Cypher had been sheriff of Rockton before Gene Dalton arrived. The council decided Gene’s temperament was more suited to the position, and they’d demoted Cypher to deputy. He’d stuck around for a while, but after one too many clashes with Gene, he’d stomped off into the forest, where he’s still sulking. Okay, “sulking” might be a slight exaggeration. Cypher had already intended to retire into the forest when his term in Rockton was up. His temper and his pride just sent him there sooner than he planned.
Cypher is happy in the forest. His former job made him a natural for tracking and hunting game. That “former job” isn’t as sheriff of Rockton. It’s the career that brought him here. Tyrone Cypher was a hit man. The first time he told me that, I thought he was joking. Then I thought he was exaggerating—maybe he once killed a guy for money. Nope. He was a career hit man. I’d say assassin, but that conjures up an image that is 100 percent not Tyrone Cypher.
Cypher had been in Rockton when Dalton first arrived. He knows Dalton’s history, which makes for an awkward relationship, especially when Cypher sees nothing wrong with needling Dalton about his “wild boy” past.
We’re a couple of kilometers from the cabin when Dalton goes still. As he looks around, I lay a hand on Storm’s head. When a growl ripples through her flanks, I slide my hand through her collar. She grumbles at that, offended that I don’t trust her.
As Dalton scans the forest, Storm resumes that low growl. She’s on high alert, her hackles up, body stiff, which means there’s a predator nearby. I slide my gun out. Dalton already has his in hand. His head tilts, as if he’s spotted something. He slides forward for a better view. Then he nods, backs up, and takes Storm’s collar.
“Go look,” he whispers, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Slo
w and careful. I’ll direct you.”
I nod at my gun.
“Keep it out,” he murmurs.
It is a predator, then. A dangerous one. Just not the type he expects to barrel out of the forest and attack. Interesting.
I slide forward where he’d gone. It’s clear, no chance of hitting branches and giving myself away. When I reach where he stopped, he motions for me to take it one more step. Then he has me crouch until my eyes are at waist level, and he directs my attention.
At first I see nothing but snow and trees. Then I catch movement. A ghostly figure, gray and white fur camouflaging with the winter forest. Brown eyes fix on me. A gray and white snout swings my way, black nose twitching as it inhales my scent. Ear pricked, swiveling when a noise comes from the side, the soft whoosh of snow falling from branches.
It’s a wolf. A lone young male. He has his head lowered, watching me, wary but curious. If it were a pack, Dalton would scoot me out of here fast. One wolf, though, is very unlikely to attack a person, not unless the beast is sick or starving. This one is muscular and well fed. His fur ripples in the breeze, and he is one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in a forest filled with beauty.
I hear wolves all the time, and I’ve caught glimpses of them. But this is my first actual sighting, and I stay half-crouched and watching until his own curiosity wanes and he lopes off, a silent ghost vanishing into the snowy forest.
When I return to Dalton, I’m grinning. He smiles, pleased. He’s about to say something when Storm whines.
“We should take her to sniff where he was,” I say. “Let her learn the scent.”
“Good idea.”
He keeps his hand firmly around her collar and starts into the forest, to where the wolf had been. Storm doesn’t budge.
“Nervous because it’s another canine?” I wonder.
“Maybe.”
When he tugs her, she whines and her head whips around, gaze fixed behind us. She makes a sound that starts like a growl, but then she swallows it and whines instead.
Something moves in the thicker trees behind us. I freeze. We’d presumed the wolf was alone, but that isn’t necessarily so.
Dalton’s eyes narrow. I resist the urge to watch him and turn my attention to Storm instead. Her gaze stays fixed on a single point. That’s reassuring, suggesting she only smells one threat.
She’s uncertain, too, about whether or not it is a threat. Her whine slips into a growl and then back to a whine. Her ears prick forward and then relax. Her snout wrinkles, but she doesn’t bare her teeth.
I hunker to her height and look where she does. I see snow and trees. Then movement above my crouched head. Moose? Caribou? That would explain Storm’s reaction. Ungulates might not be predators, but they’re still dangerous. Storm surprised a doe last fall and took a good kick in the ribs as it fled.
Yet the shape has moved behind a tree, and if it were an ungulate, I’d see the hindquarters sticking out. It’s at least as tall as me and can hide behind a thick tree trunk, which only describes one beast in this forest.
Human.
FOURTEEN
I glance at Dalton. He’s seen what I have. He grunts, considering, his hand on his gun. Then he motions for me to hold the dog while he circles around. I aim my gun at the tree, but it’s a one-handed aim, my other on the dog’s collar. I flex my left hand, ready to release the collar and steady my weapon if I need to.
Dalton takes two wide steps, his snowshoes coming down soundlessly. Another flicker of movement. My hand nearly releases Storm’s collar. Then the figure steps out and says, “Eric.”