Page 5 of Burning Secrets

She looked up. “Stay.”

He raised his hands again. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her eyes narrowed and then glanced at the four-wheeler behind him, and something flashed in her eyes. Fear?

It occurred to him then how he looked—camo jacket, filthy hat over his dark hair, scruffy beard, canvas pants, a .308 Winchester strapped to his machine. The unofficial uniform of a Son of Revolution, and wasn’t that nice?

Whatever respite he’d found on top of the hill, away from the darkness, settled right back into his soul, a deep ash that stained everything.

His voice softened. “I was just out checking traps.”

Her mouth tightened. “And now I know you’re lying, because there is no trapping season open in Alaska right now.”

Oh.

Shoot.

He sighed, ran a hand across his chin. “Fine. I’m not out trapping. But I promise I mean you no harm.”

“You shot at me!”

“I shot at the wolf. Trying tokill you.”

She considered him a moment, then shoved her Magnum into her shoulder holster. “Fine. Prove it. Help me get Brutus on your four-wheeler and back to my truck.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

She’d started hiking toward the cliff, up the hill from where she’d fallen. “I need to get him to Copper Mountain so we can do an autopsy.”

“I think I know how he died.” He looked at the wolf. His shot had landed in his body—rib cage—left a bloody through-and-through. Blood caked his fur, puddled the ground, and an odor lifted. Gross.

“Don’t be a jerk,” she said, now from atop the cliff. She held a backpack. “Listen—okay, yes, he was…”

“Attacking you?”

“Acting deranged. Maybe rabies, so yes, thank you.” She turned and headed back down the hill.

He crouched. The animal had blood in its teeth, foam at its lips. A feral odor lifted from its body.

Her boots crunched up to him. “Do you have a tarp or anything?”

He stood up. She wasn’t tall—maybe five inches shorter than him—but she owned a presence about her that suggested she fancied herself in charge. Blood prickled along a scrape on her jaw. “You sure you’re okay? That’s not a short fall.” He indicated the cliff. “Maybe you need to get checked out.”

“I’ve had harder falls, believe me. Tarp?”

His eyes narrowed a moment, then he headed over to the four-wheeler and opened up the seat. Wire, ammo, knife, the radio to the compound—turned off—a fire-starting kit, a rope, and there, grimy and wadded on the bottom, an orange rain poncho. He pulled it out. Shook it open. “This could work.”

“Thanks, MacGyver.” She took it. “Help me roll this guy into it.”

“Tell me again why we’re bringing this show-and-tell to Copper Mountain?”

She’d crouched and spread the poncho out on the ground beside the wolf. He helped her and then took the animal’s front legs as she took the back, and they rolled it onto the plastic.

“There’s some rope too.” He went to retrieve the rope and knife.

“I think he might have ingested something—a hallucinogenic or maybe eaten some poison.” She wrapped the animal in the poncho, held the poncho shut as he secured it with the rope, making a sort of bundle.

Her words were a punch. Hallucinogenic? Oh no…He stared at the wolf, the darkness seeping into his bones, his breath. And then her other word hit him.Ingested.“As in he ate something?”

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