Erica Sinclair - The Range War (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I guess, Erica realizes that she won't be able to hide for long and that things are not playing out like she thought they would. Tonight we will see how this unfolds further.

[LunaDog]

Looking forward to it, as normal.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're one of my most faithful regulars. Thank you so much for your support!

[Jenny_S]

Breathing hard, she glances at her watch. Almost seven thirty.
The estate will have waken up by now.
The staff, the guests - the wealthy VIPs who came to Stone Ridge for its elite equestrian experience.

If she can get back to the main buildings, they won’t be able to touch her.
Not in broad daylight.
Not in front of people.

“They won’t risk shooting at us there,” she whispers to Lea as much as to herself.

She pulls Lea’s reins left, redirecting toward the main estate. It’s still a long way - across more open pastures, past the stables or through the manicured lanes leading to the VIP suites - but as far as she can tell, it’s her only shot.

Lea snorts, muscles bunching beneath Erica’s legs as she gallops hard and fast.

Then, the roar of an engine.

Erica’s stomach clenches.
“They’re flanking us,” she gasps.

A dark shape emerges from a parallel trail - one of the trucks, bouncing over a dirt road that cuts through the estate. They can’t drive into the trees, but they’re tracking her, matching her pace.

A second truck appears further down, angling in from another direction.

Her pulse spikes. They’re trying to box her in before she reaches the main grounds.

Not happening.

She scans ahead. The tree line is thinning. Beyond it, an open field stretches toward the stables, early morning mist still clinging to the grass. Further in the distance, she can see the first signs of life - stable hands moving in the paddocks, a group of guests heading toward the training arena.

So close.

But they’ll see her coming.

They’ll have to know something’s wrong.

That means Gibbons’ men have only one shot – literally - to stop her before she reaches safety.

The truck on her right speeds up. Dust sprays as it veers closer, trying to get ahead of her path. The second one mirrors it from the left.

Erica’s mind races. If they reach the clearing before her, they’ll have her pinned.

No. She won’t let that happen.

Slackening Lea’s reins, allows her to go straight for the fence.

The mare responds instantly, her powerful legs surging forward. The trucks accelerate, but it doesn’t matter. Lea isn’t bound to the roads.

She is fast.

The fence is coming up in a blur – a traditional splitrail fence marking the edge of the beginners’ riding pastures.
Erica has to clear it. If Lea hesitates or if she catches a hoof after this wild chase…

No time for doubt, no time for fear. No time for failure. The fence looms ahead - one mistake could cost them everything. Erica leans forward. “Fly, girl.”

The mare’s ears flick back. She knows what Erica is asking, snorting in response.

The trucks are nearly level now, one of them swerving dangerously close - desperate to cut her off.

Another gunshot rings out, the shooter bouncing around the truck’s bed as he fires his pistol.

Lea leaps.

For a breathless moment, they’re airborne. Wind rushes past Erica’s face, her stomach twisting as they clear the fence by inches.

Then there’s the impact after the jump.
Lea lands, her hooves digging into the soft earth, momentum carrying them forward in a wild sprint.

Erica risks a glance over her shoulder: the trucks can’t follow.

They slam to a stop at the fence, engines growling, men shouting. But it’s over.

She’s too close to the estate now.


~~~


The world narrows to the rhythmic pounding of Lea’s hooves and the burning fire in Erica’s lungs.

Lea surges forward, her powerful strides eating up the distance to the main grounds.

People are moving near the stables.
Guests in polished riding boots chat, unaware.
A couple stands on the terrace of the main building, coffee cups in hand, laughing at some shared joke.

They don’t know.

They don’t see the hunt raging just beyond their world of comfort and privilege.

Erica grits her teeth.
Just a little more.
Under her, Lea lunges forward, muscles bunching, hooves striking the gravel as they burst into the stableyard.

They’ve made it.

The moment the mare’s hooves hit the manicured paths of the estate, Erica knows - she’s untouchable.

Hopefully.

Behind her, the pursuing trucks screech to a halt at the edge of the grounds, their drivers unwilling to risk drawing more attention.
They vanish around the main building like predators retreating into the shadows.

For now.


