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?

She turned the key in the ignition again, hearing the same hollow clicking sound. 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 and terrified.

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. Even on this ill-fated drive, her speakers had blasted music to drown out the hum of the road, and Laura’s voice had been a constant companion on speakerphone until the signal vanished.

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. 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. After a month, unable to bear the ache of distance any longer, she decided that 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 somewhere 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.

Surrounded by pine and sage-covered mountains and absolute silence, the reality of her mistake crushed her.

She got out of the car and sank onto a boulder, her remaining composure shattered. All her tears really did was 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. A flicker of memory hit her. There was a house. She'd passed it just before her car started acting up. 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.

As she began to trudge back up the rutted path, picturing the toothless hillbilly answering the door.

Her determination 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, the heel snapping off. Her short skirt flew over her waist. For a stunned moment, she lay there with her green lace thong exposed to the empty sky, and Alexandra had the sickening realization that her nightmare was only just beginning.

Groaning, she pushed herself up, a shiver tracing its way down her spine. A cool breeze 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.

Her gaze landed on her ruined shoe. Hobbling, she tried to reach her car, but the uneven terrain made it impossible. With a sigh of resignation, she shed the other shoe. Each step became a delicate dance across a bed of cruel stones that dug into her skin.

Inside the car, Alexandra frantically scattered her bags. After adding a pair of bright pink socks, she slipped on the boots and started again. When she felt the fresh breeze whisper through her skirt, a new thought struck her. Jeans. Jeans would be far more practical. She dug for her designer jeans, which provided a snug, flattering fit that hugged her curves.

Fully dressed with her bag slung over her shoulder, Alexandra turned with a surge of determination, fixing her sights on a small rise, no more than a quarter of a mile distant.

The crisp, thin air of the sub-alpine Rockies made breathing a chore. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, scanning for obstacles, her footsteps heavy. Ascending the rise required stopping several times to catch her breath.

At its summit, she froze as a sleek, grey form emerged from the brush ahead, pausing to fix its gaze on her. Its muzzle was a mosaic of gold, grey, and black, framing narrowed eyes with a mocking glint. She couldn't shake the feeling that it was deliberately provoking her. Rooted to the spot, she tried to process the situation.

Then, a second coyote appeared nearby. Her heart began to pound against her ribs. Was she trapped? A glance behind revealed nothing but brush. When she turned back, the two coyotes had melted back into the undergrowth.

What if there were more, waiting to attack her? Alexandra’s survival instinct kicked in; her car was her only sanctuary. She had to get back to it.

With a surge of desperation, she turned back, her jeans and boots hindering her progress as she fought for balance. Her breath hitched in her chest, a panicked gasp against the thin air, but she dared not stop.

The hurried walk to her car was blessedly uneventful. Once inside with the door locked, she peered out into the encroaching dusk. The sagebrush began to merge into an indistinct mass of grey, and she strained her eyes, searching for any sign of pointed ears or sharp eyes. Nothing.

Fear seized her. She was convinced a pack of coyotes was about to descend. Crawling into the back seat, she frantically pulled the contents of her bags over her body, a desperate attempt at camouflage, as she endured the surrounding demonic cacophony. Trembling, she succumbed to sobs once more.

Through her ragged breathing, she failed to notice the abrupt cessation of the yipping and wailing. Silence.

A chill crept into the car, and she shivered, digging through her bags for more garments. They were thin, diaphanous things, designed for allure rather than to provide any defense against the elements.

The long, silent hours of the night stretched on before her. Exhaustion, relentless in its pursuit, finally claimed her, offering sleep as a reprieve.

In the haze, she saw a horse emerge from the morning mist. On its back sat a broad-shouldered figure in a cowboy hat, silhouetted against the morning sun, his face obscured.