Page 1 of When Hearts Collide
Chapter 1
The gunshot is deafening.
The sound echoes in the quiet morning just before the screeching cries from a flock of quail fleeing the scene of a murder pierce the eerie silence.
I’m still standing.
For the brief millisecond as the rifle ricochets in my hands, time freezes, the seconds suspending in an alternate dimension. My breath lodges in my throat as goosebumps prickle my forearms, already glistening with a thin layer of sweat.
The damp fog in the waning twilight, the skies lightening from dark navy to pale blue as the sun announces its arrival, all seem sharper and more visceral.
In this instant, I stare at nature in its eyes, not knowing if I’ll be the person left standing.
To conquer or be conquered.
But I feel so damn free. Alive. Unapologetically honest.
A wide grin splits my lips. I savor the high streaming in my veins and I can finally breathe.
The beast inside me roars. For a few blessed minutes, it’s uncaged, unchained, untethered. It can run, it can escape, it can raze the fields to its heart’s content.
This motherfucking boar, with an impressive set of razor-sharp tusks, a beast twice the size of the normal wild hogs I’ve hunted in the past, is now a dark clump in the distance.
“Good job, Ryland. Waking up before dawn paid off, eh?” Jerome, my trusted hunting guide of fifteen years, gives me a terse nod before raking his weathered, tanned hands over his shaggy blond hair. I flew him out here to California from back home in New York just for this hunting trip; a rare escape for me.
My lips twitch in a half-smile, sweet satisfaction flooding my insides, mixing with the heady rush of adrenaline. It’s a sensation a man can be addicted to.
The hunting. The freedom. The danger of the chase.
The stress I’ve accumulated in my tight shoulders slowly leaches out of me.
“It’s satisfactory,” I reply.
“It’s good to see you smile finally. I was beginning to think you forgot how to do that.”
Jerome and his assistant, a stocky guy who looks no older than twenty, follow me as I amble toward the fallen beast to see if my shot hit front and center.
Two blurry shapes of blue and yellow catch my attention. I glance at the low-hanging branches, finding a curious bird, the sialia currucoides, the mountain bluebird, staring at me with sharp eyes, its vibrant blue feathers a sharp contrast to the browns and greens of the muted valley landscape in the fall. Its partner, the sturnella neglecta, the western meadowlark, with its captivating yellow chest, breaks out into a sweet, melodious song.
The birds cock their heads in unison as we observe each other. They don’t seem to care they’re in the presence of danger, or how the rules of nature dictate they should flee as I step closer to them. In fact, the meadowlark’s song grows louder.
It’s as if they’re here to say, fuck the rules.
The thought brings another small smile to my face. If I had more time, I’d take out my camera and capture the sighting on film.
The birds fly away, soaring into the free skies. My heart pounds at the flap of their wings.
Riiing.
The shrill sound jolts me from my reverie. After taking the satellite phone out from my pants pocket, I stare at the screen, my grin slipping off my face.
Maxwell.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I feel the real world sweeping in with the lethality of an assassin, and the invisible tie around my neck choking me again. The duties of being an Anderson offspring, bound to live by the terms of the perpetual family trust set by our forefathers, all shove their way into the forefront.
The gilded cage. The hundreds of years of impeccable Anderson legacy.
But you don’t need to answer the phone, Ryland. Technically, I have fifty-three more minutes of freedom left.