Page 1 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

Chapter 1: Reid

The boar problem had started in January, but by June it was a war. They'd bred furiously, and by this week, half the lower pastures were torn up beyond recognition. They rooted up fence posts and killed calves. Their rooting made the ground a mess and could easily break a horse's leg. They tore up grazing land. Maybe the worst was the diseases they carried. They could take a whole herd out easily. I'd killed a bunch, but they just came back, two for every one I put down, playing a numbers game they knew they'd win.

It was already eighty degrees by the time I got Ghost saddled, and there's just something damn wrong about sweating through your shirt before the sun’s up. Ghost didn't care. He was built for hot, flat country. He'd been mine since my father, Travis Coulter, the Maddox foreman his whole life, walked him to me the day he decided I was old enough to have a horse of my own. He’d held out the lead rope without ceremony, the way he’d done everything that mattered.

We crossed the south meadow at a careful walk, my rifle tied across the pommel and an old field pack bumping against my hip. I'd loaded it with water, beef jerky, and enough ammo for three days if I got unlucky. Sloane says I'm paranoid. Midge says I'm prepared. I trust Midge. Ghost does too, which is how I know Midge is right about most things.

Buck and Gray, two of our long-time hands, had ridden out at first light for the south fence. Their horses’ hoofprints were already drying in the mud when I came down off the meadow. The hogs’ tracks started near the creek's end and looked fresher. The hogs’d probably come after Buck and Gray had passed through. A whole mess of them, big as my fist, gouged deep into the muddy earth. There weren't many chances to track a group of hogs this size when the ground was wet, but it also meant Ghost hated every minute. I dismounted at the fence line, tied him up, and checked the wind. Coming from the south, warm and steady. They'd never know I was coming. It was easier as a wolf. They’d never know I was coming. I could be sneaky as a human, but I had nothing on my wolf.

I shifted into my fur. The world brightened, then split into layers. I could smell every grass blade, every beetle and pissant, and especially every cow turd. The odor of the boars hit me so hard I nearly sneezed. Fuck, they stunk. Smelled like sour beer and blood. I followed the noxious stink under the fence, low and silent, keeping my tail down. Wolves don't belong in daylight, but the pigs were making a mess and Calder needed a count for the cull. At this point, we were going to have to hit them all at once, or they’d hide and breed that much faster.

I padded behind a downed cedar and waited, peering around the tree. Two sows, at least a dozen piglets, and a big bastard of a boar. Scarred up, missing half his tail, tusks a good foot long. He'd been shot before, at least twice. That explained the limp.

I was about to turn back when the wind shifted, just a hair, just enough to warn me something was wrong. It wasn't boar stink, or blood, or the sweet rot of dead cattle. It was cologne. Cheap, bitter, and trying too hard. Human, and not from the Maddox ranch.

I circled wide. The fence was new, built last winter, and the grass was beaten flat where the Colemans liked to cut through our property line. Rat bastards. There were two people at the top of the ridge, sweating and uneasy on horses. One of the riders was Wyatt Coleman, the oldest of the Coleman kids. Fancy boots, sunglasses, hair slicked back with too much product. He was carrying, sidearm on his hip, same as anyone in this county.

It wasn’t like the Colemans and the Maddoxes mixed. According to Buck, they’d tried when Calder and I were kids, but the Colemans had been less than amiable. I'd never trusted the Coleman name. Nobody did.

The other rider was a woman. I couldn't see her face yet. She was smaller, dressed in tan cargo pants and a sun shirt, with a floppy hat hanging down her back. No rifle, just a big camera and a phone, or maybe a handheld GPS. Not a local.

I went belly-down and tried to back out, but the boar caught my motion or smell and squealed. High and ugly, a sound that made my gums itch. The entire herd exploded. Piglets scattered, sows chased them, but the big boar squared up on me and dropped his head. Damn it.

Coleman and the woman jerked around at the sound. The horses panicked, and in about two seconds, it was a mini stampede. Coleman kept his seat, but the woman's horse pitched and sent her flying before taking off. She landed hard, rolled, and didn't get up. Coleman, the noble son of a bitch, used the opportunity to yank his horse's head around and head for the road, cussing the whole way. Remarkable self-preservation instinct on that man. Fucker.

That left me, the boar, and the woman.

The boar charged. I bolted for the woman, hoping she wouldn't spook worse than the horses. She was sprawled on her side, hand clutching her ankle. She looked up just in time to see a two-hundred-pound wolf barreling at her.

I broke left, putting myself between her and the boar, and braced for impact. The bastard clipped my hind leg, but it was a glancing shot. He was more interested in the woman. I whipped around, bit down on his flank until I tasted blood. He shrieked, spun, ripping his leg from my mouth, and ran for the treeline.

I didn't chase. Instead, I turned and took a good look at the woman. She hadn't screamed or fainted or tried to scramble away. She'd propped herself up on one elbow, with what I was pretty sure was a Sig P365 leveled at my chest. A small gun. She had a steady grip, muzzle not wavering an inch. Wide-eyed, but not wild. There was a stillness in her face that stopped me cold. I'd been in enough bad situations to know the difference. This woman had come through something before and was still standing. Metaphorically. She was still sitting.

We held each other's gaze, her gun between us. Then I heard the whinny of a horse. Ghost, still tied up at the fence. He hated being left out of a good fight. I took off, sprinted the full quarter mile back, and shifted behind a clump of sumac. I limped over and untied Ghost. He was anxious, ears flat. I didn't blame him.

I mounted up, cut a quick trail back to the clearing, and as I broke through the trees, I tried my best to look unhurried. The woman was sitting upright now, picking dirt out of her palm. Her hat was gone, hair loose around her shoulders, her face freckled and sunburned. She saw me coming and waved.

I dismounted ten yards away and tipped my hat. "You all right, ma'am?"

She grinned. "Took a hell of a tumble, but I'll live. A wolf chased a wild boar right over to us. The horses freaked out, mine threw me, and my guide took off."

Her ankle was swelling badly. I dug an elastic wrap out of my saddlebag and knelt beside her. “Can I take a look?”

She held out her leg.

"I'm Reid Coulter, " I said. "Wiggle your foot this way.” I nodded my head over my shoulder toward my horse so she’d move her foot that way. “That’s Ghost. We work for the Maddox place." I jerked my head toward the Maddox Ranch, which was in the opposite direction of Ghost. “Now wiggle your foot that way.”

She looked up at me, eyes green and sharp. "I'm Jennie. I work for the Colemans.” She lifted her leg and pointed the other way. “Well, sort of. I’m doing some geology work for an oil company thinking about drilling on the Coleman ranch."

I wrapped her ankle, snug but not too tight. "They must've thought you needed supervision."

She snorted. "Hardly. That asshole couldn't supervise a goldfish."

"Sorry you got thrown," I said.

She shrugged. "Better than doing desk work. Besides, it's the first time I've seen a wolf up close. Do you get a lot of them around here?"

I almost laughed, but didn't. "Not really. Wolves are pretty well extinct in the Hill Country. Maybe it was a big dog."