Red Wolf's Return

Irritated eyes rose. “Who needs a stupid gun, anyway?”

Indeed. “Second, you disregarded the No Trespassing signs on private property.”

“I was crossing it to go up the mountain.” His gaze skittered away. “Me’n Randy were target shooting.”

“There’s a range in Livingston for that, Beau. You could’ve asked me to take you.”

“Yeah, well, Randy’s embarrassed about his aim. Can’t hit a barn wall, so I was showing him some tricks without getting razed by those dork friends of his dad’s.”

Linc Leland, son of the mayor. She could well imagine Linc’s disappointment in his apprehensive son. What Beau saw in the boy, Meg couldn’t fathom. Beau was a leader, Randy a follower.

She said, “Randy’s problems don’t give you the right—or authorization—to use someone’s private property as a practice area. Or to shoot at eagles.”

“Eagles?” His eyes widened. “Who said we were shooting at eagles? The Blackfoot guy?”

“Excuse me?”

The tips of Beau’s ears pinked. “I mean, Mr. RedWolf.”

“Then say his name, Beau. Don’t be disrespectful of someone’s ancestry or heritage.”

“All right! I get it already.”

“Do you? Sometimes I wonder if you’ve learned anything I’ve taught you.” She should stop, but suddenly she saw a teenage Ethan in high school, heard the taunts by Linc Leland and his friend Jock Ralston. Hey, Tonto. Where’s your horse? She had hated those boys, but she’d hated the look in Ethan’s eyes more. That shame and regret for who he was, who he would always be. She had loved him for a thousand reasons, but one rose above the rest: that he stood alone against the odds.

He’d never quite believed her. And in the end her foolish arrogance had proven him right.

To Beau she said, “You constantly go behind my back. You ignore the ground rules. I’m trying to make a living for us, Beau, but when you do things—”

“Okay. You don’t have to rag on and on.”

She inhaled slowly. “This morning Mr. Red Wolf found a wounded eagle in the area where he spoke with you and Randy.”

“That doesn’t mean we shot it. He’s lying if he said that. Jeez, Mom, we know it’s illegal to shoot eagles.”

“Ethan didn’t accuse you, just said he found an injured eagle where he’d last seen you two boys. He’s asked that I do some investigating and get the matter resolved before—”

“And just like that you figured it was us shooting the bird.” Beau shoved back his chair. “Figures. You never believe me, no matter what I say.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“Forget it. Believe what you want, then. That’s what you always do anyway.” Spinning around, he stomped to the back door, flung it open and was outside before Meg could get around the table.

Damn it, she thought, watching him pace down the dirt path to where the battered old pickup she had bought him last spring waited.

Believe what you want, then. Her own words, echoing through the tunnel of her past. Words she had tossed Ethan the night of their prom. Believe what they say,

then. Don’t stand up for yourself. Don’t be the man I thought you were.

What goes around, comes around, Meg. With a heavy sigh, she went back to grating the carrots.

Chapter Three

Beau squealed his wheels out of the yard. God, his mother made him so mad. Since she’d caught him smoking in his bedroom a year ago, she’d been on his case about every nitpicky thing.

No matter what he did, she never took his side, always questioned his marks on tests, saying if he studied harder he’d get better grades, or if he finished his assignments and listened in class he’d understand the material better.

She questioned where he went after school and on weekends, and for how long and why and whom he was going with. She didn’t trust any of his friends.

Grinding gears, he hit the main road back to Sweet Creek. He didn’t understand his mom anymore. Hell, he didn’t understand himself anymore.

They used to be so close. Ever since his dad, wimpass Dr. Doug Sutcliffe, walked out on them when Beau was a little snot back in Sacramento. His mom hadn’t told Beau the reasons behind the divorce, but he knew. Didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure why the esteemed Dr. Doug left the family.

Pulse hammering, Beau slowed for the town limits. One of these days he was cutting out, leaving this backwater behind. Then he’d be free to do whatever he damned well wanted, whenever he damned well pleased. And to hell with both his parents.

Meg wanted to see the extent of the eagle’s injuries and ask veterinarian Kell Tanner what he was able to determine.

After parking the police cruiser, she pushed through the front door of Sweet Creek’s Animal Clinic, clinking the bell at the top of the jamb. In a short hallway beyond the reception area, Ethan stood with the vet; their heads turned upon her entry.

