Whit's End

Whit’s End

Willow Spring Ranch

Laura Harner

Whit’s End is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Laura Harner

Cover photograph by DWS Photography

Cover Art by Laura Harner

Edited by Jae Ashley

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition Published in the United States by Hot Corner Press.

ISBN: 978-1-937252-88-5

Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Contact the publisher for further information: Hotcornerpress@gmail.com

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

About the Author

Also Available

Acknowledgements

Author’s note: All the main characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years or older. The Pinetop Stars Camp is a fictional children’s charity and Ranch Quest is a fictional benefit event supporting terminally ill children.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

American Idol: FremantleMedia North America, Inc. Hummer

Chevy: General Motors, LLC

Corona: Cerveceria Modelo, S.A. de C.V.

Four Seasons: Four Seasons Hotels Limited

Jeep: Chrysler Group, LLCJim Beam: Jim Beam Brands Co.

Les Paul: Gibson Guitar Corp.

Marlboro: Philip Morris USA Inc.

Marines: US Marine Corps, a component of the US Department of the Navy

McDonald’s: McDonald’s Corporation

SEALs: The Department of the Navy

Stetson: John B. Stetson Company

Technicolor: Technicolor Trademark Management SAS Corporation

Toyota Camry: Toyota Motor Corporation

Twitter: Twitter, Inc.

Wranglers: Wrangler Apparel Corp.

Chapter One

White-knuckling the steering wheel, Whit held his breath and gunned the big four-wheel drive Chevy, willing the beast to fight up the steep incline of the seasonal creek bed. The engine roared, and the front tires grabbed, inching him forward, closer to the flat ground he desperately needed if he was going to get out of here before the area became impassable. The front of the truck crested the bank, but the rear tires spun on the loose rocks of the arroyo and the bed of the truck slipped sideways. For a moment, Whit wondered if the truck was going to circle around and dump his ass in the wash. In this weather, it wouldn’t be long before the normally dry creek would be roiling with flash flood water, rocks, and debris.

He babied the gas pedal, tapped the brakes, and jerked the wheel hard left. Every muscle tensed as he leaned into the turn as if he could move the truck to safety through sheer force. The truck inched forward with a groan that could be heard over the pounding rain. With a sudden jerk that snapped his neck, the front wheels grabbed and the truck shot forward, hurtling him toward the tall pinyon that marked the entry to his property.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion as he braked too hard and the truck fishtailed, sliding inexorably toward the pine. He might have yelled as the sound of metal-meets-tree punctuated his impromptu parking job. Well, fuck.

With the driver’s side door tucked up close and personal with the tree, Whit slid across to the passenger side and climbed out to assess the damage. Yesterday, like most days in Arizona, there hadn’t been a cloud in the sky. But some funky spring storm that had been building over the Pacific coast caught a high wind, and overnight, the storm warnings had been raised to extreme. Word of the accompanying rains and flash floods had been enough for the Willow Springs Ranch owners to postpone the long-planned Ranch Quest set for this weekend. The twenty kids in treatment for life threatening or terminal illnesses might have been looking forward to spending the day at the WSR, but they would have to wait another week. If the rain came in the forecasted amounts, there would be no way to get a bus down the long dirt road that led to the ranch.

Which was why Whit was now out here at his newly purchased ranch land. As soon as his boss, Cass Cartwright, confirmed the delay of plans, Whit had beat feet to get to the ramshackle cabin set in the middle of his seventy acres. He’d made it before the rain and stayed just long enough to ensure the place was as secure as he could make it. The power generators were in the shed, the tools locked away, and the windows and doors were secured. The place might not be much, but it was his. He counted himself fortunate to find acreage close enough to the WSR that he could keep his job and still use his days off to work at making his cabin habitable. Someday he’d be able to build, but for now, this was his, and he planned to take damn good care of the place.

Without even looking at the damage, he already knew all hope of getting back to the WSR today was gone. The entry to his land was straight off the highway but the turnoff to the WSR was five miles back, toward the interstate, and even if he could see in this deluge, the dirt road to the ranch would be impassible by the time he extricated his truck.

After turning off the ignition, he jammed his hat down harder on his head, then pushed the door open, which turned off the truck lights, pitching him into an eerie gloom. His boots squelched in the mud when he jumped from the truck. Removing a coil of rope and a shovel from behind the seats and a flashlight from the glove box, he locked the truck and prepared to hike back the way he came to wait out the storm. At least he’d get a fair idea of whether or not his cabin was watertight.

