Page 5 of Knox

She slowed, the redolence of farm animals, hay, dirt, and not a little feral trouble rising around her. She found herself lost, winding farther into the maze of pens and stables.

She turned down a row that looked like it might open up—

No. A pen cordoned off the end, and she turned around.

Stalker came up behind her. Tall, over six feet, he wore a cowboy hat—she saw that outlined against the high windows of the barn that reflected the ambient carnival light. His face hung under shadow, however, and she couldn’t help but back up, against the cold bars of the pen.

A scream pressed into her throat.

He held up his hand. “Don’t—”

And that’s when she felt a humid breath wash over her. Thick, foul, and—

She opened her mouth.

In two steps the cowboy advanced on her, slapping his hand over her scream. His voice careened into her ear, a low, guttural tenor. “Shh.”

As if that might make it better. She clawed at his hand, yanking it from her mouth, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away from the cage.

Then he released her so fast she didn’t have time to push him away, to slap him, or even reach into her self-defense training and chop him in the neck, maybe disable him enough to get away.

He put his hands up, backing away from her. “I understand the urge, but screaming is only going to rile these animals up.” His voice emerged quiet, but steady, and possessed an easy, almost languid western drawl, something weirdly soothing.

In the cage, some three feet away, the door rattled. A breath huffed out.

“That’s Hot Pete,” the man said. “He’s a little high-strung.”

On the tail end of his words, the door shook, as if something big had rammed against it.

She jumped.

He stepped between her and the beast, his voice now directed at the cage. “Hey there, Petey. Calm down. She didn’t mean to mess with your beauty sleep.” He’d changed his voice, modulated it to a soft timbre, almost a tune.

She looked over his shoulder, and her eyes had adjusted enough to see the dark, shiny eyes of a red, hairy bull, nearly six feet to its shoulders, its horns glinting against the bare light. It snorted, and she jerked.

But she didn’t run. Although probably she should, with Cowboy’s back turned to her, but it was the way he was still talking to the bull that tugged her in, glued her in place.

“There you go, buddy. See, we’re all friends here.” Then he launched into a song, the words nearly a whisper. “‘Three-thirty in the morning, not a soul in sight…city’s looking like a ghost town, on a moonless summer night…’”

The words rumbled through her. Wait—Garth Brooks.

“I know this song,” she said.

Cowboy glanced at her, kept singing. “‘Raindrops on the windshield—’”

“‘The storm’s rolling in…’” She caught the tune.

“‘And the thunder rolls…’” The smallest of smiles tweaked up his face.

The bull shifted, moved away from the door, and the man reached in through the bars and patted the animal’s body. Started in on the next verse of the song.

She hummed, listening to his low tenor, watching as the bull moved back into the shadows. The man’s voice dropped away, and he turned, looked at her, and nodded with his head toward the door.

Like they might be creeping out of a sleeping child’s room.

Her heartbeat had slowed to just a distant rush in her chest as he pointed their way out of the barn and onto the pathway that led to the carnival.

“You dropped this.” He held out her wallet.

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