Winds of Wyoming: Kate Neilson Series, #1

By Rebecca Carey Lyles

Will Kate Neilson's past imprison her again?

 

Fresh out of a Pennsylvania penitentiary armed with a marketing degree, Kate Neilson heads to Wyoming anticipating an anonymous new beginning as a guest-ranch employee. A typical twenty-five-year-old woman might be looking to lasso a cowboy, but her only desire is to get on with life on the outside—despite her growing interest in the ranch owner. When she discovers a violent ex-lover followed her west, she fears the past she hoped to hide will imprison her once again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Perpedit Publishing, Ink
• Release date: Jul 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9780989462495

Rebecca Carey Lyles

Rebecca Carey Lyles lives with her husband, Steve, in Boise, Idaho, where she serves as an editor and as a mentor for aspiring authors. In addition to the Children of the Light Series, she’s written the Kate Neilson Series and the Prisoners of Hope Series plus a short story collection and a couple nonfiction books. Her tagline for her fiction is “Contemporary Christian romance set in the West and salted with suspense,” although some might describe her stories as “suspense salted with romance.” She also hosts a podcast with Steve called “Let Me Tell You a Story.” Learn about Becky, her books and the podcast at beckylyles.com. You can contact her at [e-mail]. Email: [e-mail] Facebook author page: Rebecca Carey Lyles Twitter: @BeckyLyles Website: http://beckylyles.com/

Book preview

Though Rebecca Carey Lyles knows how to mix suspense with the perfect amounts of warmth and humor, I found that the flaws in her characters were really what drew me in. Winds of Wyoming is the kind of book that gets readers hooked and asking for more.

Angela Ruth Strong, contributor to Love on the Run and author of Lighten Up, The Fun4Hire Series, False Security, Presumed Dead, Finding Love in Sun Valley, Idaho, Finding Love in Big Sky, Montana, Finding Love in Park City, Utah, and Finding Love at the Oregon Coast

Winds of Wyoming, Book One in the Kate Neilson Series, follows a prequel titled Winds of Hope, and is followed by Book Two, Winds of Freedom, and Winds of Change, Book Three. To join my mailing list and receive updates on new books via my rare-and-random newsletter, please click the link at the back of the book. You’ll receive a free eStory compilation as my thank-you.

Also by the Author

Fiction by Rebecca Carey Lyles

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Kate Neilson Series

Winds of Hope (Prequel)

Winds of Wyoming (Book One)

Winds of Freedom (Book Two)

Winds of Change (Book Three)

Prisoners of Hope Series

Shattered Dream (Book One)

Tangled Truth (Book Two)

Hidden Path (Book Three)

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Short Stories ~ with Friends

Passageways: A Short Story Collection

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Nonfiction by Becky Lyles & Friends

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It’s a God Thing! Inspiring Stories of

Life-Changing Friendships

On a Wing and a Prayer: Stories from Freedom Fellowship, a Prison Ministry

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Book One in the Kate Neilson Series

WINDS OF WYOMING

REBECCA CAREY LYLES

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DEDICATION

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Winds of Wyoming is dedicated to the memory of my parents, Carrol and Lawrence Carey, who grew up on Wyoming homesteads and taught me to love God, family and Wyoming—and to the memory of Myrtle Smith, a dear friend who shared her sweet spirit with the world for 102 years, and who also shared my delight in the lilting western meadowlark songs that ring across Wyoming prairies.

Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.

Oscar Wilde

Chapter One

Kate Neilson peered into the slot on the collection box lid. Was that money she saw on the bottom or crumpled paper? Sometimes people put weird stuff in offering boxes.

The early morning sunshine hadn’t reached her end of the dark log chapel, but she didn’t dare turn on the interior lights and attract attention. She’d opened the side door near the front of the sanctuary, but she still couldn’t see inside the box. Maybe she should grab the flashlight from her car.

She toyed with the padlock. All she needed was enough cash to get by until payday at her new job. If she left a note saying she’d return the money soon, with interest, of course...surely, they’d understand. After all, she was down to her last ten—

The floor creaked.

Her heart stopped.

That box is empty, sweetie.

