Tap the Hard Rock
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Chapter 1
Bonnie McWilliam was more than a little steamed. Already upset over recurring breakdowns at her drill site, the geologist found she needed physical distance from a gang of intolerable, uncouth roughnecks. Lewd comments and pointed stares had been driving her to distraction. She finally snapped when a hulking, handsome devil suggested that his wang could take her mind off troubles, that had been the proverbial last straw. Her knee took him in the groin, that immediately followed by a palm strike to the jaw. She left the vulgar cretan unconscious, stretched on the ground in the midst of stunned workers.
Nearly blind with pent up fury, Bonnie let long legs carry her far from the crew and drilling rig.
When she finally came back to herself, she wasn’t quite certain of her location. She glanced about, slowing, more than a little distracted. She drew breath, taking stock, finding herself in the bottom of an unfamiliar dry wash. Not certain she was still on her newly aquired land, Bonnie scrambled up a rocky bank, cautiously examining a parched slope for dangers. Constantly looking about, she climbed, weaving around broom, mesquite thorns, cacti and thistles. After a few minutes, a distinct feature came into view. West of the ridge, there was an uplift of fractured, black slate that defined the northwest boundary of her property. When she looked back towards the south and a little east, the top of an idle drill rig was visible over a half mile distant. The collection of vehicles, trailers and equipment were hidden behind desiccated folds of rock and scrub. Relieved, the woman sighed, pausing to catch her breath and examine her immediate surroundings. This region of Montana seemed more like desert.
“Men!” she fumed, experiencing another bubble of anger. She wasn’t concerned about potential assault charges. She could afford a good lawyer, if needed. Instead of worrying about her reaction to the unconscious roughneck, she pressed on, climbing, puffing and perspiring from the effort. No longer intent on finding solitude, she aimed for the top of a ridge below the sheer wall of black slate.
“More hours wasted! Thought you were saving money by taking a low bid from that slick bastard!” She muttered aloud, mentally kicking herself over that error in judgement. “Contractors! Damn, damn, damn! Another hour or two until a service mechanic gets out here!”
Eyes down, Bonnie kept checking the ground ahead. Despite being raised in the mountains west of Denver, she was Especially terrified of rattlesnakes. Carefully skirting pools of shadow below rock slabs, she made an energetic push for the ridge top.
Not even the overhanging wall of layered rock on her left offered shade. This part of Montana had few trees. The uplift cut across the ridge, turning her back to the northeast.
Heat beat on her as she recalled topographic details from memory.
As she slowed, Bonnie sighed. Head drooping, she finally reached the top, kicking at parched soil and grass, contemplating a long, hot walk back to the air-conditioned comfort of her mobile home. She reached into a canvas shoulder bag, digging out a folder of core sample reports, just then realizing her cell phone was sitting on a charger back at the trailer. Worse, she hadn’t taken the precaution of snagging a bottle of water.
Distracted, suddenly feeling thirsty, she was looking into her shoulder bag when a dusty, chocolate brown shape lunged into her path.
If not for the abrupt glimpse of moving hooves, she might have collided with a big horse. The animal snorted loudly. Startled, Bonnie let out a frightened squeak., She jumped back and stumbled. A heel caught on rock. She fell, landing roughly, powdery dust squirting from beneath her rump.
“Fuck!” Bonnie yelped, mind faltering at sight of the horse and rider. She scrambled up, clutching the folder tight against her chest. Almost rearing, the horse was dancing, hooves dangerously near, kicking up more dust.
“Whoa, Tango!” a rider said quietly, clucking his tongue, twitching reins, pulling up broadside to Bonnie’s sprawled form. “You okay pretty lady?”
She blinked, then rose, scowling, brushing off her designer jeans. With afternoon sun in her eyes, she used the folder as a visor and looked up, taking in well-worn, scuffed riding boots, then faded, worn jeans. For a moment, she admired the big horse. Cinnamon brown, the mount was obedient, standing quiet, flanks shuddering. Bonnie had to crane her neck, making out a well-used western saddle, a pale blue denim shirt and the unusual sight of a large Mexican sombrero. She blinked, squinting. The wide, drooping brim was keeping the man’s features in shadow.
“Tango,” Bonnie thought, quickly shifting focus back to the horse, recalling the name his rider had used. Somehow, his rich tenor voice stayed in her thoughts. On second glance, the horse took her breath. He was a tall, big stud, a light, rusty brown, a sharp contrast with the old saddle and shabby rider. He wasn’t a scruffy western mustang or quarter horse. One thing was certain. Tango was large and tall, too narrow to be a Morgan. Unconsciously, the cowgirl daughter of a rancher surfaced. She tried to guess his breeding, also estimating how much he must have cost.
“Is he American standard?” she said impulsively.
“Very good,” the man replied with an appreciative chuckle. “Tango’s a quarter Tennessee Walker and American standard. His mother’s mother was a Barb.” Long and black, his flowing mane and tail were combed and brushed, his neck and flanks glossy, fine cinnamon hair damp from a workout. Bonnie inhaled the familiar, beloved scent of horse, immediately wanting to reach out, to stroke the velvety nose and arched neck. Oldest daughter of a Rocky Mountain rancher, she had grown up with stock and new horses. This stud was tall, easily seventeen hands. He made the rider look small.
“He’s beautiful!”