Chapter 8 #2
We began slowly, a walk to loosen his stride, my weight finding its familiar place in the saddle.
Then a trot, his gait rolling smoothly, covering the ground with ease.
A lope followed, circles widening gradually, our rhythm syncing—breaths aligning, sweat beginning to form as the sun climbed higher.
The next two hours passed in a gentle blur: figures traced at a jog, serpentines to keep him supple, a few low jumps over rails the hands had set, nothing elaborate but enough to stretch his legs.
Flapjack moved with power, his ears flicking, that big heart beating steadily beneath me.
By the end, we were both lathered—his coat darkened with sweat, mine trickling down my back, shirt clinging to the damp. Yet we felt loose, worked out, the kind of tiredness that settled deep and carried a quiet satisfaction.
Back in the barn—still a stretch to call it that without a faint smile—I led him to the wash stall, the water cool and steady from the nozzle, likely temperature-controlled to match the care of the place.
Flapjack sighed into it, his eyes half-closing with gratitude as the spray eased the heat from his skin.
I worked quickly, rinsing thoroughly, toweling off the worst of the moisture, then left him to graze on a fresh flake while I brushed the tangles from his mane.
A glance at my watch showed two-forty, a sudden twist in my gut reminding me I was running late. The "date"—walk, research, whatever term she’d used to keep it safe—loomed close.
I scratched Flapjack’s forehead one last time, his nose already buried in the fresh grain the attendant had pitched. "Be good, buddy. Back soon."
With my truck keys in hand, I hurried to the drive, clouds rolling thicker overhead, the air growing heavy with the unmistakable tang of wet earth and ozone, hinting at an impending downpour.
The wipers moved lazily as I pulled onto the main road, traffic thickening with people hurrying as if they sensed the change.
The Rise wasn’t far, nestled on a side street off East Bay, a place that seemed unassuming yet drew you in with its inviting aroma.
I parked a block away, rain spitting fitfully against the windshield now, and walked quickly with my collar turned up against the first drops. There she was, visible through the window—Natalie, seated at a corner table on the covered patio, her phone in hand, thumb moving slowly across the screen.
She was the most striking thing I’d ever laid eyes on, no doubt about it.
She’d swapped her field gear for something softer—a light blue sundress, sleeveless, clinging gently to her shoulders and dipping just enough at the neckline to catch the eye.
Her hair fell loose now, golden waves cascading past her collar, catching the light in a way that seemed almost deliberate.
Her legs were crossed beneath the table, one ankle resting casually, the tan of her skin glowing against the wood of the chair.
She glanced up once, scanning the door, her lips pressed together in thought, that full lower lip briefly caught between her teeth. It struck me low and deep, a pull I hadn’t felt in years—not since before the scars accumulated and the world grew harder.
It made me want to approach slowly, to ease into the seat across from her, to see her eyes brighten at my arrival.
It pushed aside the rain, the stables, the subtle unease this place stirred.
Just her. Stunning, yes, but more than that—the way she carried herself, relaxed yet vibrant, as if she held both storms and sunlight in equal measure.
I was far enough away that she hadn’t noticed me yet, leaning against a lamppost across the street, rain beading on my shirt.
Then it happened. A man in a hoodie, scruffy and unkempt, passed her table like any other pedestrian. In mid-stride, he turned sharply, snatching her purse—a leather tote slung casually over the chair back—and took off, his legs moving awkwardly down the sidewalk.
I didn’t pause to think. I just ran.
Though I was a big man, I could move fast when it mattered—my stride covering ground quickly, steps striking the wet pavement with purpose. People scattered, heads turning, a woman with a stroller letting out a startled sound as I passed.
"Hey!" a voice called out, but I kept my focus, my eyes fixed on the thief’s back, the hoodie flapping loosely, the purse gripped under his arm like a prize.
He veered left, darting into a narrow alley, trash bins clattering as he knocked one aside.
I cleared it with ease, knees lifting high, the rain-slick ground offering little resistance.
He jumped a low fence into a side yard, the chain-link rattling behind him, and I followed—fingers catching the top, pulling myself over in a smooth motion, landing quietly.
People watched from windows, some pulling out phones, their murmurs blending with the rising rain.
"Call the cops!" a man shouted from a porch, but I waved it off with a quick gesture, my breathing steady, attention narrowed.
He wove through back lots, dodging around parked cars in a half-full lot, tires squealing as a driver braked suddenly. I closed the distance, ten yards shrinking to eight, my breath remaining even, legs burning with a clean effort.
Another fence appeared, wood this time, its slats splintering under his clumsy scramble.
I cleared it cleanly, the landing echoing with a soft thud.
The alley opened into a quiet side street, the rain now a steady sheet, blurring the world around us.
He risked a glance back—eyes wide with panic—and that’s when I lunged, my arm hooking his collar, whipping him around to face me.
The purse skidded free across the wet ground. He steadied himself, cursing under his breath, and fumbled at his waistband—a cheap nine-millimeter gun emerging in a wild motion.
Time seemed to slow, raindrops hanging in the air, his finger trembling on the trigger.
His eyes were glassy, beady, pupils dilated wide—caught in the grip of whatever drug fueled him.
Stains yellowed the cuffs of his hoodie, the threads frayed at the hems, his shoes worn thin with soles flapping loose on one foot.
A twitch ran through his jaw, sweat mixing with the rain, his breathing ragged like that of a cornered animal.
"Give it up," I said, my voice low and steady, my knee pressing into his spine. The alley was a dead-end, the rain drowning out any distant shouts, leaving just the two of us, the patter loud in my ears.
"Fuck you," he spat, the gun wavering erratically. "Back off, man. Ain’t worth it."
"It’s hers."
My eyes stayed locked on him, taking in every detail: the way his free hand clenched, the tremor in his trigger finger, the sharp scent of fear-sweat cutting through the chemical haze. I should have backed away. Let it go. The purse wasn’t worth a bullet.
But it was hers. Natalie.
That thought anchored me, the world narrowing to the twitch of his hand, the glint of the gun.
He drooled slightly, his voice slurring. "Gonna shoot your ass."
"Try it." I shifted closer, reading the panic in his dilated eyes, waiting for the move.
I lunged as the gun barked—a sharp crack splitting the rain, a muzzle flash lighting the gray, the bullet whining high into the sky. My hand clamped down on his wrist mid-recoil, crushing hard, the bones grinding beneath my grip.
He howled, the gun slipping free to clatter on the ground. My fist followed—tight and direct to his jaw, the impact traveling up my arm. He went limp, lights out, collapsing to the wet pavement.
I stood there, my breathing even, the adrenaline settling into a quiet hum. I checked his pulse—weak but present, his chest rising slowly.
Kicking the gun aside, I retrieved the purse, rising to my feet and wiping the rain from my face as the alley came back into focus.
I turned.
Natalie stood at the mouth of the alley, her gaze fixed on me.
Rain plastered her dress against her frame, her hair falling in dark strands across her cheeks, her eyes wide with a mix of shock, fear, and something fiercer I couldn’t name.
I couldn’t read it—couldn’t tell if she saw a savior or something else entirely.
The weight of her look pressed heavier than the downpour surrounding us.