Lindsay McKenna - Out Rider

Sloan thought back to his growing-up years in an old log cabin that sat on top of a tree-clad hill deep in the woods of Black Mountain. They had electricity and every night his mother, Wilma, would read to him as a young child. She loved myths and in particular he remembered Helen of Troy and how beautiful she was. Sloan thought that Dev could be a black-haired version of her. What bothered him, however, was her reaction when he accidentally scared the bejesus out of her. She’d reacted violently when he’d approached her. Looking back on it, he did walk quietly and Dev hadn’t heard him coming her way. Sloan felt bad about jolting her. The woman was under enough stress hauling a horse halfway across the United States, then having a flat tire, which could all have contributed to her reaction.

It was the look in her green eyes that had struck him deeply, the raw terror he’d seen in them. Her face had gone completely white except for her red cheeks caused by the cold weather and wind. He’d seen that look in Afghan villagers’ eyes too often, particularly the women and children who had been terrorized by Taliban who’d come through killing and torturing fathers and husbands. And raping the women. It was a look he’d never forget from his deployments. And it was reflected in Dev’s eyes. Why? Shaking his head, Sloan couldn’t put it together. At least, not yet. And probably never.

As they reached the outskirts of the town, there was a long, long hill they had to climb. On his right was the ten-foot-high elk fence. Below it was the valley where thousands of deer and elk were fed all winter long so they wouldn’t die of starvation. On his left rose a thousand-foot hill, rocks craggy and gleaming with wetness from small springs that wound unseen and then oozed out of the fissures and cracks on the surface.

Sloan could always tell a lot about a person by the animals they kept. That buckskin mare of hers wasn’t jumpy, nervous or tense. She was real relaxed in that trailer, alert but not jerking and jumping around like some horses did. That was a reflection of Dev’s real nature, for sure. Animals always mirrored their owners, plain and simple. So his initial sense of the woman was that she was grounded, quiet and mature. Just like her horse. That was a good combination in Sloan’s book. Giggly, flighty, nervous women made him tense. But then, Cary had been like that, hadn’t she? But that was because she’d been high on drugs and he hadn’t realized it until much too late.

Sloan had only caught a glimpse of the yellow Labrador in the front of Dev’s truck. By the fineness of the dog’s large, broad head, she looked to be a female. He’d find out soon enough, he though, and then he grinned over at Mouse, who was decidedly an alpha male. “I think you already know that good-lookin’ yellow Lab is a female.”

Mouse cocked his black head, his large, intelligent eyes dancing with excitement. He whined. His tail kept thumping against the seat.

Reaching out, Sloan petted his combat-assault dog that had, for two years, helped save his ass over in Afghanistan. When he got out of the Army, he was able to bring Mouse with him because the dog had developed stress from too many IEDs and explosions. He’d been a brave dog, often going after fleeing enemies in nights so dark Sloan couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Mouse would nail them, take them down and grip a leg with his teeth until the Army soldiers could arrive to take the screaming enemy prisoner.

Now his brindle dog was eight years old, well past his prime, but he was in better shape than 90 percent of the dogs in the United States. And Mouse had slowly, over time, let go of his combat-dog training as Sloan gently but firmly got his best four-legged friend to adjust to civilian life instead. As he moved his long fingers through the dog’s short, thick fur, Sloan smiled a little.

“Hey, this may be your lucky day, fella. That woman has a yellow Lab and who knows? You might get to befriend that dog of hers.” He chuckled. “And I might be able to befriend her owner.”

Mouse thumped his tail mightily, ears up, eyes on the back window where Dev’s truck and trailer were visible. He gave a long, excited whine.

Sloan knew Mouse could see the other dog through the windows, no question. The Belgian Malinois was one of the most intelligent dog breeds on the planet and nothing, but nothing, escaped Mouse’s attention.

It made Sloan grin. Giving Mouse a last pat, Sloan wrapped his hand around the steering wheel, urging the truck up the long, easy slope of the hill. As they crested it, the mighty Tetons sat on his left. They were clothed in deep white snow with blue granite flanks and skirts of evergreens around their bases. May was still a winter month up here, but Sloan knew come June 1, the tourists would descend like a plague of locusts on this park and Yellowstone, which sat fifty miles north of them.

Mouse whined. His thin, long tail was whipping against Sloan’s thigh.

“Patience, pardner,” he drawled to his dog. “We’re almost there. As soon as we can get this gal and her horse over to the barn, I might let you out and we’ll introduce you to her dog. But no promises. Okay? Gotta see what the lady wants to do with her horse first.”

The dog’s tail hit Sloan with great regularity across his hard thigh. They were bruising hits.

“Calm down,” he told Mouse. “Easy.” And Sloan slowly stroked the dog’s long, powerful back. He felt the dog’s muscles relax beneath his stroking fingers. Mouse stopped whining. If Mouse thought he could crash through that rear-window glass, run across the bed of his truck and leap up onto the hood of Dev’s truck, he’d do it. Such was his dog’s type-A nature. Belgian Malinois were basically sheep-herding dogs in Europe. And their nature was to bring everyone together in a nice, tight, safe group, with the dog prowling around the edges, watching for bears, wolves or apex predators from the sky.

Sloan couldn’t lie to himself. He was mirroring his dog. Only Mouse was a helluva lot more obvious about it than he was. No question, Dev turned him on. Caution told him not to put much stock in first impressions. He’d fallen so hard and fast for Cary, married her three months after meeting her in a bar, and look what had happened. Sloan frowned; he knew the price. And it was far too much for him to ever pay again.

CHAPTER TWO

DEV FELT NOTHING but gratefulness for Sloan as he pulled into the large gravel circle in front of a dark green three-story barn. She’d seen the headquarters building, a two-story yellow-brick affair on the right, after they’d passed through the area that allowed visitors into the park. Her heart picked up in tempo and she felt anticipation and relief while she parked the truck and trailer in front of the open barn doors.

Bella, her yellow Lab, whined, her head stuck out the window, her long, slender yellow tail beating happily against the seat.

Patting her rump, Dev said, “Stay here, girl. First things first. We have to get Goldy out of that trailer and into an assigned box stall in that barn.”

As she opened the door to climb out, she watched Sloan ease his tall frame out of the truck in front of her. There was a casualness about him, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but Dev saw something else. He seemed to look around, not in an easygoing manner, but in a way that suggested he was thoroughly checking out the territory around him. Further, her own senses told her this man wasn’t who or what he seemed to be. That was unsettling to her because Bart Gordon hadn’t been, either. He was a stalker, a sexual predator beneath those good looks of his. Only she’d found out too late.

Dev compressed her lips and shut the truck door. She waited for Sloan to walk up to where she stood. A rocky hiking and horse trail existed beyond the barn area. The Douglas firs stood tall and straight everywhere she looked on that side of the path. Inhaling deeply, she drew the scent of pine into her lungs. The air was cold, the breeze brisk and there were patches of white snow everywhere, telling her spring had yet to make an entrance into this area of Wyoming.