Stifling a gasp, Kate dropped the lock and spun around. A white-haired woman stood in the open doorway at the far end of the chapel.

We haven’t used it... The woman’s voice cracked. Since two thousand and three.

Kate darted for the foyer, her pulse pounding at her temple. No way were they going to catch her this time. She slammed against the front door. One twist of the handle and—

Please don’t leave.

Drawn by the plaintive plea, she glanced back.

Didn’t mean to scare you. The lady lifted the canvas bag she was carrying. I came to arrange the flowers for this morning's service.

Kate hesitated, her heart drumming her ribs, her breath locked in her lungs.

Stay and visit a while. The woman held out a hand. Please.

I thought— Kate released the breath and sucked in a gulp of dry mountain air. I thought, because it’s a church, it was okay to come inside. The door was unlocked. I...

That’s why we call this chapel ‘Highway Haven House of God.’ The lady’s red-tinted lips parted in a wide denture smile. We want travelers who’ve been enjoying the drive through the mountains to feel free to spend time with the Creator of those hills. She hobbled toward the altar table at the front of the room. The wood floor squeaked with each step.

Kate clutched her chest to slow the hammering inside. What happened to the nerves of steel she’d honed on the streets of Pittsburgh? I’ve never heard of a church called Highway Haven before.

The woman slid a vase from the center of the altar to the side. Our little cathedral is a one-of-a-kind place, in Wyoming, anyway. Old-timers say this used to be the site of the rowdiest saloon this side of the Missouri, until... She chuckled. Until, as the story goes, a couple inebriated, arm-wrestling patrons knocked over a kerosene lamp, and the bar burped to the ground.

Burped? Kate squinted at her. How could someone with so many wrinkles, someone who said burped instead of burned call other people old-timers? Oh, well. She was harmless. Walking from the foyer into the sanctuary, Kate dropped into a pew at the rear of the room.

The lady reached in her bag.

She’s got a gun. Kate grabbed the bench in front of her, ready to dive beneath it.

But the smiling woman produced a tulip instead of a pistol. My name is Miss Forbes. What’s yours? She pulled more tulips from her satchel.

Wouldn’t the cops love that? Kate gripped the pew back. Her fingerprints and her name, despite the fact she hadn’t done anything wrong, this time.

After the tulips came lilac blossoms and a glass jar filled with water. Miss Forbes unscrewed the metal lid, poured the liquid into the vase, and added the flowers. She glanced at Kate, eyebrows raised.

Kate folded her arms.

That’s okay. I shouldn’t be so nosey. Miss Forbes plucked a tulip from the arrangement. For a long time, this spot was an ugly pile of blackened rubble. But in the early fifties, a small congregation purchased the land and built the chapel in two days. She indicated the walls, the flower in her hand bobbing this way and that. Raised the log walls the first day, added the roof the second.

She slipped the tulip into the center of the blossoms. They called it Church on the Mountain.

Rubbing her stiff shoulder muscles, Kate stared through the window that dominated the front of the chapel. The opening framed a postcard-perfect scene of evergreens and newly leafed aspen in the foreground with snow-crowned peaks in the background—a far cry from the cement prison yard she’d circled twice a day for five long years.

If only she could immerse herself in her beautiful surroundings. But her mind wouldn’t let go of the unsettling realization she hadn’t heard the woman approach the building. She should have heard her footsteps outside the door, even considering Miss Forbes’s slight stature. A senile senior citizen had not only caught her off-guard but scared her half to death. Had she been seduced by the sanctuary’s serenity or too focused on the collection box?

Kate checked the side windows again. Dust motes floated in the shafts of sunlight that had begun to brighten the room. But she didn’t see anyone outside the building. This would be a good time to persuade the old lady to tell her where the church kept its stash. She stepped into the aisle and started for the front. If the woman resisted, she’d explain her plan to repay the money. If that didn’t work, she’d have to do a little arm twisting.

Her approach was no secret. The floor groaned with each footstep, but Miss Forbes continued to talk, her back to Kate. Years later, after the state constructed a highway right next to the parking lot, the congregation decided it was time for a name change.

