Free Coyote: The Outlander (with FREE second screen experience) by Chantal Noordeloos Page B

neck.
    “You’re calling me a liar?” Her father locked his gaze with Westwood, and despite his trembling hand, Coyote had no doubt that he wouldn’t miss his target. She felt no fear, as her father had always been a fantastic shot and he wouldn’t miss now.
    He leaned forward to put emphasis on what he was saying. Strands of his hair moved gently in the breeze, while other parts clung to his sweat-soaked brow. A smile that wasn’t quite a smile appeared on his face, turning his expression maniacal. “You protect these . . . these vermin from the law.”
    “I don’t protect all of them, William,” Westwood snarled. “But some need protection from monsters like you.”
    Coyote felt Westwood’s body press against hers, the skin of his face warm against the back of her head. She looked at her father’s round eyes, at the way the muscles in his face moved. He was afraid, and yet so brave.
    “You’re scum, James.”
    Her father’s face was caked with dirt and blood. His nostrils flared and his chest rose and fell rapidly with frantic breaths. The lines on his face appeared deeper, and in that moment he looked so old, so worn down, and so small next to that big Outlander. Only minutes ago, he and the Outlander had fought for their lives. Her old man had put up quite a fight, but the other guy had been too strong. Coyote had wanted to rush to her father’s aid, but Westwood grabbed her and pulled her to him. A few times, she had thought the Outlander would kill her father, snap his neck or crush his skull, but her father had lived. Somehow, during the fight, her father had managed to get his hands on a gun, setting the stage for this final, desperate standoff.
    The word “scum” still echoed through the canyon, and Coyote saw venom in her father’s eyes. Behind her, Westwood sucked in a breath of air.
    “So are you, William.” There was sadness in Westwood’s tone of voice. “You’re scum as much as I am.” The fingers squeezed Coyote’s tight shoulder muscles. “And you’ve become too dangerous. I didn’t want to do this in front of your girl, but you leave me no choice . . . ”
    His words made Coyote’s stomach sink. She felt the strong hands grip her and turn her around. With his right hand, he held her arm. With his left, he pushed her chin up and forced her to look at him, into the face of the man she hated. James Westwood.
    He was about six years her senior. He had a handsome face, topped with an unruly mop of black hair, and his bright green eyes held hers as if he were trying to hypnotize her.
    “No,” she cried and struggled. Westwood’s hand let go of her chin, and his arms wrapped around her, holding her to his chest the way a mother held a child. She tried to get away from him, putting her full force into doing so, kicking and pushing him, but he was so strong, so very strong. Fight him , her mind screamed, don’t let him win . But it was of no use. She couldn’t break free, and he wouldn’t let go. She buried her face in his cotton shirt and smelled his strong masculine scent. It was almost sweet.
    “Papa.” The fabric of Westwood’s shirt muffled her voice, and her scream was no more than a whimper. Her saliva moistened the cotton; she could taste his shirt between her lips as she moaned. She tried to turn to her father, but the hands held her in an iron grip. There was a deafening sound, louder than any shot should ever be, and then . . . a scream, already fading as James Westwood released her. He moved his warm body away from hers and left her to feel the cold breeze. Coyote did not turn around, not right away. She stood frozen in her fear for minutes that felt like hours. Then, slowly, her knees shaking, she turned and walked toward the place where her father had stood only moments ago. She sank to her knees, the rough, rocky sand skinning them through her trousers and scraping the soft flesh of her hands. Ignoring the pain, she crawled toward the rim and peered over.
    Her