Lights danced crazily across the trees in front of him, and for a moment, Whit thought he was seeing a strange lightning pattern refracted in the pouring rain. The lights bounced then swept to the left, and Whit turned to catch sight of a white sedan as it swerved, jerked sideways, then rolled to a stop not more than fifteen feet from his truck. The door opened and a man in boots, jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and a white hat jumped from the driver’s side door. The outfit might be generic cowboy, but Whit had no difficulty recognizing the familiar figure as he jumped from the car, and the way he started running blindly said trouble.

Hey, over here, Whit yelled, flipping on the flashlight and waving his arms, already moving in the man’s direction. The man turned toward him, just as the predicted trouble arrived in the form of a black Jeep Wrangler.

The Jeep bounced over the drainage ditch to come to a stop next to the car. A bright light flashed once before the door opened and someone in a blue plastic rain poncho climbed out. The light flashed again, and he heard the man’s voice call out, effectively putting the puzzle together for Whit.

Brody! Mr. Kent! Keith Marker here from TYZ news. Any comment on Lisa’s statement earlier today? Do you want to comment on the rumors you’re ga— He slipped in the mud and executed a perfect belly flop, landing camera first in a reddish brown puddle.

Country music superstar Brody Kent had been due to arrive at the Willow Springs this morning for a few days away from the fallout surrounding his three-day marriage to Lisa Bennington, an up-and-coming young actress. Whatever the true circumstances surrounding their whirlwind courtship, filing for an annulment after seventy-two hours had shifted the lovey-dovey wedding coverage into a vulture-like feeding frenzy. Apparently Brody had missed the WSR turnoff because this idiot reporter with a camera thought it was a good idea to use his Jeep to play a potentially deadly game of chase in hazardous weather.

Whit pulled his new houseguest behind him, rage at the reporter nearly hot enough to steam in the downpour. He knew exactly what question the reporter had been asking when he’d fallen. Are you gay? The questions regarding Brody’s sexuality had been the top news story for days now. Because America didn’t have anything more important to talk about. He might not be able to change the national conversation, but by god, this was his land now, and the least he could do was offer some protection. As soon as he could, he’d get Brody to the WSR, and then Cass could take over, but for now, he wasn’t about to let this jerk run Brody Kent to ground so he could mount his head like a trophy.

Get behind my truck, Whit shouted. He drew his gun from his holster, cocked the hammer of the big .45 by the time the reporter got to his feet, his front covered in mud. When he started to bend down to pick up his camera, Whit fired into the ground just to the left.

You’re trespassing. Get out or I’ll shoot.

There might have been a few sputters, but under the circumstances—a gun pointing at his chest—the man climbed in his Jeep with ill-disguised anger, then rocked the wheels a few times before he stomped on the gas, spinning the four-wheel drive vehicle around, spraying mud everywhere.

Whit holstered his gun, then trotted over to where the journalist had fallen and pulled the abandoned camera from the muck and hung the strap over his shoulder before returning to his truck to retrieve Brody Kent.

You okay? he shouted. The white hat nodded, rain pouring off the brim, the face kept down, as if he had a sudden need to study his shoes.

Okay. We can talk later. He looked toward the rapidly rising creek. Four hours earlier, the ground had been dry as desert, strewn with baseball-sized stones and easy enough to drive over, as long as you went slow. Now, at least two feet of water spilled and splashed, a precursor to the raging torrent that would leave them cut off for hours or even days, depending on how long the rain fell. And thanks to his own near catastrophe climbing the bank, this side of the crossing had turned into a mudslide and left a steep drop of six feet to the bottom.

There was little time to waste. Whit took the rope, looped it around a tree, then handed one end to Brody. He twisted the other end around his hand. Do I need to tie this around your waist, or do you think you can hang on? I need you to anchor me while I cross, then I’ll do the same for you. It’s just enough to add some support, the water is moving fast and it’s gonna hurt like hell if it knocks one of us on our ass.

Where are we going? Brody shouted. His gaze traveled from Whit’s truck to the rapidly rising water.

I’ve got a small cabin, back that way. Whit pointed across the creek to the barely visible dirt track that led deeper into his property.