~~~


Breathless, covered in dust and sweat, Erica pulls Lea to a walk, her fingers cramped around the reins.
She forces herself to sit tall, to exude control, even as her pulse jackhammers in her ears.

Around her, the guests take notice.

A man in a crisp riding jacket smirks. “Hell of a gallop, my dear! Didn’t know we were holding races so early in the morning.”

A young woman cheers. “That was incredible riding!”

A small crowd gathers, all admiration and easy laughter.
They see a skilled rider returning from a wild, exhilarating ride and they have no idea.
Maybe they even thought the shots were staff members hunting rabbits.

Erica, windswept, dirt-streaked, sweat dripping down her brow, looks around. She needs a phone, needs to call the police.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” a quiet presence among the crowd says.
Kelly Garner steps forward, her sharp gaze flicking from Erica’s reddened, dusty face to Lea’s heaving sides, taking in every detail.
Understanding dawns in her eyes.
She realizes that something is wrong.
Very wrong.

“I need a phone,” Erica says, her voice sharp with adrenaline. “Please…”

Slowly, without a word, Kelly reaches into her pocket and holds out her smartphone.
She doesn’t ask questions.
Doesn’t demand explanations.

She simply gives Erica what she needs.


~~~

[LunaDog]

That is a beautiful picture, Jenny. Almost as magnificent as your story.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, your compliments are always so flattering. Thank you so much.

[Jenny_S]

Erica takes the phone, gripping it hard, her breath still uneven. “Thanks,” she murmurs, voice hoarse.
Kelly nods once. “Anytime.”
Around them, the guests continue to chatter, oblivious to the battle that was just fought - and the war that is far from over.

Erica swings off the saddle. The moment her boots hit the ground, her knees threaten to give way.
The adrenaline is still there, humming beneath her skin, but she grips Lea’s reins tighter - grounding herself.
She won’t collapse.
Not yet.

Instead, she turns to Lea, pressing her forehead against the mare’s warm, sweat-damp skin.
“Good girl,” she whispers, her voice thick with gratitude.
She kisses the Cleveland Bay gently, inhaling the scent of earth and horse and freedom.

The moment is only fleeting.

A murmur ripples through the gathered guests as Patrick Gibbon steps forward, his smile as polished as his expensive shoes. Three of his men flank him, moving like shadows, their presence a silent but unmistakable message.

He’s the perfect host, the charming businessman.
But Erica sees beyond his polished façade.
She sees the barely contained anger flickering in his eyes, the tightness around his jaw. He’s furious.
And he’s trying – badly - to hide it.

Erica’s pulse slams against her ribs as she fumbles for the phone. Her fingers tremble.
No matter if Sarah has already informed the State Police or not.
She needs to get a call through: a dispatcher, anyone. Someone who can listen in, who’d be a witness, someone who can send help.
If she can just…
911.

“Mrs. Sinclair.” Gibbon interrupts smoothly, his voice a thinly veiled command. “Could I speak with you in private?”

No.
Absolutely not.

Behind her, Lea nudges her shoulder, a solid, grounding presence.
Erica steadies herself, gripping the phone like a shield, her thumb hovering over the dial button.
She takes a breath, swallows.

In a voice sharpened from years in the courtroom, clear and unwavering, she commands the space:
“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please!”

The murmuring around her stops. Heads turn. Eyes focus.

She stands tall, a force to be reckoned with, her skin burning beneath the steel of the Rolex on her wrist.
And somewhere deep inside, she hears her father’s voice.
“When you’re ambushed, don’t lay low. Counterattack. It’s the last thing the enemy expects.”

She does not lay low.
And she sees it - the flicker of irritation in Gibbon’s carefully curated mask as he’s trying to figure out her angle.
Her thumb, slick with sweat, hits the call button. There’s no room for error. Not now.

The line connects.
Dispatch is listening.

She doesn’t hesitate.
“Look at them. You saw it. Three trucks. Three men. Hunting me like an animal - on his orders.”

Erica’s voice cuts through the early morning air, clear and unwavering, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Gasps ripple through the gathered guests. Some exchange uncertain glances, others frown, still piecing together what they just witnessed.

“This was not a stunt,” she continues, her pulse pounding as she locks eyes with the crowd as if she’s in Court addressing the Jury.
“Not a dramatic display of horsemanship for your entertainment. Employees of this man right here…” she points directly at Gibbon “Chased me down because I freed Sarah Henshaw. A young woman they had kidnapped to force her mother into selling Ironwood Pastures. Selling it to Patrick Gibbon - so he could add her land to his empire.”

The reaction is instant.
A murmur spreads, shifting toward outrage. Some of the guests step back, instinctively distancing themselves from Gibbon.
Quite a few of them know Margaret Henshaw, until recently, had their horses stabled at Ironwood.

Gibbon closes in on Erica, his hands raised in a pacifying gesture, a controlled, polished move.
His mask of charm is slipping, though, his eyes flashing with barely restrained fury.
“Mrs. Sinclair…” His voice is smooth, but it carries the weight of a threat.

Erica stands her ground. Lea shifts behind her, snorting, sensing the tension.

“Stay back, Mr. Gibbon!” she commands, her tone slicing through his attempted control.

No retreat, no surrender.