From under his ball cap, Ethan’s dark serious eyes latched on Meg. A cold sweat swiped her skin. Had the eagle died?

“Hey, Meg,” Kell said, eyes smiling. “Come to see my newest patient?”

Still alive. She breathed easier. “How’s it doing, Doc?”

“There’s a fifty-percent chance for survival. My bet is on the survival fifty.”

“Good to hear.” Her eyes wove back to Ethan, hoping to convey her relief for his sake. Rescuer that he was, the bird’s wounds would weigh on his heart. Turning to Kell, she asked, “What were your conclusions on the injuries?”

He jerked his head toward the rear door. “I was just about to tell Ethan. Why don’t you both come to the aviary and I’ll explain.”

They walked down the hall, Ethan tall and rangy beside her as they followed the doctor. Their hands brushed once. Outside, a roofed walkway linked the main structure to a small edifice. A sign reading Aviary hung above its door; inside, a birdcage contained the eagle.

Kell went to a small refrigerator, took a few bits of raw meat from plastic bag and walked to the raptor. White bandages wrapped its thigh and wings, and a plastic shield banded its neck. Yellow predator eyes watched them cautiously.

Ethan stood behind her shoulder, igniting a current of warmth between their bodies. He said, “Great job, Kell. As always.”

“Thanks. Barring infection, this little gal should make it.”

“Was she shot by a twenty-two?” Meg asked.

Kell pushed a piece of chicken through the wire mesh; the eagle gobbled the chunk. “I’m not an expert, but from the appearance of the exit wound in the thigh and from the minimal number of traumatized wing bones, it likely wasn’t a high-powered weapon.”

“And the tail feathers?” The bird had none.

“They were plucked, not molted.”

Which meant a poacher or someone with a sadistic bent. “Thanks, Kell. Let me know if her condition deteriorates.”

“Will do.”

Meg walked out of the aviary.

“Meggie,” Ethan called as he followed her outside into the breezeway.

She swung around. “Was the eagle unconscious when you found her?”

“Out cold. Probably hit her head on the rocks when she fell.”

Meg studied the trees surrounding the clinic. A wind eddied autumn leaves into the air and along the ground. “It’s possible they thought the bird was dead.”

Ethan said nothing.

She slanted him a look. “You don’t think so?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Which says more than words, Ethan. You always were quiet.” And observant.

His mouth hinted at a smile. “Not around you.”

Once, perhaps. Once they would’ve discussed every detail of their lives and feelings, shared hopes and dreams and planned their future—until she’d forced a separation between them.

Disillusioned, she turned to walk around the main building, for her truck.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said, walking beside her, “I’ve waited a long time for this day. I don’t like how it’s come about with the injury of wildlife, but I’m glad we’re talking again.”

She stopped at her vehicle. “Me, too.” Without the old weight of silence, her heart felt lighter. Opening the truck’s door, she got in behind the wheel. “See you later.”

“Count on it.” He walked back into the clinic, back to his eagle.

From her back porch, Meg peered through the starlit night toward the black stand of pine and birch mantling the knoll that rolled up and away from her three-acre property. A quarter mile, and on the other side of the rise, he slept in that lovely terra-cotta cabin.

Shivering inside her hoodie, she folded her arms against her middle, her senses attuned to the breeze rustling through the dying leaves, and the hint of early snow whispering down from the Absaroka Range.

Suddenly the wind sighed, He’s coming to see you.

A flush warmed her skin and her heart hurried.

You’re imagining things, she thought, yet her eyes strained to peel away the night.

A small thrill rushed up when he walked out of the trees, tall and illuminated by the stars. His feet made no sound, his arms swung easily at his side, his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes saw only her.

She stood riveted at the weathered railing, waiting. Waiting for him to mount the steps, to approach her. He wore buckskin leggings and a buckskin shirt draped his torso, and on his feet were red-and-white-beaded moccasins. A feather hung from a leather strand braided into his long, ebony hair.

Bewildered, she stared. She’d never known him to dress in the garments of his ancestry, to look as if he’d stepped out of another century. Throughout their adolescence, he had spurned his heritage; tried desperately to fit into the culture of his fair-skinned mother and grandfather.

He took the steps, stopped within reach.

