Chapter 45 #2
I lay the rifle over his flank and lean close to sight through my right eye.
Scanning slowly, stripes of the opposite basin emerge like snapshots between the big tree trunks sheltering me.
Gray rock and clumps of tall, yellow grass, minty green sage, the stark white of bare aspens, stubborn pockets of grey snow.
A flash of red catches my attention, and I swing my scope to follow the movement.
Climbing the opposite side of the basin in a rust-colored parka and tugging on a horse loaded down with giant rounds of freshly cut timber is a giant of a man—well over six feet tall and broad.
His partner is dressed head to toe in camo gear and holds a rifle in one hand.
Their backs are to me as they hurry, climbing over rocks and dodging around trees.
I lunge for my phone to grab a picture of them just as the gunman turns back and squints through the driving rain.
Forcing my breathing to steady, I unlatch the safety on my rifle and place him in my crosshairs, ready should he be stupid enough to take a shot at me a second time.
But he spins and follows his partner over the ridge, both of them and their pack horse winking out of sight.
With a shaky exhale, I secure my weapon and slide it back into the holster.
Then I grip the saddle and let my head drop for a moment to recalibrate my heartbeat.
The thick, wet air coats my lungs, and I breathe in the earthy scents of mineral and animal musk, rich pine and rain-slicked granite.
The prickle working up my neck drops back, replaced with a shiver that pierces my spine.
With a hard breath that turns to a nervous chuff, I reach over and stroke Tito’s neck.
“I’m getting too old for this shit, boy.”
He jerks her neck, jangling the bit in his mouth, like he agrees.
I tuck my boot into the stirrup and rock into the saddle.
After we cross the swampy valley bottom, I weave through a stand of spruce and larch to where the men felled a couple of lodgepole pines and a pair of thick pines.
They must be taking trips because four trees are already gone, the area littered with fresh sawdust turned a pale crimson in the rain.
One log is half butchered, and another lies untouched, the tip buried in the muddy creek.
In their haste, they left their chainsaw, a thermos, and a jug of water, plus plenty of garbage.
I explore carefully so I don’t also find their latrine.
Four and a half hours later, I finally reach the trailhead.
The approaching dusk makes it nearly impossible to see, and the rain has turned to a thick, wet snowfall that, combined with the increasing wind, has formed a stiff rime over my clothes.
Tito’s mane is clumped with the wet flakes but the rest of his coat is glossy from his sweat and the incessant damp.
Once I have him loaded in the trailer and munching on a snack of grain, my gear and the evidence I collected stowed in the bed of the pickup, I toss my wet coat and chaps behind the seat.
Every stitch of clothing is soaked through.
My jeans and long underwear, my thick wool sweater, my socks.
Before climbing into the cab, I shake out my hair and set my Stetson crown down on the passenger seat that on a normal patrol day would be occupied by Bruneau, my chocolate lab and unofficial Chief of Stoke.
The journey today would have been too taxing even for him, and unsafe.
Irritation vibrates under my skin. What if I’d brought him along and that stray bullet hit him?
It’s not the first time I’ve been shot at, but it’s by far the most maddening.
Do they think a careless warning shot is going to scare me off?
Blasting the heater, the wipers on high, I pull the trailer onto the gravel road and descend the winding mountain road.
Setting my thermos cap on the dash, I fill it with the coffee I was smart enough to pack for the drive home and take a few eager gulps.
I should have packed an extra sandwich because my stomach is beyond empty.
My phone pings as I enter cell service range.
I think about ignoring it, but Linnea said she’d text me her flight details, so I give the screen a glance.
Without my glasses, the words are fuzzy, but I can make out my daughter’s name and what is probably a request to visit her favorite donut shop on our way home tomorrow.
As soon as I get home, I’ll text her back.
Accelerating onto the highway, I check in with dispatch on the radio.
“Long day in the saddle, huh?” Shelby replies with a cluck of her tongue.
Shelby’s been working dispatch almost as long as I’ve been a conservation officer. “Found the loggers,” I say, and give her a brief synopsis of the rest.
“Hey, we just got a call,” she interrupts as I’m winding down. “That problem bear is back.”
I curse. It’s barely March. The bear should still be in hibernation, though maybe he was too busy this winter ransacking cabins to participate.
“It’s right on your way,” Shelby adds, snapping me back to the cab and the thick wet snow falling so hard it’s obscuring the road ahead.
I click the mike, then let the receiver drop to my lap. Fuck. All I want to do is go home. I’m tired and hungry and my skin is numb from the cold. Maybe it’s the epic day but my hip joints burn with a steady ache. I need a hot shower, a hot meal, and a steady drip of anti-inflammatories.
“What’s the address?” I ask Shelby, my lips tensing around the words.
She rattles it off, and a memory fires.
“Isn’t that the old Dunn place?” I ask.
“You didn’t hear? It finally sold.”
“To whom?”
“Jeez, have you been under a rock or something? She’s that famous painter.”
I run a hand through my still damp hair. I could give a shit about the new owner’s vocation or whatever gossip Shelby’s stored up about her, but I don’t like the sound of a woman alone with a problem bear. “Is she safe?” I ask.
“Sounded calm on the phone.”
“Fine. I’ll check it out.” Before Shelby can get rolling, I sign off.
By the time I turn up the long gravel lane, it’s nearing eight o’clock and so stormy the beams of my headlights barely penetrate the darkness. But when I round the bend, the handsome two-story farmhouse and matching barn are so brightly lit I could see them from space .
