Authors: Sharon Sala
The television was still playing softly in the background, but she had fallen asleep with her leg propped up on a pillow and the covers in a wad at the foot of the bed.
He picked up the remote and turned off the TV, then straightened out her covers and eased them over her, taking the time to assess her more carefully when she wasn’t aware.
She was pale, and much thinner than he remembered, but all of that figured. Two months in a hospital would do that to anybody. Her dark hair was much shorter, as well, but he assumed that was because they’d probably shaved most, if not all, of it off because of her head injuries. As he watched, her eyelids began to flutter, and he knew she was dreaming. When she suddenly moaned, it was like someone had just shoved a knife into his gut. It was startling to realize he was that connected to her distress.
He started to wake her, but he knew how hard it was to get back to sleep once the nightmare took over and changed his mind, hoping she would just sleep through it. Instead he began turning off the lights until the house was completely dark except for a night-light up in the loft by his bed.
She moaned again, this time mumbling beneath her breath before the moment passed. Then she flinched, and he kicked off his shoes, pulled back the covers and slid into bed beside her. As many times as they’d made love, they had never had the luxury of sleeping together. But this wasn’t a night for passion, and she wasn’t sleeping in the true sense of the word. She was still fighting a war, and he couldn’t let her do it alone.
He eased as close to her as he could get without bumping her injured leg, then rolled over onto his side and tucked her close against his body. There was a moment when he felt her tense.
“Easy, soldier, easy,” he whispered. “I’ve got your back.”
He heard a sob and rose up on his elbow. She was crying in her sleep, but her body had begun to relax. For now, it was enough.
He eased down and let go of his own tension. Within minutes he, too, had fallen asleep.
* * *
Ten miles over and another mile higher, the bear had taken shelter beneath an overhang of trees and rock. The festering wound in its hip was a constant pain that kept it in a pain-filled daze. It was sick and starving—a recipe for disaster. The cougar that usually bedded down in this lair smelled the bear and the festering wound. And sensed the danger. It was enough for the big cat to give the bear a wide berth and slip quietly away.
About two miles from where the bear had holed up, a couple of hunters had taken to the woods to run their dogs. They were sitting around their makeshift camp with their lanterns lit, laying bets as to whose dog would strike a trail first, when they heard one of the pack began to bay.
“Woowee, Warren, you hear that bugle? That’s my big red, Samson. You owe me five dollars. I told you he’d be the first to pick up a good scent.”
Warren rolled his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, and handed over the five, which his buddy promptly pocketed.
They picked up their lanterns and shouldered their guns as they listened to the rest of the pack begin to sound. The dogs would bay in a different tone once they treed their prey, and the hunters wanted in on the kill.
“Sounds like they’re running something a little east but coming this way,” Millard said. “What say we head out?”
“I’m with you,” Warren said, and they disappeared into the woods.
* * *
The bear was in a sleepy daze when it heard the hounds. If circumstances had been normal, the sound of the dogs would have sent the bear in the opposite direction, but not this time. In its pain-addled brain, that was food on the move.
As it began to move, it recognized its own weakness, which in turn fueled its desperation to kill.
* * *
Warren and Millard were following the pack by the sounds of the yips and bays when all of a sudden they heard everything change. The barking went from trailing to full-on attack. Even though the men were more than a half mile away, they could hear the howls and growls, the shrieks and the yelps, in what they could only assume was an all-out fight.
“What the hell?” Millard said, and started to run, holding his lantern with one hand and a finger near the trigger of the gun he carried in the other.
Warren was right behind him.
Even as they ran, they could tell something bad was happening. The dogs were no longer in fight mode. They could hear constant cries of pain, until, one by one, the pack went silent.
The hunters kept running, but by the time they reached the kill site the bear was gone and seven dogs were dead or dying—bones crushed, bodies eviscerated.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Millard said, going from body to body in disbelief.
Warren held up his lantern as he made a 360-degree turn, his gaze fixed on the inky darkness of the woods.
“What in hell did this?” he asked.
Millard was crying. “Samson’s not here. I can’t find him anywhere. Maybe he ran off. Maybe he got away.”
