It's Filler Time

I decided the wrap-up to Moon-Moon’s adventure would play better on Christmas Eve, so you’ll get that next week. Which left me short a post for this week. Fortunately, J. J. Collins has a rough draft WIP, and it’s got shifters in it. We join Roy Tennyson on his Harley, headed home from work, and his daily match race with—well, we’ll see.

# # #

He mounted up and rode out of town, careful to keep to the speed limit. Once he hit the town line he opened up, and made it to the crossroads in record time.

Sure enough, the horse was waiting.

Roy grinned and gunned his engine. The horse pawed the ground. Roy swung onto the road, and they were off.

The horse kept pace all the way up the road to the narrow gravel drive that led to Roy’s place. Roy slowed, both for the turn and to wait for the pickup coming from the other direction. As Roy’s speed diminished the horse pulled ahead. It even found wind for a whinny.

All at once the truck swung toward him, right over the center line. Roy, with his eyes on the horse, almost didn’t see it. He frantically swerved to the berm. The truck sideswiped him, close enough its side brushed the denim on his leg. The driver’s face snarled at him, a twisted blur. One of O’Casey’s buddies. “Watch where you’re driving, you goddamn faggot!”

The Harley skidded, bucked and slid. Roy’s brain did the same. He heard loud noises but couldn’t attach them to anything. Except for one shrill scream he was pretty sure wasn’t him. It must have been the horse. Awareness left him on his own for a while

 Next thing he knew, something warm and stubbly was nudging at his face. He opened his eyes to four long legs and scuffed black hooves. He licked his lips and tasted dirt. The horse nosed his face again and murmured its concern.

His first coherent thought was, Where’s my bike?

Carefully, Roy elbowed himself up. His heart crashed against his ribs, nearly through his jacket. That proved he was still alive. He could still feel his legs, and they moved when he thought at them. Another good sign. He reached up and found blood in his hair, but no bumps. His helmet lay a few feet away. That, his gloves and jacket, and the fact he must have rolled when he landed had probably saved him from serious injury.

Had he lost consciousness? He was pretty sure he hadn’t, but couldn’t be certain. The truck and its murderous driver, of course, were long gone.

Then he spotted the Harley, lying on its side on the grassy edge of the berm. Even at a distance he saw the kink in the handlebar, the tailpipe hanging loose. There was probably more, maybe worse, waiting for a hands-on search.

 A groan ripped out of him. He tried to scramble upright. Sharp jabs of pain in his left ankle and knee put a stop to that. “Son of a bitch,” he cursed the truck.

He made a second attempt. This time the horse helped out. When his left leg crumpled under him the horse caught his jacket sleeve in its teeth and kept him semi-standing. Roy grabbed at its mane and dragged himself onto his still-functioning right leg. He hooked an arm across the horse’s neck and leaned hard on the solid support of its shoulder. The horse did not move or complain. It whickered at him, perhaps in sympathy.

 Roy patted its neck. “Good Noche. Good boy. Good—” He stopped, both words and patting.

The horse had blue eyes.

Now that was flat-out weird. Back in Oklahoma he’d seen blue-eyed horses, even one with one blue eye and the other regular brown. But those had all been pintos. He’d been told that was normal for them. Any horse that wasn’t a pinto tended to have brown eyes. Except for his racing buddy here.

And damned if those eyes, even the way the horse cocked its head, didn’t look familiar.

Then he put too much weight on his left foot and the pain shot up his leg again. Roy cried out. Now he was getting alarms from his lower chest and his elbow. He had to get off the road, get home, maybe call somebody.

He and the horse must have been on the same page, because Noche folded his forelegs and got down on his knees and presented his back to Roy. Somebody’s pet for sure, and excellently trained. He hauled himself onto the horse’s back and gripped its mane as hard as his aching hands would let him. One hard fall was bad enough. He didn’t need another.

The horse set off at a slow, careful walk, toward the road and the gravel drive. Roy didn’t even have to steer him. It was like he knew right where to go.

He couldn’t resist a squint at his bike as they shuffled past it. That looked like a dent in the fuel tank. Was the engine okay? Roy groaned with a pain divorced from his physical injuries. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered again.

Even with the horse’s easy pace, Roy still jounced enough to spark snaps of pain in various parts of his body. Motorcycles he could straddle. Men too, in the right circumstances. Horses, not so much. He gritted his teeth and hung on while Noche made his tedious, torturous way up the drive to Roy’s cozy rancher. The barn, where the Harley should be sitting safe and secure and undamaged right now, seemed to mock him with its placidity.

