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  Once upon a time, Will Tyrell had been the law in Madison Springs. Now he was living in self-imposed exile. Blaming himself for a tragic accident that resulted in sudden death, he took to the high mountains where he created a new life for himself catching and selling wild horses.

  Tyrell accepted his new life and found a peace in the hills. It might have stayed that way if he hadn't come across an injured young woman called Cassie Marchant. Alone and hampered by a broken leg, the woman found herself in Tyrell's hands. He did what he could before moving her to the isolated cabin he called home. But that was far from the end of it – the brutal Callender clan wasn’t about to give her up as easy as all that.

  With no other option, Tyrell and Cassie rode off for Madison Springs with the Callender hard in pursuit. And as time went by Tyrell's personal feelings towards the courageous woman only increased. When they reached town, the Callenders finally showed up and Will Tyrell was offered little choice but to stand and face the threat to his life and that of the woman he loved and refused to give up ...

  RIDING THE TIMBERLINE

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2020 by Neil Hunter

  First Digital Edition: January 2020

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  He came down off the high peaks where soft winds moved through the restless canopy of the timberline. From shadowed cathedrals of close ranked trees down onto pale, weathered slabs of stone that marched in rugged steps to the canyon floor far below. Only the clatter of his horse’s hoofs broke the empty silence. High above the frothy white clash of the tumbling river he drew rein and in silence surveyed the endless sprawl of timber and rock and water. In this vast and eternal land where only a few had ever visited, he sat and drew it all in. He breathed the sweet cool air, and in that quiet moment he would have declined any offer of wealth and position. No material gain could have matched that priceless time he was stealing. In its pristine grandeur the wide land offered him everything he could ever need at this time in his life.

  The restless pawing of his horse pulled him back from the edge of his daydreaming and he took the moment to stretch his back. Still not ready to move on he dismounted and led his horse to the low branch of a tree, looping and securing the rein, then turned and ran a hand a hand along the smooth neck of the restless animal.

  ‘Horse, you quit eyin’ me that way. We go when I’m good and ready, and that doesn’t mean right now.’

  His tone made the roan swing her head around, eyes wide and almost rolling. The rider stared back at her for a long moment, then gently eased away and moved to the edge of the rim. He squatted on his heels, arms draped loosely over his knees. He remained there a considerable time, content to stare out across the wide divide of the canyon.

  He was a man not given to grand gestures or flamboyant words. A quiet man, content with his own company, his empathy at one with the land. To those who knew him he was considered a loner. Not a man who went out of his way to be hostile, or bad mannered. He kept his own council and stood back from the business of others – unless invited and then proved himself dependable and trustworthy. Yet the doings of others were not things he sought, nor enjoyed becoming too deeply involved with. From past and personal experience he knew how those matters could draw a man in so deep it was hard to step back from them – until it was too late. It was a simple way that served him well. Now he always chose to avoid confrontation if possible. Not through cowardice, or a fear of allowing himself to be hurt because he was afraid of no man. But he never felt he had to prove it. He was beholden to none and walked his own path, neither inviting, nor initiating any action that might provoke a violent response. From past experience he carried a long memory. It was why he had chosen to live here, away from the closeness of others. In the High Lonesome as it had become known, he had found his peace. Here he could carry on his own business, ride and hunt for his food, rest when he wanted, alone in the clean, wide and solitary places. And he had his refuge where no one might disturb him. Where only the wildlife was his companion.

  In his places of solitude he found contentment. Peace within himself. A chance to wash away the memories that still haunted his fertile mind. Images of his former existence he tried to forget. There were times when they vanished for long periods, but often they would return and plague his sleeping hours. When they did he would struggle to defeat them and sometimes he failed and even his place of solitude became tainted.

  He reached up a large, strong hand and removed the wide brimmed hat he wore. The hat was travel stained, the brim sides curled, and he stared at it for a time before laying it on the ground beside him. He raised his hands and pushed back the mass of thick dark hair, fingers rubbing at his scalp, following the line of the four inch ridge of scar tissue there.

  In the far distance something caught his eye and he followed the movement. It took him long moments to realize it was a hawk soaring on air-currents, turning in graceful swerving curves high above the land. He watched with a tinge of regret, because despite his apparent freedom he would never be as free as the bird. It owed nothing to anyone. It came and went without the burden of responsibility. There were no constraints upon it. No rules to govern its conscience, or to mark it with guilt.

  His freedom still bound him to society. There was always that shadow of compromise in his escape to the wilderness. Always that tug at his sleeve to remind him he was a man, and as such he could not distance himself for ever.

  Upright he stood tall, carrying his good frame easily. Beneath the much washed black shirt he had broad shoulders and a deep chest. When he moved it was controlled, always with the hint that he could alter his mood at a moment’s notice. Some who first met him might have ill-judged him as being slow. This assumption would have been wrong. A paucity of movement did not naturally imbue a man with a sluggish mind. There were many who could attest to that fact.

