Chapter One

Morgan finished loading the back of her Dodge Ram under the watchful eyes of her Tibetan mastiffs, who stood sentry beside the truck like massive, hairy bookends. "All right, guys, you know the drill. I'll be back later."
At the sound of her voice, Morgan's dogs, around 140 pounds of solid muscle each, jumped lightly to their feet and waited expectantly for the command they knew was coming. But before sending them off to do their jobs, she passed out the peanut butter dog biscuits tucked in the breast pocket of her flannel jacket. After they wolfed down their treats, she gave them both a good scratch behind the ears through the thick ruffs of fur that stood out like a lions mane from their muscular necks. Lazarus's feathered golden tail swished rhythmically in the dirt and Finn's tongue lolled to one side in doggy adoration, but each snapped back to attention when she stepped back.
"Guard," she ordered. Finn streaked off toward the woods at the south end of the property in a blur of black and rust that quickly disappeared in the pre-dawn gloom. Lazarus, the more serious of the two, set off in a purposeful trot toward the goat pens in the opposite direction.
Morgan left her property only once a week, and sometimes less often than that during the winter, but she never worried about things while she was gone. Lazarus and Finn had it covered. That didn't make leaving any easier, though.
She climbed into the truck and automatically checked beneath the seat, making sure her .357 Magnum was tucked securely into the cushion foam. She grabbed her thick, wavy hair in one hand and wound it into a quick knot, pulling a beat up baseball hat over the top to cover up the brilliant auburn mess. Unable to think of any other excuse to stall, and knowing that sunrise was creeping closer, she fired up the truck.
Bumping down the steep, quarter-mile two-track that served as her driveway, Morgan wondered if the day would ever come when she'd be able to leave the farm without feeling this sick, greasy fear in her belly.
More likely, the day would sooner come where she wouldn't be able to make herself leave at all.

* * *

She usually liked to get to the market early to set up her stand before the customers arrived, but impulsively, Morgan decided to swing by the Mountain Lodge for breakfast first. It was only 6:30, and few cars were scattered in the narrow parking lot.