Chapter 1

His ghost always joined her for the final drag on an Ave Maria Dark Knight cigar.

He started appearing two months into her newly formed habit. Always in his sweat-stained, gray Open Road Stetson and wool-lined coat with a few less wrinkles in his face. Here, in the goats’ lean-to, where she’d taken to hiding out to have her smoke so as to not offend her mother’s senses.

At his first appearance, she swore it was a hallucination. The second time, she flipped out. With each appearance since she became more belligerent, while he grew more persistent.

“Biloba, why do you keep doing this thing?”

She blew out the smoke. “Go away, Aitonatxo.”

Her grandfather shook his head. One of the goats meandered through his transparent legs, disrupting his stern reproach. Aitona turned his withering look to the red-brown doe munching on hay.

“Goats. She just had to get goats.”

A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as she drew on the cigar for the last time. One year after her grandfather passed, her mother had sold the last of the sheep, turned the ranch into an outfitter and hunting business, bought horses and mules for it, then goats just for the hell of it. The small herd had come in real handy in keeping the overgrowth of underbrush and weeds under control, saving the ranch a time or two from wildfires. The milking goats also made convenient pack animals when there was need for nourishment up in the mountains.

Aitona didn’t roll over in his grave. No, he came back to fucking haunt her and complain about the goats.

“Dorothy Ybarra, where are you?”

His specter vanished with her last puff of smoke. Before her mother could barge into the goats’ lean-to and give her hell for smoking in the building, Dorothy ground the butt into the bottom of her boot. One disapproving familia was enough, even if Aitonatxo was an apparition of her mind.

Angela Ybarra rounded the edge of the lean-to’s weathered support post, her pack of mutts in tow. The goats scattered, except for a leggy dark brown female who’d taken a liking to Dot and exuded copious amounts of stubborn. That doe would not be deterred by no dog.

Exactly twenty years older and just as whipcord lean as her daughter, Angela Ybarra was the polar opposite when it came to Dot’s tornado in a trailer park personality. But that didn’t stop Angela from pulling the matriarch card every chance she got.

Angela wrinkled her nose and gave Dot a pointed look but held her tongue. Dot hadn’t burned down any buildings. Yet.

Her mother reached out and scratched the doe’s withers. “I’ve got a new elk hunting party coming in later today. We’re taking them out to that nice valley for their hunt. I need to grab a few supplies for the trip. In the meantime, would you round up your gear and check it over?”

“You sure you want me up there with you?”

“I need you, Dot. This is a new group to me.”

In other words, Ama wasn’t comfortable being on her own with this bunch. Most of the hunters Angela outfitted were longtime customers she had built a strong rapport with and trusted. She took on new clients only if there was a long lull between her regulars and funds were tight.

Since Dot’s return to the ranch, she’d been her mother’s backup when one of the local sheep herders wasn’t available to ride out with Angela. Dot’s presence on hunts was a good deterrent for wannabe suitors or general dickheads. Not that Angela Ybarra couldn’t hold her own—she was Samo Ybarra’s daughter after all and had sent many a man intending ill-intent back to civilization with a limp and severe damage to his manhood. Dot, on the other hand, was less accommodating. The pervs usually woke up in the hospital, cuffed to the bedrail.

“Ama, you don’t need to earn the extra cash. I can spot you.”

“No.” Angela sliced the air with a disapproving finger. “Your army and pilot funds are yours. Don’t waste them on my business.”

“Come on!”

“I’ll hear no more of it.” Angela checked her watch. “I’m going. Be ready.” She slipped from view, her canine pack following.

Dot’s guard goat gave a very goat-like nicker as she munched on weeds bold enough to dare grow in their pen.

It might have been a year since the crash. She might have been released from physical therapy with a clean bill of health two months ago. And she might be in the best physical shape of her life since basic training and flight school. Still, Dot hadn’t spent more than two hours horseback in the last six months. Riding into the foothills of the Payette National Forest and getting to that valley her mother spoke of meant at least an eight-hour ride. Probably longer if this new hunting party wasn’t used to long hours in the saddle.

Dot groaned. Good thing she loved her mother.

She rose from the goats’ favorite climbing stump and vacated the lean-to. At the corner, she glanced back at the spot where Aitona had appeared.

He’d died while she was away at training. It ate at her for years that she hadn’t been here to see him crossed over to the other side and be with his beloved Dorothy—Dot’s namesake. Though somehow he hadn’t quite left the ranch.

He wanted to know. Or maybe she was using his specter to ask herself the question.

Why did she do this thing? She was hale and hearty, ready to get back in the air. God knew the forest service hadn’t stopped calling. Yet she couldn’t pull herself away from her current predicament.

Why?

“I’m doing it for Ama,” she said to the air.

***

Excerpt from Ride a Dark Trail by Winter Austin. Copyright 2025 by Winter Austin. Reproduced with permission from Winter Austin. All rights reserved.