  Others who also would if they still lived.

  He tried not to dwell on that period in his life. When he had, by force of necessity and a moral desire, worn a badge and carried a gun. Enforcing the Law, in some of the territory’s most wanton places, he had been pushed to the edge of his own constraints. The violence and the bloodshed heaped upon him by men who defied every social rule had taken its toll. He became as they were simply to be able to combat them. He traded bullet for bullet, blow for blow, and he lost much of his own self-respect in the process. The murderous rages that overtook him pushed him ever deeper into the black maw of brutality until he woke nights, drenched in sweat and believing his hands were awash with blood. His escape came in the form of the whisky bottle. At first he kept it a close secret, but his dependency on it became too strong. His former grip on the day to day exercise of his profession turned into a blur and he began to lose the respect of those he had worked to protect. Came the day when drink, lack of sleep, and a blurring of the line of his job led to a confrontation between a pair of gun handy rowdies and a simple cowhand. He had stepped in, though far from capable. After the short, brutal and damning gun fight that followed, he was the only one left alive, though even he took a bullet. A savage, glancing shot that tore open his scalp,
impacting against bone, and left him sitting in the middle of the dusty street so dazed he was not even aware he was drenched from the blood pouring down his face and shirt. The cowhand lay only feet away, his lower jaw blown off and his chest riddled with bullets. The pair of rowdies lay staring up at the sun, dead before they had even reached twenty years old. As he sat, unmovable, on that bloody street, he didn’t even realize he still held his revolver in his hand, finger still curled against the trigger, and all six chambers empty. In the immediate aftermath the town took against him. Anger at the way the matter had been settled had over-ridden all other considerations and the fingers pointed at him, wagging in that judgmental way were accompanied by accusing tongues that poured out their disgust at his recent hard-line manner. The ones who had begged him to oversee their growing town now turned their backs, branding him no better than the killers he had stood and faced for them over the years. It took him weeks to recover, most of it on his own, and he was still not fully back to health the night he gathered his few belongings, took the supplies and utensils he had purchased, saddled his horse and rode out. All he owned went with him. His guns were in his saddlebags along with his clothing and the books he treasured. In a leather pouch were his savings, money he had put aside – for what he never knew until now. He left nothing behind that mattered any longer, especially the tarnished tin badge he had worn pinned to his shirt for so long. It lay on the desk in his former office and he thought no more about it the moment he had dropped it there. Weak from his wound, in a lingering fever, he had ridden away, his only thought to get himself as far from the town and the people as he could. He wanted no more to do with them.

  Later he would realize he had come close to death during that ride, but at the time he was not aware. Somehow he guided his horse to the high country, far from civilization, and he simply pushed his horse onwards. Up into the foothills and then the higher slopes, until he was lost in the sheer enormity of the mountains. He had found a place on the timbered plateaus, a long and wide valley. In one section where water fed down from natural springs, trees and rocks formed a secluded basin. Here he stopped. Saw to his horse and tied it on a long rope where it could feed and get water. He barely recalled how he built himself a crude shelter from branches and foliage, wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down. He remained so for two days, his body pushing him into a deep state of sleep and semi-awareness as it began its process of healing. Later, recovered enough to know he needed to eat, he built himself a fire, cooked some of the food he had brought with him and made coffee. He realized how ravenous he was, forcing himself to eat slowly so not to become ill, then had taken to his blankets again. This process went on over the next week. By the end he was feeling stronger – enough so that he was able to take his small axe and cut heavier branches to improve his shelter.

  Over the following weeks he regained his strength. He ventured out across the valley to the high slopes, sometimes on foot, sometimes riding, and hunted for food. It was there in abundance. Deer. Wild fowl. He even turned his hand to catching fish from the river he discovered. He had always been able to look after himself, something that went all the way back to his youth, and those skills were the kind that never deserted a man over the long years.

  His shelter moved from being an adequate lean-to into a snug cabin built against the rock that formed its rear wall. He embarked on the construction as he entered his second month and it took until his fourth before he completed it.

  On the day his building ended he celebrated by cooking himself a meal and breaking out a bottle of whiskey he had in his saddlebags and had been saving for what he deemed a special occasion. He sat beside his cook fire, downing the food and drinking two mugs of the whiskey. He had coffee after that, laced with more of the whiskey, and that night he slept sounder than he had for weeks. In the morning he woke with a dull headache and a yearning for cold, fresh water to wash away the sour taste in his mouth. He did no more work for the rest of the day, simply lounging around the area and contended himself by walking in and out and around his newly constructed dwelling.

