The Spring at Moss Hill (28 page)

The hillside was darkened with dusk and shadows, but not so much so Martin would be unable to see a wandering sheep. Still, he saw nothing. He paused, listening, but he couldn't make out any bleating.

Perhaps it had been a fox or pheasant he had heard, stirring with the warmer weather and now on its way.

“Well, good, then,” Martin said aloud, turning back toward the dovecote.

Then came a scraping sound...metal on metal...as distinct and unmistakable as his own breathing.

Now what?

It had to be the ram. He must have caught on something.

Martin decided to have another look then get a farmworker out here.

Then came a grunt, distinctly human and close.

“No!”

Martin heard panic and fear in his voice. His heart jumped, adrenaline surging painfully through him as he tried, instinctively, to dodge what he knew was an oncoming blow.

He was too late.

The blow came quickly, hard, to the back of his head, sending him sprawling down the hill. He couldn't get his footing and crashed against winter-denuded trees and brush, until finally landing facedown in wet grass and dead leaves.

He was vaguely aware of the taste of mud and the stab of a twig in his cheek as pain exploded in his head.

Bastard.

Unable to breathe, he gasped in agony, fighting to stay conscious as he sank into the cold ground and the inevitable blackness.

Copyright © 2015 by Carla Neggers

ISBN-13: 9781459292376

The Spring at Moss Hill

Copyright © 2016 by Carla Neggers

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