As the question Where’ve you been? branded her mind, she frowned.

“Here, Meggie,” he replied.

Confused, she shook her head. “Not always.”

“Always. I’ve never left you.” Then he took her face between his callused palms, leaned down and kissed her.

His lips were warm and soft and mobile. The way she remembered. Pressing herself against him, she banded her arms around his neck, stretched up onto her toes, searching, wanting…

His hand slipped into the open panel of the hoodie, gently kneaded her breasts.

Her perfect breasts. Oooh, yes…!

Sitting bolt upright, she gulped air. Where…?

Around her, night delineated the ceiling of her bedroom, the pictures on the walls, the metal railing at the foot of her mattress. Curtains fluttered at the open window and a chill breeze goose-bumped her arms. Dreaming, she’d been dreaming about Ethan and…and….

Oh, God.

With shaky fingers she touched the left side of her chest where the fake swell rose with each agitated breath.

Stupid woman, Meg. Did you think it had changed?

But, oh, in the dream…

She had been whole.

Right. You should’ve known something was weird when you saw Ethan in those clothes, and with that hair.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed. She needed to think. Outside. She would go outside, onto the porch. The best place to think. Like in the dream.

She shook her head. Wake up, Meg. This is reality.

On the nightstand the clock read 1:34 a.m. Grabbing her housecoat from the foot rail, she headed into the hallway and padded past Beau’s closed door.

In the kitchen she stopped, shivered. Then turned and walked back down the hallway to her son’s room. Quietly, she opened the door, peeked inside. The covers were in a jumbled heap, shadows playing hide-and-seek across pillows and walls. Something nudged her inside, to tiptoe to the bed.

The stars that had revealed Ethan in her dream now glanced through the window and disclosed Beau’s bed. His empty bed.

Meg stared down at the sheets where her son should be, snoring gently with sleep. Her heart kicked.

“Beau?” The name echoed. Spinning around, she ran from the room. “Beau!”

Throughout the house she flicked lights, rushed out the front door. His old Chevy pickup sat parked beside her Silverado. Where was he?

“Beau!” Had he sleepwalked? He never sleepwalked.

Had someone entered the house, snatched her son while she lay in the throes of her dream?

The way Elizabeth Smart had been stolen…?

No! He’d gotten a ride from a friend….

Would he disobey his grounding?

He’s sixteen, Meg. Obstinate, mutinous and desperate to shed the clutch of dependence.

Another thought flashed.

Dear God. Had he gone to confront Ethan over that damn eagle situation?

That had to be it, had to be. Meg flung back into the house, raced for her bedroom, her jeans and hoodie. Yes, she and Beau had their problems, but he’d never left the house in the middle of the night, and certainly not without her permission. He knew the scope of her worry barometer when it came to disregarding curfews and house rules.

Number one: let Mom know.

Except, the circumstances surrounding the wounded eagle had pushed him to an emotional razor’s edge. She knew that. Knew it as if he’d elucidated his resentment in a three-page essay.

From the minute he slammed out of the house yesterday, he’d gone into a class-A brood mood, which—more than target shooting without consent—incited her to ground him with no nights out for a week. The curfew had served to fuel his resentment. Tonight he’d hunched over his supper and grunted when she asked him a question. Afterward, he’d disappeared into his room, leaving Meg alone for the rest of the evening.

Please, she thought. He’s been so unpredictable lately. Don’t let him do something rash.

Keys and wallet in hand, she hurried out to her truck—and hoped Ethan was a light sleeper.

She killed the headlights and the ignition before climbing out of the truck. Upon the water’s surface the moon painted its wafer-pale light. Twice in as many days she had driven to this place. His place. Next thing she knew, she’d be into a ritual.

The phone could have worked just as well, Meg.

About to get back in the truck and drive home, she heard his deep voice come through the dark.

“Out patrolling the neighborhood, Meggie?”

A shiver ran up her spine. The dream, his voice sounds the way it had in the dream. She remembered how his eyes had held her then, and in that interview room, and out by the boulder forty hours before.

Wood creaked. Focusing on its direction, she strained to see through the obscurity. Tall body limned in moonlight, Ethan stood on his front porch. The other morning she had envisioned earthen pots laden in blooms around its periphery, a patio table with an umbrella on the rear deck.