“Look. Here’s drag marks,” Warren said, as he swung the lantern to their left. “What in hell could do all this without the dogs bringing it down? I don’t understand. It damn sure wasn’t a cougar. It would have just took to the trees, not fought a pack of dogs like this.”
“Maybe a bear?” Millard said.
“I guess, but not even a full-grown black bear would take on a pack of eight dogs.”
“Well, something did, and whipped ’em bad,” Millard said.
“Here, the drag marks lead—”
He stopped in his tracks, staring down at the ground.
“What?” Millard asked.
Warren swung his lantern again. “Come here, Millard. Look at this.”
Millard moved closer to the light, saw the paw print and squatted down, using his hand to measure the size.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered, then stood abruptly and swung his rifle into position against his shoulder.
“I never saw a black bear big enough to make a track like that,” Warren said.
Millard shuddered. “We need to get back to the truck.”
“But what about the dogs?” Warren asked.
“They’re dead. You wanna be next?”
Warren shook his head. “It’s not right to just leave them out here to rot. They’re like family, damn it.”
“We’ll come back in daylight,” Millard said.
“I don’t know about you, but right now I’m not too sure about where we are. How the fuck do you suppose we’ll find ’em again?”
“Buzzards,” Millard answered grimly. “Now let’s get the hell out of here while we’re still in one piece.”
The men eyed the sky, found the North Star and started running.
* * *
Mariah woke up the next morning to the sounds of birds singing and the scent of freshly brewing coffee, and wondered where the hell she was. Then she heard Quinn talking to someone on his phone and remembered that her life had taken a one-eighty for the better.
Without registering the indentation on the other pillow, she threw back the covers. Her muscles were stiff and, as usual these days, aching in too many places. But she silently gave herself the “at least you’re alive” pep talk as she swung her legs off the mattress and stood up.
Almost immediately, her injured leg gave way. She grabbed the back of the sofa to steady herself, and waited until the feeling came back and she was confident it would hold her weight before trying to walk.
She waved self-consciously at Quinn as she headed for the bathroom. He winked and waved back, but she could tell by the tension in his face that something was wrong. Whatever it was, she would prefer to hear it fully dressed. After she used the bathroom and washed up, she dug a pair of clean sweats from her bag and then finger-combed her unruly curls. The fact that her heart-shaped face was devoid of makeup was standard for a female soldier in combat. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were as dark as her hair, and her eyes were what Quinn called cat-green. In her opinion, there was nothing remarkable about any of it. Anxious to find out what had put the frown on Quinn’s face, she headed back into the kitchen.
“Do you want eggs and bacon or something lighter, like cereal?” Quinn asked.
“Forget feeding me. I can do that myself. What’s wrong?”
“We may have a new lead on that rogue bear.”
“Oh, Lord, please tell me it did not attack another person.”
“Two hunters were running their dogs about fifteen miles from here last night. They heard them strike a trail, then what sounded like a massacre. By the time they found them, seven dogs were dead and one had been dragged off. They found tracks from a very large bear. My boss down at the ranger station said they’ve called back the trackers and their dogs. I hope to hell they find it this time. If it’s no longer in the national forest area, then it’s way too close to civilization.”
Mariah shuddered. “What do you have to do?”
“The local authorities will tell the residents to stay out of the woods, and keep kids and animals close by. I wasn’t supposed to work today, but this has changed everything.”
“I don’t need anyone to babysit me, Quinn. This sounds like a dangerous situation. Go do what you have to do. I’ll be fine. I’m grateful to be here.”
Quinn didn’t have a choice. But he wasn’t willing to leave her unprotected.
“Pour yourself some coffee. I’ll be right back,” he said, and bolted up the stairs to the loft.
Mariah poured a cup of coffee and was stirring in sugar when he came down carrying a rifle and a box of shells.
“I don’t believe the bear will ever make it this far down before it’s found, but I saw what it did to those two hikers, so I’m playing it safe. Under no circumstances should you be outside today, okay? Bears can move really fast, and you can’t.”
She reached for the rifle. “Can I see it?”
He handed it to her. He knew she could use it, but he didn’t know how this would affect her mentally.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
“Okay, ask away.”
