Riding the Timberline

By Neil Hunter

Once upon a time, Will Tyrell had been the law in Madison Springs. Now he was living in self-imposed exile. Blaming himself for a tragic accident that resulted in sudden death, he took to the high mountains where he created a new life for himself catching and selling wild horses.
Tyrell accepted his new life and found a peace in the hills. It might have stayed that way if he hadn't come across an injured young woman called Cassie Marchant. Alone and hampered by a broken leg, the woman found herself in Tyrell's hands. He did what he could before moving her to the isolated cabin he called home. But that was far from the end of it – the brutal Callender clan wasn’t about to give her up as easy as all that.
With no other option, Tyrell and Cassie rode off for Madison Springs with the Callender hard in pursuit. And as time went by Tyrell's personal feelings towards the courageous woman only increased. When they reached town, the Callenders finally showed up and Will Tyrell was offered little choice but to stand and face the threat to his life and that of the woman he loved and refused to give up ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Feb 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463014677

Neil Hunter

Neil Hunter is, in fact, the prolific Lancashire-born writer Michael R. Linaker. As Neil Hunter, Mike wrote two classic western series, BODIE THE STALKER and JASON BRAND. Under the name Richard Wyler he produced four stand-alone westerns, INCIDENT AT BUTLER’S STATION, THE SAVAGE JOURNEY, BRIGHAM’S WAY and TRAVIS.

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Once upon a time, Will Tyrell had been the law in Madison Springs. Now he was living in self-imposed exile. Blaming himself for a tragic accident that resulted in sudden death, he took to the high mountains where he created a new life for himself catching and selling wild horses.

Tyrell accepted his new life and found a peace in the hills. It might have stayed that way if he hadn't come across an injured young woman called Cassie Marchant. Alone and hampered by a broken leg, the woman found herself in Tyrell's hands. He did what he could before moving her to the isolated cabin he called home. But that was far from the end of it – the brutal Callender clan wasn’t about to give her up as easy as all that.

With no other option, Tyrell and Cassie rode off for Madison Springs with the Callender hard in pursuit. And as time went by Tyrell's personal feelings towards the courageous woman only increased. When they reached town, the Callenders finally showed up and Will Tyrell was offered little choice but to stand and face the threat to his life and that of the woman he loved and refused to give up ...

RIDING THE TIMBERLINE

By Neil Hunter

Copyright © 2020 by Neil Hunter

First Digital Edition: January 2020

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Editor: Ben Bridges

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

He came down off the high peaks where soft winds moved through the restless canopy of the timberline. From shadowed cathedrals of close ranked trees down onto pale, weathered slabs of stone that marched in rugged steps to the canyon floor far below. Only the clatter of his horse’s hoofs broke the empty silence. High above the frothy white clash of the tumbling river he drew rein and in silence surveyed the endless sprawl of timber and rock and water. In this vast and eternal land where only a few had ever visited, he sat and drew it all in. He breathed the sweet cool air, and in that quiet moment he would have declined any offer of wealth and position. No material gain could have matched that priceless time he was stealing. In its pristine grandeur the wide land offered him everything he could ever need at this time in his life.

The restless pawing of his horse pulled him back from the edge of his daydreaming and he took the moment to stretch his back. Still not ready to move on he dismounted and led his horse to the low branch of a tree, looping and securing the rein, then turned and ran a hand a hand along the smooth neck of the restless animal.

‘Horse, you quit eyin’ me that way. We go when I’m good and ready, and that doesn’t mean right now.’

His tone made the roan swing her head around, eyes wide and almost rolling. The rider stared back at her for a long moment, then gently eased away and moved to the edge of the rim. He squatted on his heels, arms draped loosely over his knees. He remained there a considerable time, content to stare out across the wide divide of the canyon.

He was a man not given to grand gestures or flamboyant words. A quiet man, content with his own company, his empathy at one with the land. To those who knew him he was considered a loner. Not a man who went out of his way to be hostile, or bad mannered. He kept his own council and stood back from the business of others – unless invited and then proved himself dependable and trustworthy. Yet the doings of others were not things he sought, nor enjoyed becoming too deeply involved with. From past and personal experience he knew how those matters could draw a man in so deep it was hard to step back from them – until it was too late. It was a simple way that served him well. Now he always chose to avoid confrontation if possible. Not through cowardice, or a fear of allowing himself to be hurt because he was afraid of no man. But he never felt he had to prove it. He was beholden to none and walked his own path, neither inviting, nor initiating any action that might provoke a violent response. From past experience he carried a long memory. It was why he had chosen to live here, away from the closeness of others. In the High Lonesome as it had become known, he had found his peace. Here he could carry on his own business, ride and hunt for his food, rest when he wanted, alone in the clean, wide and solitary places. And he had his refuge where no one might disturb him. Where only the wildlife was his companion.

In his places of solitude he found contentment. Peace within himself. A chance to wash away the memories that still haunted his fertile mind. Images of his former existence he tried to forget. There were times when they vanished for long periods, but often they would return and plague his sleeping hours. When they did he would struggle to defeat them and sometimes he failed and even his place of solitude became tainted.

He reached up a large, strong hand and removed the wide brimmed hat he wore. The hat was travel stained, the brim sides curled, and he stared at it for a time before laying it on the ground beside him. He raised his hands and pushed back the mass of thick dark hair, fingers rubbing at his scalp, following the line of the four inch ridge of scar tissue there.

In the far distance something caught his eye and he followed the movement. It took him long moments to realize it was a hawk soaring on air-currents, turning in graceful swerving curves high above the land. He watched with a tinge of regret, because despite his apparent freedom he would never be as free as the bird. It owed nothing to anyone. It came and went without the burden of responsibility. There were no constraints upon it. No rules to govern its conscience, or to mark it with guilt.

His freedom still bound him to society. There was always that shadow of compromise in his escape to the wilderness. Always that tug at his sleeve to remind him he was a man, and as such he could not distance himself for ever.

Upright he stood tall, carrying his good frame easily. Beneath the much washed black shirt he had broad shoulders and a deep chest. When he moved it was controlled, always with the hint that he could alter his mood at a moment’s notice. Some who first met him might have ill-judged him as being slow. This assumption would have been wrong. A paucity of movement did not naturally imbue a man with a sluggish mind. There were many who could attest to that fact.

Others who also would if they still lived.

He tried not to dwell on that period in his life. When he had, by force of necessity and a moral desire, worn a badge and carried a gun. Enforcing the Law, in some of the territory’s most wanton places, he had been pushed to the edge of his own constraints. The violence and the bloodshed heaped upon him by men who defied every social rule had taken its toll. He became as they were simply to be able to combat them. He traded bullet for bullet, blow for blow, and he lost much of his own self-respect in the process. The murderous rages that overtook him pushed him ever deeper into the black maw of brutality until he woke nights, drenched in sweat and believing his hands were awash with blood. His escape came in the form of the whisky bottle. At first he kept it a close secret, but his dependency on it became too strong. His former grip on the day to day exercise of his profession turned into a blur and he began to lose the respect of those he had worked to protect. Came the day when drink, lack of sleep, and a blurring of the line of his job led to a confrontation