Genres: Paranormal Mystery
If an animal spoke to you, would you listen? Botanist/psychokinetic Katrina Ormstead created a super hash. A variety of marijuana she calls MAGIC. Before she can share her successful medical findings with the scientific community, she’s murdered. There is, however, one witness begging to come forward. Special is Katrina’s wolf-hybrid dog. She saw her mistress die. She wants revenge. Now she has to convince food photographer, animal psychic and Katrina’s best friend Wheat Keigwin of the same thing. Together, dog and woman dedicate themselves to solving the mystery behind Katrina’s death.
“Son of a bitch!” Wheat snapped awake and flung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet moving before they hit the ground.
Grab a vehicle?
She forgot shoes. Damn!
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” she chanted to herself, her teeth chattering even in the heat of the night. Special’s screams were still fresh in her head as she threw open the shed door, dropped down on one of the four-wheelers, turned the key and hit the gas. She shot out of the building and saw the black silhouettes of her dad and brother running across the yard. If they were saying anything, she couldn’t hear it over the roar of the engine.
She left them behind, pushed the vehicle to maximum speed. Across the yard, onto a dirt road, then a path, two wheels in the track, the other two chopping over clumps of prairie grass, her mind working out a course. How to avoid the pasture gate. No time to stop.
Wheat turned the handles to the right, dipped down an embankment. There was a wash where the ground was lower, leaving a sizable gap between it and the bottom strand of barbwire. She prayed it was deep enough to let the ATV pass under. She couldn’t see the wire. Even with light from the moon she could only make out the dark shadows of the posts.
The bike stopped jerking, the tires churning the soft dirt in the wash. Wheat pressed herself flat against the seat, her head tucked behind the handle bars, cheek on the fuel tank, expecting to feel the jerk if the handles caught the barb wire. She felt something shock her as the wire grazed her back.
The material on her pajama top caught. Tore as a barb let loose.
She realized she’d been holding her breath, let it out, kept herself tucked forward, less wind resistance.
The bike topped the rise, all four wheels air bound. It hit the ground. Bounced hard. It knocked the breath out of her, but she didn’t take her thumb off the gas.
The vehicle bucked madly, hitting clumps of grass and gopher holes. Wheat squeezed with her thighs like a bull rider. Rode it out. The clinic only yards away.
The thought hit her.
She didn’t have a weapon.
Too late now. She stomped down on the brake, sent the bike into a skid. Leapt off. The bike still rolling. The gravel bit into her bare feet. Her mind raced ahead. What could she use in a fight?
The clinic door was wide open. She heard the chorus of animal noise inside. She reached out and grabbed a branding iron hanging by a nail on the side of the building.
How close was her brother?
Her feet slapped the cold tile inside the building and she hit the light switch, arm raised, iron shaft gripped tight.
Brian Donovan stood by the front desk.
She felt the blood rush to her head.
She must look a fright.
To cover her discomfort she scowled at him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Damn he looked good.
An agriculture journalist, Lena Jo McCoy has worked in the print-media fields, both newspapers and magazines and has spent most of her life devoted to agriculture. Lena Jo has long admired the works of animal behaviorist Temple Grandin, Cesar Milan as well as the farmers and ranchers she’s written about and is dedicated to the humane treatment of all animals. When she is not playing servant to her two English Bulldogs, Lena Jo finds herself at the computer writing the next story.
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