Six feet from the altar, Kate halted, knees flexed, feet planted wide.

The woman turned from the flowers, her hands on her waist. "Haven has a peaceful sound to it, don’t you think? Her blue eyes flashed. Similar to heaven."

She knows. Kate flinched. She knows what I was about to do. She clenched her fists. What’s wrong with me? Why would I even consider harming an elderly person? Or helping myself to church money? She wanted to run, but it was as if the woman’s stare pinned her sandals to the floor.

Her shoulders sagged. Will I ever get it right? She could have stayed on her knees, asking God to bless her new endeavor. That was the plan—to pray. She could have ignored the offering box. That would have been smart. She could have walked out the church door with God’s favor and no regrets. That would have—

Are you okay?

At the sight of the woman’s creased brow, Kate blinked and shifted her gaze. I meant to stop at the overlook, but this little church seemed so inviting I stopped here first. The pungent perfume of the lilacs invaded her sinuses, making it hard to breathe.

The overlook is a half-mile down the road, well worth the stop. Miss Forbes returned the vase to the center of the table, rearranged a couple flowers and smoothed the altar cloth. We also have a nice view from the rear of the church property. I can take you there, if you’d like. We have time before the church service begins.

Kate sneezed and rubbed her nose. I would love to see it. She had to get out of the building before her sinuses swelled shut—and before she did something she’d regret the rest of her life, something that would put her behind bars again, possibly forever.

She followed Miss Forbes, who was shorter than she was by several inches, out the side door of the log structure and onto a dirt path that led into a shaded cemetery. The pink blossoms swinging at the end of her guide’s long, white braid made Kate smile, yet all she could think about was how close she’d come to doing something really stupid again. Might as well bang on Patterson State Penitentiary’s gate and beg the guards to let her inside.

She’d left her past in Pittsburgh, but thieving was apparently as natural as breathing for her—no matter where she was or how fervently she promised God she would change her ways. No wonder cell doors were revolving doors for her. She shuddered. With the three-strikes-you’re-out law, another mess-up would mean life without parole.

Shaking away the unbearable thought, she focused on the hillside cemetery dotted with headstones of every shape, tilt and shade of gray—and an occasional clump of snow. For the first time since they’d left the chapel, she heard birds warble in the treetops and smelled the earthy, fresh fragrances of the forest—cleansing scents that soothed her spirit and cleared her head. She also noticed her guide wore a denim jumper over a plaid shirt. Purple socks and brown hiking boots completed her outfit.

Miss Forbes paused to pluck a withered knot from a cluster of jonquils. Her braid slid forward to dangle above the bright flowers. We had quite the storm a few days ago, full of moisture, which is fairly typical of spring snows around here. I didn’t need to water the grass this morning, but I washed the grave markers. She straightened, her joints snapping. Some think I’m silly, but my grandpa always said a society that honors the dead will honor the living.

She kicked a pinecone off the grass that topped a grave. He was a deacon in this church for more than fifty yogurts. She pointed to two tombstones. His and Granny’s stones are those two matching ones. My parents are buried next to them.

How long was your grandpa a deacon?

For fifty... Eyebrows scrunched, the woman turned to Kate. Did I say something wrong?

I didn’t understand.

It’s not you. It’s me. The woman sighed. My friends tell me I’ve been saying the craziest things ever since I tripped and hit my noggin on a headstone a couple years ago. They find it highly amusing. I’ll be talking along fine, then something silly pops out. The doctor says it’s a form of ambrosia.

You mean amnesia?

I don’t know what I said. The older lady pursed her wrinkled lips. "But my problem is called aphasia. I was told I might get over it—or I might not. The good news is that it’s a language problem, not a memory or intellect issue, thank God. She snorted. Although some might question that."

You must have meant to say your grandpa was a deacon for fifty years. Kate knelt beside the markers.

What did I say?

Uhm...yogurts.

Oh, my. No wonder my friends laugh.

They shouldn’t. Kate shook her head. They must know what you mean. She’d endured her share of ridicule in school and foster homes, not to mention prison.

Thank you. Miss Forbes patted her shoulder. They’re only teasing. Sometimes I tease them, too.