~~~


She raises her chin, her voice ringing out stronger than before.
“All the “accidents”, the “mishaps” and the deliberate sabotage Margaret Henshaw has suffered these past weeks – he has been pulling the strings from the start sabotaging her business. And when that didn’t work, he had her daughter kidnapped yesterday.”

Erica’s gaze hardens, her grip tightening on the phone.
She won’t let him spin this.
“I found Sarah tied up and gagged, terrified and alone, locked inside a ‘Private’ cabin on this estate. And these men - his thugs - tried to stop me from getting her out.”

A hush falls.
The weight of her words settles over the crowd like a storm about to break.

Among the guests there’s uncertainty, disbelief - until someone, a former client of Margaret Henshaw’s, moves over to stand next to Erica.
Then another.
The air shifts.
The first apparent crack in Gibbon’s façade.

A woman gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.
A man in a tailored blazer stiffens, looking between Erica and Gibbon with dawning horror. Someone in the back mutters, “Dear God…”

His composure shatters.
Not sure what to do, his men look at their boss, waiting for his orders.
“Nonsense!” Gibbon roars, his voice cracking with anger. “Stop this – I insist…”

Coming up the access road, the wail of police sirens cuts through the morning air.
The sound slices through the tension, sharp as a blade.
Heads turn toward the distant approach of flashing blue and red lights.

For the first time since this confrontation began, Gibbon falters, looks as if he is considering making a dash for it.

Erica watches it happen.
The shift.
The moment when power tilts.
And she knows – he has lost.

“Mr Gibbon, you can explain everything to the police and the District Attorney… You’re going to need a very good lawyer.”


~~~

[LunaDog]

"You’re going to need a very good lawyer.”

There's one of those standing right in front of him right now. But, i don't think so!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I would think that this lawyer is committed already, to Ironwood Pastures.

[Jenny_S]

Epilogue:

Two days after the confrontation at Stone Ridge Equestrian, Erica slides out of her black Volvo, shutting the door with a quiet thunk. The crisp air carries the scent of damp earth and horses, tinged with the faintest trace of wood smoke from the ranchhouse chimney. The stable yard crunches beneath her moccasins as she slings her handbag over her shoulder.

A familiar figure emerges from the stable. Kelly Garner.
She lifts a hand in greeting, her movements easy, unhurried.

Erica waves back, her fingers brushing against something in her coat pocket - the plastic edge of Kelly’s access card.
She had taken it from her desk that other morning and now that Kelly is back at Ironwood Pastures, it seems like a relic from a world she had walked away from without looking back.
Would she want to have it?
Probably not.
Some things are better left unspoken.

Erica crosses the yard, her steps steady, deliberate. With a smile, she clasps Kelly’s outstretched hand, their grip firm, mutual understanding passing between them without a word.

Inside the stable, the low murmur of shifting animals fills the air.
And then - Lea.

The Cleveland Bay mare stands in her stall, ears pricking forward the moment she spots Erica. The sight of her here, safe, home, settles something deep inside Erica’s chest.
She steps forward, her fingers finding the mare’s velvety muzzle. “Hey, girl.”
Her voice is softer than she intends, a whisper of gratitude only Lea can hear.

The stable isn’t just Lea’s home.
Again, it’s the home of most of the horses that had once been here, their owners having left the sleek luxury of Stone Ridge behind the moment they learned the truth about Gibbon and how he had tried to strongarm Margaret Henshaw.

Kelly leans against the stall door, arms crossed, watching the reunion with quiet amusement. “We still have a few vacancies, but word will spread.”

Erica strokes Lea’s neck, feeling the solid, steady warmth of the mare beneath her palm. “I hope so,” she murmurs. Then, voice dropping lower, “Now that Gibbon is busy containing the fallout, his lawyers will have told him to stay away from Ironwood.”


