Wounded (a mystery and a sweet romance)

Wounded: Chapter 4

There were more stories on the firefighters who hadn’t made it, and she read through a few, but Malcolm arrested her interest, and she surfed around until she found more of his background. Born in Wenatchee, he had always loved the outdoors and had studied fisheries and wildlife at Washington State during the school year, then paid for classes by joining the Entiat hotshot crew, working in the summers to fight fires all over the northwest and into Colorado and Arizona. When he had started in on graduate school, he had gone to Winthrop to train to be a smokejumper. Tara had to Google hotshots and smokejumpers to learn what the terms meant, and her jaw dropped at the notion that anyone would willingly parachute onto a burning mountain. Sure, it might be logical to try and contain a small fire before it grew into something huge, but... She shook her head. The training sounded as rough as the work—comparable to what the military Special Forces people endured, one of the articles said.

“Well, that explains the biceps.” Tara leaned back in her chair, rubbing the back of her neck again. “Graduate school, huh.” She wouldn’t have guessed. Well, maybe when he had spouted off the ways mushrooms reproduced without looking at the text...

If he’d been in graduate school the year before last, that meant he was only a couple of years older than she was. How odd. Someone that grumpy should be at least fifty. But, while she had been playing around online, figuring out how to earn an income without ever having to move her butt out of her chair, he had been traveling all over the west, risking his life to protect people and their homes.

Tara eyed his grandmother’s binder. Yes, she would go through it and see if there was anything that could be turned into an information product. Asshat tendencies or not, the guy deserved a break. Of course, she would have to charge him, because he was too suspicious of her to accept anything else, but maybe she could find a way to give the money back by buying his—

A flash of light caught her eye outside the window.

As soon as Tara looked in that direction, it winked out. She glanced at the time display on her laptop screen. 12:23 AM. A little late for someone to be wandering among the trees. She closed the laptop and flipped off her desk lamp. She had been working since before the sun went down and hadn’t bothered turning on any other lights since then, so darkness had descended on the cottage. She gazed out the window, waiting to see the light again. Nothing happened. She leaned close to the window and peered at the homes within sight. These people didn’t waste electricity by leaving porch lights on at night, and she didn’t spot a single other lamp. The village was asleep.

The flash came again, but, again, as soon as she focused on it, it disappeared. Was it her imagination?

“Maybe someone’s going to an outhouse,” she muttered. But no, the village wasn’t that primitive. Everyone had indoor plumbing. Besides, there weren’t any buildings or anything else over in that direction. Nothing had been built near the towering grove of ancient trees. “So why is someone wandering around out there?”

The only explanation that came to mind sent a chill through her. Maybe someone was preparing the next animal sacrifice or doing something else of that nature, something designed to... she didn’t know what. Scare people, she supposed. That chicken head had certainly disturbed her.

The flash of light came one more time, from deeper in the grove. No, she wasn’t imagining things. It wasn’t the bright white of a flashlight, but more of a muted blue-green, like what one created when using one’s smartphone display to light the way at night.

Tara patted around the window frame and found the lock. She opened it and leaned close to the screen, listening. The scents of lavender and damp vegetation drifted in, along with a faint crunch, then a snap. A twig breaking?

“The smart thing,” Tara murmured, “would be to lock the door, close the shutters, and go upstairs to bed.” She could always wander over and see if anything had been disturbed in the morning.

“Yeah, and in the meantime, more chickens get killed. Or other animals. Or something worse.”

Tara chewed on her lip. If she went out there, she might run into someone with a knife or gun. Or... she might run into Malcolm. After what her research had revealed, she didn’t want to believe that he had anything to do with the dead animals, but Sam was clearly suspicious of him.

A few cottages away, a dog barked. Other dogs in other homes took up the chorus, and one raced outside through a pet door. Without the insulating walls, its bays echoed across the village, probably audible all the way to Port Angeles. A howl, something primeval and wild, sounded in the distance. It sent a shiver down Tara’s spine. Malcolm’s wolf? The cry came from the direction of his property, not the grove. That didn’t mean anything though. He could have left the animal at home and gone off to snoop.

Tara squinted into the dark trees, figuring the intruder would run away at the cacophony of noises. She listened intently, trying to pick out more footfalls. The barking—along with several people shushing their dogs—made it hard to detect softer sounds. She abandoned her chair and groped her way through the dark room to the door. She unlocked it and slipped outside. She didn’t go far. She just wanted to see and hear better.

Crunches sounded, not from the grove this time but closer. From behind her cottage.

Hand on the knob, Tara told herself to get back inside and to lock the door. But the crunches sounded like the footfalls of someone running. She eased across the small porch to the railing.

A dark figure sprinted out from behind her house. Its back was toward her, and even if there were some light about, she wouldn’t have had a chance to see the person’s face. All she could tell was that he or she—no, he was too tall to be a woman—was broad of shoulder and could run fast. He disappeared into the community orchard and the tall grasses beyond it. The dogs continued to bark despite their owners’ admonitions. A couple of porch lights went on.

A car started up somewhere down that long pothole-filled road. Someone stepped out onto a porch a few houses down. He, or she, peered toward the driveway, but the foliage and the distance obscured the taillights or any other telltale signs. The sound of the engine soon faded into the distance. Whoever had been here had gotten away.

Tara wished she had done more than simply observe.