With Friends Like These...

by Libby Sumner

My body ached and my mind struggled to piece together why I was in the middle of a stall filled with musty hay when I heard a groan I usually associated with B rated horror flicks somewhere nearby. It all fell back into place as I scrambled to get my beaten body up off of the floor and, most importantly, find my damn rifle. I looked up to see it hanging by the shoulder strap where I'd fallen through the loft floor so I jumped for it only to lose my grip and go crashing to the floor of the stall again. At that moment a face appeared over the edge of the stall and I sighed in relief as I realized it was Adam's. Just as I relaxed, knowing he was taller and would be able to reach the rifle, I noticed the ragged hole in his abdomen that looked as though someone had reached in and grabbed whatever they could hold onto and ripped outwards. Shit�


Libby Sumner, author of Tenderhearted, adores and admires Adam J. Whitlatch. She lives on a farm in rural Tennessee with a plethora of animals (and her husband). She's written roughly half a dozen unfinished novels ranging from sci-fi to smutty romance. (She hopes to finish at least one of them some day.)