“Can you be here by yourself, under this kind of tension, and not suffer some kind of setback?”
“You mean, is this gonna make me freak?”
He grimaced. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Then the answer is no. I have that phone you gave me. I have a house full of food, a bed and a TV, and if I need to protect myself, I obviously can. Go do your job and quit worrying about me.”
“I’ll call to check on you, and if you get spooked about anything—and I mean
anything—
then by God, you better call me.”
“I promise.”
He started toward the door, then stopped. “Damn, I hate this. This isn’t the way I planned to get you settled in.”
“Yeah…the best laid-plans and all that,” Mariah said.
Quinn patted his pockets, making sure he had everything he needed, then started for the door.
“Hey,ƒ Quinn?” He turned to face her.
“Don’t be a hero.”
He grinned. “And don’t
you
eat all my cookies.”
She was still smiling as she watched him drive away. Then, the moment the Jeep was out of sight, she locked both doors, and made sure all the windows were shut and locked before pouring a bowl of cereal. There were plenty of things she could do today. Without the physical therapist dragging her through an exercise regimen she might actually get in a little extra sleep. And when the mood hit her, she could do her exercises on those stairs that led up to the loft. Being able to scale those steps might come in handy some night when she couldn’t sleep—and
Quinn
couldn’t sleep—and the world was a kinder place.
Five
L
onnie Farrell had been born and raised on Rebel Ridge, but his journey away from home sweet home began when he was fourteen. He got himself arrested for making and selling meth, which resulted in a four-year stint in a youth offender facility. He came out a wiser criminal than the kid he’d been going in and headed straight for Chicago, where he hooked up with the uncle of a kid he’d met in jail.
Among other things, Uncle Sol was a bookie with a somewhat tenuous hand in the business of prostitution. It soon became Lonnie’s job to make debtors pay up, which included dunning the “girls” who worked for Sol, making sure they didn’t shortchange him. Within twelve years Lonnie had revamped the whole prostitution angle from streetwalkers to high-class hookers, more than tripling Sol’s income.
But for Lonnie, the world of hookers and pimps was growing stale. He wanted more—more money, more challenges, more risks—which took him straight back to the reason he’d first gone to jail: making and selling drugs. No more cooking meth for Lonnie Farrell, though. He wanted in where the big money was: cocaine. He had everything in place except where he was going to set up shop, and for that he wanted a location that would be extremely secure. He’d thought about it long and hard before it came to him in a dream, and once it took hold, he’d considered it genius. Not only would it take him off the radar, but it would be unbelievably easy to protect. And the best part of it was he had a built-in link to cheap labor in the residents of Rebel Ridge. All he had to do was contact the long-distance owner and he would be in business.
* * *
Sylvia Dixon was furious. As of today she was officially divorced, and in her eyes that meant she had been cheated out of a proper settlement. Her ex, Robert Dixon, was worth a fortune—the last heir to one of Louisville’s old-money families. It was her opinion that the fact that she’d been married to him for less than four years should not have mattered, and she was still pissed at herself for signing that prenup.
Here she was, at the waning age of thirty-nine, with only a lump sum settlement of a quarter million dollars, her BMW, the uptown condo and no prospects in sight. With her lifestyle, that money would be gone within the year. She needed to make new plans—fast.
The three-inch heels of her Jimmy Choos marked her rapid stride with a
clip, clip, clip
as she stomped back to her car, slamming the door behind her as she got in.
“Smarmy bastard,” she muttered, as she pulled the settlement check out of her purse and quickly endorsed it before driving by the bank.
Her cell phone rang as she was about to leave, and the tone of her voice when she answered still mirrored her anger.
“Hello.”
Lonnie Farrell heard anger and immediately shifted into a different mode of approach than the one he’d planned.
“Hello. Mrs. Dixon?”
“Yes, who is this? How did you get my number?”
“I’m sorry. I should have identified myself first. My name is Lonnie Farrell, and your family lawyer gave me your number. I represent a company interested in buying some property you own back in Rebel Ridge.”
Sylvia smiled as her heart skipped a beat.
In your face, Robert Dixon. I can still land on my feet.
