Timber Lake (The Snowy Range Series, #2) (17 page)

Or he could find another location. Scanning the horizon, such as it was—mostly jagged granitic outcrops and trees swaying in the stiff breeze—Sonny knew he’d lucked into the perfect spot. From this vantage point, there were three other ridges of similar height and open to satellite transmission if he chose to go that route.

Michael had suggested triangulating for maximum coverage. With his help, they could probably accomplish that task in a long day, two if they ran into problems. Then a day to check and calibrate readings and they were good to go. The corollary to that plan was setting aside all hanky-panky in favor of getting a good night’s sleep, getting on trail first thing in the morning, and keeping their distractions to a minimum.

Right, that’ll go over like a lead balloon.

There was no denying the merit for attending to his task with a certain alacrity. Their supplies were limited. The grass for the animals wasn’t going to last forever. And the run of nice weather was going to end, probably sooner rather than later. Plus they had a hellacious climb back out of this valley and another tedious day or so to Sand Lake, getting the trailer there, loading up...

“Shit.” Peanut jumped. “Uh, sorry girl, didn’t mean to scare you.”

All of those steps were directed toward completing a set of tasks for a larger project, accomplishing a goal, taking charge of his career and proving he had the chops to become team leader, maybe even director of the agency. Eventually.

He had family political connections to grease certain wheels. Not that he liked using them, but given his propensity for staying under the radar as an über task-oriented loner didn’t mean he couldn’t harbor a few ambitions, bucking the odds and making a name for himself.

It’s what his dad would have wanted for him had he lived. Sonny had always seen himself taking after his father, carrying on the Rydell traditions as the only son. By itself, that was one hell of a legacy to live up to. But at the same time, his family insisted he could do and be whatever he wanted. Those two demands weren’t mutually exclusive. What they were all telling him was they loved him, believed in him, and trusted him—that ultimately whatever route he chose for his life was his decision.

So here he was, twenty-eight years old, with diploma in hand and knowing he’d made his family proud because he’d done it his way. He’d passed on political science in favor of environmental science and pathobiology, ending up here... on top of a ridge holding his Stetson with one hand while trying to keep a box full of electronic sensors from working the thermals like the eagle soaring above him.

The kicker was... those damn sensors were going to be the ticket to him finding a political career after all. It was comical and pathetic at the same time. Pathetic because, after all the teeth gnashing, after all the late nights, after denying himself the comfort of companionship, he finally realized one simple fact.

He’d never asked himself... is this what you want to do with your life, Seamus Rydell?

Gathering his box of instruments, Sonny stood and gazed down the slope in the direction of their camp. He couldn’t see it for all the trees, but he knew what was happening. Michael Books was attending to their comfort and safety, protecting the animals in his charge. And, if Sonny was lucky, finding a way to goad him into coming up with a suitable punishment for some minor transgression.

His money was on fish guts littering the area where he normally sat in front of the fire. His heart was telling him to say the words before it was too late.

And that’s why he relied on his head, not his heart.

The sad fact was, it was already too late. Even if the answer to the question—is this what you want to do with your life—changed, it still didn’t alter the reality that another question had loomed to demand equal time and consideration. Unfortunately, that question was still lurking in the background, with no clear definition, no goals, and no roadmap for going forward. Like Timber Lake far below him, there was mist and a feeling of transience too powerful to ignore.

By keeping to things he could control, the answer to what he wanted to do with his life was simple, even if he did a one-eighty. One thing he had learned from all his years of scholarly effort: the simple solution was often the most elegant. Dr. Seamus Rydell lived his life by those principles of elegant simplicity.

He was pretty sure the man Michael called Tex didn’t...

****

N
ot usually troubled by bouts of insecurity, Michael found himself mulling over the change in Sonny when he’d returned to camp. At first Michael had chalked it up to the frustrations of failing to set up his first batch of sensors. That problem was solved when Michael produced a box of pitons he carried in his emergency supplies. That and the extra lengths of climbing rope he toted around had come in handy in the past when he’d had to rescue some hapless tourist or hunter who’d taken a bad step and ended up wishing he’d stayed home in front of the TV.

