The Lonely Horseman

"What kind of mess have you gotten into this time, Alex?" she whispered, the words swallowed by the vast, indifferent landscape. For the fifth time, her phone displayed the same maddening message: No Service. How could an absolute dead zone even exist? With each failed attempt to dial, a new layer of dread settled over her. She turned the key in the ignition again, receiving only a dead, hollow click in response. A glance at her watch confirmed the late afternoon sun wasn't lying; daylight was a resource she was quickly running out of. Lost, stranded, and utterly disconnected, Alexandra was, for the first time in her life, completely alone.

Solitude was foreign to her. Alexandra’s life was a carefully curated soundtrack of noise and connection; 99.9 percent of her waking hours were spent with someone, either in person or through the constant tether of her phone. Silence was an adversary she avoided at all costs. Even on this ill-fated drive, her speakers had blasted music to drown out the hum of the road, a friend’s voice a constant companion on speakerphone until the signal had vanished hours ago.

She should have been in Glendale, Arizona, by now, orchestrating the ultimate surprise for her fiancé, Cameron. Their wedding plans, in full swing when his company transferred him 2,000 miles away from their Pittsburgh home, had been put on temporary hold. A tearful goodbye at the airport marked the beginning of a separation that grew more painful by the day. The nightly Skype calls, once a comfort, soon became a heart-wrenching reminder of the miles between them. The digital image of his face just wasn't the same. Weeks later, unable to bear the ache of distance any longer, she decided their affairs in Pittsburgh could wait. She needed to be with him.

And so, with a mind full of romantic reunion scenes and a car full of packed bags, she set off. The plan was simple: follow the well-marked interstates. But Alexandra possessed a dangerous combination of adventurous spirit and a complete lack of practical skill. A road on a map labeled as a "scenic route" was an invitation she couldn't resist, and it had lured her from the safety of the highway onto a dirt path in the mountains of southwestern Colorado. The road had steadily narrowed from gravel to little more than two tire ruts, but she’d pressed on, certain a town was just over the next rise.

However, surrounded by pine and sage-covered mountains and an unblinking quiet that magnified her smallness, the reality of her mistake crushed her. She exited the car and collapsed onto a boulder, her remaining composure shattered. The sobs that wracked her body echoed into the wilderness, answered only by the rustle of unseen wildlife. All her tears really accomplished was to streak her mascara down her face and leave her gasping for breath.

Once the storm of panic passed, she wiped her face, straightened her back, and forced herself to survey her surroundings. She tried to recall the drive up this miserable track. "More like a jogging path," she scoffed, her voice sounding thin and strange in the open air.

Then, a flicker of memory: a house. She'd passed it some way back, dismissing it as a rundown shack. But a house meant people. People meant a phone. A phone meant a tow truck and an escape from this godforsaken place.

The thought of a motel, a hot shower, and a clean, soft bed was all the motivation she needed. If she started now, she could reach the house before dark.

As she began to trudge back up the rutted road, she pictured its inhabitant: some toothless hillbilly she’d only ever seen in magazines. The stereotype gave her a strange, misplaced sliver of confidence.

Her optimism lasted less than twenty feet. The four-inch heel of her designer stilettos, a ridiculous choice for any kind of travel, wedged itself in a crack between two stones. Her ankle twisted, and she tumbled forward with a cry of pain. The heel snapped off as her short skirt flew over her waist, her fall cushioned only by the hard-packed earth. Lying there, stunned and scraped, with her green lace underwear exposed to the empty sky, Alexandra had the sickening realization that her nightmare was only just beginning.

The sharp pain in her shoulder was the first thing Alexandra registered as she lay sprawled on what felt like broken glass and jagged rocks. Groaning, she pushed herself up, a shiver tracing its way down her spine. It wasn't just the pain; a cool breeze, shockingly present, kissed her bare legs and the backs of her thighs. Looking down, she flushed with mortification. Her skirt had ridden up, revealing more than she intended. A quick, furtive glance around dispelled her worst fear; there was no one around to witness her embarrassing display.

She assessed the damage, her gaze landing on her ruined shoe. Fifty yards away, her car shimmered like a mirage. Hobbling, she tried to reach it in her remaining heel, but the uneven terrain made it an impossible feat. With a sigh of resignation, she shed the other shoe, her bare feet now vulnerable to the sharp, unforgiving ground. Each step was an agony, a delicate dance across a bed of cruel stones that dug into her skin. It felt like an eternity, but after ten minutes of excruciating progress, she reached the sanctuary of her car.

Inside, the frantic search for her packed boots was a relief. She slipped them on, then hesitated. Socks would be a more sensible choice. Another bit of rummaging yielded a pair of bright pink socks. With them on, her feet felt slightly more protected as she pulled on the boots. Stepping out again, a fresh breeze whispered through her skirt, and a new thought struck her. Jeans. Jeans would be far more practical.

Back in the car, she found her designer jeans, a snug, flattering fit that hugged her curves. Slipping off the boots and skirt, she changed into the jeans, momentarily admired herself in the car's side mirror. With the jeans on, she slipped on the boots once more. As she prepared to resume her journey, a final thought surfaced: her jacket and bag. "Oh, for crying out loud," she muttered, a fresh wave of self-recrimination washing over her.

Finally, fully attired and with her bag slung over her shoulder, Alexandra turned her face back down the road. A surge of determination coursed through her as she set her sights on a small rise, no more than a quarter of a mile distant, and the arduous trek ahead. While the boots were a vast improvement over her stilettos, their three-inch heels still posed a significant challenge on the rough trail. Balancing was a constant battle, exacerbated by the restrictive, skin-tight designer jeans.

Reaching the crest of the first rise was a victory in itself. From that vantage point, she expected to see her destination. Instead, another, higher rise loomed more than a quarter of a mile further on. "Just one more," she told herself, her resolve hardening. She attempted to whistle a tune, but the crisp, thin air of the sub-alpine Rockies made even simple breathing a chore. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, scanning for obstacles, her footsteps heavy. The final ascent to the second rise was particularly steep, forcing her to stop and catch her breath several times.

As she crested the summit, a dozen large, shaggy animals, their long, slender necks adorned with darker fur, materialized before her. They had been foraging in the brush, and now, with heads snapping up, they regarded her with nervous eyes before beginning to trot away, circling back to observe her. One, a magnificent male with imposing, branching horns, stood his ground, his gaze fixed solely on her. Alexandra froze, a knot of fear tightening in her stomach. Was it a moose? A deer? It was unlike anything she'd seen outside of a zoo. And it was directly in her path. Could she scare it by yelling and waving her arms? Or would it attack?