Kate studied the gravestones. Damp granite glistened around the hand-etched engravings. Otis Elmer Haggerty 1883-1966. Dymple Elizabeth Haggerty 1885-1973. Your grandparents were named Otis and Dymple?

Yes. The lines at the woman’s temples crinkled. Granddad Otis and Granny Dymple.

I never heard of anyone named Dymple before.

Me neither, except for me.

No kidding?

No kidding. I was born with a dimple in the middle of my chin, like Granny. See? She touched her chin.

Kate nodded, though she wasn’t sure it was a dimple she saw or a crease. A single white hair jutted from a mole, brilliant in the morning sunlight.

"My parents used to say they argued about what to name me until the moment I was born. That’s when they saw the dimple. I was named after both grandmothers. Dymple–with a y–Louise Forbes. You can call me Dymple."

Kate stood and offered her hand. I’m Kate. Kate Neilson.

Dymple grasped her hand with both of hers, a look of recognition, maybe revelation flooding her face.

A chill shot up Kate’s spine. She shouldn’t have offered her full name.

Kate Neilson... Dymple smiled. I have a feeling you and I will become very good friends.

•••

The trail wound through the cemetery and ended on a rock outcrop that overlooked a river. Bounded by a metal railing and topped with wrought-iron tables and chairs, the ledge looked as urbane as a backyard patio. Whiskey barrels scattered between the tables brimmed with pansies and petunias. Puffs of lobelia and tufts of sweet alyssum cascaded down the wooden sides.

Kate stepped to the railing. This is a beautiful setting.

Residents of our little community gather here often. We have parties, weddings, marshmallow roasts—all sorts of get-togethers on this rock patio.

The flowers smell wonderful. I’m amazed the church has such beautiful flowers this high in the mountains—and this early in the summer.

I trick them into early growth.

Really? The effervescent lady intrigued Kate. Still, she wasn’t ready to believe everything she said.

Really, but it’s no trick. Dymple chuckled. I have a little greenhouse in my garden, where I start my own plants early in the spring as well as seedlings for the church.

Kate leaned against the top railing. Below her, hummocks of snow clung to the rugged mountainside. Water seeped from the crusted mounds and trickled downhill to feed the river that ambled like a lazy snake through the verdant valley. She pointed to barely visible buildings at the far end of the basin. Is that Copperville?

Sure is.

Rows of concrete cellblocks marched across Kate’s memory. Patterson is bigger than—

Bigger?

Uh... Kate ducked her head. The town is smaller than I expected.

Copperville was a fair-sized mining town in the late eighteen-hundreds and early nineteen-hundreds. Dymple swept her hand across the panorama. A hundred or so years later, as you can see, it isn’t much more than a few businesses and a smattering of houses. I feel for those who couldn’t make a living here and had to move on. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.

Too bad I left my camera in the car. My Great-Aunt Mary and my friend Amy in Pennsylvania would love to see this.

Don’t you worry. You can get good pictures at the overlook up the road. Dymple patted her arm. Are you vacationing in worm?

Kate hesitated. She’d prepared herself to answer questions about her schooling and past employment without mentioning prison, but she hadn’t expected this one. "It feels like a vacation, because I’m finally out of college. But I came to Wy-o-ming to do a marketing internship at the Whispering Pines Guest Ranch. They’re going to train me for their tourist season, which starts Memorial Day weekend."

If Dymple caught the Wyoming emphasis, she gave no indication. Good for you. The Duncans are wonderful people and their ranch has an excellent reputation. A bright young lady like you will fit right in.

Kate wrinkled her nose. Maybe, except for the reputation part—and the bright part. She’d done so many stupid things, like trying to steal from yet another church. You know the owners?

Dymple slid her hands in the pockets of her jumper. Laura is a dear friend, and her son... Her eyes sparkled. Michael is a remarkable young man, my adopted grandson. You’ll like him.

Wow, small world. I can’t believe you know my new employer.

This is a typical small community, Kate. Everyone knows everybody in our little corner of the world—and everything they do.

Kate stifled a groan. She should have stayed in Pittsburgh, where she was only a face in the crowd.

