Chapter 1 – The Edge of the Wild
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Preview – The Lost Brand:
Luke Kincaid had been tracking the rogue grizzly since first light.
The sun had barely climbed over the eastern ridge, its rays weak and thin, when he pushed his horse north toward the rougher country.
Timber thickened, shadows stretched long between the trunks, and the air carried that cold bite that came before winter set its teeth in.
He’d seen the bear’s work along the northern fence line.
Calves dead. Tracks too large to be any young boar.
The trail wasn’t hard to follow. The bear was old, heavy, and sure of itself.
Too sure. It left deep prints that pressed through the thin crust of early snow.
Luke swung down once to study a fresh track, crouching low.
The edges were clean. No melt. No drift.
The bear was close.
His horse snorted behind him, pawing once at the ground.
“I know,” Luke murmured. “You feel it too.”
He rose, brushed snow from his gloves, and moved on at a steady pace. He kept his rifle loose in his hand, thumb ready at the hammer. Something in the air felt charged, like the moment before lightning.
The woods went quiet.
Then his horse’s ears shot forward.
A snort, sharp and warning.
Luke barely turned before the roar cracked the air apart.
The bear came out of the brush like a freight train, all muscle and fury.
Luke fired the moment he saw the blur of brown, the report echoing off the ridge.
The grizzly staggered but didn’t fall. A sweep of its great paw raked across Luke’s ribs, claws tearing through coat, shirt, and skin.
Pain flared hot and brutal through his side.
He tried to roll. Tried to get the rifle up again.
Too late.
The force of the hit knocked him backward. His boots slid in the snow, heel catching on uneven ground. He stumbled, lost his balance, and went over the edge of a short drop—a six-foot slide of rock and hard earth hidden beneath the snow.
The back of his skull struck stone.
The world flashed white. Sound collapsed into a dull roar, then thinned to nothing.
Warm blood seeped down his side. Above him, the bear staggered, swayed, and collapsed at the top of the slope with a heavy thud—dead, but not on top of him.
His horse reared, screaming, and backed away several yards, trembling and snorting, too terrified to run. It paced once, then stopped, caught between fear and the instinct to stay.
“Easy…” Luke tried to say, but the word never reached his ears.
He tried to draw a breath. It came shallow and incomplete. Blood trickled warm along his ribs. The world dimmed, edges fading.
Luke lay still.
Blood ran from the gashes along his side, staining the snow in dark streaks.
The woods grew silent again.
***
Grace Jacobs had walked this stretch of timber a hundred times since moving into these mountains, and she’d learned to trust the woods more than most people. The woods told the truth if a person listened, and she never ignored the sound around her.
She had been checking her trap line west of the ridge, a leather sack slung over her shoulder, already thinking the traps were coming back lean this early in the season. Winter would be hard. She needed all she could get.
The breeze carried a sharp scent she didn’t like.
Blood. A lot of it.
Then came the sound—a rough, guttural snort, hooves striking frozen ground. Grace stilled, listening.
Another snort.
She moved toward the noise, careful with her footing, following the slope down between two tall spruces. The land opened into a shallow hollow, and that’s where she saw the horse.
A big bay. Saddle askew, breath heaving clouds. It stood several yards from a massive shape of brown fur near the brush line.
A bear.
An old grizzly, lying still. Steam rose faintly from its coat.
Her breath caught.
Then she saw the man.
He lay downslope from the bear, half-turned onto his right side, his coat torn open from shoulder to waist. Blood soaked the fabric, dark and heavy. Snow had begun to settle in his hair.
Grace hurried down the last few steps into the gully. The horse stomped once but didn’t bolt. Its wide eyes stayed fixed on the man.
“Easy,” she whispered to the horse, heart hammering. “Easy, boy. I’m here.”
The man didn’t move.
Grace dropped to her knees beside him. Snow clung to his coat. Blood soaked the fabric along his ribs where deep slashes cut through wool, shirt, and skin.
She brushed snow from his face, careful not to move his head. A jagged gash ran along his right temple, blood trailing into his hair. He’d struck something hard. Hard enough that his breathing had gone shallow and uneven.
His skin had that pale, slack look she recognized too well.
She pressed two fingers to his neck.
A pulse. Weak. Thready.
“You foolish man,” she breathed. “How are you even alive?”
She rose, drawing a steadying breath, and studied the slope, the ground beneath them, the angle she’d have to work with. Too slick. Too uneven.
The horse whickered sharply from above.
Grace glanced toward it. The bay stood several paces away, dragging reins, saddle twisted from the chaos. The animal pawed at the snow but didn’t dare come closer.
“All right,” she whispered. “We can work with that.”
She checked the ground around the man, making sure nothing trapped him, then approached the horse with slow, measured steps. Its muscles quivered, but it didn’t shy when she reached for the reins.
“There you go,” she soothed. “Easy now.”
As she straightened the saddle, she noticed the brand burned into the horse’s flank.
A bar with two K’s.
Grace frowned.
“Bar Double K,” she murmured. “Belongs to somebody.”
Brands meant ranches. Ranches meant families. Someone would be missing this man.
She didn’t know who.
She led the horse down the slope, guiding it so the saddle sat just below the level ground where the injured man lay. Gravity would help.
Returning to him, she hooked her arms beneath his shoulders. He was heavy—dead weight—and her muscles strained as she dragged him inch by inch. His head lolled against her shoulder, warm blood dampening her sleeve.
“Stay with me,” she whispered, though she doubted he heard anything.
By the time she pulled him alongside the horse, her breath came ragged. Her legs trembled. She braced a moment against the saddle horn before gathering herself again.
“Just a little more.”
She heaved, using the slope to angle him up and over the saddle. It was clumsy and rough, and she worried she was reopening his wounds, but finally he slumped forward, chest against the horn, legs hanging limp.
Grace secured him with the rope at her waist, tying him firmly to the saddle horn so he wouldn’t slide free.
The horse flicked an ear back toward her, waiting.
“All right,” she said softly. “Let’s get you both home.”
She took the reins, steadying the man with one hand, and started the long walk toward her cabin. Snowflakes drifted through the air, slow and heavy, melting on her sleeve.
The woods felt deeper with every step.
The man didn't stir.
The horse followed without hesitation.
Grace never looked back at the bear or behind them. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, guiding the stranger toward the faint line of trees that would lead them home.
For the first time since her husband died, someone else’s life depended on her.
And she wasn’t about to fail him.
To be continued in The Lost Brand.