Page 5 of Alokar
I took a deliberate swig of beer, the cold liquid doing nothing to cool the fire building in my chest as I licked the foam from my lip and squared my shoulders with determination. “Mygrandfather was Arapaho, a member of the council of elders for the Wind River Reservation. He kept the old ways and taught my dad everything he knew about the wilderness... and my dad taught me.” My voice grew stronger with each word. “I know how to track—and hunt.” And kill, but I kept that darker promise locked away for now.
“I know you do, honey,” Hank sighed heavily, his grumpy facade cracking and morphing into something infinitely softer—the expression of a man who’d watched a little girl grow up and now saw her standing on the precipice of something stupid and dangerous. “Your dad was the best friend I ever had, and I can promise you he wouldn’t want this. He’d want you to move on with your life. Go to school, get that degree, and do not waste time on revenge.”
“Revenge isn’t a waste,” I insisted fiercely, even though somewhere in the rational corner of my mind, I knew Hank was right. With his last breath, my dad had saved me. He wouldn’t want me to forgo school, wouldn’t want me to spend my days traipsing through the mountains hunting the monster that had torn him away from me. But logic had nothing to do with the burning need that consumed me. It was what I wanted, what I needed.
“I know there have been increased Bigfoot sightings in the last couple of weeks,” I told him, my fingers tracing the condensation on my beer bottle as I spoke. I’d stopped in and seen Stella, who ran the visitors center, earlier. Normally, she was a treasure trove of news and gossip, but all she’d wanted to talk about was some handsome lumberjack she’d met. I’d had to go to my second-best source. “Roger Hoffman at the rental carplace told me that the new archeological dig at Skadulgwas Peak was completely destroyed by Bigfoot, some believe.”
“Oh shit,” Hank scoffed, his hands never pausing in the endless polishing motion. “If anything tore that campsite up, it was those college kids. They were in here drinking like fish that same night, stumbling around and knocking over chairs.”
I rolled my eyes and took another deliberate swig of my beer, the bitter liquid sliding down my throat. Hank was every bit as big a believer in Bigfoot as my dad had been, his eyes lighting up whenever someone mentioned a sighting. Yet I knew he’d never own up to anything—especially if he thought it would egg me on toward something dangerous.
Hank went back to wiping a bar top that would never truly be clean, the scarred wood bearing decades of spilled drinks and carved initials. I swung my gaze around the dimly lit room, taking inventory of the familiar faces. Old Seb and Chip, two elderly brothers with matching flannel shirts and white hair, hunched over a chessboard at their usual table in the corner, gnarled fingers moving pieces across a pockmarked board. A couple of middle-aged tourists sat at another table. I knew they were tourists because they didn’t know any better than to order food from Hank’s kitchen.
And him.
He sat alone at a booth tucked into the far corner, his massive frame making the worn vinyl seat appear as if it belonged in a child’s playhouse. His shoulders were so impossibly broad that they seemed to strain against the confines of the booth, and he sat cradling a half-empty beer mug in hands that could probably palm a basketball. He stared into the amberliquid as though it contained the secrets of the universe, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. The muscles in his forearms, visible beneath the rolled sleeves of his red and blue plaid shirt, looked as thick around as my thigh.
He seemed young, maybe late twenties, without a single line creasing the sun-warmed bronze of his angular face, but his hair was the most striking feature—an unusual mix of silver-gray and rich dark brown that caught the bar’s dim lighting. He wore it short, but not short enough to hide the natural wave that gave it texture and movement.
He glanced toward the bar, probably preparing to signal Hank for another beer, and the movement gave me a clear view of his eyes. They were warm honey-brown, deep and soulful, with long dark lashes that reminded me of the first teddy bear my dad had ever bought me. The unexpected memory hit me like a physical blow, and I had to blink back the sudden sting of tears.
The man was undeniably handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy way, and carried the air of someone comfortable in the wilderness. I couldn’t help wondering if this was the lumberjack Stella had been gushing about with such obvious infatuation. Then again, I was fairly certain she’d mentioned that her mystery man was blonde. The bigger question—one that irritated me with its existence—was why I even cared whether this stranger was the one who had captured Stella’s attention.
I didn’t have time for this shit. I had a Bigfoot to kill. I picked up my beer and drained the remaining contents in one long gulp.
“I’m leaving tomorrow at dawn,” I announced, my voice cutting through the bar’s ambient noise as I pushed my emptybottle across the scarred wooden surface toward Hank, the condensation leaving a wet trail in its wake. When he gestured toward the bottle for a refill, I waved my hand dismissively.
“Alone?” Hank’s weathered face creased with concern as he cocked a salt and pepper brow, his green eyes narrowing with the kind of protective worry that had become all too familiar since the funeral.
“I’m taking Jubal and Bertha.” The words came out more defensive than I’d intended. Truthfully, I’d rather travel with my horse and pack mule than with over half the men I knew.
Hank gave a snort that told me exactly what he thought of my plan, the sound echoing off the grimy walls like a judgment.
“I’m leaving from the Granite Mountain trailhead,” I informed him, my fingers drumming against the bar’s surface as I extended what felt like a peace offering. Since Hank was one of the few men whose company I could actually stomach, I added, “You’re welcome to come along if you want.”
Hank’s expression softened, his bony shoulders drooping. “Just promise me you won’t get yourself killed,” he asked, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made my chest tighten. “I’ve gone to one too many funerals lately.” He paused, his lips pursing as he studied my face with careful attention. “You taking a big enough gun?”
For the first time in what felt like weeks, a genuine grin spread across my face—not the polite, hollow smile I’d worn at the funeral, but something real. “A Marlin 1895.”
This time Hank’s snort carried a note of grudging approval, almost amused. “That should do it.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of resolution settle in my bones. I wasn’t hunting for a trophy. I was going to kill the beast that murdered my father—a beast I knew favored surprise attacks, striking from the shadows with calculated malice. The Marlin was lightweight compared to most rifles, with a shorter barrel and quick lever action that guaranteed speed in firing. An ideal weapon for the kind of close encounters that haunted my nightmares.
I slid off the barstool, my boots hitting the sawdust-covered floor with a solid thud that seemed to reverberate through the quiet. The sound drew the attention of everyone in the dimly lit room.
Including him.
When our eyes met, the full impact of his face hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair. A long, straight nose that belonged on a Roman statue, full lips that looked soft despite the masculine angles of his face, and a jawline that could have been carved from granite. But it was those eyes that undid me completely. They caught mine and held with an intensity that made the rest of the bar fade into background noise.
Slowly, almost as if he were savoring the movement, those perfectly sculpted lips quirked upward into the slightest hint of a smile—just enough to transform his handsome features into something that made my heart stutter against my ribs. He gave me a small nod, a gesture that was both respectful and intimate.
I might have nodded back. I honestly couldn’t be sure of anything beyond the delicious tingling sensation that seemed to skitter across my skin like electricity, leaving every nerve ending hyperaware. All I could do was stand there like a deer caught in headlights, drowning in those honey-brown eyes until the sound of Hank amusedly clearing his throat cut through the spell like a knife.
I blinked hard, the moment shattering like glass, and reality came rushing back with all its sharp edges. Without another glance in his direction—though I could feel his gaze following me—I turned and walked out of the bar, my boots clicking against the floorboards with each determined step.
I didn’t have time for this shit. I had a Bigfoot to kill.
Chapter 3