The horse knelt again, positioned so Roy could slide off onto the porch and not have to climb the front steps. He tried to land to protect his ankle and barked his knee on the porch rail instead. Tears started to his eyes. I won’t faint, he told himself. It’s just a twisted ankle. An Army vet doesn’t faint over a twisted ankle.

Noche nuzzled his hair. Roy patted his nose. “Not that I’m ungrateful,” he said, “but as an ambulance, you’re not the smoothest.”

The horse backed a step. His body blurred. Thinking his eyes had got knocked askew too, Roy blinked hard. It wasn’t his eyes after all. It was the horse. The horse had somehow reshaped itself into a human being.

“That makes us even,” Dale Evanista said. “’Cause you can’t ride for shit.”

Roy fainted.

A Day at the Races

"Get away from the door!" somebody shouted.

Rosalia barely had the chance to twitch her tail out of harm's way in time. The bar's door slammed open and five bare-chested studs charged in, lathered up and stinking up a storm. Normally Rosalia found stallion sweat a turn-on, but not in herd form. She wrinkled her nose and sent sympathetic vibes to the patrons who hurriedly vacated their stools.

The stud with the red-blond mane reached the bar first. "I win!" he whinnied. "Malt whiskey!"

"Screw you," said second place. "Everybody knows you're on steroids. I'll have a rye."

"Scotch on the rocks," the third one ordered. The other two had beers.

Rosalia shook her own thick mane and was on her way to the exit when she bumped square into a sixth shirtless runner. Now this was more like it, she thought. The also-ran had long, trim legs—shaved, she couldn't help noticing; that was unique—chestnut hair pulled back in a horsetail, and the loveliest brown eyes she'd ever seen. He had just enough lather on him to make his scent arousing. Best of all, he was more sober than the rest of his herd, an enormous mark in his favor.

He eyed the studs at the bar and swore. "Forget this. I'm out."

Rosalia barely glanced at the other stallions. This fine racer was more to her liking. "That time of year again, eh?"

Both his eyebrows climbed. "You know about the race?"

"The annual Bar Derby? What horse doesn't? It's a fine old tradition, especially here in Talbot's Peak. I ran a time or two myself, back when I was in school." His left brow crept a fraction higher. "The fillies run too, you know. Usually after the studs."

"It can't be much of a payoff for you," he said. "At least for the racers, the winner gets his drink paid for. Hell, everybody drinks no matter who wins the leg. By the end of the evening we're all dead drunk. Is that what the fillies race for? Some wobbly nag with beer breath?"

"More or less." Rosalia made a face over a particularly disappointing memory. "That's why a lot of us quit."

"I think I will too," the stud said. "I can think of better things to run for than a hangover."

"There are the bragging rights," she pointed out.

"And rights to the mares. I know. But what good is that if you're too drunk to enjoy it?"

"You're not too drunk, are you?" Rosalia winked.

He must have been a little sloshed, because it took him a moment to catch on. "I think I'd rather have dinner than another drink," he said. "How about you?"

"Dinner sounds great, as long as we have water and not—"

The winner at the bar slammed down his mug. "Next leg—Rattigan's!" he bellowed. "Somebody call it!"

One of the patrons at a table obliged. "And they're off!"

The winner bolted unsteadily for the door. This time Rosalia's impromptu date hustled her out of the way. The other horses gulped their drinks and galloped after the leader.

"That's not going to end well," the stallion said. "Louie told us in no uncertain terms he didn't want Rattigan's added to the course this year. He's got a cleaver. If the squirrel's on the register tonight, he'll have a gun."

"Should be fun to watch, then," Rosalia said. "We can have dinner there afterwards."

"Perfect." He bared big horsey teeth. "I'm Aaron."

"Rosalia."

He offered his hand. She took it. They left the bar together, at a sedate trot.

Viewers' Choice

Okay, here’s the deal: I started to write a follow-up to last week’s post and couldn’t get it to work. Then I got another idea and couldn’t get that to work. I came up with a third idea, and … fizzle. So this is what we’re gonna do. I’m posting my three beginnings and leaving it up to you, the readers. Vote on which one you want me to finish. Otherwise I’ll pick one myself. Or come up with something entirely different. Ideas are a dime a dozen. It’s the execution part that’s a pain in the butt.

#1: FAST AND LOOSE

Mirabella stared down at the creature lying on his back in the grass. He had the look of a cat to him, but was thin and limber as a rubber band, with bony, stilt-like legs. His pelt was nearly as yellow as the grass, and speckled with dark spots. His eyes darted from her to the muttering gray stallion to the Clydesdale gelding and his heavy, deadly hooves. The cat held very still, with his paws tucked in to his pallid chest fur in an effort not to look dangerous. He must have experience with horses, especially protective stallions.

