Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (ebook e reader .txt) 📕

“Helena. Wasn’t that Papa’s –?”

“Wait here, I said!”

Suzette sniffed. “Don’t yell.”

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I cradled her carefully. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell. But do as I say. Sit here and keep still.”

She sniffed and buried her face in the blanket. “I hate this forest.”

I hugged her tight, then swung my leg over the saddle and dropped down. The jarring pain rang all the way from my leg to my neck. I limped all the way back to the clearing to retrieve Papa’s musket. It was still warm. I could smell the gunpowder from its recent shot. He missed shooting whatever attacked him. Or his bullet failed to stop it.

Something rustled through the bushes at my left. I dropped the musket and aimed my crossbow at the approaching footsteps.

Father Vestille strode from the forest on his Palomino, right into my sight. He flinched as his horse started a little. I lowered the crossbow.

“Helena? What –?”

“Papa’s missing.” My words came out half-choked.

His eyes widened at the bloody musket. He scanned the area. “Which way?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see. Somewhere back that direction.”

His face turned to iron. “Take Suzette home and round up some men. Go.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Take your sister home!”

I bit my lip. I knew he was right. She had already seen too much. But I couldn’t lose the chance to find Papa.

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I had to trust Father Vestille to find him.

I hobbled quickly back to Crimson as Father Vestille galloped off. We raced home, faster than ever.

It felt like forever.

When we finally reached the cottage, Mama sat waiting on the front stoop, as always.

Suzette screamed for her and Mama came running.

I left Suzette with her.

Suzette babbled, waving her blanket wildly as Mama hugged her tight. Mama turned to me with frantic eyes. “What happened? Where’s your father?”

“I don’t know. Father Vestille’s searching for him. I’m going back.”

“Helena, wait!”

I sped away. I had no time to find more men in the village. Who would I find? Who would listen to me, other than the Leónes? Every moment spent asking for help was another moment lost.

We pounded back into the darkness of the forest. A few minutes later, we reached the spot where Father Vestille had met me. I yanked the reins, jarring Crimson to a halt, and listened.

Crimson followed my lead and kept still, while my heart beat like a drum.

Something wailed.

We charged toward it, darting around tree trunks. I ground my teeth, the crossbow in my fist.

A dark figure knelt on the ground ahead. Crimson skidded to a halt as I aimed at the man in black.

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It was Father Vestille, bent over on the ground. Sobbing as he clutched a scarlet cloth to his chest.

It was Papa’s tunic.

Covered in blood.

I smelled the drying puddles of blood scattered throughout the area. I saw pieces of Papa.

A scarlet finger. A boot with part of the torn leg still inside. Some piece of indistinguishable flesh lying mangled against a tree trunk.

Bile rose at the back of my throat but I stilled it. Crimson snorted and stamped his hooves, sharing my shock and rage.

Father Vestille simply wept, doubled over my father’s tunic, rocking back and forth.

I searched in all directions, listening, smelling the air. Nothing but pine and decay from my father’s blood.

Father Vestille finally rose, clutching Papa’s shirt. He trudged to his horse, hanging his head. His robe covered with Papa’s blood. “We must tell your mother,” he rasped.

I kept scanning the trees, kept listening for movement. My grip ached on the crossbow.

Something rustled in the bushes. I whirled and fired as a reflex, pinning a small rabbit to the dirt. It let out a pitiful squeal as my bolt pierced its belly. I examined it.

Papa would have been impressed by my quick reaction.

I studied the rabbit another few seconds.

Then bent to grab another bolt from the saddle pouch, loaded it with my left boot, and waited.

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There were no sounds. Only the bunny’s plaintive cries.

No more of Papa’s booming voice,

ordering me inside. No more of his smile or his pride in my latest kill. No more of his horsey-rides with