She immediately shifted mental gears. “I apologize for my abruptness, but a woman in my position can’t be too careful.”
“Of course, I completely understand. Now, as to the reason I’m calling. Are you interested in selling your property?”
“You are referring to the Foley Brothers Mine and surrounding land?”
“Yes, ma’am. The company I represent is interested in buying it.”
Robert Dixon was not Sylvia’s first husband, nor had she hooked her well-to-do exes by being stupid.
“The mine is played out.”
“Yes, ma’am. We know.”
“What are you planning to do with it?”
Lonnie hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Right now the plans are in a development stage, but that shouldn’t concern you if you’re interested in selling.”
Sylvia had run her own cons, and this sounded suspicious.
“You want to buy an abandoned mine, but you’re not interested in mining?”
Lonnie was getting pissed, but there was too much riding on making this happen to let it show.
“I understand your curiosity, but I assure you, it’s not a secret. It’s the dark, damp interior and the constant temperature that make it ideal for our needs. We want the space for mushroom farming.”
Sylvia blinked. There couldn’t be much money in that. “I don’t know if this is going to work out. I can’t imagine there’s all that much profit in selling fungi, and I’m not in the market of giving things away.”
“You’d be surprised,” Lonnie drawled. “We’re willing to offer you half a million dollars.”
Sylvia stifled a gasp. “A half million dollars to grow toadstools? Obviously you think I’m an idiot. I do not want to be involved in anything illegal.”
“Toadstools are poisonous, and you’re overthinking our offer, Mrs. Dixon.” He threw in an amused chuckle for effect. “Do you want to do business, or shall I inform them you’re not interested, in which case we will just look for another source?”
Sylvia felt trapped. If Robert hadn’t divorced her, this conversation would have ended before it began, but a half million dollars? How could she refuse?
“I’m sure you understand my concerns, but it won’t be necessary for you to look any further.”
“Perfect! I’ll have the papers sent to you. The check will be with the papers. Just sign them both. You send me one copy and keep the other, as well as the check.” He waited, guessing that the offer of a lot of easy money would be hard to reject.
“I want a cashier’s check,” Sylvia said.
Lonnie grinned. “Of course,” he said. “What address should I use?”
Sylvia gave him the address of the condo where she would be living.
The call ended a moment later, and she dropped the phone in her lap and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands as she looked out the windshield.
The sun was still shining. The sky was still clear, and if that call had been on the up-and-up, she would soon be another half million dollars to the good. So why did she feel like she’d just sold a piece of her soul to the devil?
* * *
Quinn checked in at headquarters, got the location of the kill site and headed up the mountain. He couldn’t quit thinking about the condition of the hikers he’d found. Knowing the bear had taken down eight full-grown hunting dogs highlighted the growing danger. He just hoped to God that they found the monster before anyone else crossed its path.
Nearly an hour passed before he reached the location where the dogs had been killed. Although the carcasses had been moved, the ground was still black where the dogs had bled out. He could have found the trackers by following the sounds of their dogs as they moved farther up the mountain, but they didn’t need him.
If the bear was sick or wounded, then there would be no rhyme or reason to its movements, and it would likely be in serious pain. Any wound would have become infected, and the bear would be extremely feverish. The fever would keep the bear in a constant state of thirst, and immersion in water would be soothing, as well. He’d been thinking about this scenario ever since the first search had been called off. There was a creek less than a quarter of a mile from where he’d found the dead hiker that snaked downward in this direction.
He first needed to find the water, then search it for sign. If he was right and the bear was walking the creek to cool its feverish body, it would explain why the dogs had lost the trail on the first search, and would also pinpoint the track the bear was taking downward toward civilization.
Concern for Mariah was at the forefront of his mind, and while he hadn’t mentioned it to her, he’d already made a call to his mother and his sister, Meg, asking them to “drop by” and check on her. This was supposed to be his day off, so their appearance wouldn’t be suspect, and they could play dumb about knowing he’d been called in to work.
Of course they’d agreed far too willingly, which told him they were beyond curious about the woman he’d brought home. He sighed. In the long run he would pay, but he would endure whatever interrogation they gave him as long as he was assured that Mariah was okay.
