How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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A horse on the far side of the river struggled. A big bay snorted, thrashing side to side. The magnificent beast sank into soft sand at the river's edge when he went to quench his thirst. As he sank deeper, he neighed loudly, calling for help. Trying to free his hoofs from the muck, the bay whipped his strong neck violently, grunting, instinctively trying to rear back on his hind legs, to kick his front legs in the air, as he would on land, but with every move his body descended deeper.
A looped rope slipped over his head. Two men apparently hoping to save him. They began to pull, but the loop tightening on his neck frightened the bay more, choking him as he struggled. It would kill him if they tugged with enough force to free him—which they couldn't do anyway.
Becoming aware of his doom, the bay's bulging eyes conveying his terror, the animal let out a paralyzing groan. He could swim across the river, run on solid ground, but at the river's edge, he found himself in neither, his knees sliding below the muck. Men watched anxiously from the far bank, reluctant to step closer for fear of ending up like the horse, swallowed by a monster.
Little Mendocino held his breath, standing by his grandfather, petrified watching the agonizing scene. Ka-Boom! The horse fell silent, his body collapsing, disappearing slowly into the sand. The men who tried to save him turned their backs.
"They couldn't save him." His grandfather lifted Mendocino to him, holding him with weathered hands. The boy buried his face in his grandfather's chest. "His owner had no choice, son. He had to put him out of his misery."
Mendocino bolted upright in bed, clammy, gasping for air, his heart pounding. It wasn't a dream. He'd watched it, with his grandfather, on the banks of the Guadalupe River in Victoria. The long-buried memory seeped into his sleep, and he shuddered awakening to the vision. He was nauseated. His heart sank.
He stepped from the canoe at Santa Elena Canyon into quicksand and it was sucking him under. He was the bay.
Driving west on US Highway 90 to Marfa an hour later, clenching and unclenching his jaw continuously, Mendocino was determined to find those men before they found him, acutely aware he would have to do it on his own. The FBI was useless. He was estranged from his family. None of them even tried to hide their disapproval of the divorce or his decision to leave law enforcement. He'd been the brother who failed at Thanksgiving dinner.
His old buddies in Dallas? Several were being sucked under in quicksand of their own, working second jobs to pay lawyers, knowing even if they won their state cases, the feds would come after them. Prosecutors would deliver at least a pound of flesh to the mob. An innocent life had been taken and someone, preferably more than one, had to pay.
He'd taken a different fork in the river when he was no billed by the grand jury, getting as far away from the memory as he could.
Now, even Amos walked out of his life. Mendocino hadn't recognized how important the friendship had become until Amos tromped off without a goodbye the night before. They looked at life through different-colored glasses. Amos was accustomed to people doing what he told them to do. Mendocino had his own mind.
