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What followed were hours of driving around aimlessly on the narrow, winding dirt roads that led up through sagebrush and grass-covered hills to steeper, forested slopes.
All the while, the two men never stopped talking. They asked Lucas what he did for a living. He lied and told them that he was the maintenance supervisor for a condo complex in Boise.
Then Bickham boasted about having killed at least eight elk during the previous hunting season, and saving his restaurant several thousand dollars by not having to purchase ranched venison and elk. Eight was far beyond the legal limit.
But without actual proof, such as genetic samples from the restaurant’s freezer that matched samples taken in the field from a poached elk’s remains, it would be impossible to prosecute. Especially after this much time had passed.
Still, Lucas worked at memorizing the details of every story for his case notes. Bickham’s admissions to having poached during previous hunting seasons might help Lucas get a search warrant.
All of them were disappointed for different reasons when they finally parted ways in the late afternoon.
Lucas thought he’d made a good impression on the other two with the food and beer, because Bickham invited him to join them again the following day.
Now, as he rolled slowly past Malia, Lucas caught sight of something large and covered with light brown fur in the ditch.
He made a snap decision and pulled over to the shoulder. Parking in front of the police vehicle, he told himself that he needed to find out what she was looking at.
He definitelywasn’tstopping because she looked utterly luscious in her close-fitting uniform pants and shirt. Or because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since meeting her at the club last night.
* * *
Dealing with road kill was part of Malia’s duties as Bearpaw Ridge’s newest Animal Control officer.
At least this dead elk was still relatively fresh. The poor creature lay half in and half out of the drainage ditch that ran alongside the highway.
When the call had come in a short time ago, Malia had expected to see a wrecked car not too far away, sporting the heavy front-end damage that resulted from this kind of wildlife encounter.
But there were no indications of motor vehicle involvement at the scene. No debris, no skid marks on the pavement, and no totaled vehicles.
It was weird. The elk was a “spike,” an adolescent male in good body condition, so it was highly unlikely he’d dropped dead of illness.
Then, as she circled the corpse to get photos, Malia’s sensitive nose caught the telltale whiff of gunpowder, mingled with blood.
She checked for a tag. Nothing. Had the spike been illegally shot and then simply abandoned, with no effort to harvest its meat?
She looked the corpse over, but couldn’t find a wound or any other obvious cause of death. If there was a bullet wound, the elk was probably lying on it.
While she waited for Gage Tringstad to show up, she took careful photos of the scene.
Then she saw a white pickup truck approaching. It slowed as it neared her, then pulled over to park in front of her vehicle.
Oh, great, a looky-loo. Malia looked up, ready to shoo whoever it was away.
The words stuck in her throat when a pair of long legs in cowboy boots and worn jeans emerged from the driver’s side, followed by a lean, muscled body in a sinfully tight t-shirt and long golden hair partly covered by a straw cowboy hat.
It was Lucas Winter, the hot cougar shifter from last night.
He’d told her that he was in town to hunt. And he was driving a white pickup…
She felt a chill and wondered if he owned a hunting rifle that used .338 Winchester Magnum cartridges.
Don’t be silly, she told herself.There are dozens of hunters who use that kind of ammunition.
Then, any cold she felt disappeared under the warmth of his smile as he approached her.
“Hi there, Officer Malia,” he said. “You need any assistance with this—? Damn!”
His expression darkened as he took in the scene. “He’s been shot,” he stated. “You think someone nailed him from the road?”
