1) Walking Tall

It was a hot August evening. The cicadas had started their evening symphony, their familiar buzzing carrying across the ranch as the sun slowly made its way toward the distant mountains. Even with the day coming to an end, the heat hadn't shown any signs of letting up. The dry Montana dirt seemed to hold onto every bit of warmth, and the occasional breeze did little more than stir up dust before disappearing again.

I was standing on the bars connected to the front end of my old pickup, trying to give myself a little leverage to see under the hood. Sweat rolled down my nose and dripped onto the bolt I was trying to loosen. I wiped my forehead with the back of my arm, leaving a lovely streak of grease behind. At this point, I probably looked like I'd lost a fight with a mechanic's toolbox.

My dog, Buck, lounged in the shade beside me, seemingly enjoying the fact that I was doing all the work. It was a peaceful end to a blistering day, and aside from the occasional string of colorful language coming from beneath the hood, there wasn't much to disturb it.

There wasn't much I couldn't figure out with a little patience and a decent set of tools. I'd learned a long time ago that waiting around for someone else to fix things usually meant waiting forever. Besides, I liked knowing I could take care of myself. The ranch demanded it, and I'd never been particularly fond of asking for help anyway.

Buck heard him before I did. After all, that's what he was trained for.

The sudden change in his behavior caught my attention before I even heard a sound. One minute, he was sprawled out in the dirt, enjoying the shade, and the next, he sprang to his feet like he hadn't been asleep at all. His ears stood straight up, his body stiffened, and a low growl rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest.

That got my attention almost immediately.

I looked down at my monster of a dog from my greasy perch. He was staring down the driveway, his hackles raised and his lips pulled back just enough to expose a rather impressive set of teeth.

That was unusual.

My driveway was rarely used, and it had become so washed out over the years that most people came to my cabin on horseback or by ATV. Anyone attempting to drive a regular vehicle all the way up to the house usually regretted it somewhere along the way. The ruts were deep, the rocks were unforgiving, and there were a few spots where even I questioned my own driving decisions.

I glanced toward the road, trying to make out what had caught his attention. Nothing immediately stood out. Just the familiar stretch of dusty driveway winding between the trees.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" I muttered.

Buck didn't so much as blink.

Well, that was reassuring.

Buck was no small fry. He had been born on our ranch. His mother, our old livestock guardian dog, Dottie, was some sort of Shepherd mix. One day, about six years ago, she'd decided to take a little jaunt of her own. Buck and his siblings were the result. Most of us swore they were half wolf, although nobody had ever bothered to prove it.

Buck had inherited the best and worst qualities of both worlds. He was fiercely loyal, stubborn as hell, and intimidating, to say the least. When he wanted something, he had a way of making sure everyone knew about it. Fortunately, he was also smart enough to know the difference between a threat and a friend.

At least, most of the time.

I quickly jumped down, my boots crunching against the gravel. I grabbed my rifle from the back seat of my pickup in the process. It was something I never went far without. Living this far out meant you learned to be prepared. There weren't any neighbors close enough to hear a commotion, and the nearest help wasn't exactly a quick jog down the road.

I was greasy, sweaty, tired, and in absolutely no mood for unexpected company.

Raising the rifle, I moved a few steps away from the truck. Buck immediately positioned himself between my legs, settling into his defensive stance just as he'd done a thousand times before. I wasn't short by any means, but when Buck went into protection mode, his sheer mass had a tendency to nearly knock me off my feet.

"Easy, boy," I whispered, resting a hand briefly against his thick coat.

His muscles remained tense beneath my fingers.

The Montana sunset was blazing across the sky like a bomb had gone off, scattering brilliant oranges, reds, and every shade in between. The last of the sunlight spilled across the pasture, turning the tall grasses golden and casting long shadows from the surrounding trees. It was the kind of evening that usually made me forget about the endless list of chores waiting for me the next morning.

Usually.

The sun shone directly into my face through the trees, making it difficult to see much beyond the driveway. I squinted, shifting my position slightly, but held firm. Buck was never wrong about something being out of place.

A few seconds passed before I heard it.

Footsteps.

They were faint at first, barely noticeable over the cicadas, but they grew louder as whoever it was made their way up the washed-out driveway. I frowned, keeping my eyes fixed on the narrow opening between the trees.

Nobody walked up my driveway unless they had a good reason. Most people knew better than to attempt it on foot, especially in this heat.

I tightened my grip on the rifle.

"Who the hell...?" I muttered under my breath.

Buck shifted his weight, moving slightly farther in front of me. His growl hadn't stopped, and his attention remained fixed on the approaching footsteps.

I couldn't make out much through the trees, just an occasional glimpse of movement between the branches. Whoever it was seemed to be taking their time, though whether that was intentional or because they were struggling to make it up the damn hill was anyone's guess.

I waited patiently, controlling my breathing. Every instinct told me to stay where I was until I knew exactly who was coming up my driveway.

Then a figure finally emerged from the trees.

A man.

He was walking toward the cabin, looking as though he'd had considerably better days. His clothes were disheveled, and even from a distance, I could tell something wasn't quite right.

I kept the rifle raised, watching him carefully.

He was a long way from anywhere, and judging by the direction he'd come from, he'd had quite a walk to get here.

That's when I saw him.