You’re a long way from home. Dymple tilted her head. Why Wyoming?

Kate stared into the woman’s transparent eyes. She’d come west to distance herself from her past. But that was a secret nobody, including a kindly little old lady named Dymple, could ever pry out of her. I wanted a change of scenery when I finished school.

You made a good choice, Kate. Welcome to Wyoming. Dymple motioned toward the chapel. Feel free to stop by any time. The Sunday service begins in about an hour. I think you’d like Pastor Chuck.

A bug crawled toward Kate’s fingers on the railing. She flicked it away. The pastor would brush her aside in the same manner. She wasn’t ecclesiastical, the first word she’d learned in English 101 after Professor Eldridge challenged her online prison class to learn a new word every day. Over time, she’d become comfortable with multi-syllable words and with attending church services on the inside.

But she wasn’t good enough to attend church with regular people, people who hadn’t done all the bad things she’d done. Thanks, but I’d better not stay for the service. I need to get to the Whispering Pines. Laura Duncan said I can live on the ranch for the summer. The internship starts tomorrow morning, so I’m anxious to move my stuff in and get settled.

Vaya con Dios, Miss Kate.

Kate cocked her head.

"That’s how my Hispanic neighbors in California said goodbye. In English, it means go with God. Isn’t that beautiful?"

"Yes, but I’m not sure God wants to go with me." Embarrassed by her confession, Kate turned to leave.

Dymple grasped her arm. What did you mean by that comment?

Nothing, really. Kate chafed against Dymple’s grasp, but the older woman held tight. She looked down. I’ve done a lot of dumb things. I know the Bible says God loves me and all that, but...

God not only loves you, sweetie... Dymple released Kate’s arm to gently lift her chin. He delights in you.

Kate pulled back. Delights?

Yes, Zephaniah—one of the Old Testament writers—said God delights in you and sings about you.

"That’ll be the day.

He’s singing right now. But your ears may not be tuned to his frequency.

I’ll have to think about that. Kate looked at her watch. I’d better get going. Thanks for the tour.

You’re welcome. I’ll keep you in my prunes.

Prunes?

Oh, dear. Dymple’s crinkled cheeks turned pink. "I’m jumbling all my words today. Prayers. I’ll keep you in my prayers. She waved her hand toward the cemetery. Come see me again. I live on the other side, beyond those trees."

I’ll do that. Kate started for the parking lot.

One more thing, called her new friend. Live your dream, Kate Neilson. Every day.

Indefatigable. Kate smiled, pleased to remember another word from English 101. She didn’t know much about Dymple Forbes, but the little lady appeared to be a woman of boundless, indefatigable energy.

She hurried toward the chapel. If only half the people she met in Wyoming were as interesting as... She slowed, nearly stopping. What was that strange look on Dymple’s face when they were talking in the cemetery? Like she recognized me. But that was impossible. Her arrests had caught the local media’s attention more than once, but surely Dymple Forbes didn’t get Pittsburgh news way out here in the middle of nowhere.

Chapter Two

Mike Duncan slowed the truck to maneuver around yet another mud hole. The winding mountain road was still recovering from the snowstorm. He changed gears and plowed forward. Thanks to studded tires, his dad’s ancient Dodge, a pickup he’d nicknamed Old Blue, could handle almost any weather the skies chose to dump. That’s what his father had believed and that’s what he’d told the scoffers.

Both windows were open to the cool morning air. Mike’s dog, Tramp, sat on the passenger seat, his head out the window. The big collie barked at a doe and fawn peeking from behind white-blossomed chokeberry bushes. The deer vanished, and Tramp returned to scrutinizing his dominion—nostrils quivering, tongue dripping, fur blowing in the breeze.

Mike reached over to scratch his aging dog’s back.

With a wag of his tail, Tramp momentarily acknowledged him.

Mike laughed. Too busy for me, huh?

He leaned out the driver’s-side window to savor the fresh smell of the cool damp earth and the hint of early color that seeped across the meadows and hills between banks of snow. His bison were no doubt loving the tender new grass—that is, if they made it through the storm. Self-sufficient animals, buffalo could protect themselves and their newborn calves from storms that killed cattle. But it didn’t hurt to keep tabs on them—and the fence line.

