AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Of course,” he replied with the corners of his mouth tilted up and a glance at the two four-wheelers he had out and ready.
She needed a head start if she had any hope of beating him. His machine was bigger than hers, although her aim was better. It had been eighteen months since she’d seen her best friend. He might fall for the oldest trick in the book.
She gasped. “Holy smokes! Look at that!” She pointed at the sky behind him. “Is that a bald eagle?”
She chuckled as he turned, falling for her ruse. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Not a bird, either.
As soon as he turned, she spun and raced to the four-wheelers. He already had their rifles on the racks, the ammo strapped down beside them. She jumped on hers, started it, and gunned the motor.
Behind her, she could hear him shouting. Something about not being fair or some such nonsense.
What wasn’t fair was that he had more power under his seat than she did. That’s what wasn’t fair. But it was his ranch, his machines. He’d had the same one since before they graduated from high school eleven years ago. She’d actually had the same one as well. His old machine.
She couldn’t complain. Not every girl was blessed with a best friend whose family owned a thousand-acre ranch in North Dakota. Actually, in all her world travels, she’d never met anyone else with that benefit. Palmer was a one-of-a-kind guy, and she regretted all the time she’d taken their friendship for granted.
He hadn’t caught up to her by the time she hit the bend in the road where it cut behind the corral and angled up between two hundred-acre fields.
The four-wheeler cornered the turn on two wheels. Ames hunkered down, lowering the center of gravity and leaning her body into the turn. The wide blue North Dakota sky soared above her as she came out of the curve, the road straightening and arrowing off into the flat distance. The ATV bounced back down. She pressed the throttle wide open. After a one-second lag time, the motor screamed, and the four-wheeler jumped ahead. Flat rows of flax and a deep green carpet of wheat flew by as she raced up the middle.
Tempted to turn and look to see if Palmer was catching her, she kept her gaze straight ahead. As fast as she was going, a little tilt of the wheel could make her spin out of control. Part of going this fast was knowing what boundaries she could push.
The wind whipped through her hair, and she couldn’t keep the happy smile off her face. LA was great. Hiking in the Himalayas was fabulous, and winning two Olympic gold medals was awesome, but nothing compared to being home.
She heard Palmer before she saw him. He might have a bigger machine, but he was heavier. Actually, now that she thought about it, it looked like he’d gained weight. Not around the middle, but his shoulders were much broader than she remembered. His biceps bigger. She always thought of him as this skinny guy from high school, but as she’d been living her dreams out in the world, he’d been here on the ranch, running it with his brother and sister and obviously doing enough physical labor in the process to add a pile of muscle to his lanky frame.
The screaming of his machine grew louder, and he crept into her peripheral vision. The road was straight, the ground flat, but at the speeds they were going now, it would be foolish for her to turn her head to see how close he was. Focusing on keeping the handlebars steady, she pressed the accelerator with her thumb, ignoring the burning in the side of her hand. The competitor in her couldn’t give up.
He was beside her now on the dirt road. She didn’t have to turn her head to know what his face looked like. He’d be smiling, of course. But there would also be that little furrow between his brows. The one that he always had when they competed. She’d practiced for hundreds of hours to win gold in the biathlon at the Olympics, but there was absolutely no question that Palmer was the main reason she stood on the top podium. His face was the one she saw as the flag was raised and she had her hand over heart as the anthem of her country played. He never gave quarter.
Always having the smaller ATV had caused her to become a better shooter. Flat-out racing had improved her concentration and ability to handle her rifle despite the adrenaline coursing through her body.
What Palmer and she did here on the ranch in the summer wasn’t close to an actual winter Olympic biathlon race where racers skied to each target that they had to aim at and shoot, although she and Palmer did race on skis when she was home in the winter. They didn’t do the shooting the same either. But it didn’t matter. Her competitions with Palmer had given her the grit she needed to win.
Their makeshift shooting range was just ahead. She crouched behind the handlebars, trying to wring out every ounce of aerodynamics she could.
She didn’t give an inch when he locked the tires and fishtailed the rear end, stopping right in front of the range. She slid around to a stop right beside him and was only a second behind him grabbing her rifle and ammo off the rack.
They always shot this one in the prone position, wrists not touching the ground. On a good day, she could load her single-shot, lever-action .22 in 4.3 seconds. Palmer was about two seconds slower.
Drawing herself in, calming her muscles and heart, she steadied her breath. At the Olympics, she was never the fastest skier on the course. This is where she made up her time. She could calm her body, and she never missed a shot, loading her rifle faster and shooting more accurately than anyone else.
She gently squeezed the trigger on the first shot. Fifty meters downrange, in the middle of the green wheat field, her first 4.5 cm target disappeared.
Four more shots downed the other four targets. This wasn’t an Olympic race, and as she rose to her feet and raced to her four-wheeler, she gloated at Palmer, “Ha! Eat dust,Cowboy.”
Hooking her rifle on, she started her four-wheeler and gunned it toward the next makeshift shooting range.
Again, Palmer caught her just before the range, and again, she outshot him, this time from a standing position. The targets were slightly bigger, but it never mattered to her. She could hit anything she could see. The first time.
The road followed the rectangular field, and she took the last corner on two wheels, heading back toward the barn. Halfway between the corner and the barn, she skidded to a stop at the last homemade shooting range. This time, she’d beaten Palmer there, and that almost guaranteed her win.
She kept her concentration, though, as she yanked her rifle out and jumped off the four-wheeler. Palmer skidded to a stop beside her. Close. So close, she thought he was going to hit her, and she committed the cardinal sin: she looked at him.
Normally, in any professional race, she wouldn’t even acknowledge that she had competitors. She raced like she had blinders on.
However, the competitors skied, or a few times, she’d competed in the summer equivalent of a biathlon where the competitors jogged. She’d never had to worry about an overeager competitor hitting her with his ATV.
Palmer didn’t hit her, but the damage was done. It wasn’t that she looked at him, per se. It was more aboutwhathe looked like. His plain white t-shirt clung lovingly to shoulders as wide as cross members on electric wires. His biceps bulged as he grabbed his rifle. His long, jean-clad legs flexed with power and strength as he leapt off the four-wheeler and raced to get in position.
