Page 111 of The Cowboy and the Stray

We didn’t talk after that. We just lay there, tangled together, the moon shining down, the world turning under us.

For the first time, I wasn’t scared of what came next.

I wasn’t meant to hide. I wasn’t meant to be hunted. I was meant to run. And I was meant to be found.

Now, I ran with him.

And I would never stop.

51. REID

The boar problem had started in January, but by June it was a war. They’d come up from the creek bottom, bred like mad, and by this week, half the lower pastures looked like somebody’d run a backhoe across the grass. They rooted up fence posts, killed calves. Their rooting made the ground a mess and could quickly break a horse’s leg. They tore up grazing land like crazy. Maybe worst was the diseases they carried. They could take a whole herd out easily. I'd killed a bunch, but the boars just came back, two for every one I put down. Like they were playing a numbers game and knew they’d win.

It was already eighty degrees by the time I got Ghost saddled, and there’s something wrong about sweating through your shirt before the sun is up. Ghost didn’t care; he was built for hot, flat country. We crossed the south meadow at a long-legged walk, my rifle tied across the pommel and an old field pack bumping against my hip. I’d loaded it with water, beef jerky, and enough ammo for three days if I got unlucky. Sloane says I’m paranoid. Midge says I’m prepared. I trust Midge.

The tracks started near the creek’s end. A whole mess of them, big as my fist, gouged deep into the muddy earth. Some still full of rainwater from yesterday. There aren’t many chances to track a group this size when the ground’s wet, but it also meant Ghost hated every minute. I dismounted at the fence line, tied him up, and checked the wind. South, warm and steady. They’d never know I was coming.

I shifted into my fur. The world brightened, then split into layers. Every grass blade, every beetle and piss-ant, even every cow turd. The smell of the boars hit me so hard I nearly sneezed. Smelled like sour beer and blood. I followed it under the fence, low and silent, keeping my tail down.

I padded behind a downed cedar and waited. Two sows, at least a dozen piglets, and a big bastard of a boar. Scarred up, missing half his tail, tusks as long as my thumb. He’d been shot before, at least twice. That explained the limp.

I was about to turn back for my rifle when the wind shifted, just a hair, just enough to warn me something was wrong. It wasn’t boar stink, or blood, or the sweet rot of dead cattle. It was cologne. Cheap, bitter, and trying too hard. Human, and not Maddox. Not a ranch hand, either.

I circled wide. The fence was new, built last winter, and the grass was beaten flat where the Colemans liked to cut through our property line. There were two horses at the top of the ridge, sweating and uneasy. One of the riders was the oldest Coleman kid. Fancy boots, sunglasses, hair slicked back with too much product. I knew him from town. He’d tried to buy me a beer at the Showdown once, probably as a joke.

The other rider was a woman. I couldn’t see her face yet. She was smaller, dressed in tan cargo pants and a sun shirt, with a floppy hat hanging down her back. No gun, just a big camera and a handheld GPS. Not a local.

I went belly-down and tried to back out, but the boar caught my motion and squealed, high and ugly. The whole herd exploded. Piglets scattered, sows chased them, but the big boar squared up on me and dropped his head.

Coleman and the woman jerked around at the sound. The horses panicked, and in about two seconds, it was a stampede. Coleman kept his seat, but the woman’s horse pitched and sent her flying. She landed hard, rolled, and didn’t get up. Coleman, the noble son of a bitch, used the opportunity to yank his horse’s head around and head for the road, cussing the whole way.

That left me, the boar, and the woman.

The boar charged. I bolted for the woman, hoping she wouldn’t spook worse than the horses. She was sprawled on her side, hand clutching her ankle. She looked up just in time to see a two-hundred-pound wolf barreling at her.

I broke left, putting myself between her and the boar, and braced for impact. The bastard clipped my hind leg, but it was a glancing shot. He was more interested in the human. I whipped around, bit down on his flank, and tasted blood. He shrieked, spun, and ran for the tree line.

I didn’t chase. Instead, I turned and took a good look at the woman. She hadn’t screamed or fainted or tried to scramble away. She just propped herself up on one elbow and watched me, wide-eyed.

We locked eyes for a second. Then I heard the whinny of a horse. Ghost, still tied up at the fence. He hated being left out of a good fight.

I took off, sprinted the full quarter mile back, and shifted behind a clump of sumac. I limped over and untied Ghost. He was anxious, ears flat, and I didn’t blame him.

I mounted up, cut a slow trail back to the clearing, and tried to look like I’d just arrived. The woman was sitting upright now, picking dirt out of her palm. Her hat was gone, hair loose around her shoulders, and her face was freckled and sunburned. She saw me coming and waved like she knew me.

I dismounted ten yards away and tipped my hat. “You all right, ma’am?”

She grinned. “Took a hell of a tumble, but I’ll live. A wolf chased a wild boar right over to us. The horses freaked out, threw me, and my guide took off.”

Her ankle was swelling badly. I dug an elastic wrap out of my saddlebag and knelt beside her. She held out her leg.

“I’m Reid Coulter,” I said. “This is Ghost. We work for the Maddox place.”

She looked up at me, eyes green and sharp. “I’m Jennie. I work for the Colemans. Well, sort of. I work for the oil company thinking about drilling on the Coleman ranch.”

I wrapped her ankle, snug but not too tight. “They must’ve thought you needed supervision.”

She snorted. “Hardly. That guy couldn’t supervise a goldfish.”