Wounded (a mystery and a sweet romance)

Wounded: Chapter 3

“You should probably tell me your name if you’re thinking of hiring me,” Tara said.

“Malcolm.”

Hm. Tara had expected something tougher sounding, like Spike or Bruiser, the kind of name usually reserved for surly bikers and Rottweilers.

“Can I call you Mal?” she asked.

She was following him along a narrow forest trail and couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders tensed. A moment passed before he said, “No.”

And that ended that conversation. As they walked, the wolf meandered in and out of sight, sometimes trotting along the trail, and sometimes disappearing into the foliage. She eyed those leaves, damp from the previous night’s rain, and the rich loamy earth beneath the trees they passed, half-expecting to see the other half of the chicken sticking out from beneath something.

The trail wound through a patch of salmonberry brambles, passed a number of no-trespassing signs, then opened into a clearing carpeted by lush grass and clover. The log dwelling—she refrained from thinking of it as a shack—in the center looked like something one might camp in for the weekend, a short weekend. It did, however, appear to be in the middle of receiving repairs, or perhaps even upgrades. Many of the cedar roof shingles had been replaced recently, and a shed full of woodworking tools and half-finished projects stood open to the daylight.

They were approaching the cabin from the rear, and when Malcolm rounded the corner and the driveway came into view, he halted. A state trooper car waited on the gravel behind the black Jeep. An officer leaned against the door, a smartphone in his hand. He lifted his head, giving Malcolm a nod and her a curious look. A second trooper waited in the passenger seat, speaking into his radio handset.

Well, if there were poultry bodies to be found on the property, the police would be in a better position to seek them out than she. Or maybe they were here about something else. Had the glowering Malcolm tried to run someone else off the road that week? And succeeded?

“Ashcroft,” the trooper outside the car said. His nametag read S. Brenner.

Tara scooted around so she could see Malcolm’s face—he hadn’t said more than a few sentences to her, but he would have to be chattier with the police. Or they would arrest him.

“Brenner,” Malcolm said.

All right, chattier might not have been the right term...

“Your neighbors are complaining about you again.” Brenner spoke casually, as if he didn’t particularly care.

“Really.” Malcolm leveled a cool gaze at Tara.

It wasn’t hostile—not exactly—but it did make her want to lift her hands and proclaim that she’d just moved in, that the move was only temporary, and that she didn’t have anything to do with the arrival of the troopers.

“The computer’s inside,” Malcolm said, surprising her with the topic shift. “You can pull up those sites to show me.”

Ah, a dismissal. He didn’t want her around to hear the conversation. Afraid she would report back to Sam? Well, she probably would...

Tara climbed the steps to a tiny wooden deck. The door had an old-fashioned latch rather than a knob, and it didn’t look like it could be locked. Maybe he didn’t think burglars would trot past that many no-trespassing signs.

When she slipped inside, the men started talking. She left the door ajar so she could hear them. The cabin was cleaner than she expected, and there were a few handmade curtains, table mats, and other decidedly feminine touches that made her wonder if Malcolm had a wife. He didn’t wear a ring, and he didn’t seem the type to encourage the affections of women. Or anyone for that matter.