Spring, 1996
“Damn coyote!”
Collin cursed, wind pulling at his hair, his
thighs tightly gripping the flanks of his reliable gray, the horse’s hooves
pounding like thunder into lush Kentucky bluegrass. His arms strained against
the fabric of his lightweight jacket, held close to his body. A strong hand
firmly clutched the horse’s reins, keeping total control over the animal.
Keen eyes watched as the coyote slipped into
the briars ahead and disappeared. His foxhounds followed but the animal
wouldn’t linger. This one was crafty. There was no way that coyote would stay
put. The animal intended to lead his dogs astray even if it killed him in the
process.
Years ago a coyote was unheard of in
Kentucky but with their recent eastward migration, they were now quite common,
and a crafty one would lead a pack of hounds deep into the river cliffs never
to be seen again. Collin knew that. The hounds were bred to chase, and if a fox
wasn’t readily available, they took after the next best thing.
Today, on what he thought was a leisurely
jaunt on a spring afternoon to exercise his horse and his hounds, he was not in
the mood for it. He’d be damned if that mangy cur would lead his prized hounds
into the river.
The dogs slowed, then howled and pawed at
the ground around the thicket, hungry for their prey. Collin brought his
prancing mount to the pack, calling them off their quarry—then suddenly,
following a flash of dirty gray, they were off again.
They moved as one, Collin and the
stallion, a huge mass of raw sexuality and power, each sensing the other’s
thoughts, movements, and intentions. The huge beast raced toward the pack, the
wily coyote leading his hounds further away. Collin knew he had to call them
off soon, had to get their attention before the animal took them where he and
his horse couldn’t go.
Perspiration beaded his forehead then
dried in the wind. His muscles ached with the thrill and tension of the chase,
although this chase was not welcome. A normal romp with a fox and his hounds
was what he lived for, what he loved. And even though he knew both his horse
and his hounds were at risk, plunging at breakneck speed across his farm, he
relished in the chase.
As usual, when riding and keeping his
hounds to the fox, his body grew tight with exhilaration, his mind sharp with
concentration. Every sense heightened. Every nerve stood on high alert.
Adrenaline coursed his body, spurring him on. He concentrated on the pack
before him as blood pounded through his veins, surging through every capillary
and artery. Heat rose to the surface of his skin.
The experience was one of dominance and
power.
The hounds yipped and barked as they
chased their quarry, hot on the scent of the animal. They raced hard against
the wind roiling out of the gray afternoon sky in the west. A spring
thunderstorm threatened. Collin narrowed his gaze as the coyote leapt the rock
fence bordering the edge of his farm, and silently swore.
The dogs hesitated, jumping and clawing at
the wall, and then scrambled over.
Damn
it! Without thinking, and in one swift
movement, he guided the stallion up and over the fence.
Collin saw nothing but the pack of hounds
in front of him, the lead dog straight on course with the coyote. He was
hell-bent for leather on seeing this thing to the end. He’d seen other hunters
give up on the dogs, hoping they would come home eventually. Not him. Nothing
would stop him.
Nothing.
The tireless hounds raced on, oblivious to
their surroundings, the horse closing in fast. The coyote, now on open ground,
ran for his life. Collin would never kill the animal, but the coyote didn’t
know that. He could almost sense his fear. He imagined the trembling in his
stomach, the panic shaking his legs, the hounds breathing hot down his neck.
He urged the horse on. Hooves churned the
soft Kentucky
An ear-splitting scream pierced the buzz
around him and everything came to a sudden and abrupt halt. A contradictory
feeling of silent slow motion and mass confusion sped over him as the hounds
ran circles in agitation. The horse sidestepped excitedly, then another scream
and a feminine slew of curses penetrated the unnatural silence.
The coyote scurried off to safety.
“What the…” The past few minutes his mind
had comprehended only one thing—the chase. Now, he diverted his attention to
the ranting and raving female standing before him.
Rake in one hand, hoe in another, she
shouted incomprehensibly, flailing her arms.
His inspection of her started from her
dirt-clodded work boots, then slowly traveled north to her muddy blue-jean clad
knees, and upward to a man’s ragged chambray work shirt tied at the curve of
her small waist. His perusal followed up the front closure of her shirt. Two
button snaps at the top had popped open during her tirade revealing a wisp of
white lace and the top of a fully rounded, lily-white breast.
Collin paused, and grinned.
His gaze resumed its trek up a delicate,
slender ivory neck to rest on an angry, but extremely beautiful face. Coal
black eyes spat back at him, and her long inky ponytail held high on her head
with a red bandanna, whipped with the breeze coming off the storm.
My
God. Gorgeous.
The coyote was forgotten.
He sucked in a breath. Was she speaking?
Yelling.
“…and if you don’t get your slimy, blue
blood ass off my property, I’ll shove this rake where the sun don’t shine!”
He heard that last piece very clearly.
Collin remained solid in his
seat, enjoying the dominant position—still smiling but
glaring back at the delicate, yet willful woman. Spitfire of a little country thing. She turned, dropped the hoe,
and picked up a clod of dirt at her feet.
Nice
ass.
Her gaze shot back as if she’d heard his
thought. Her eyes narrowed and she scrutinized him as he sat above her. Her
gaze traveled from his breeches at her eye level, to his face. He stared back,
a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
She fumbled with the clod of dirt, flexing
and gripping. Then she did something Collin thought unthinkable.
She threw it.
“Git!”
The dirt clod spun out of her hand like a
second baseman hurling a ball toward first. The dog promptly yipped off behind
his master when hit—and in the next instant, Collin leapt off his horse and
exerted all the control he could muster not to grab the woman and shake the tar
out of her. His fists clenched together tightly at his side. He felt the grin
vanish from his face.
“Don’t you ever...” he snarled.
“Then get those damn mutts out of my
garden,” she spat back, their noses inches apart. Collin felt the venom of her
words, along with her heated breath against his face. Blood surged throughout
his body, his breathing quickened.
To read another excerpt from Wind Ridge, click here.
Wind Ridge is scheduled to release in late January, 2016.