Renegade's Pride. B.J. Daniels

owl hoot to a hawk’s cry to the snap of a twig under the weight of a predator’s paw. It was one reason he’d survived in the wilds all these years alone, which was the way he liked it.

      Over the next rise, the lights of town beckoned. He licked his lips again, needing that drink more than ever. Boots heavy, he pushed on through the tall grass as he searched the horizon for whatever had spooked him. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt his skin prickle at this particular spot. He suspected it wouldn’t be the last.

      His hand went to the back of his neck. He rubbed his nape under his long, curly graying hair and considered taking a detour around this particular spot. But it would take him a lot longer, and he was anxious now for noise and lights and food he hadn’t had to cook himself. Also, he could almost taste that first shot of hooch.

      He’d been in the mountains too long. His stomach rumbled at the thought of hot cooked food. Cloud cover blocked the silver moonlight, deepening the darkness over the pasture that stood between him and civilization. He took a step, then another, the tall grass whickering against his filth-crusted canvas pants as he moved. He said the words like a mantra: whiskey and a bath in a tub with hot water and real soap. It propelled him forward a few more steps before he stopped again.

      Nothing moved. Even the wind had stopped as if holding its breath. He might have thought he’d gone deaf if not for the tremulous thump of his heart.

      It was on a night like this in 1967 that he’d first seen them. The memory was too fresh. He cursed himself for letting his thoughts take that particular path.

      “Don’t be a damned fool,” he said out loud, needing to hear something, even his own voice. “They aren’t out there.”

      And yet every fiber of his being knew better. They were here again. It was his only thought as he turned and tried to run, knowing it was a fool thing to do in the dark in a pasture full of gopher holes.

      He’d taken only a few strides when his foot dropped into a gap. He fell face-first, the weight of his heavy pack slamming him down hard into the earth. The fall knocked the wind out of him.

      Sprawled in the dirt, he gasped for air as he heard them coming. It was the same swishing sound as before, but this time there were two of them. He sucked in a ragged breath and tried to hold it.

      Telling himself that maybe they wouldn’t see him if he stayed down, he waited. The waiting was too painful. He lifted his head just enough to peer over the tall grass. They looked larger than he remembered, their bodies hidden beneath the huge blinding-white space suits they wore. He could hear their breathing systems swishing in and out as they labored through the tall spring grass.

      Ely thought he might be able to outrun them. He tried to slip off his backpack. It caught on his coat sleeve. Maybe if he could get to his pistol, but there wasn’t time.

      He put his face against the cold ground and prayed they wouldn’t take him this time.

       CHAPTER TWO

      SHERIFF FLINT CAHILL didn’t even bother to look up as the door to his office banged open first thing the next morning.

      “Seriously?” his sister, Lillie, demanded as she strode to his desk. “You arrested our father again?” Hands on her hips, she glared at him with narrowed gray eyes from a face that could only be described as adorable—even when furious.

      He sighed. “What would you have me do? Ely was drunk and disorderly. Again. Anyone else who behaves the way he does gets thrown in the slammer.”

      “He’s not just anyone else.”

      “No, he’s not. Did I fail to mention he resisted arrest? Deputy Harper is sporting a shiner this morning.”

      “I’ve wanted to slug Harp a few times myself,” Lillie said, looking toward the cell block as if the deputy was the last person she wanted to see this morning.

      “I hope you brought Ely some clean clothes. He...soiled himself.”

      “You’d piss yourself too if you saw what I did,” his father called from his cell down the hallway.

      “Nothing’s wrong with his hearing, anyway,” Flint muttered under his breath as Lillie set a large brown paper bag with the clothing in it on his desk.

      “Nothing’s wrong with his mind, either!” Ely called back.

      Flint shook his head and lowered his voice. “You know, Lillie, you don’t have to be the one to bail him out all the time. You could send one of our brothers to do the dirty work.”

      She said nothing as Deputy Harper Cole came in as if on cue. She gave him a disinterested nod. He eyed her with his one good eye, the one that wasn’t swollen shut. Lillie, clad in a pink T-shirt, worn jeans and sandals, had her long, curly dark hair pulled up in a ponytail. “Mornin’, Lillie. You’re looking fine.”

      “Harp, please take these to Ely and make sure he changes,” Flint said, holding out the bag to his deputy before Lillie gave the man another black eye. Messing with this particular Cahill would be a huge mistake. Lillie had grown up with five older brothers. She could hold her own and Flint didn’t want to have to arrest her too.

      He could tell his sister was fired up and wondered if it was only about Ely’s arrest or if there was more going on with her. He would have asked, but when she was in this mood, questioning her would be like poking a porcupine with a short stick.

      He could hear Ely arguing with the deputy from his cell down the hallway. “I’m telling you something has to be done about him,” Flint said quietly to his sister. This was a matter they were going to have to deal with.

      “He’s fine.”

      “He’s not fine. We can’t keep putting our heads in the sand and pretending that he isn’t getting worse.”

      She shook her head. “How about you stop arresting him?”

      “You know I can’t do that. Fortunately, he spends most of his time up in the mountains. But every time he comes out...” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The thick dark hair was something all of the Cahills shared, along with the gray eyes.

      “You need to cut him some slack. What would be wrong with that? He’s an old man. He’s your old man.”

      Flint shook his head as their father came out grumbling, but wearing clean clothes. He still looked wild from his full gray beard to those piercing light gray eyes so like his own. But he wasn’t the worse for wear given how much he had to drink last night.

      “You’re going to regret not listenin’ to me,” Ely said to his son. “I’m stone-cold sober this morning. I told you what I seen last night. I ain’t crazy. It’s them from outer space agin. They’re back and they’re hangin’ around our missile silo. Any fool knows no good’ll come from that. I’m tellin’ you. Them devils is up to somethin’. Somethin’ bad.”

      Flint shot his sister a see-what-I-mean look. Back in the late 1950s, their grandfather had signed over a two-acre plot of land in the middle of his ranch so the US government could bury missiles in perpetuity for national defense.

      The US Air Force had buried a thousand Minuteman missiles three stories deep in ranch land just like theirs. A missile on constant alert and capable of delivering a 1.2 megaton nuclear warhead to a target in thirty minutes was still buried in their backyard. The program was called MAD, Mutually Assured Destruction.

      Ely believed it was that missile that had brought a UFO to their land back in 1967. He swore it landed and aliens had taken him aboard their spaceship and did medical experiments on him. And that had made him known as the biggest crackpot in the county.

      “Come on, Dad,” Lillie said, sending a scowl at Flint. “You must be hungry. Let’s get you to my place—”

      “I want to go home,” Ely said as they headed for the door.