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.
Now his memory was beginning to fog, but he recalled trying to climb back onto the horse. Spooked by the smell of blood, perhaps, it had run off, leaving him stranded. In the near distance, he could see the black scavengers feeding on the carcass of the coyote Webb had shot. If he didn’t make it to somewhere safe, he could be their next meal.
That was his last thought before the darkness closed in. He collapsed to his knees and fell forward in the long yellow grass, his blood seeping into the earth.
* * *
Cully O’Rourke whistled a tune to buoy his sagging spirits as he rode home to the family ranch in the foothills. The old Tee Pee Ranch was usually a good place for rabbit hunting. He’d counted on bagging one or two for his mother’s stew pot. But today he’d seen only one animal—and in his haste to shoot it, he’d forgotten that his dad’s old lever action 30.30 had faulty sights and always shot high. He’d missed the blasted rabbit by a mile. He couldn’t even see where the bullet had struck. Maybe it had just kept going.
He might have hunted for more rabbits. But in the distance he’d glimpsed a horse. Standing next to the animal, partly screened by a scraggly cedar tree, was a man on foot, who’d probably dismounted to take a piss. Since Cully was trespassing, that could mean trouble. It was time to head for home.
His mother and little sister would be disappointed, and his father would grumble, but supper would have to be carrots and potatoes. No meat for the family tonight.
* * *
Mounted on the buckskin horse, Kristin could see the distant birds flocking around the dead coyote. At least she’d have no trouble finding the road. But she couldn’t turn toward home until she’d found the person whose blood streaked the horse’s side.
Was that person Major Logan Hunter? He’d been riding a horse like this, with the Calder brand, when they’d met. If he was buying this ranch property, it made sense that he’d be exploring the place.
But who it was made no difference. She was a doctor, and somebody needed her help. It was her duty to find them and do what she could—even if what she could do was nothing.
Once more, the birds came to her aid. A hundred yards eastward, beyond the dead coyote, something had attracted a new flock. The vultures and ravens were circling, touching down, then rising again, as if waiting for a feast.
Nudging the horse to a brisk trot, Kristin reached the spot in seconds. The birds scattered at her approach, revealing a man sprawled on the ground.
Logan Hunter appeared to be breathing. But the blood-soaked flannel shirt that wrapped his arm and the red stain on the earth—which had to be from a gunshot wound—told her he might not live long.