spectacular end to a flash-in-the-pan life.

She never made a difference. Never left her mark. Now, she’d leave behind a bloody carbon footprint. How unfair that the only excitement she’d known came right before she met her maker? Fear tightened her chest, and a rivulet of sweat eased down one temple to blend with the few tears.

At some point, Anne’s sunglasses had bounced off her head, and now the midday September sun glared so that she had to squint in order to watch her death unfold. She stopped short of closing her eyes fully because curiosity about what things would look like on the fall down the side of the limestone drop took precedence. Southern Indiana in the early autumn always made her breathless. Leaves, barely beginning their change from green to the reds and golds of fall decorated the forest at every glance. She wondered if she’d feel the same way seconds before she expired.

The powerful rev of a motorcycle warred with the frantic pounding of the hooves, yanking her out of thoughts of death. Out of place in the benign forest setting, she twisted in the saddle to peer behind her. Sure enough, a motorcycle and rider approached, whizzing toward her and the runaway horse. Vision blurry from the free-form gallop, Anne watched as the distance between them narrowed. When the rider edged close enough, she let go of the mane to give the stranger a crazy wave then gripped the pommel of the saddle.

“Help me!”

As if the helmeted rider understood her, he gave her a one-hand gloved salute then leaned forward. The bike increased in speed until seconds later it rocketed past Anne and her out of control horse. In a bold move, the motorcyclist cut wide across the horse’s path. Sampson, already freaked out, skidded to an abrupt halt, reared up, and let loose a terrified whinny. Anne, not prepared for such a violent end to the impromptu action, slid from the saddle. Branches tore at her hair and smacked her face as she landed in a flurry of lacy skirts and jumbled limbs on the grassy forest floor.

Her heart raced. Her stomach churned. Unfortunately, Sampson, apparently glad to be rid of his inexperienced rider and not liking the noise, took off for parts unknown and soon vanished into the thick tree line.

Anne stood on shaky legs to thank her rescuer and see about retrieving the horse. The rider revved his engine. The sound echoed through the previously quiet area.

“Damn it.” She planted her hands on her hips, frowning as the motorcyclist brought the mechanical beast to a stop four feet in front of her. When it appeared he hadn’t heard her, she cleared her throat and repeated her statement at the same time he shut off the engine. The curse rang in the sudden silence.

“Why the hell did you do that? Now, if I can’t find the stupid horse, I’ll have to pay for it. Do you know how much a rental horse probably costs?”

“Normally, a thank you would be the appropriate response,” came his initial reply in a husky voice that conjured images of Hollywood bedroom scenes.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Thanks.”