Bond of Unseen Blood

By Skip Coryell

Outdoor Thriller by Skip Coryell Bond of Unseen Blood Evan Novack, nicknamed Bear by his friends, can pull back a 90-pound longbow and shoot the face off a silver dollar at 100 yards. At the tender age of 14 he had already wrestled a black bear and won! Now at age 34 Bear towers over most men, and weighs in at 250 pounds of powerful, backstrapping sinew and bone-breaking muscle. In short, Bear is the envy of every man, woman and child in North Fork. Every mother s son wishes he were Bear ... except for Bear himself. Though Bear s skills and accomplishments are the stuff of local legend, he is daily tortured by his own private pain and sense of overwhelming loss. Six years earlier, Bear had been separated from his five-year-old son during a bitter divorce, but try as he may, Bear has failed to relocate the son he loves more than life itself. However, unbeknownst to Bear, his son is now orphaned and living in a foster home a thousand miles away. As Bear continues his unrelenting search for his son, little does he realize that his son has already located him and is on his way to North Fork. But tragedy steps in at the brink of reunion, and his son is kidnapped by a sociopathic killer who has vowed to destroy Bear and all he holds dear. It will take all Bear s skill and prowess as a woodsman to track down and save his son from the deranged killer. In Bond of Unseen Blood , Bear must prove his legendary status or die trying! Read this exciting, action-packed thriller to see if Bear has what it takes to save himself and his son, while simultaneously winning over the woman of his dreams!

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Feather Press
• Release date: Feb 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452404431

Skip Coryell

Skip Coryell now lives with his wife and children in Michigan. He works full time as a professional writer, and "Stalking Natalie" is his seventh published book. He is an avid hunter and sportsman who loves the outdoors. Skip is also a Marine Corps veteran and a graduate of Cornerstone University. Skip is the former Michigan State Director for Ted Nugent’s United Sportsmen of America. He has also served on the Board of Directors for Michigan Sportsmen against Hunger as well as Iowa Carry Inc. He is a Certified NRA Pistol Instructor and Chief Range Safety Officer, teaching the Personal Protection in the Home Course for those wishing to obtain their Concealed Pistol Permits (www.mwtac.com). He also teaches Advanced Concealed Carry Classes for the more seasoned shooter. Skip is the President of White Feather Press and the co-owner of Midwest Tactical Training. Skip is also the founder of the Second Amendment March (www.secondamendmentmarch.com).

Book preview

Chapter 1

The man sat in the old wooden rocker, calmly moving, forward and back, forward and back, waltzing slowly to the tune of the woods around him, thinking about nothing, soaking it all in, the breeze, the smells, the sounds. It felt good.

The front porch of his house came alive every morning like this, and every morning Bear was up before the dawn, witnessing and reveling in the miracle of God’s creation. It was getting light now, that faint, misty light that always comes first, the light that separates the darkness from the dawn, the night from the day. He glanced over and saw a raccoon scurrying through the tall grass that divided the woods from his cabin, and overhead he heard the wings of an owl on its way home. Sunrise and sunset - the best parts of his day, the alpha and omega of his life. He likened it to nature’s changing of the guard.

He sighed, just one more month and deer hunting season would be here. He could already feel the primal stirrings within, the predatory instincts born at creation and carried along through time inside the heart and soul of man. Bear was close to them - close to them all - all the ancestors who had hunted before him. Late in the twentieth century, he was still living off the land, one with creation, and in harmony with plant and beast.

Bear cooked and heated with a wood stove, and used oil lamps for light at night. There were no wires in his cabin, coming or going, and the only electricity for almost a mile was static. He was misunderstood by some, and secretly envied by others. Bear had made his escape in the most radical way possible, but to him it wasn’t extreme; it felt natural and good. Finally, he had found some remnant of peace, some temporary respite from the pain of his past. Oddly enough, he felt the greatest loneliness in the presence of others.

He could see out in the field now, out to the edge of the woods, where a small group of deer milled about, browsing on the alfalfa he’d planted for them last Spring. It wouldn’t be long now, and he’d reap the fruits of his labor. It was almost harvest time!

Bear stopped rocking and stood up on the wooden porch. He was a grizzly of a man; that’s why they called him Bear. Very few people new his real name, and most of his relatives had passed on or moved away. He gazed out at the deer a moment or two longer, then reached over beside the rocker and picked up a wooden longbow that was leaning against the wall. It was 80 inches in length and boasted a 90-pound draw weight. Few men could pull back and hold it, but this simple Osage longbow had become Bear’s best friend.

A handful of wooden arrows hung in a deerhide quiver on a nail in the wall of the cabin. Bear pulled some out and shoved them into the back pocket of his jeans before striding off the porch out into the dawn mist.