~~~


Later, Erica joins Margaret Henshaw in her office - a small, warm space where big decisions get made over strong coffee and quiet resolve. The late afternoon light slants through the windows, catching the steam rising from their mugs.

Erica cradles her coffee between both hands, letting the ceramic heat chase off the chill she can't quite shake. Across the desk, Margaret sits back, her own mug cooling untouched beside her.

“Sarah was released from hospital this morning,” Margaret says quietly. “A few scrapes, sore wrists from being tied up. She’s been lucky.”

Erica nods, then takes a slow sip. “I hope the inner scars heal just as well,” she murmurs. “What she went through... that doesn’t just fade.”

Margaret exhales, the sound low and heavy. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t.”
Her gaze drifts toward the window. “The Assistant DA in White Plains wants to talk to us tomorrow. He’s not convinced he can tie Gibbon to the kidnapping.”

Erica lowers her mug, resting it carefully on the desk as she leans forward, elbows on her thighs.
She doesn’t need to ask why - she already knows.
Sarah never saw her kidnappers' faces. Gibbon will be smart enough to deny everything. The chase? A misunderstanding, overzealous employees mistaking her for a horse thief. The sabotage? Unfortunate coincidences that he had no hand in.

It’s a fragile case at best and Erica knows she’d tear it to pieces in Court if she were to defend Gibbon.
“I know,” she says quietly. “He wants to see me as well.”

Silence stretches between them until Margaret straightens, like she’s forcing her spine back into alignment. “On a brighter note,” she says, trying a brave smile, “most of our clients have come back.”

Erica smiles slightly. “As long as you didn’t sign anything with Gibbon…”
Snorting, opening her desk drawer, she pulls out a thick stack of pristine papers and tosses them on the desk. “Definitely not.”

Erica lets out a small laugh, but it fades quickly. She wraps both hands around her mug again, staring into the dark swirl of her coffee.

Ironwood Pastures is safe.
Sarah is home.
Lea is back where she belongs.

And yet, it doesn't feel like victory.
Not really.
There’s no satisfaction in knowing that Patrick Gibbon will likely walk.

Erica knows the law too well to pretend otherwise.

She looks up at Margaret and offers a tired, rueful smirk.
“We may have won this range war,” she says softly, “but it still feels like a defeat.”

Margaret doesn’t answer.
She just nods slowly, as she knows exactly what Erica means.

Outside, the sky is turning the color of old iron.
Erica finishes her coffee in silence, the bitter taste oddly fitting.



The End
…but Erica Sinclair will be back in the gripping thriller “Erica Sinclair – Code of Silence.”

[LunaDog]

“We may have won this range war,” she says softly, “but it still feels like a defeat.”

Kind of sums it all up, really. Let's hope that Margaret triumphs ultimately. b.t.w. magnificent story Jenny, as is usual from you.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much for the very kind compliment. The ending to this story might be open, but at least we know that Margaret got her clients back - most of them at least - and the danger of being forced to sell to Stone Ridge is contained. Sarah is back, whole, and hopefully, she will heal.
Maybe Erica has to be happy with what they were able to achieve, but we know how she is: passionate and willing to risk something when fighting for what is right and just.

[LunaDog]

She sure is. Would we like her to be anything else? Not me!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, so check out the new story "Erica Sinclair - Code of Silence" where a young student gets silenced and a crime swept under the rug. We will see if Erica is able to change this.
viewtopic.php?t=23985

[LunaDog]

Of course i'll check it out Jenny. It's a pleasure to read all of your 'Erica Sinclair' stories!