She had seen cheetah-shifters before, though she’d never spoken to one. Nor had she expected to find one in Montana. To her knowledge, Wells did not employ cheetahs. That implied her own secrets were safe. So what was he doing here?

If only she dared shift to ask him. But no one must know she was up here, or that she was something other than a horse.

She backstepped to allow Hicks, the gray stallion, in close to settle matters. Hicks did not like cats at all, and wasn’t that fond of shifters. Whatever he decided, she would back him. Better safe than sorry.

#2: FAREWELL TO THE LONG BIG SLEEP

Ziva only ever heard Nick moan on two occasions: during bouts of passion in their bed, and behind his desk on deadline day. Today he was moaning in his office with no deadlines looming, and her not with him to provoke the noises. She practically crashed into the office. “You okay, honey?”

“Let me claw my eyes out first.” Nick rubbed the abused orbs in question and sat back from his computer. “I don’t know how, but he just keeps getting worse.”

Ziva came around the desk to massage his shoulders, and to sneak a peek at whatever had upset her mate. “Let me guess: Ralph. What did he do this time, savage the new SpongeBob movie?”

“Worse.” Nick shuddered. “He’s writing a book.”

# # #

It was a quarter past my second bottle of scotch. Outside my office it was raining like a sonuvabitch. It’d been doing that all week. I think the sun figured if it dared to show itself somebody’d take a potshot at it. Not that it mattered worth a shit. All the rain in the world couldn’t wash this city clean. I lifted my bottle to the absent sun and took a swig in its honor.

Ziva raised both brows. “A detective novel?”

“That appears to be his intention,” Nick said. “Somewhere, Raymond Chandler is spinning in his grave.”

“How did you get hold of this?”

“Lamar hacked into his files. You know how territorial he gets when somebody else tries to write a book.”

“And of course he shares with everybody.”

“That’s a snake for you.” Nick continued reading.

And then she walked in. A dame classy enough to make me put the bottle down. Blonde—I mean, c’mon, what the hell else? Legs from here all the way down to there, a set of highly dangerous curves and a rack that’d make a saint scream hallelujah.

Ziva winced, close to moaning herself. “Yeah, that’s Ralph.”

She sat her hot ass down in a chair and crossed those endless legs. “Mr. Jakes? My name is Alabaster Crowe. I want you to locate a missing person. My husband has disappeared.”

#3 THE USUAL SUSPECTS

It had to happen eventually, Gil thought. When you’re in politics, scat like this hit the fan as a matter of course. That didn’t prevent him from seething.

He knew he could strike Louie and the gang at Rattigan’s off the suspect list. Maybe last year one of them might have done it as a joke, but not now. He had a wife and children now. Louie had backed off from the practical jokes the second Chloe announced her pregnancy, and saw to it everyone else did too. Louie had a cleaver. No, it hadn’t been anyone at Rattigan’s.

Somebody had it in for the Mayor of Talbot’s Peak. He’d have to nip this in the bud. But first he had to deal with the press. “No,” he told the reporter from the Gazette through grinding, gritted teeth. “I didn’t and have never made a sex tape.”

That’s all, folks. Pick the one you like and I’ll finish it. Or feel free to suggest something else. As for me, it’s back to caffeine. Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be writers.

Intruder Alert

Mirabella sprawled naked in the meadow’s tall grass and let the sun warm her long limbs. She had no fears of discovery here in the mountain solitude, not by humans, shifters or anything else. Here she could relax and be her other self.

A short distance away the band of saddle horses grazed, equally unconcerned. They’d been wary of her when she’d first approached them, a horse that moved just a fraction off true and smelled of shifter to boot. At first she’d simply trailed the herd and used them for camouflage. In time their boss mare, Ripley, had accepted her—perhaps not fully as one of them, but at least as a guest. At any rate, the mare hadn’t driven her off, and Mirabella had been able to hide herself with the herd.

There’d been some tense moments when Merry, the dude ranch owner, had ridden up to the mountain pasture to collect fresh horses for her guests and found the strange roan mare among her stock. Mirabella stood still and held her breath and let Merry check her over for a brand or inner-lip tattoo or implanted ID chips. Of course she knew Merry wasn’t going to find any, let alone an owner. Those intent on recovering Mirabella were looking for a runaway woman, not a missing horse. Thank Epona she’d never disclosed her shifter nature to Wells!

