Page 8 of Property of Legend

Chapter 4

Sophie

The sun’s barely up when I find it.

A call from the stables brings me running, boots half-laced, sleep clinging to the corners of my eyes.But once I reach the lower pasture, any lingering dreams vanish.

It’s a foal.Or was.

The little filly lies twisted in the mud, flank torn open like paper, steam rising from her torn belly.She’s not dead.Not yet.One eye rolls wildly, legs kicking in spasms that break my heart.

“Jesus,” someone mutters behind me.

“I got it,” I say, waving off our yearling manager, Gibbs, already reaching for his rifle.

This is my land.My problem.

I kneel beside the foal and press a hand to her shaking neck.She’s still warm.Barely breathing.It’s cruel to leave her like this.Flies already circle, drawn by the copper tang of blood.

“Go get Doc Howard,” I say without looking up.“Now.”

The worker runs.But we both know the vet won’t get here in time.

I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the .38 I keep for snakes and worse.My fingers tremble.

The first time I held this gun was after Midnight Glory died.Back when I still believed in monsters.

Back when I still believed in him.

I press the muzzle behind the foal’s ear and whisper, “Sorry, sweet girl.”

One shot.

Silence, except for the thud of her body going still and the startled calls of birds overhead.

Blood spatters my boots.I don’t flinch.

Instead, I sit there for a minute, just breathing, hand on the foal’s still-warm coat, and remember the last time something like this happened.

Midnight Glory.

My father’s prize stallion.Possible Derby winner.The once pride of Paradise Falls.

Slaughtered one night in the middle of summer.Torn open the same way.Like something had hunted him.Not for food.For rage.

And when we found him, we didn’t find Hudson.

Not right away.

The stable hand ran, but his boy was missing.When they finally found Hudson, he was changed.Blood on his shirt.Eyes wide, wild.Talking nonsense about a creature in the woods.Clawed prints that didn’t match any predator we knew.A noise he said wasn’t human.He was fifteen and terrified, and no one believed a word he said.

They thought his father did it.And that he was in on it.An accomplice.Maybe even a kid so fucked up, he was capable of such an unspeakable slaughter.

The son of a runaway drunk and a missing woman.The boy who lived on the edge of town in a trailer that smelled like whiskey and pine sap.Of course, they thought him capable.

Except me.

I believed him.

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