  Now, brought out of his quiet reverie, he heard a distant sound. It jarred against the usual quiet of the high meadow. When it came a second time he paused, turning his head, trying to locate the sound. Close by the roan raised her head, ears alert. She snorted, an intrusive noise and pawed at the ground. He knew then that he had not imagined the sound. The horse had picked it up too. It was as used to the silence as he was.

  He leaned over and picked up his hat. Standing he spent some time checking for movement, straining his ears as he tried to locate the sound’s direction. His time spent in this lonely high country had keened his sense and especially his hearing. Empty and peaceful it might be. Totally silent it was not. The mountain slopes and timbered meadows had their own music. It played day and night. Times were it lay soft on the ears. During stormy moments it made itself known just as stridently and there was no escape, but however it played, he recognized it and knew the mood of this high country.

  A wind came soughing in through the canyons and ravines, drifting with a lightness that could only hush its way through the meadow grasses. Other times it gusted down off the loftier peaks and shook even the thickest branches, rattling the foliage and startling the wildlife. He had learned to read the mood of any given day, marking in his mind the way the weather would change. Over time he had developed a keen ear for what was to come and most times he could tell when it was about to rain, or which days he could ride with the sun at his back. There were still times he got it wrong, but that happened less and less now. He could read the sky and judge the weather that way, often spotting the rain squalls when they were still miles off his location. It eased his life, allowing him to plan his work load for any chosen day.

  Here, now, the sound he heard had nothing to do with the weather. It was a sound from his past life. The sound he had hoped might never intrude again.

  The sound of a human being in pain.

  A sound he recognized only too well.

  At first he felt anger at his solitary place being invaded. Instantly he pushed the emotion to the darkest recesses of his mind.

  Had he been up here so long that he had rejected the veneer of civilization that made him what he was? He shook his head in self-recrimination. Despite everything he hadn’t sunk so low yet.

  He moved to the roan and fastened the rein to a low branch, then took his Henry rifle from its sheath. Satisfied he moved away from the canyon rim, angling in the general direction of the sound. Pushing his way through the thickets he walked deeper into the shadowed coolness of the timber. He moved steadily, keeping sound to the minimum.

  When he picked up the faint cry again he paused so he could pinpoint the source.

  He moved on, sure of his way now, and found what he was looking for no more than twenty feet ahead.

  If he hadn’t been deliberately searching he might have missed the woman. She was pressed up against the base of a large tree, its trunk some ten feet across. She had pulled herself tight against the base of the tree as if she was trying to lose herself in its bulk. She was still making the soft sound. Less of a cry than a protest against something paining her. As he moved in closer he could see why. Her left leg lay at an odd angle and he had seen enough of them to know it was broken below the knee.

  She was dressed in a rough, dark dress. No shoes. Her exposed feet were grubby, streaked with blood from numerous scratches. The dress looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a long while. What he could see of her face and hands showed the same. Her thick dark hair, chopped short, clung damply to her head.

  He hunkered down beside her, unsure of himself. It was not his way to push himself on people, strangers especially, but at the same time he knew he was unable to ignore this woman’s plight.

  Leaning the Henry against the tree he reached out to lay a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder. Instantly she reacted, drawing back from his touch, recoiling with an intensity that made him withd
raw his hand.

  ‘Easy now. I aim to help. Not hurt you.’

  Her head lifted and she stared at him and through all the grime and tangled hair, he found himself caught by the beauty of those bright, keen eyes. They were a mix of hazel and flecks of green and seemed to alter shade each time she moved. For a time he was unable to break away from that stare. The way she regarded him was unnerving. Like her gaze was probing his very soul, making decisions and deciding whether to trust his word or shrink away from him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘William Tyrell’s my given name,’ he said. ‘Though most folk call me Will.’

  She took in what he said, nodding slightly. He noted that she made no reference to the broken leg. He saw a compression of her lips, lines around the corners of her mouth the only indication she was holding back the pain now he was with her, not allowing herself to show weakness.

  ‘I’m Cassie Marchant,’ she said simply, as if it explained everything.

  At the back of his mind the name stirred long dormant memories. Nothing definite, but a recollection that he knew the name Marchant. It was a name from long ago and though it was vaguely familiar it didn’t have to have any connection with this Cassie Marchant. He dismissed the notion. At the moment it didn’t matter.

  ‘We need to get you out of here,’ he said. ‘Somewhere a sight more comfortable.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’ll ever be comfortable again.’

  She seemed to relax a little then, pushing herself into a less defensive sitting position, leaning her back against the tree. It was a simple gesture, but it signified she was not afraid of him.

  ‘I got my horse back a ways. Let me go fetch her and we’ll see about getting you in the saddle.’

  He paused, regarding her silently.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That leg must be hurting. It’s going to hurt more when I try to move you.’