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Mounting up, she followed the main road until she found the overgrown wagon track, cutting off to the right. It didn’t appear to have been used much, but with the mill starting up again this spring, that was about to change.
She could only hope that Blake wouldn’t have a problem with access for his wagons. If by some miracle he was still able to buy the land, the issue would be resolved. If not, he could only hope the new owner would accept payment for letting the wagons cross his property.
But if the new owner was a Calder, all bets would be off.
The lower part of the wagon road cut across open land that had once been planted in wheat. The old Anderson farm lay north of here. But she wasn’t going in that direction today. This route headed south and east in a straight diagonal across the prairie. Taking the mare at a brisk walk, she set a safe path alongside the road, avoiding ruts made by the heavy wagons and deepened by rain and snow.
The sky was cloudless, the breeze like gentle fingers rippling through the yellow grass and newly sprouted blades of wild-growing wheat. How lonely it was out here, and how quiet. It was so still that Kristin fancied she could almost hear the beating of her own heart. Lulled by the sun’s warmth and the swaying of the mare, she began to drift.
A covey of quail exploded out of the grass, bursting upward under the mare’s nose. Crying and flapping, they scattered in all directions.
The mare whinnied and reared. Jerked awake, Kristin had no time to react before she was flung out of the saddle. She flew through the air and landed on her back with a thud.
For the first few moments she lay still, her breath coming in gasps, her eyes closed against the glare of the sun. She could hear the sound of the mare galloping away. Trying to catch the animal would be futile. Her mount was gone, and she was still several miles from home. Unless she wanted to be stuck out here, she had no choice except to walk—if she could.
After gingerly testing her limbs, she sat up. The vast, yellow prairie spread around her, the road barely visible through the long grass. Going back to town might be the safest choice. But it made more sense to go on. If the mare returned home on the road, Blake would come this way to look for her.
Forcing herself to move, she struggled to her feet. She was aware of a dull pain in her head. The horizon seemed to tilt one way, then another. But at least her legs worked.
The midday sun was blinding. Shading her eyes with her hand, she found her hat and jammed it onto her head. She’d had nothing to eat since breakfast, and the water canteen she’d carried was on the horse. So was the rifle. But if she sat down to wait for rescue, she could be trapped out here after dark. The only thing to do was keep moving and conserve her energy as best she could.
At least she had the road to guide her. The ruts would have been dangerous for the mare, but for her on foot, they’d be the easiest place to walk. Planting her feet, she willed her legs to move, one step, then another, making slow but steady progress.
Ahead, she could see black shapes flocking against the glare—vultures and ravens squabbling as they settled on a meal. If she kept to the road, she would have to pass within a few feet of whatever they were eating. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight. But she’d seen far worse in the war, Kristin reminded herself. This was only a dead animal.
She glimpsed the remains now. The animal appeared to be a coyote—not much of a meal for the scavengers that fought over every scrap. This was nature on the prairie, a common event in the circle of life. But as she drew closer, the buzzing flies, the smell of death, and the hoarse cries of birds ripped through the floodgates of her memory. She was back behind the lines after a night of shelling, gazing out over a nightmare landscape, with black clouds of ravens—too many to drive away—flocking in to do their grisly work.
Suddenly the memory became too much.
Seized by mindless panic, she clambered out of the roadbed and plunged away from the carnage. Running headlong through the grass, she caught her boot in a tangle of weeds, stumbled forward, and fell to her hands and knees.
Stupid, she lashed herself as the dry, prickly weeds cut into her hands. She should have just kept walking.
After a few seconds to recover, she raised her head. The fall had brought her back to her senses, but she could no longer see the road or even the birds. She knew the country well enough to make her way home, but the long-neglected grass hid many hazards—scraps of wire, animal holes, even rattlesnakes. The going would be rough until she found the road again.
She was struggling to her feet when she saw the horse—not her mare, but a pale buckskin, saddled and bridled, standing like a mirage in a haze of sunlight. Maybe she was hallucinating. But if the horse was real, catching it would save her a long, painful walk. Once home, she could identify the owner and return it, or simply turn it loose and let it find its own way.
“Easy boy.” She began walking toward the horse. Its ears pricked forward. “Good boy. Don’t run away. I won’t hurt you.” She edged closer, making little clicking noises with her tongue. The animal looked vaguely familiar, but buckskin was a common color, one she could have seen anywhere.
“That’s it, boy . . .” A few more steps and she was able to seize the reins. Straining against the sudden pull, the horse swung to one side. Only then could Kristin see the Triple C brand on its haunch—and something else.
Streaked down the horse’s side was a long smear of drying blood.
* * *
Logan staggered through the tall grass, his teeth clenched against the pain. Damned horse—if it hadn’t run off, he might’ve had a good chance of making it back to the ranch house. With water and shelter, he might have been able to tend the gunshot wound in his upper arm and save his own life. But on foot, the odds of getting there before he passed out from blood loss were slim to none.
The bullet, coming out of nowhere, had struck below the left shoulder—usually a survivable wound. But the flow of blood told Logan that the shot had nicked a blood vessel.
He had stripped off his shirt and knotted it around the wound as tightly as he could manage with one hand and his teeth. When that hadn’t been enough to stanch the bleeding, he’d found a stick and twisted it under the knot to make a tourniquet. That had helped, but not enough. He could already feel himself getting weaker. Barring a miracle, he would die from blood loss—not on the battlefield but in the middle of the godforsaken Montana prairie.
This morning, after a night torn by doubts and questions, he’d decided to ride out alone for one last inspection of the ranch property. True, he’d already told Webb that he wanted to buy the place. But he could still change his mind—and would if he couldn’t overcome his misgivings.
He had two days to make a final decision before the bank opened on Monday. The site was perfect for building his dream. It had grass and water, with plenty of space and a livable house. And its beauty whispered to his heart—home.
But every time he spoke with Webb, he sensed that this ranch would be used as a buffer and a weapon against the Dollarhides. If the tension escalated, he could find himself trapped in the middle of an all-out blood feud and forced to join in the fight.
He’d been riding the boundary of the ranch, imagining where he would put fences, when he’d spotted something shiny on the ground—probably just a brass shell casing, but it had pricked his interest. He’d climbed out of the saddle to pick it up when he’d heard the rifle shot and felt the burn of the bullet below his shoulder. In his military career, he’d been shot more than once, and he knew what to expect. For the first few seconds, despite the pain, he’d been more annoyed than worried. But then he’d noticed the blood.