When Michael suggested they work together to set up the data collection stations, Sonny had blown him off. As was his very bad habit when he thought he was in the right, Michael had tried teasing first, then more aggressive insisting. Sonny had nearly taken his head off. And it wasn’t Mister Zero coming out to play.

You didn’t need the words spelled out in neon to know when someone’s telling you to fuck off and mind your own business.

Usually that pissed him off. It rarely hurt his feelings. There was a reason for that anger, it kept you from owning you were a slave to sappy emotions and making a fool of yourself. This time, he was so gobsmacked by the turnabout all he could do was tumble everything around in his brain, trying to ferret out what was going on with Sonny.

They’d separated as per Dr. Rydell’s instructions, both of them riding to save time, their gear stuffed into leather saddle bags and fanny packs. Michael had given Sonny his hammer, which was no hardship. Rocks worked just as well, even better in some cases, especially when your thumb got involved. If he knew he was going to meet up with Tex later, he’d insist his lover suck his thumb, then move on to other things. Now he just gritted his teeth and wondered how long it would be before he could head back to the trailhead and get his life back to normal.

He needed some quality time alone, hiking the trails and keeping an eye out for trouble. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to shoot another bad guy.

Red snorted, his ears swiveling toward the southern, pinched end of the valley. Rydell had gone in that direction to check out an alternate location. He’d planned on circling back and meeting up at the creek. Michael mounted and urged Red forward, curious why the big guy was so on edge. He didn’t have long to find out.

The mule came barging up the slope like the devil himself was on his tail, with Rydell kicking his flanks mercilessly. They topped the ridge, both of them blowing hard.

Michael shouted, “You better have a fucking good reason to run that mule up a grade like that, Rydell.”

Gasping for air, Sonny yelped, “You have to come. Christ, I don’t know what to do.”

“Slow down. You’re not making sense. Come where. What’s going on?”

The mule spun in a slow circle, his brain disengaging with the need to keep going. Michael grabbed the reins and pulled him in close, muzzle to Red’s shoulder. Michael leaned forward and said again, “Get a hold of yourself, Doctor. I need to know what’s happening before running off like a chicken without a head. It’s a good way to get you and your mount hurt.”

With the reins in Michael’s control, Sonny scrubbed his scalp, his eyes wild. He pointed toward a dense stand of timber and stuttered through an explanation. All Michael heard was ‘trap’ and ‘badger.’ He handed the reins back to Sonny and reached behind his right leg to pull his rifle out of its scabbard.

“Follow me down the hill, Dr. Rydell.” Michael reached over and pinched the man’s arm, none too gently. “And go slow. I’m not in the mood to deal with you being a stupid fuck. You hearing me?” Sonny’s eyes finally refocused as he stared at Michael, nodding he understood.

Resting the rifle across his thighs, Michael gave his gelding his head, allowing him to find the best way down the slope while using his considerable bulk to body block the twitchy mule. Michael hoped, once they reached the bottom, the good doctor would have regained some of his senses.

Panic didn’t suit the man, not at all. And it was hardly called for. Trapping of badger was legal year round in area one, which was essentially the entire state of Wyoming. The Snowys had a few exclusionary areas, the main one being south of route 130 in the Nash Fork section, and that applied to beavers. Here, they were well north of the banned area, so whoever was running a trap line was within their rights so long as they had the proper permits.

The prospect of getting back to doing his job, even if it entailed simply checking a piece of paper, made him feel marginally better. It was time to reset his inner clock and get back on warden time.

And to hell with Seamus Rydell.

Warden Time

––––––––

T
he chill in the air had nothing to do with the downdrafts cascading off the granite faces of the ridges surrounding them. Sonny rode quietly and carefully, making sure his mule gave the big red horse and his infuriated rider room to blow off whatever was chapping the man’s ass.

