Page 1 of My Apocalypse Cowboy
one
Rebecca
Thebeautifulchestnutmaredoesn't even look up when I creep closer.
That should be my first warning sign. In this world, animals that don't spook at human approach are either dead, dying, or belong to someone who feeds them regularly. But I'm four days past rational thinking, operating on nothing but desperation and the dregs of my last energy bar.
My boots, or what's left of them, squelch through the muddy grass of what appears to be an abandoned ranch. The buildings look intact, which is suspicious as hell, but the mare is right there, grazing peacefully like the world didn't end three years ago. Like the Iron Wolves didn't just burn my settlement to the ground and scatter my people to the wind.
I pause behind a weathered fence post, assessing. She's gorgeous, maybe fifteen hands, well-muscled, coat gleaming with health that screams regular care and good feed. The kind of horse that could carry me the remaining two days to Old PinesSettlement instead of forcing me to walk on feet that stopped feeling pain yesterday and moved straight to numbness.
"Sorry, girl," I whisper, easing closer. "But I need you more than whoever abandoned you here needs you."
The lie tastes bitter. Nothing about this place looks abandoned. The fences are too sturdy, the barn too well-maintained. Even the house in the distance has glass in all its windows—a luxury that disappeared from most places within the first year.
But I'm beyond caring about property rights. Horse thieves used to get hanged, my grandfather always said. Of course, Grandpa never had to outrun raiders while running on fumes and sheer stubborn will.
The mare lifts her head as I approach, studying me with intelligent dark eyes. I hold out my hand, letting her catch my scent. She snorts softly but doesn't shy away.
"That's right," I murmur, moving slowly despite every instinct screaming at me to hurry. "Just let me get this halter on you and we'll both get out of here."
There's a rope halter hanging on the fence post—another sign this place is actively maintained. I ignore that thought. I slip it off the post, my veterinary student training kicking in as I assess the best approach. She's calm, well-socialized. Someone's spent time with her.
Someone who's going to be really pissed when they find her missing.
I push the guilt down. Survival first, conscience later. That's been my motto since Clearwater fell.
The halter slides over her nose easily, and she doesn't resist when I buckle it behind her ears. For a moment, hope blooms in my chest. Maybe this will actually work. Maybe I'll make it to Old Pines alive.
"Planning on leaving an IOU?"
The deep male voice behind me makes me spin around so fast I nearly fall. My hand flies to the knife at my belt, the only weapon I managed to grab when the Iron Wolves hit us at dawn four days ago.
The man standing ten feet away is nothing like the scrawny scavengers and desperate survivors I've been dodging. He's huge, for starters. Tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, broad enough to block out a significant portion of the barn behind him. Dark hair that's getting shaggy, a beard that's more functional than fashionable, and eyes the color of winter storm clouds.
He's also holding a rifle with the casual competence of someone who knows how to use it.
"I..." My voice comes out as a croak. When did I last have water? "I was just—"
"Stealing my horse." His tone is matter-of-fact, not particularly angry. Almost amused. "In broad daylight. Points for boldness, I'll give you that."
My grip tightens on the knife hilt. "Your settlement's abandoned."
"Does it look abandoned to you?"
I glance around. Fresh tire tracks in the mud. Hay bales stacked neatly under cover. The distinct sound of a few cattle lowing in the distance. A dozen details I missed in my desperation that now seem glaringly obvious, and the ones I did notice can’t be explained away with excuses.
"Shit," I breathe.
"Yeah." He shifts the rifle to a more comfortable position, still not quite pointing it at me but making his capability clear. "So. Horse thief. You know what we used to do with horse thieves?"
"Hang them." The words slip out before I can stop them, some remnant of my grandfather's stories.
"That was before the world ended. These days, we're more practical." He studies me with those storm-gray eyes, taking in my torn clothes, my muddy boots, the way I'm swaying slightly on my feet. "When's the last time you ate?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Food. Water. Sleep in a real bed." His voice gentles slightly. "You look like you've been walking for days."
