Black Hills

fully prepared. It had taken hours of work, but he felt everything he needed and wanted was now in place. Timing would be an unknown, a risk factor, but it would be worth it. In fact, it would be more exciting, more important with that unknown.
    He was ready to kill, here and now, and take that risk as well. But as he watched, hidden, he lowered the crossbow. He might not have to kill to retrieve the bait. It would be better if he could make this clean. Take less of his time, his energy.
    And make the real hunt-and-kill that much more satisfying.
    Look at them, he thought, look at them going about their business, their useless business, without a clue he was close. No idea they were being watched.
    He could kill them so easily. As easy—easier—than shooting a buck at his watering hole.
    But wouldn’t she try harder, run faster, fight more viciously if he let them keep their worthless lives? Too much blood and she might lose heart.
    He couldn’t have that. He’d waited too long, worked too hard.
    So he watched them load the fencing. Fucking farmers, making their rooms out of the land. His land. Trapping their mindless cattle, animals not even worth the hunt.
    Go on, go, he urged them, setting his teeth as their voices and laughter carried to him. Go. Everything will have changed when you get back. Yes, it was better to let them live, let them suffer when they realized what he’d done right under their noses.
    Their tears would be sweeter than their blood.
    He smiled as the dogs raced and ran and leaped in anticipation. He’d been resigned to killing the dogs, but he’d have been sorry for it. Now, it seemed, even that blood could be spared.
    They rode off, the dogs in joyful pursuit. And the little farm in the valley of the hills went quiet. Still he waited. He wanted them well away, out of sight, out of hearing before he broke cover.
    He’d watched the women many times in the past, studied the routine of the farm as he would any herd he stalked. She was strong, and he knew they had weapons inside the house. When he took her, he’d take her quickly.
    He circled behind the barn, moving fast and silent. In his mind he wore buckskin and moccasins. His face bore the symbols of the warrior.
    Birds sang, and some of the cattle lowed. He heard the chickens humming, and as he neared the house, the sound of the woman’s voice singing.
    His mother hadn’t sung. She’d kept her head down, kept her mouth shut. She’d done what she was told to do or she got the boot. In the end his father had had no choice but to kill her. As he’d explained, she’d stolen from him. Held back her tips. Hoarded money. Lied.
    A worthless white bitch, his father had explained when they’d buried her deep. A mistake. Women were no damn good, and white women the worst of the bad.
    It had been an important lesson to learn.
    He eased up to the side window, letting the lay of the kitchen come into his head from the times he’d scouted it. He could hear clanking and clattering. Doing the dishes, he thought, and when he risked a look, he saw—pleased—that she had her back to him as she loaded the dishwasher. Pans stood stacked on the counter, and her hips moved as she sang.
    He wondered what it would be like to rape her, then dismissed the idea. Rape was beneath him. Just as she was beneath him. He wouldn’t soil himself with her.
    She was bait. Nothing more.
    Water ran in the sink, pots clattered. Under the cover of the kitchen noise, he stepped lightly to the back door, tried the knob.
    He shook his head, vaguely disappointed it wasn’t locked. He’d visualized kicking it in, and the shock on her face when he did. Instead, he merely pushed it open, stepped inside.
    She spun around, a skillet in her hand. As she raised it to strike or throw he simply lifted the crossbow. “I wouldn’t, but you go ahead if you want this bolt in your belly.”
    She’d gone white, so her eyes shone black against her skin. He remembered then she had some of his blood. But she’d let it go pale. She’d ignored her heritage. Slowly, she set the pan down.
    “Hello, Jenna,” he said.
    He watched her throat work before she spoke, enjoyed the fear. “Hello, Ethan.”
    “Outside.” He plucked her cell phone out of its charger on the counter, stuck it in his back pocket. “I can put one of these in your foot and drag you,” he said when she didn’t move, “or you can walk. That’s up to you.”
    Giving him as wide a berth as possible, she went