Powder Keg by Ed Gorman Page A

apologize?”
    “Well, I thought it might at least be a possibility.”
    “Well, it isn’t.”
    That didn’t leave me with a whole hell of a lot to say.
    We plunged ahead.
     
    About half an hour later, the snow still thin but the sun long gone, I heard Jen shout—heard the sound but not the word.
    What I saw was Jen half-throwing herself off her horse. She landed on an icy patch just off the trail and skidded a couple feet before she was able to balance herself.
    “She may have hurt herself,” Jen said.
    The horse held its foreleg daintily off the ground. It snorted softly.
    I went over to it and brushed its face free of snow and then squatted down next to it. Jen was beside me within seconds.
    After checking the hoof, we both took turns gently examining the areas of the forearm, knee, fetlock joint, and the pastern. Those were the most likely places where injury would have been done.
    “We hit an icy patch that startled her and she sort of reared and when she came down on her weight, she limped a little. I got off her as soon as I could.”
    I kept touching parts of her lower leg. I couldn’t feel any broken bones or swollen patches. But then bruises or muscle pulls could be just as painful.
    Jen said: “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting. I always thought I did pretty well under pressure. But I’m finding out otherwise. I really am sorry.”
    “Like you say, he’s your brother. I don’t know that I’d be acting any better.”
    “Oh, sure. After all you’ve been through.”
    I stood up. Brushed my jeans off. “Before the war, this old sergeant told me that you never know who’ll do well in battle. And he was right. Some of the really tough men just folded right up. And some of the quiet little men, who didn’t look like very much, they kept calm and helped the other soldiers all through the war. And a situation like this is no better. You’re holding up very well.”
    She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then laughed. “Your cheek is like marble. Could you even feel my lips?”
    “Not much. Maybe if we ever get in a nicer spot, we’ll try that again.”
    She smiled and then looked down at her horse’s leg. The foot was on the ground now.
    “Think I should try and walk her?”
    “Worth a try. Just take it slow.”
    She nodded, picked up the reins.
    We both muttered curses when the animal took its first step. A decided limp.
    She halted the animal. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
    “Let’s see if she can walk it off. If it’s muscular, that’s at least a possibility.”
    A wave of sprayed snow covered a wide area, including us. It had the feel of somebody sprinkling salt on you.
    “All right,” she said. “Guess I should try one more time.”
    You always feel sorry for the horse in a moment like that, but being a selfish human being, your own needs are stronger than your pity and so you watch with more objectivity than you should. The horse limped four more times when pressure was put on the damaged leg.
    “I just can’t put her through this anymore, Noah.”
    “Keep going.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Just keep going.”
    I’d been around enough military horses in enough military situations to know that sometimes the animals could surprise you—and probably themselves—if you kept pushing.
    And that was what she did, finally.
    Limp limp limp.
    And Jen frowning and cooing and making maternal sounds.
    And then—no limp.
    Three, four, five times, no limp.
    And this time, it wasn’t just a peck on the cheek I got.
    This time it was arms thrown around my neck and our lips lingering on each other for a good long time.

Chapter 19
    L ater in the afternoon, after the snow and wind had abated for nearly an hour, we picked up tracks their horses had left in a stretch of powdery snow. No wagon tracks, though. Anybody who lived in the foothills had probably stayed inside that day, fearing the snow.
    Because there was no ice on that stretch, we made good time on the snow, leading