Once inside the woods, he slowed his pace, his eyes glancing furtively back and forth, here and there, searching out every shadow and movement. It wasn’t something he did consciously, but more an instinctive reaction to the woods around him. He was a hunter.

One by one he shot the arrows: one into an old rotten stump, another into a lone, red, maple leaf on the side of a bank. Beneath the watchful eye of the rising sun, he hunted for opportune targets, honing his already razor-sharp skills as a marksman.

After a little while he began to sweat, so he unbuttoned the flannel shirt he was wearing and let the tails fall out around his waist, exposing the hard, leanness of his stomach muscles which rippled horizontally across his lower torso like a washboard, giving him a look of hardness and foreboding.

By now, the sun shone brightly, and its rays were flooding down through the trees, hitting the brown leaves on the woods floor, and a sudden wave of sadness and remorse came over him as he remembered a time long ago. The memories sought him out like a curse, and this time they were so strong that he was unable to push them back. Suddenly, Bear’s powerful muscles went weak, and he sat down on the soft cushion of dead leaves with his back to the trunk of a sturdy oak as the memories played themselves out.

Daddy! Daddy!

That was the bulk of the little boy’s young vocabulary, but he said those words over and over again with conviction and excitement as he ran up to his father and threw his arms around the big man’s legs and hugged him as hard as his little boy arms could.

Love you Daddy!

The man smiled and reached down to his son, lifting him up with his massive arms and kissing his tender little face.

I love you too, son.

The little boy wore a green-flannel shirt, partially camouflaged with peanut butter and jelly, causing the cotton fabric to stick to the man. But he didn’t seem to mind. He kissed the little boy and carried him into the house. A few minutes later they emerged from the back door, each of them carrying a bow and arrow, walking side by side out to the bales of straw. The man knelt on the ground and put his arms around the little blonde-headed boy, and helped him grip the bow.

Here’s how you do it son.

He helped the boy grip the handle of the bow, placed an arrow on the string, and pulled the string back to the chubby white cheek.

Okay. Let go son!

The slender arrow arced through the air and hit the target with a tiny rustle before dropping to the grass. The boy’s tiny face beamed with pride.

Good job son. Good job!

The boy took another arrow and this time tried to do it himself. The man let him try, then helped in the end. Soon another arrow hit the target, but this time the tip stuck in the bale and the feathered end drooped down towards the ground. But the arrow held.

Hey you did it, son! You did it!

The little boy laughed and hugged his father again. His father laughed too and hugged him back.

Are you my little huntin’ buddy, son? Are you my little huntin’ buddy?

The little boy nodded his head and said.

I’m Daddy’s lil’ hunter!

The memory started to fade now, returning to its proper place in the back of Bear’s mind, and when Bear opened his eyes, there were tears streaming down his cheeks. With a masculine effort, he brushed them aside and stood hastily to his feet. He placed an arrow on his string and sent it slicing through the air and into a bank 20 yards away. He fired another arrow, and another, and another. Grace, focus, fluidity. He forgot about all else. He forgot the memory, and eventually, countless arrows later, the pain subsided and returned to its cell. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault.

Bear retrieved his arrows one more time and shoved them back into his jeans pocket. He turned east and headed into the sun towards home. He was a hunter, and with God’s help he would find his son.

Chapter 2

Bear could hear the banjo's singing long before he reached the oak-littered lawn. He paused for a moment to listen as the notes flew up and down like wild sparks, and he knew from their flawless performance that the dueling banjos were still sober.

Both men were sitting on big oak blocks, their long straggly hair blowing in the October breeze like the grass of the unkempt lawn around them. They didn't see Bear at first, so he seized the opportunity to study their rare breed, to notice things about them that he had never before seen, to view them in their own world, at their best, in a way that fascinated him.

The taller of the two wore a dirty white T-shirt. He had a smudged, peach-fuzzed face, and his jet-black hair reached down past his shoulders like long, starved roots, groping for the ground. A light breeze passed by and the dark stains on the man's shirt were suddenly enfleshed by the scent of oak sap and sweat, and the stench rode the dusk breeze masking the dried harvest smell of brown grass and the yellow cornfield across the way.

Bear studied the other man who was naked to the waist and shorter and larger, and who carried the same long hair but with the complement of a 3-day beard. The ripples across his chest and the hard lines of his face made him resemble one of the knotty trees that he daily cut and subdued. The shorter man tensed and looked up from his banjo, and even in the dim light Bear could see the fierceness of his eyes and the sudden alertness.

His banjo stopped. Tension moved across his face like a spasm, and then it relaxed and he smiled.