The roan mare had a fiery temper but took kindly to inexperienced riders, especially young, nervous girls. For them she demonstrated unexpected patience. When an owner didn’t turn up, Merry shrugged and added the new saddle horse to her herd and put her to work. She was just what a rider with little confidence needed, a feisty but affectionate mount that would do as told and not try to buck them off. Merry had named the “mare” Vasquez. Mirabella had no idea why. Merry was a big film fan, so Mirabella assumed it must be some kind of movie reference.

Since then neither Wells nor any of his men had ever come to the ranch. She’d reached the point where she felt free enough to shift back to her human form, but only here in the isolated hills. The band, even vigilant Ripley and her stallion partner Hicks, were used to her now and didn’t even spook when a human suddenly appeared in their midst from time to time.

Only one threat to her safety remained: Merry’s boyfriend, Dash. He was also a horse shifter. Dash knew the difference between a real horse and one trying to pass. So far he hadn’t betrayed her. Was he looking for the perfect moment to strike? Or waiting for her to make her own choice to come clean?

If the latter, he had a long wait ahead of him. What had begun of necessity had turned into a pleasant existence for Mirabella. Rich grass, open skies, the protection of others who were sort of her kind and, above all, freedom. If it meant giving up her human self for long stretches, she was willing to live with the cost. Being a woman hadn’t paid off for her nearly as well as being a horse.

She rolled over onto her stomach and kicked her legs lazily in the air. The rest of the herd had drifted downslope, all but the Duke. The big, blaze-faced Clydesdale had gotten too old to pull hay wagons, so Merry turned him loose to enjoy retirement in the hills. Seeing she was in human form, he stomped over to her and bumped her with his nose for a petting. Mirabella grinned and obliged, scratching behind his ears right at the spot where he liked it. The gelding sighed into her hair. “This is the life,” she agreed.

If only it could last. But she knew better.

She rose easily to her feet and folded her arms on the Duke’s broad back while he grazed. For now she had it good. However, there was still Dash, hoarding her secret for whatever reason, and Wells, after the secrets her human self carried. Keeping track of Dash was easy; she had only to look for Merry. Wells and his agents could be anywhere.

Something moved in the grass.

Mirabella stiffened, instantly alert. Sensing her alarm, the Duke raised his head with a puzzled huhn. She pressed a hand to his nose to quiet him. The invader might not yet know he’d been spotted.

He was stealthy, whatever he was. He moved like a snake, a sinuous ribbon in the tawny meadow grass. Wolf? Too fluid. Coyote, perhaps, or a puma. Whatever he was, he bypassed the Duke and instead zeroed in on the herd. Hicks, on watch, hadn’t noticed the invader yet. Nor had the stalker noticed her, she was certain.

Using the Duke’s bulky body to hide herself, Mirabella shifted.

In the blink of an eye Mirabella the woman became Vasquez the mare. She loosed a piercing neigh, to both warn her companions and to startle the intruder. If this was a normal predator, he would realize his ambush had been ruined and run. If he wasn’t, she would deal with him.

Had he noticed her in her human form? She dared not take that chance.

The first part of her plan worked perfectly. The horses turned toward the sound of her neigh and instantly realized their danger. Phase Two didn’t go so well. Instead of retreating, the intruder attacked. He charged at the band in a shocking burst of speed. That was no wolf or local cat. She had no idea what it was.

She knew one thing for certain: he was not going to harm her companions.

The herd stallion leaped to intercept. The attacker zigged around him as if the horse were moving in slow motion. However, his forced change in course brought him up against Mirabella, pounding in from behind. He dodged her also, lost his footing, and skidded through the grass. Mirabella and Hicks came at him from opposing sides. The Duke stomped a huge hoof and whinnied.

Mirabella reached the invader first. An equine snort escaped her. What in Epona’s name was this doing in the wilds of Montana?

Merry's Christmas

A working horse and cattle ranch doesn’t stop working just because it’s Christmas. The stock doesn’t care if Santa’s coming; they still need to be fed, the stalls still need to be mucked out, and the million and one tasks that keep the ranch running still need to be done. Therefore, dawn on Christmas morning found Merry on horseback riding toward the upper pastures to make sure the Christmas eve snowfall hadn’t caused any hardship for the herds.

She gripped her mount’s mane and leaned across his neck to speak above the chilly winter wind into his ear. “We’ll take a look at the southwest first, then swing toward the top of the ridge. After we’ve checked on the cattle we can take a break at the line cabin, and I’ll call back to the office.”

Dash snorted to let her know he understood. He carried her himself; he refused to trust her safety to a normal horse. In his shifter form he was powerful and tireless, moreso than her regular mounts. If anything went wrong up here, he’d be right there to help out.