You’re losing it, Meg. This isn’t your home. And he’s not your man. “Not patrolling,” she said, more in control as she recalled her mission. “Looking for Beau.”

“At this hour?”

“He’s…not in bed. He’d been home all night, but when I woke up twenty minutes ago…” She pushed an uneasy hand through her hair. “His truck is parked in front of our house, so I thought maybe…. Never mind. I don’t know why I figured he’d come here.” She strode back to her Silverado.

“Wait.” Ethan came down the deck steps, the rottweiler trotting at his side.

Of course, Beau hadn’t come here. The dog would’ve announced his presence and Ethan would have called her because he was a man of integrity—one who would recognize Beau’s need to rebel the way Ethan had once rebelled against the school for not believing him about Linc and Jock.

He walked across the few feet to where she stood beside the truck. “Maybe a buddy picked him up.”

Meg opened the vehicle’s door. “Exactly. I should be on the phone calling his friends.” What kind of cop was she? Had it been anyone else’s kid, she would have given the same advice.

But it wasn’t someone else’s son. It was Beau. Her child.

That alone was reason to call Gilby, her second-in-command, get him to initiate the search. She was too close, too emotional.

With shaky fingers she tried to insert the key into the ignition.

Ethan set a hand on her shoulder, the simple touch easing her agitation. He’d always been able to soothe her fears years ago, too. Fears about her brother’s dyslexia or her dad holding the ranch together. All Ethan had to do was speak her name or touch her cheek and her world settled.

“Move over,” he said now. “I’ll drive.”

“I’m okay. I’m a cop, for heaven’s sake.”

He leaned in, took the keys out of her grasp. “You’re also a mother. Now, scoot over and let me drive. You can give me directions and focus on what needs to be done.”

Suddenly the rottweiler trotted toward the trees, low growl in her throat.

“Hold on a sec.” He walked around the truck’s hood. “What is it, Lila? A raccoon?”

Beneath the moon’s glow, Meg saw the dog lift her snout, sort through the scents layering the night wind. Pricking her ears, the animal let out a deep-throated bay and loped into the trees.

Meg grabbed the flashlight from the glove box, and jumped out of the pickup to rush around the hood, toward the black-silhouetted woods where Ethan strode, a shadow against shadows.

“Maybe it’s a coyote,” she called.

An unexpected pop sounded.

Gunshot?

She stopped, heart in her throat. “Ethan?” Immediately she snapped off the flashlight and tucked the tool into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Eth?” Oh, God, where was he?

Silence.

Why had the dog quit barking?

Peering through the night, Meg whispered again, “Ethan? Answer me.” Please.

Pop!

Ethan!

Had he been hit? Please, no. We’ve just gotten together…

Right hand automatically going to her hip where her Smith & Wesson 9 mm was belted on workdays, Meg raced for the trees. Why, why hadn’t she brought the gun tonight? Because you were looking for your son, not for criminals.

“Stay back, Meggie.” His voice came quietly from somewhere in the woods.

“Where are you?” she hissed, pushing branches out of her face, stumbling on a root. “Damn it! Ethan, get back here. Let me handle this. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Pulse beating a race pace, she halted. Thank God he was alive. But where?

The lake’s wind swished against the brittle leaves. She wheeled around.

Silently Ethan peeled away from a cottonwood.

“God almighty!” She nearly clocked him with the flashlight.

“Easy,” he murmured in her ear. “That thing will only serve to irritate your opponent, Meggie m’girl.” Humor highlighted his words.

Disregarding the endearment, the one he’d used when they were teenagers, when he’d been crazy about her, she snapped, “Go back to your porch.” Anger and worry vied for dominance in her chest. “Let me handle this.”

“You’re not armed.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m the police and that gives me the experience. I’ll go after Lila. You stay here.”

“Like hell. It’s my dog.”

Stepping in front of him, she pressed her palms against his chest, and felt the wonderful warm dampness of his sweat beneath fabric and the power that hadn’t been there at eighteen. “Ethan, for once don’t argue. If Beau is involved it’s my responsibility.”

“I’m going after my dog, Meggie,” he said stubbornly. “And your son. Are you with me or not?”

A lightning current flashed between them and for a moment memories of bygone years welled; she wanted to fling herself into his arms, those strong arms that waited at his sides, waiting for her.

