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Bradamante could see from her vantage up above the cave that her path never would have crossed the rider’s.
By the time Bradamante reached the base of the hillside, her rescuer would have ridden past and been out of view behind the slope of another canyon.
But now that Bradamante knew which way to go, and that she had to hurry, she scrambled down through the snow on the hillside, shouting as she did.
“Michaela! MICHAELA!”
There was no mistaking the long red hair.
Michaela rode a black horse. Another horse, smaller, tan-colored with a braided black and white mane, followed behind in the path carved through the snow by Michaela and the black horse.
Bradamante continued shouting, continued running, until finally Michaela turned at the sound of her name.
The redhead stopped moving.