Of course, Merry considered through clenched teeth, riding a shifter did have its drawbacks. Dash wasn’t into bondage, so that meant no saddle or reins. He permitted a blanket to be strapped to his back for her comfort, but she had to hold onto his mane. The saddlebags carrying his clothes were tied just behind her. Since this sort of amounted to a backpack, his stallion’s pride allowed it.

At the first pasture they found the cattle bunched together and blowing steam from their nostrils. They appeared to have weathered the storm just fine. The ridge was clear of cattle. “They probably all headed downslope to get out of the wind,” Merry said, and Dash nodded agreement. “Head for the cabin. I’ll radio Race to haul up a couple of hay bales, just in case. I know he’s just itching to break out the Sno Cat. Kid loves it better than a horse.”

Dash muttered his low opinion of motorized vehicles and headed for the cabin.

At the little one-room line cabin Merry darted inside to fire up the woodstove, while Dash shifted and toweled the sweat and snow off his naked human body. By the time the snug little room had warmed, he was dressed and digging oatmeal and apples out of the saddlebags. “You have some too,” he ordered. “I know you skimped on breakfast.”

“I can eat any time. The cattle don’t always have that option.” Merry lifted the short-wave radio in its insulated case down from the cupboard. Cell phones were dicey out here in the cold, but the radio always got through. While Dash fixed their breakfast she contacted the ranch and reported the herd’s whereabouts and condition. “Race is on his way,” she said after she signed off. “I think he would have run the Sno Cat up here even if I hadn’t called in.”

“Waste of good hay. You know the deer are just gonna eat it.”

“Maybe some elk, too. I wouldn’t mind seeing elk on the range. Give the guests something to look at when we open up again in the spring.”

“What, the unicorn ain’t enough?”

“The unicorn’s retired. Guests with guns and high-powered scopes we don’t need.” Merry made sure to hug him to take the sting out of her order. “Maybe in the summer. We can have a Valentine’s Day in June or something.”

“Or,” Dash suggested with his big horsy grin, “we could have one right now.”

“You need your energy to get back down the mountain.”

“I got energy and then some. We’ll make it.”

“If not,” Merry teased, running her fingers through his thick mane, “maybe Race could give us a ride back on the Sno Cat.”

“You sure know how to wreck a man’s mood, woman.”

“I’m only thinking of you. You’ve been plowing through snow uphill all morning. Those big, strong muscles of yours need a br – ”

Dash jerked his head around, a split second before Merry’s less-keen human ears picked up a noise outside. It was a familiar enough sound, but had no business being here. The sound of hooves clomping through snow, and the snort and mutter of horses.

“You expecting company?” Dash said.

Unicorn hunters flashed through Merry’s mind. She reached for the rifle she always carried with her on her trips into the hills. Dash went unarmed, but only in his human shape. “Don’t shift just yet. Let’s see what we got first.”

She couldn’t see a thing through the heat-fogged windows. Dash slid the door open a crack, then flung it wide. “Well,” he said, amused. “Come say hi to the neighbors.”

Merry peered beyond his brawny shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat.

Only yards from the cabin door, a stocky paint stallion studied them warily, nostrils flared and ears tipped forward. He must have cut their trail, caught Dash’s scent and come to investigate. Merry glimpsed several more horses peeking back at them from the edge of the woods, mares and yearlings in their shaggy winter coats, blowing softly.

Merry clutched at Dash’s arm. “Are they … ?”

“Ain’t my kind,” he murmured back. “They’re the real deal.” He neighed a reassurance to the stallion. “Merry Christmas, cuz. I won’t come after your ladies.” He draped his arm around Merry. “Got my own.”

The paint shook his head while he puzzled over Dash’s semi-equine scent. Abruptly he snorted and whirled. His band galloped after him. They vanished over the rise.

Dash had to close the door; Merry was too stunned to move. Her eyes shown like a child’s on, well, on Christmas morning. “They’re back,” she breathed. “The mustangs. After all these years.”

“Word must’a got out about what a great range we got here. And under a unicorn’s protection and all.” He laughed briefly. “Bet I know where Race’s hay is going.”

“Wild horses on the ridge again. Just like when I was a girl.” She threw her arms around Dash’s neck and hugged him tight. “This is the best Christmas present ever.”

“Second best.” Dash tugged at the buttons on her blouse. “You’re about to get the best. Gotta warm you up again, now that we went and let all the heat out.”

Merry giggled and made no attempt to stop him. “What about breakfast?”

He laid her out on the grizzly skin in front of the woodstove. “It’ll keep.”

Sure enough, it did.