Are you with me or not? Exactly what she had said one warm June night across the lagoon as she ranted at him about principles and being a man.

Shaking off guilt and remorse, she stepped free. “I know what I’m doing. This is my job.” And my son is missing. “Go home. Please.” She softened her voice. “If there’s a problem, I’ll call you on my cell. Besides, I’ll need you to direct backup.” In case it was required.

Turning, she plowed deeper into the forest, heading for the dog once again barking in the timber. If only she could turn on her flashlight. Right, and be a target for the gun-happy shooter.

If there was a gun-happy shooter.

Don’t let it be Beau.

Her toe caught a raised root, pitching her forward, and a hand grasped her shoulder. Adrenaline spiked through her body, lifted the hair on her head. “Damn it, Ethan,” she said, when she could speak. “Don’t you ever listen?”

“All the time,” he whispered against her hair, and her stomach spun at the feel of his mouth. “Be still and wait a sec, okay?”

They did. The forest lay hushed. Where was Lila? Beau? Had he done the shooting?

Or…had someone shot at Beau? The thought paralyzed Meg.

Shaking her head, she pushed forward. Think like a cop, Meg. Forget everything else.

A shout ricocheted through the night. Then came a shrill whistle—and a third shot. Somewhere within the black menacing trees, Lila went into a frenzy.

Dodging branches, Meg crested the knoll. A treeless patch gleamed under stars and moon. Beyond the narrow open space, more trees…and a glimmer of fire.

“Damn it.” She dashed through the grass, but Ethan was faster, his legs longer.

“This way.” He entered the trees directly above the spot where flames flickered.

Drinkers. She should have known. Images of forest fires and burning homes flitted across the screen of her mind. All at once Lila, tongue lolling, hind end wriggling, ran out of the night.

“Good girl,” Ethan soothed, patting the rottweiler’s sleek head. Gesturing with his hand, the dog came to heel.

They could see the campfire clearly. Meg counted six people: three girls cuddling on boys’knees. She scanned the area illuminated by the firelight. Where was the gun?

“Think the dog’s gone?” Lynn Osgood asked, turning her face to eighteen-year-old Miles, son of Jock Ralston, the high school bully when Meg and Ethan attended Sweet Creek High.

“Damn right,” Miles boasted. “I scared the crap out of it. It won’t be back.”

“Hey, we should do this every weekend.”

Beau. He had his back to Meg and was snuggling Zena Phillips.

“Shoot at dogs?” Zena wanted to know.

Chuckling, he nuzzled her neck. “No, silly. I mean party hardy.”

Meg wanted to throttle him. Before she could take the situation in hand, Randy Leland piped up, “Hey, Beau, how’d you get outta your grounding anyway?”

A shrug. “My mom’s clueless around me.”

The bluster in his voice and the girls’ giggles prodded Meg forward. That’s what you think, buster.

“Meggie, wait,” Ethan whispered.

No way. She stepped into the firelight. “Hi, Beau,” she said calmly. “Who’s clueless now?”

The boy leaped from the log, spilling Zena to the ground. “Mom! What the hell are you doing here?”

All except Miles scrambled to their feet as Ethan stepped into the light, Lila at his side.

“Where’d he come from?” Randy muttered.

Meg glowered around the group. “Who brought the beer?”

“Like we’re telling you.” Miles puffed out his youthful chest.

“And you’re underage, Mr. Ralston.” Her gaze caught Beau’s defiant one. “All of you are, so take this is as a warning. Next time you’ll be facing the juvie judge. Pack it up. Party’s over.”

“Next time you won’t find us,” Beau said, tone full of heroism for his friends. His gaze darted among them.

“Actually, Chief,” Miles Ralston sneered, then turned to Ethan. “Oops, got it wrong. This here’s the real chief.” The kid lifted a hand, palm out. “Yo—”

Meg saw red, saw Jock Ralston two decades before. “Miles Ralston. Get off that log, get your stuff together and leave.”

His lip curled as he rose slowly, a smart-mouthed boy in a man’s body. “Try and make me.”

She stepped into his space. He wasn’t lanky like Beau, but fit and muscled and she had to look up into his face. “Let’s get a few things straight. This is private property. Second, none of you is of legal drinking age. Third, campfires are prohibited this time of year.”