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She looked at the paperwork again.
Names.
Numbers.
Bands.
Mares.
Foals.
And only Rosie had come in visibly injured. No deaths.
That should have been a relief.
Instead, Jodie looked through the fence at Jet standing in a temporary pen, dust dulling his black coat, and remembered sunlight turning him gold.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed it down and picked up her pen. There would be time to feel this later.
Right now, the work wasn’t done.
Jodie checked the last volunteer sheet against her master list. Her finger slowed as she reached the names she’d been watching for weeks. There were no sightings of Luna, Sagebrush, or Lucky. Her pulse picked up.
Okay. Don’t do this yet. They’re still out there, somewhere. Free. Maybe they’ll stay that way.
Jodie sat back and rubbed grit from the corner of one eye. Willow sat beside her with a bottle of water pressed against the back of her neck and watched her.
“Jodie, what’s wrong?”
“I was hoping that someone would have at least seen Luna, Sagebrush, and Lucky.”
Harold was walking past the table with a radio in one hand and a clipboard under his arm. He stopped.
“Luna’s fine.”
Jodie’s head came up. “What?”
“I saw her yesterday evening.”
The words didn’t register at first. She’d spent the last four hours with a dead horse sitting in her chest.
“You saw her?”
“Yeah. Western drainage. Up toward Virgil’s north fence.” Harold frowned as he shifted the clipboard. “Hell, Jodie, I’m sorry. I thought I entered the sighting.”
“You didn’t.” She tried to keep her annoyance out of her voice. Harold looked as tired as she felt.
“No?” He pulled out his phone and tapped at the screen, then shook his head. “Apparently not. Yesterday went sideways with the helicopter delay. That’s on me.”
“When did you see her?”
“Coming on dusk. Seven-thirty, seven-forty-five, maybe a little after.”
“Was Echo with her?”
Harold’s eyebrows drew together. “Echo?”
“Her colt. He came down the funnel this morning on Cider. Four months old, and you can count every rib he’s got.”