He straightened, bouncing with the truck as it bumped downhill toward the bison pasture. If the huge, unpredictable beasts ever broke loose and wandered into the woods, rounding them up would be a nightmare. Each time he moved the herd to a new pasture, he’d proved the old adage true. You can move a bison anywhere he wants to go.

The pickup bucked and slid over the rutted trail, rattling like a bucket of bolts.

Mike shifted to a lower gear. He’d have to get a couple of the guys to help him fill the worst of the ruts when the two-track road dried. As often happened with spring storms, the moisture greened the emerging grass but destroyed dirt byways. But he didn’t mind the extra work. The Whispering Pines needed every drop of water the heavens could spare, as his dad used to say.

Sorrow sliced through his heart. Would he ever stop missing his dad? At breakfast, his mom had told him the summer intern she’d hired to take over his dad’s marketing duties would be arriving soon. He rubbed his chin. Dad had died months ago, yet he wasn’t sure he was ready to see someone else seated behind his desk.

His two-way crackled to life. Hey, Bossman, can you hear me?

Mike groaned and lifted the radio from his belt. Why couldn’t Clint call him by his name? This is Mike. Go ahead.

The ranch manager’s voice sputtered through the airwaves. Checked the cattle. They weathered the storm okay, including the calves.

"That’s good news—really good news. I’m not far from the Battle Creek pasture. I’ll take a look at the bison, but they should be fine. What about the horses?"

Tanner and I are headed over now. Rusty is going to meet us there. We’ll round up the riding stock and drive them to the corral by the barn to get them ready for the guests.

Good plan. I’ll catch you later.

He steered around a small boulder that had tumbled off the damp hillside onto the road and made a mental note to bring the front-end loader when they worked on the road. Within minutes, he reached his destination and parked the truck across from the fenced pasture. Tramp jumped out the window and trotted toward the enclosure, tail high, nose to the ground.

Mike followed, sidestepping the boggy patches, until he came across grooves in the grass. What in the...? An ATV trail tore through grass and mud up the hillside.

Tramp came bounding toward him as if to say, Come on. Let’s go.

What do you think, pal? He stroked the dog’s head. Our crew knows better than to ride all-terrains through a wet meadow.

But who would cross their land without permission? And what were they doing near his bison pasture?

Tramp licked his hand and scampered away.

Mike listened for the sound of an engine but heard only bird calls and muffled snorts from the herd. Probably kids out joyriding. If they were smart, they’d avoided the buffalo. Domestication was not the same as tame in a bison’s brain. He’d learned quickly to never turn his back on the capricious beasts, which remained as wild as when they ruled the Great Plains some hundred-plus years earlier.

He watched his dog feverishly zigzag up the hill, following the fence line, probably hot on the trail of a jackrabbit. Most of the herd grazed some distance from him, spread across a brown-green slope splotched with snow dollops and capped by the blue of the Sierra Madres. High above him, a pair of hawks glided and circled on an air current.

The scent of dung drifted on the breeze. One grunting buffalo cow scratched against a low tree branch, while another wallowed in a mud hole. Others chewed their cuds in apparent quiet contemplation. In contrast, cinnamon-colored calves cavorted like school kids at recess.

Tranquility. The perfect word to define the moment. Whatever the ATV driver was up to, he or she hadn’t messed with his animals, thank God.

Tramp barked.

Mike turned toward the yap, thinking the dog had cornered the rabbit. Instead, his collie stood nose-to-nose with a calf—on the wrong side of the fence. Mike did a double-take before running toward the pair. He stopped when he saw a break in the wire.

So that’s how, flashed his first assessment of the situation. The second followed immediately. The calf had a momma who would charge to its rescue sooner than later—and faster than a creature her size should be able to move. Tramp. Tramp, come here!

The dog’s attention did not waver from the calf.

Though Tramp’s behavior frustrated him, Mike knew the stray calf activated his herding instinct, one as deep-rooted and powerful as that of salmon swimming upstream to spawn. He studied the cows closest to the calf. Some grazed, their tails twitching at the flies. Others rested. They all appeared passive, but he knew one of them belonged with the calf. The minute the calf bawled, his dog was in trouble—and a minimum of two bison would be loose.

