Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43714 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
The stag was our main draw when we had groups come through on strictly organized and controlled photography tours. He is a legend in these parts.
There is the other worry that poachers could have come because the size of the old boy’s antlers makes him a very desirable prize.
“What is it?” Alana asks. I look down to realize she must have been studying me as I scanned the horizon for a sign of the herd, worry probably clearly written across my face.
I try to smile but the worry is still there.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say. “It’s just that they’re usually here by now. But they’re probably right over the crest of one of those hills, hidden from view.”
Even having said that, though, I have a terrible feeling in my gut. Something isn’t right here, and it’s way too quiet.
It’s like the whole loch is holding its breath.
Not even the birds, I realize, are making any noise.
Birds don’t sit around silently. Not unless they’re dead. This means they’ve all been scared away, sent flying to another part of the valley.
“Get back in the car,” I say urgently, feeling that gut instinct zeroing in on something new – something deeper. I begin to shepherd Alana back toward the buggy, rushing close behind her with one arm extended to keep her moving.
And then, the first shot rings out across the valley.
It’s a shotgun, unmistakable to my ears. Another follows it, and then a third – and then a sound I know all too well.
It’s the stampeding thunder of many hooves.
I push Alana into the passenger seat just in time as the herd crests over the ridge just below us, clearly frightened and running for their lives, heads thrown back as they gallop at top speed for all they are worth.
I can see the whites of their eyes rolling back into their heads as they strain to keep sight of the poachers behind them as well as run safely across the ground ahead.
I curse and jump into the driver’s seat but then hesitated. I look at Alana.
Can I really drive her right toward potential danger?
“Go!” she shouts as if confused as to why I would even hesitate, which makes up my mind.
The car roars to life, and I aim it in the direction the herd is running from, steering a trajectory that will take us around the danger of the deer and right toward the people with the guns.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alana
I clutch my seat for support as the buggy races over the uneven ground, jolting me up and down.
The suspension is doing what it can, but we are still flung up and down into the air, Finlay somehow keeping us on track with his vision of the world jolting around like mine is.
We crest another hill, the herd stampeding, running at full tilt with their heads thrown back and their eyes full of terror, hooves thundering across the ground.
I hold my breath, but Finlay moves around them easily, the car bouncing over the rocky ground and staying on track as the herd passes by.
There is a screech and a revving sound as he flings the buggy sideways, bringing it to an abrupt stop that leaves it rocking in place.
Before I have time to register what is happening and loosen my tight grip on the seat, there is a slam – the sound of the driver’s side door closing.
Finlay is gone.
I sit watching with wide eyes as everything unfolds. He stalks around the front of the buggy, every line of his body full of anger and tension– realizing he’s holding his shotgun.
He must have grabbed it from the back seat when he left. Knowing it’s unloaded is a small relief, but I’m afraid, trying to figure out what is going on.
I glance to the side and catch sight of the herd, still galloping away, now starting to vanish into the distance, their thin legs flicking up into the air behind them as they leap from rocks and over the crest of the hill.
But to my side….
Coming over the nearest hill and into view are several men on foot, five of them at first glance, all of them holding guns just like Finlay’s.
My heart rate shoots through the roof as I watch them. They are armed, and most likely holding weapons that are loaded.
Finlay’s is not.
But they don’t know that.
I pray they don’t find out. Because if they do….
“This is private land,” Finlay calls out, loud enough that I can hear an echo bounce back from the highest ridge of the hills.
It’s a challenge, not a question because we all know they aren’t supposed to be here. It’s a chance for them to apologize and leave, maybe. And if they don’t, they will have to justify why they are here.
The men – four of them, I can now see from my vantage point on the top of the hill – stop, arranging themselves out across the land in front of Finlay.