Page 146 of Love Me Steadfast
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 thetrailhead. 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 aconservation 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 loudcrashfrom deeper inside the barn.
“I’m armed and dangerous!” the woman cries.
