Page 147 of Love Me Steadfast
I flinch. Just my luck. Another altercation with an armed and pissed off citizen.
“It’s Rowdy Whittaker from the Department of Fish and Wildlife,” I add, projecting my voice as I ease down the wide walkway between the empty stalls, my chilled skin prickling. “You called about a bear?”
Footsteps vibrate from the hay loft above me just as another loudcrasherupts from the farthest of two rooms that take up the back right corner of the barn.
I glance up, but all I can make out is a gun barrel and a top knot of blonde hair.
“Easy there,” I say in a low tone, flashing one of my palms.
Anothercrashfrom the tack room.
“Are you going to shoot him?” the woman asks.
“Ma’am, please lower your weapon,” I order, my throat dry.
“Promise me you won’t shoot him.”
I huff an impatient breath. “Promise.”
The woman complies, giving me a fleeting glance at her flushed cheeks and light brown eyes. “What are you going to do?”
“You keep garbage bags somewhere in here?”
Her brows knit together. “Uh, there’s some above the sink.” She points to a utility sink over my left shoulder, obscured in shadow.
“Stay there,” I tell her, and sidestep to the shelf so I can peel off one of the big white trash can liners from a cardboard box.
“Why?” she asks as I head for the feed room. From the way the door is splintered and no longer connected to the frame, the bear likely pushed it in to gain access, then wasted no time chowing down.
Glistening black fur fills the view through the doorway when I get closer, and I get a whiff of the bear’s musky scent. Grunting and smacking his lips, he bends back down, his head and shoulders disappearing into a giant metal garbage can.
Contrary to belief, most black bears aren’t aggressive and rarely are they dangerous. But they can be unpredictable, so I keep my rifle nearby and slide my hands inside the top of the garbage bag to spread it open.
“Heyaw! Git, bear!” I shout while snapping the garbage bag in front of me.
The bear’s head jerks up at the startlingsnapof the plastic. His paws lift off the garbage can, his thick yellowed claws catching in the light.
It takes all of three seconds of me yelling and flapping forthe bear to lunge out of the feed room and lope off, disappearing into the rainy night.
After waiting for his crashing footfalls to fade, I follow to the doorway and stare into the darkness. But the bear is gone. For now anyways. I slide the barn doors closed and latch them with the big metal U bolt, then return to the feed room.
Inside, two big metal garbage cans are tipped over, with feed pellets spilled across the concrete floor. The ancient fridge’s door is partially off its hinges, its contents liberated. Smaller Rubbermaid bins in various colors have been swiped from the shelves, their contents strewn across the counter space, big metal sink, and floor.
The woman is climbing down a ladder from the hole in the hay loft ceiling, the gun slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing leggings, thick wool socks with Birkenstock sandals, and an oversized pale sweatshirt splattered with bright yellow and orange paint, the wide neck opening exposing her right shoulder.
“You were gonna fight off a bear in Birkenstocks?” I ask.Shit, I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.I was distracted by her bare shoulder and the black bra strap peeking out.
She spins around, scowling. “I was working.”
I jerk my chin in the direction of the corral on the other side of the stalls. “Horses okay?”
Rubbing her forehead, she doesn’t meet my eyes. “Spooked but yeah.”
“Is this the only damage?” I ask her, thinking ahead to my report, which draws a silent sigh from my lips because just what I need, more paperwork tonight.
“I’ll check the fence tomorrow,” she replies.
“Were the doors open?”
