CHAPTER ONE
THE GROWL STARTED low, deep in the dog’s throat, then exploded into an earsplitting yodel. Kate froze with her hand outstretched toward its misshapen head and her body bent at an uncomfortable angle. The ugly mutt couldn’t weigh more than twenty pounds, but most of that was teeth. Long sharp-looking teeth. And they were inches from her fingertips.
“Sweet little dog,” she cooed, trying to calm it.
Her words had the opposite effect. A ridge of fur shot up on the dog’s neck. Another yodel burst from its throat, then settled into a long menacing growl. Its one erect ear flattened against its skull.
Oh, great. Now what?
She considered jumping up on one of the porch chairs, but discarded the idea. None were tall enough. The pickup truck she’d noticed parked at the side of the farmhouse wasn’t an option, either. Too far away. Getting inside the house seemed her best chance for escape.
Two feet to her left, the front door stood open behind a rusting screen. Moments ago she had knocked, then cupped her hands and peeked in, admiring the hardwood floor and the old washstand covered with family photographs.
Something else had caught her attention as she snooped, something that only now penetrated the conscious part of her brain. The hook on the screen door was in the eyebolt. The door was locked.
Wonderful.
The dog inched closer.
She remained rigid, poised for flight. Sweat poured from her hairline down her face, but she dared not wipe it away. The dog returned her stare. Sporadic fits of a loud throaty bark punctuated its growl.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty seconds.
Her arm quivered from the strain of holding it out.
Forty seconds.
Her watch unexpectedly chimed the hour—six o’clock—with a soft beep beep that seemed ten times louder than normal. She jerked. The dog lunged. Moving faster than she ever had in her life, Kate cleared the porch and ran, the angry mass of fur nipping at her heels.
At the edge of the yard, shrubs of some kind formed a low hedge. Beyond it she’d parked the white Ford she’d rented at the airport in Birmingham. Her vivid imagination created a picture of what would happen if the dog overtook her before she made it to the car. Blood. Gallons of blood. Great chunks of flesh ripped from her legs. She’d die in a tiny redneck town in Alabama and never see her father or brothers again.
The thought made her move faster. She plowed through the hedge rather than trying to jump over it, remembering the name of the plant when the prickly leaves hit her skin. Holly.
“Aaaawww!”
Now she was decorated and about to be mauled. Leaves hung from her skirt and stockings, the needle-like points stabbing her with every movement.
The dog almost had her. In desperation, she made a flying leap for the limb of a nearby pine tree, losing her shoes on the way up. She wrapped her legs around the branch and dangled precariously from its underside while the dog jumped and snapped, twice catching her clothing and nearly jerking her back to the ground.
Using all her strength, she hauled herself upright. After a few calming breaths, she took inventory: only minor scrapes on her arms and legs from the tree’s scaly bark, but her clothes were ruined. Her skirt and blouse, a lovely bone color that morning, were streaked with the red dust that always seemed to hang in the air. The torn lining of her jacket drooped below the hem, resembling paper after it’s been put through a shredder. She felt her hair. Even the clip that kept the unruly tendrils out of her face was gone.
But she wasn’t seriously hurt. And as long as she didn’t fall off the limb, the beast below couldn’t do further damage.
“Bad dog!” she yelled down, then groaned as it went for her new shoes.
EVEN BEFORE HE SAW the animal, Bret knew Sallie had treed something dangerous in the yard. The dog had a unique voice for each type of prey. A series of short yips meant she was chasing a rat or a chipmunk. A yodel was for something larger, like a rabbit or one of the bobcats that lived in the swampy area at the far end of the pasture, near the creek.
Sallie only barked in answer to the late-night calls of dogs on neighboring farms. Growls she reserved for Willie and Aubrey, the men who helped him with his horse-breeding business.
This wasn’t a rat or even a bobcat. The way Sallie was carrying on, it had to be bigger. And meaner.
With only a rope halter to control the stallion, Bret raced from the barn to the house. The powerful bay moved under him like an extension of his body, reacting instinctively to the pressure of his legs and his booted heels against its sides.
His concern for Sallie turned to annoyance when he saw the unfamiliar car. Not a bear in the yard, as he’d thought. A human. A trespasser.
He slowed the horse to a gentle lope. Sallie had stopped her wailing and stood at the base of the big pine tree near the drive. She had something in her mouth, angrily shaking it from side to side. At first Bret didn’t see the driver of the car. Then he spotted two shapely legs hanging from the tree.
“Stop that!” a feminine voice yelled as a stick came sailing down, clearly intended for Sallie, but missing her by at least three feet. “Leave those alone!” Another stick and a barrage of pinecones showered the ground.
Bret nudged the horse closer to get a better view of Sallie’s catch. It was female all right; she straddled the lowest branch. Her skirt was hiked to the middle of her thighs, showing holes and runs in her stockings.
She’d twisted off another small branch and was getting ready to pitch it at Sallie when she noticed him.
“Oh, thank God, you’ve come! That ugly thing almost got me.”
He gave her the hardest most unfriendly look he could muster, but it wasn’t easy. She was the prettiest thing Sallie had ever treed. She definitely had the best set of legs.
“Ma’am, you’re trespassing. The Keep Out sign on the gate is plain enough for any idiot to read.”
The woman raised her eyebrows in a gesture that made him feel as if he was the one who’d done something wrong, then amusement lit her green eyes. “An idiot? Really?”
Bret took off his baseball cap. Sweat beaded his brow and he wiped it away with the back of a gloved hand. He slapped the cap against his leg, not so much to dislodge the dust that covered the brim, but to give himself time to ease his irritation.