Sonny hadn’t meant to abuse his mount by barreling up that ridge like the devil was on his tail, but he’d been so spooked and outraged by what he’d discovered, he was still nauseous and light-headed, with the images still playing in his head like a horror movie reel on steroids. Worst yet, Warden Brooks hadn’t allowed him the chance to explain what he’d found. Not that he’d be able to coherently put it into words... it was that heinous and upsetting.

Michael’s back tensed, bringing the gelding to a halt. Sonny risked riding alongside and waited for the warden to say something, anything.

When he did speak, it was terse and to the point. “Which way?”

“Across the creek.” Sonny flicked his hand in the direction of a shallow spot clear of debris and large rocks. He swallowed, not sure he wanted to return, though not to do so would be cruel and inhumane. His inner turmoil distracted him from seeing the markers he needed to find, but eventually his eyes settled on the telltale spot. “There’s a tree with a notch six feet up. Looks like an arrow.”

Michael nodded. “How far in?”

“Couple hundred yards. It’s pretty close to the creek.” Sonny kept his eyes averted from the opening in the treeline.

“You said it’s a badger. Caught in a trap.”

Sonny got the distinct impression the warden was mulling over something in his head. He wasn’t hesitating just for the hell of it. It seemed as if he were assessing the situation and didn’t like what he was seeing or feeling. That alone made the hairs on the back of Sonny’s neck come to attention. He asked, “What’s wrong?”

Michael shifted in the saddle, his rifle still resting across his thighs. When they’d reached the point where the descent flattened out, he’d chambered a round, the sound so startling Sonny had nearly shouted in alarm. The words ‘locked and loaded’ floated through his consciousness, followed by waves of regret and anger that he’d left the shotgun Michael had provided back at the campsite. If he’d had it with him, he wouldn’t be here now, quaking in his boots and embarrassed he’d been unprepared to deal with a situation like this.

Now he had to rely on Michael to do the right thing, while he quivered in a mental corner like a little girl. Even armed, he wasn’t sure he would have the chops to calmly set aside that vision of horror and put the animal out of his misery.

And it wasn’t just the trapping that had him wound tight and madder than hell. It was the aftermath...

Michael barked, “Stay here,” and spurred his horse toward the break in the trees. The mule took a step, then another. Michael gripped the rifle and set the barrel on his right thigh, twisting his head enough to look behind him. He spit out, “I mean it, Rydell.”

Sonny chewed on his bottom lip as the warden disappeared from view, his gut churning. He let the replay of what he’d discovered grip him in the vain hope he was wrong about what he’d seen. That he’d misinterpreted the grisly image, chalking it up to bad luck for the badger.

Luck had nothing to do with it. Something had taken advantage of the helpless animal, leaving him to suffer.

No, not something...
someone
. No cougar or bear, or any of the predators in that area, would have tortured with such surgical precision. The fact the animal was still alive meant whoever was responsible was close and probably watching them argue like kids in a schoolyard.

Sonny stood in the stirrups and scanned the area, taking note of the tops of the trees swaying in the stiffening breeze, but there, standing at the edge of the creek, it was deathly quiet. Too quiet. Not even insects buzzed.

The musical notes of the stream bounding over rocks became white noise, easily set aside. It gave him no information. What he struggled to hear was a chink of hoof on rock, a twig breaking, or perhaps the ping of gravel or stone dislodged by a misstep. For some insane reason, he wanted to be the rabbit, the distraction. If whoever was out there had eyes and ears on
him
, then his warden could ease the animal’s suffering, without interference and the potential of harm coming to Michael for taking what the trapper would see as belonging to him.

Logic suggested he should rethink his priorities. Michael had the gun, he didn’t. He was exposed, Michael wasn’t. An ominous flutter in his gut ramped to a roaring din in his ears as a single retort split the air, the reverberations ricocheting off the cliff faces. The mule backed into the stream, fighting to turn and bolt toward camp. Sonny was sorely tempted to let him go, to let the beast carry him to safety.

The nasty side of logic whined that he was dead weight, of no use to anyone. Not even worth a distraction to keep whoever had perpetrated that foul act from challenging them for rights to the carcass.