He glanced around the kill site one last time and then checked his map before moving off into the woods. His rifle was hanging at the ready in the crook of his arm, his ear attuned to the sounds around him.
Within a short time he’d found a creek with swiftly moving water. He checked the coordinates and confirmed his suspicion that it was the same one he’d found up near the hikers. Now he needed to see if he could find bear signs. When he waded into the water, it immediately washed over the tops of his hiking boots, soaking his feet in an ice-cold rush.
“Oh, shit,” he said, then ignored the discomfort and began walking up-creek.
* * *
The bear’s gut was full. It had gone back to the kill site the same night and fed on three other carcasses before returning to the overhang. The meat had given it a burst of much-needed energy, and while the wound on its hip was still festering and running with pus, having a full belly gave it one less pain to address.
Just before sunrise a coyote returning from a night of hunting startled it awake. The bear growled in disagreement and then headed for water to slake its thirst. Once that was accomplished, it lay down in the creek, letting the cold, rushing water wash over its suppurating hip until it was blessedly numb.
By the time the Doolens and their dogs had reached the kill site, the bear was already moving downstream.
* * *
It was just before noon when Mariah woke up. The talk show she’d been watching was long since over and a soap opera had taken its place. She wrinkled her nose and switched off the show before making a slow, achy trip to the bathroom, dragging her leg as she went. It occurred to her that she was going to have to maintain a regimen of physical therapy whether she liked it or not, or she would be left with a pronounced limp.
Instead of the high-powered painkillers, she popped a couple of the over-the-counter kind and hoped for the best as she began to poke around the kitchen for something to eat.
She was standing at the cabinet, trying to decide between a can of chicken noodle soup and a can of beef stew, when she heard what sounded like a car engine. Thinking it would be Quinn, she smiled as she headed for the door. But the vehicle she saw through the window wasn’t his Jeep, it was a pickup, and two women were getting out.
One was older and gray-haired, wearing a loose-fitting dress. The other was much younger, but Mariah recognized her features. It was like looking at a female version of Ryal, right down to the slim build and height. These had to be some of Quinn’s family.
She looked down at herself and sighed. Gray worn-out sweats and a U.S. Army T-shirt with a tear under the arm. Not the outfit she’d hoped to be wearing to meet more members of his family.
What the hell? It was only clothes, and she didn’t adhere to the theory that clothes made the man—or the woman, as the case might be. Instead of waiting for them to knock, she opened the door and lifted her chin.
* * *
Dolly Walker was both anxious and curious. Quinn was the only one of her children who’d never married. In fact, he’d never had a girlfriend he considered serious enough to bother bringing her home to meet the family. The fact that he’d suddenly brought a woman home with him out of the blue had the whole family curious. Ryal had filled them in on who she was and why she was there, so after Quinn’s call this morning, she and Meg had been more than willing to check on her.
She’d baked a dried apricot cobbler, and Meg had made a meatloaf and roasted some potatoes. They knew the drill. Supposedly they were bringing some food to help Quinn out, thinking he would be there to introduce them.
As they drove up the winding driveway and across the open meadow, Dolly couldn’t help but think about how different the new cabin was from the old house she’d grown up in, but different in a good way. Her children would never be wealthy, but their occupations and lives were already steps above what hers had been, and for that she was proud.
“Hey, Mom, what are you thinking?” Meg asked, as the cabin came into view.
“That I need to keep an open mind and not judge.”
Meg frowned. “Are you thinking you won’t like her?”
“Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean that. I was thinking about what shape she’ll be in. Remember how Quinn was when he first came back? Whatever we said or did for him was wrong. He wouldn’t talk about it, and he didn’t want any help.”
Meg sighed. It had been hard on all of them to watch him suffer and be unable to help, but it had been hardest on their mom. When they were young, she’d always been able to fix their boo-boos. It had to be hell for a parent to see that kind of suffering and not be able to do anything about it.
“It’ll be okay, Mom. I think the main thing is to follow her lead.”
Dolly nodded as she got out of the car, but she wasn’t convinced. And then the door opened. The young woman standing in the doorway had her chin up and her shoulders back. She looked like she was gearing up for a fight, not greeting guests.