She used herself as bait. She let me hear the breath on purpose, waited for me to commit, and broke from a second position I never even clocked. She moved behind me without making a sound.
A laugh tears out of me, muffled by the bandana.
"Oh, that was good, pretty girl. That was real good."
I turn and follow. She's pulling away from me now, boots hammering the hardpack, heading further from the bar and deeper into the open desert.
Time to change the rules.
I build the loop as I walk. Working the rope by feel, the way I've done ten thousand times on the ranch. Let the coil hang wide and loose. I don't need accuracy. I need the sound.
I swing it once above my head. Let the rope whistle through the air.
She hears it.
The shriek that comes out of her is something between terror and delight, a sound so loud it probably carries back to the parking lot. Her silhouette veers hard to the left, stumbling, and I let the loop fly wide on purpose. It sails past her by a good three feet and hits the dirt with a soft thud.
"You did NOT just try to lasso me!" she screams into the dark.
"Missed on purpose, Goldie. Next one won't."
"You're INSANE."
"You knew that when you started running."
She takes off again. Faster now. The near-miss with the rope must have kicked her adrenaline into gear, and I can hear it in the way her breathing has changed. She's sprinting flat out, and the sound of it sends something primal surging through my blood.
I stop walking.
I start running.
My boots pound the dirt, and the gap between us closes fast. She hears me coming and cuts right, dodging between two mesquite trees. I follow, ducking under a low branch, gaining ground with every stride. The desert blurs past.
I'm close enough to hear the ragged edge of each breath she takes. Close enough to see her glance over her shoulder, eyes wide, mouth open. She sees how close I am, and something between a laugh and a scream rips out of her.
She cuts a hard left without warning. Planting her boot and changing direction like she's shaking a tackle. I reach for her and my fingers close around her wrist.
Got her.
Except I don't.
She twists. Drops her weight. Yanks her arm down and through my grip with a move that's either self-defense training or pure survival instinct, and my fingers slide off her skin. My momentum carries me forward, and my boot catches a rock. I stumble. One knee hits the dirt. My free hand slams down to catch myself, and I'm eating dust while she tears away from me, cackling into the night.
"Oh, you're going to pay for that," I call after her, pushing myself up.
She's fast. She's always been fast. I brush off my knee and roll my shoulders. Settle my breathing. Pick up the rope from where I dropped it.
She's heading toward the dry creek bed that runs along the base of the mesa. It looks like open ground from a distance. But about two hundred yards out, the banks narrow and the brush thickens, and there's only one way through.
She's funneling herself into a dead end, and she doesn't even know it.
I adjust my pace. Not sprinting now. Long, easy strides that eat up the ground without burning me out. Just fast enough tokeep the sound of my boots in her ears. Just close enough to keep the pressure building.
"You're heading the wrong way, baby," I call out. "But I'm guessing you already know that."
Her menacing laugh echoes around me.
My girl is getting tired, and she wants me to catch her.