I park in a wide gravel turnaround and call in my location before tucking my hat back on and holstering my weapon from the gun safe behind my seat.
When I step down, a dull throb erupts in my right knee and the tension in my spine crackles.
A gust of cold rain slams into my shoulders, making me shiver.
Pressing my hat down with one hand against the storm, I make my way through the gate and head for the wide front porch.
Handsome lantern-crafted exterior lights line the side of the house, illuminating lush green shrubs and a tidy lawn.
No sign of bear as I climb the steps. I rap my knuckles on the big blue door and wait.
When nothing happens, I lean to the side and peer through the window, but the house is dark.
Unease crawls beneath my skin. I knock again, this time with my fist.
A scream carries on the wind, coming from the direction of the barn.
I spin and rush down the steps, then race around the house, the thick, wet rain like cold razor blades against my chin and neck.
Ahead, both of the barn’s doors are wide open.
In the shadowy light from the barn, I can just make out the silhouettes of several nervous horses in the adjoining corral.
“Shoo!” a woman says from somewhere inside the barn.
“Ma’am?” I call out, but the rain thundering on the metal roof swallows my voice.
There’s a loud crash from deeper inside the barn.
“I’m armed and dangerous!” the woman cries.
I flinch. Just my luck. Another altercation with an armed and pissed off citizen.
“It’s Rowdy Whittaker from the Department of Fish and Wildlife,” I add, projecting my voice as I ease down the wide walkway between the empty stalls, my chilled skin prickling. “You called about a bear?”
Footsteps vibrate from the hay loft above me just as another loud crash erupts from the farthest of two rooms that take up the back right corner of the barn .
I glance up, but all I can make out is a gun barrel and a top knot of blonde hair.
“Easy there,” I say in a low tone, flashing one of my palms.
Another crash from the tack room.
“Are you going to shoot him?” the woman asks.
“Ma’am, please lower your weapon,” I order, my throat dry.
“Promise me you won’t shoot him.”
I huff an impatient breath. “Promise.”
The woman complies, giving me a fleeting glance at her flushed cheeks and light brown eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“You keep garbage bags somewhere in here?”
Her brows knit together. “Uh, there’s some above the sink.” She points to a utility sink over my left shoulder, obscured in shadow.
“Stay there,” I tell her, and sidestep to the shelf so I can peel off one of the big white trash can liners from a cardboard box.
“Why?” she asks as I head for the feed room. From the way the door is splintered and no longer connected to the frame, the bear likely pushed it in to gain access, then wasted no time chowing down.
Glistening black fur fills the view through the doorway when I get closer, and I get a whiff of the bear’s musky scent. Grunting and smacking his lips, he bends back down, his head and shoulders disappearing into a giant metal garbage can.
Contrary to belief, most black bears aren’t aggressive and rarely are they dangerous. But they can be unpredictable, so I keep my rifle nearby and slide my hands inside the top of the garbage bag to spread it open.
“Heyaw! Git, bear!” I shout while snapping the garbage bag in front of me.
The bear’s head jerks up at the startling snap of the plastic. His paws lift off the garbage can, his thick yellowed claws catching in the light.
It takes all of three seconds of me yelling and flapping for the bear to lunge out of the feed room and lope off, disappearing into the rainy night.
After waiting for his crashing footfalls to fade, I follow to the doorway and stare into the darkness. But the bear is gone. For now anyways. I slide the barn doors closed and latch them with the big metal U bolt, then return to the feed room.
Inside, two big metal garbage cans are tipped over, with feed pellets spilled across the concrete floor.
The ancient fridge’s door is partially off its hinges, its contents liberated.
Smaller Rubbermaid bins in various colors have been swiped from the shelves, their contents strewn across the counter space, big metal sink, and floor.
The woman is climbing down a ladder from the hole in the hay loft ceiling, the gun slung over her shoulder.
She’s wearing leggings, thick wool socks with Birkenstock sandals, and an oversized pale sweatshirt splattered with bright yellow and orange paint, the wide neck opening exposing her right shoulder.
“You were gonna fight off a bear in Birkenstocks?” I ask. Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. I was distracted by her bare shoulder and the black bra strap peeking out.
She spins around, scowling. “I was working.”
I jerk my chin in the direction of the corral on the other side of the stalls. “Horses okay?”
Rubbing her forehead, she doesn’t meet my eyes. “Spooked but yeah.”
“Is this the only damage?” I ask her, thinking ahead to my report, which draws a silent sigh from my lips because just what I need, more paperwork tonight.
“I’ll check the fence tomorrow,” she replies.
“Were the doors open?”
Her face flushes. “I was coming back out to close everything up for the night when I heard him in here.”
She didn’t answer my question, but I can read the embarrassment in the crimp of her pink lips and the defiance in her light brown eyes. “Do you lock the feed room door?” I ask, stepping back so I can examine the busted frame.
“No.”
“Might be time to start.”
She gives another huff. “He’s going to come back?”
I give the room another scan. “Now that he knows where you keep the cookie jar, I’d say it’s likely.”
“I need a drink,” she says, then quirks a brow at me. “How come you’re all wet?”
“Long day,” I say.
Those pale brown eyes shine with sudden empathy. “Well, the bear’s gone, so I guess you’re free to go.”
“Let me help first.” The words rattle over my tongue before I can stop them. Maybe it’s the edge in her tone I can’t place, or the thought of her tackling this alone.
Her eyebrows arch in surprise. “Is that part of the service?”
I spin and head for the corral. “It is tonight.”
Keep reading Love Me Wild.