Tracked By the Mountain Man K-9 Cop (Mountain Man Cops #5)

Chapter 1

Sophia

The only sounds are my boots on the packed dirt trail and the soft rush of wind through the canopy overhead.

I pause and tip my face up to look through the branches.

The sky is burning orange behind the mountains, the last of the sun bleeding out along the ridge line. I stayed out too long. Again. It's a bad habit—I lose track of time up here, and then I'm scrambling back down the trail to get home before dark, cursing myself the whole way.

"Okay, Sophia." I shift the strap of my backpack and start walking again. "Time to go."

My hens won't put themselves to bed. That's the fantasy they sell you when you start a hobby farm. Chickens are easy, they say. Self-sufficient little creatures. The reality is that at least three of mine will roost in the oak tree beside the coop if I don't physically herd them inside.

And if I don’t get the coop closed behind the ones smart enough to go bed where they’re supposed to, I’m leaving the door wide open—literally—to every fox and coyote in Mercury Ridge.

I pick up my pace.

This is my absolute favorite trail. It winds through dense forest, switchbacks up to the ridge where the trees thin and you can see the whole valley spread out below, the lake glittering far down in the bowl of the mountains.

I hike it a few times a week. It's the best thing I know for clearing my head after a long day of weeding and harvesting and doing the hundred small, physical tasks that make up life on a farm.

Today I pulled two baskets of tomatoes, a bucket of cucumbers, and gathered eggs from the coop. Tomorrow I'll wash everything, pack the cooler, and load the truck.

Saturday mornings are my favorite mornings.

The town square fills up early, with vendors setting out their tables, the smell of coffee drifting from the corner booth, kids already sticky with lemonade by nine a.m. Old men claim the benches near the fountain and argue about bass fishing.

There's a bluegrass duo who set up near the gazebo and play the same twelve songs in rotation, and somehow it never gets old.

And then there's the K-9 cop.

Gavin Holt comes every Saturday without fail. I don't know if it's part of his beat or something he does on his own time, and I've never worked up the nerve to ask. He's not exactly the type who invites casual questions, with his serious face and those quiet eyes that miss nothing.

And he’s so big. Not just tall but built, broad through the shoulders in a way that makes his uniform look like it was tailored specifically to contain him, with dark hair and a jaw that always seems to be set like he's bracing for something.

He buys eggs. Sometimes tomatoes or cucumbers. Occasionally a jar of jam, which I find inexplicably charming. There’s just something about this big, grave, watchful man having a sweet tooth that amuses me.

Every Saturday, he hands over cash, nods, and leaves.

That is the full extent of our relationship, and yet I think about it—about him—more than I have any rational justification for.

It's his dog who's actually friendly. Raider is a Belgian Shepherd, lean and alert and gorgeous, and he greets me every Saturday like I'm the best part of his week, tail going, tongue out, practically vibrating with joy.

I keep homemade dog treats in a little tin under the table specifically for him.

It's possible I am bribing the dog in hopes that some of his enthusiasm will rub off on his handler.

So far, no luck.

Gavin accepts the treat exchange with the same quiet, unreadable expression he gives everything else.

But sometimes—and this is the part I keep turning over in my mind—I'll glance up and catch him watching me.

Not the way a cop surveys a crowd. Something more focused than that.

More deliberate. And when our eyes meet he doesn't look away quickly, the way you do when you're caught at something.

He just holds it for one beat, two, and then turns his attention back to Raider or his wallet or to something off in the distance, like it never happened.

He's a cop, I remind myself, stepping over a gnarled root. He watches everyone. It's literally his job.

Which is true. Completely, inarguably true.

And yet, I get the feeling that the way he looks at me is different. That maybe, just maybe, he’s interested.

A girl can dream…

The trail steepens here, dropping toward the valley where rain has carved the hillside into shallow terraces over the years.

I know this section. The footing is loose and the edges crumble, so you have to take it slowly.

I'm doing exactly that, picking my way carefully, when a groundhog explodes out of the underbrush directly in front of me.

"Oh—"

I jump back in surprise, and my foot comes down on nothing, the edge of the trail crumbling under my boot, and then the slope has me and there's nothing I can do. I grab for a branch—feel it in my hand for one split second of hope—and it snaps.

The trajectory of my fall shifts, at least. I land hard on my hip instead of pitching forward face-first, and for a moment I think okay, okay, that's survivable…

Then I'm sliding, leaves and grit rushing under my palms, the world tilting sideways, and my ankle snagging on an exposed tree root.

The pain is white and immediate, radiating up my leg before I've even stopped moving. I tumble the last few feet and come to rest at the bottom of the slope in a graceless heap, one cheek against the cold ground, staring at a cluster of mushrooms growing on a fallen log.

For a long moment I just breathe.

"Great," I tell the mushrooms.

I push myself upright slowly. The ankle screams at the movement, a hot, insistent throb that worsens when I try to rotate the joint.

The flesh around it already feels swollen and tight inside my boot.

I've twisted ankles before. This feels worse than a twist and better than a break, which puts it firmly in sprain territory.

I reach for my phone.

No signal.

"Of course." I drop it back in my pack.

Okay. Options. I'm maybe a mile and a half from the trailhead. My truck is parked there. Someone might notice it, eventually, but it could be days before anyone thinks to look for me. It's summer, and the overnight temps are mild, but I have no shelter and limited water, and there’s wildlife out here that’s way more dangerous than a groundhog.

I plant both hands flat on the ground and push myself up.

The moment my ankle takes any weight, the pain hits, and I drop back down with an undignified sound.

"Nope," I gasp. "Nope, nope, nope."

I sit in the dirt with my arms wrapped around my knees and take one careful breath, then another. I am a practical person. I own a farm. I have dealt with worse than this. I will figure it out.

The sky through the canopy is deepening toward indigo. The first stars are appearing, faint and distant. Somewhere to the east, a coyote yips, and a second voice joins it, then a third.

I press my face into my hands and cry.