Not by my accounting, anyway. That’s what I keep telling myself as I urge my branter on through the woods. Trud, he’s a fine mount, with a chestnut hide, mane black as the sky above us, and twin horns all pearly white. Seven foot tall and ornery to boot. He’s got two huge legs that come up to my chest when I’m standing beside him—‘cept right now they pound the ground as we race between lodge pole pines.
The shouts ain’t far behind.
The messenger pack slaps against my back. My hand traps it, shoves it back.
When I signed up to carry for Sawtooth Parcel & Letters there weren’t a soul who told me I’d be shot at for riding post. The bullet hole letting air through my jacket told otherwise.