Bear, ya old boil on a warthog's butt! Where ya been? We ain't seen ya in weeks.

He turned and gave his partner an annoyed stare.

Confound it Joe will ya stop that noise! Can't ya see we got us company!

Joe's finger's slowed, the notes faded, and when he saw Bear, the music stopped altogether. There was no smile from him, no greeting, no facial movement that could be interpreted as either pleasure or distress, just the glassy stare of an ice-covered lake.

The shorter man motioned for Bear to sit down on a sawdust-covered block across from him, and Bear complied.

Well Nemo, how's the tree trimming business been treating you?

Hah! Son I'm a tellin' ya there ain’t nothin' like the loggin' business. I just shinny up a few trunks ever' day an whack a few branches off'n the top and then Joe here throws 'em on the truck and we charge the fools bigtime bucks. Serves 'em right too fer bein’ so dern lazy. Son I'm a tellin' ya there ain’t nothin’ like the tree trimmin’ business.

Nemo cleared his throat, turned his head, and spit on the ground 12 feet away.

Why do ya wear those heavy shirts all the time Bear. Yer gonna roast big time in the darn things.

Bear politely laughed. Nemo motioned to Joe as he spoke again.

Joe, make us a beer run! We need us a case a' cold swill. We ain’t been drunk in pretty near 10 hours anyway.

Joe left without a word and soon disappeared inside the house. A serious look came over Bear’s face, but he quickly subdued it. He liked Nemo a lot, but he knew that the alcohol was slowly killing him, like some subtle form of time-released suicide.

That's the trouble with work Bear - it interferes with my favorite hobby - intoxication!

He laughed heartily and his fingers returned to the banjo and ricocheted up and down in his own rendition of Rocky Mountain Breakdown, all the while bobbing his head merrily as he played. Bear watched and listened, remembering his father. He hated alcohol; it was a trap.

By time the music stopped, Joe was drinking the first beer and Nemo was covered with fresh sweat. Bear applauded with three short claps.

You're better every time I hear you, Nemo. I still say you should go on the road to Nashville.

The sweaty man laughed.

What fer, they need a tree trimmer? I got it made in the shade right here where I'm at! Gimme a beer Joe.

Nemo drained the can like it was water and started another as Joe picked out a few bars of Rockytop. After a big belch, Nemo joined in and the two harmonized as if they were one, as if they were joined together by some unseen bond, a bond of the deepest, darkest kind - a bond of unseen blood.

For the remainder of the dwindling sun, Bear watched while the two performed with incredible skill, until, finally, the alcohol took its toll and Nemo's fingers stumbled and slowed, a little at first, and then quite often.

Joe, it’s gettin’ dark, burn us a fire!

The stone-faced man who looked no different drunk than sober, obeyed. The tall, stringy-armed man laid a new fire amidst the black ashes of another, and soon it roared and crackled, and by time the sun's light had completely died, the new flames lit up their faces in an eerie glow.

Nemo leaned back clinging to his banjo as if it were the last person on a lonely planet, while Bear stared first at the orange-tinted moon and then back down to Joe who gazed with fixed eyes into the licking flames.

Nemo, I just stopped by to get permission to hunt your 200 acres again this year.

Nemo didn’t look up.

Fine. Kill ‘em all. I don’t care.

Bear suppressed a smile.

I’ve got a few clients I want to bring along. And I’ll need to scout it out again too, just like last year.

Whatever. Just don’t put any nails in the trees.

Bear nodded his agreement.

I’ve heard a lot about poachers this year, more than usual. You had any trouble here?

Nemo grunted.

Probably the Winchel boys again. They’ll only poach my land once. Then I’ll plant ‘em where they drop!

Bear looked into the flames. Nemo wasn’t one to mince words. Then he looked over at Joe curiously.

Nemo, how come Joe never says anything when I'm here? Doesn't he ever talk at all?

The thick stump of a man laughed and quickly drained another beer can before crushing it between his palm and fingers. He threw it into the fire before answering, and yellow sparks blew upward and were carried away.

"You kiddin' me! Sometimes I can't get the fool to shut up! He'll talk if ya want 'em to - ‘specially when he's

Reviews for Bond of Unseen Blood

[grumpydan · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Evan “Bear” Novack is a hunter and lives in the woods. He has everything he wants and needs except for his son. His ex-wife took him away and he hasn’t seen his child on years, but when his son comes looking for the father he vaguely remembers, he is kidnapped. Bear uses his skills to track the kidnapper and get his son. This quick read is filled with action and descriptive narrative of what it is like living and surviving in the wilderness, but lacks in character development. I enjoyed the story but the felt the main characters needed more development to get me to want to care for them. A noble debut novel though.