Tramp barked again.

Mike winced, knowing his dog was attracting the cows’ attention.

The calf jumped to the side, ready to romp with its newfound playmate.

Mike started toward the pair, calling for his dog. But then he spun on his heels and raced for his truck. He’d create a visual barrier with the pickup to hide the hole in the fence, then signal Tramp to herd the calf where it belonged. As usual, he’d left the key in the ignition. Jamming the gears into first, he released the clutch and sped across the road, onto the prairie. He’d worry about reseeding later.

The calf halted mid-frolic to stare at the advancing truck before it let out a where’s my momma? bellow.

Mike gripped the steering wheel even tighter. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. He slowed the pickup and scanned the herd. Several bison lifted their heavy heads. A lone buffalo raised her head and her tail. Not a good sign. He pounded the horn.

The calf scampered through the gap toward the herd.

He gunned the truck alongside the fence, maneuvering it as close as he could to the gap before stopping. The passenger side was angled precariously higher on the hillock than the driver’s side, but that was the best he could do. He shoved the gearshift into neutral, stomped the emergency brake to the floor, jumped out and dashed toward the road, yelling for Tramp as he ran.

Hearing nothing, he turned his head to see if the dog had followed, lost his footing and landed face-first in a puddle. Sputtering and floundering, but knowing the buffalo could be right behind him, he scrambled for footing. But before he got to his feet, a booming metallic crunch fractured the air.

Mike staggered—and slipped again. Blinking away muddy water, he looked up in time to see the pickup balance briefly on the driver’s-side wheels before clattering onto its side.

As the sound of the crash echoed between the hills, he braced himself for another blow by the buffalo, one that would knock Old Blue all the way over. He waited, but nothing happened. Then, like a church bell on a crisp, sunny morning, the melodic lilt of a meadowlark broke the silence.

He was beginning to breathe again when a terrifying thought hit him. What if the cow wearied of the pickup and charged him instead? He tensed, ready to sprint into the trees. But then, he saw her saunter toward the herd with the calf at her side. Propped on his elbows in the cold muck, he watched the wheels of his dad’s favorite pickup spin in the air.

I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.

Tail wagging, Tramp bounded through the mire to lick his master’s wet face.

Mike shoved the dog aside and crawled out of the puddle, spitting dirt.

Tramp crept between sagebrush bushes, head down, tail between his legs.

He wiped grime from his face with his shirtsleeve before he retrieved his hat and knocked it against a fence post. Mud sprayed off the brim like the frustration that shot-gunned through his chest. The nearest dry-cleaning facility was fifty miles away. They charged a fortune to clean hats. He hated to think what it would cost to repair Old Blue.

A cool morning breeze blew through his wet shirt. Mike shivered and limped to the truck to look for his jacket, noticing for the first time that his shin hurt. Must have hit it on a rock.

The engine was silent and the wheels had slowed. He peered through the front window. No way could he reach his coat. He turned to examine the barbed wire strands lying on the ground between posts. The separations were clean, the wires apparently cut one-by-one. Now, the ATV trail made sense.

Chapter Three

The evergreens along the Battle Mountain Highway danced in the wind and scented the air. The same fresh breezes swirled through Kate’s car windows, lifting her hair. Each time she saw a break in the trees, she slowed to gaze at mountains as far as she could see.

But it was when she approached a hill sprinkled with wildflowers that she stopped for pictures. She’d taken several shots at the overlook, but this was an opportunity for wildflower closeups. The sunny scene was like confetti flung from a rainbow.

Kate roamed the hillside, snapping picture after picture, until the camera’s battery gave out. Disappointed, she worked her way downhill to her car. But then she stopped, looked around and smiled. How could she have forgotten she had all summer to photograph wildflowers?

As she unlocked her car, she noticed a brown pickup parked some distance behind her Honda. Was it the same one she’d seen in the parking lot when she left the church? Probably not. She hadn’t paid much attention to the truck. Maybe she was losing her street smarts after all, which might be a