I glance around. “Looking for a poacher.”
“Oh.” It comes out quiet, deflated.
“But I’m heading your way right now.” I start my truck and execute a four point U-turn on the narrow road. I’m still getting to know this area but I remember South Fork Road. It’s northwest from here, closer to town.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Because they harvest timber up here, even in the winter, the gravel roads are in decent shape, but they’re twisty with steep drop offs. Not that it keeps me from putting the pedal down.
All week I’ve been hoping for a chance to see her again. Rowdy’s kept us away from the office, which under normal circumstances would suit me just fine. And we’ve been busy. After apprehending the shed hunters harassing the Lost River herd on Wednesday, we had to give formal statements to Canyon County’s Assistant D.A. about recovering Samantha Bowen’s body from Cascade Lake. Yesterday, we checked fishing licenses on the Clearwater. Today would have been the day to bump into Linnea thanks to the all-agency meeting about the winter feeding program, but Rowdy said both of us attending was a waste of manpower, so he sent me to Copper Mountain to chase this Bald Eagle poacher instead.
Or was it a ruse to keep me away from his daughter?
Linnea still hasn’t called me, but she also hasn’t turned down the date Bear and Maryanne are trying to plan for the four of us tomorrow night. I’m about ready to storm into her office if I have to, demand she give us a shot.
Once I’m on South Fork, I break the 45MPH speed limit on the plowed road, my hands gripping the wheel.
Linnea is a biologist. Why is she out here with an injured animal alone? The call should have gone to Rowdy, and if he didn’t pick up, it would reroute to the sheriff.
I spot a red Tahoe with a dented brush guard pulled to the side of the road. Behind it is a silver Ford pickup with the IDFW crest on thedoor and a light bar on the top—Linnea. No sheriff’s deputy rig. What the hell’s keeping them?
As I pull to the shoulder, I spot the injured animal in the shallow depression between the road and the forest. She’s completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of her side as she breathes. From my height in the truck, it’s easy to assess her shattered hind leg and the pulpy gash on her flank—and what needs to be done. After cutting my engine, I step down to the shoulder, my boots crunching on the compact snow.
Across the road, Linnea climbs out of her pickup, her expression so tense with anguish that my throat aches, like someone’s squeezing the breath out of me. Our eyes lock, and she rubs her lips together. She’s dressed for the office like when I saw her Monday, her long hair falling in silky waves down her back, and her heavy work parka zipped up to her chin.
The driver of the Tahoe starts his engine and rolls down his window, calling out a thanks while pulling onto the road.
I scowl at the wave he flashes me, his engine’s throaty rumble fading as he accelerates. What a fucking coward.
“Did you tell him he could leave?” I call out to Linnea.
She shakes her head. “I have his information though.”
“You can take off too. It’s okay.”
Her chin lifts. “I’ll stay.”
Something is off about her reaction, but maybe there will be time to figure it out later.
“Okay.” I draw my Glock and cover the distance to the injured doe. It’s quick and immediate, the gunshot cold and loud in my ears. The doe goes still, and I exhale a full breath. There’s a tiny comfort in knowing I’ve put an end to her suffering. Suffering she didn’t deserve. It’s the first time I’ve fired my weapon on the job, and I know the memory will stick for a long time. Maybe forever.
After securing my weapon, I check both ways and cross the road.There’s paperwork to fill out and other steps to complete, but those can wait.
Linnea’s wearing silver earrings in the shape of raindrops that sway in the steady breeze. Or maybe she’s swaying. Her face is pale and her eyes could be ice cut straight from a glacier. “Thanks for getting here so fast.”
“Sorry you even had to be here.” I glance down the straightaway. Where is the sheriff? Rowdy’s comment from that night on the lake rings in my mind. There’s lazy, and there’s negligent. I’d say the sheriff blowing off this call qualifies as negligent.
She reaches up to swipe the edge of her cheek. “I needed to stay.”
I step in closer and catch her gaze. “Hey, you’re not okay, are you?”
Her bottom lip trembles. “Should I be?”
That she’s admitting this to me softens the knot of tension I’ve been carrying inside my chest all day. “Sorry. Stupid question.”
At least this gets me a flicker of a smile, but it’s gone just as fast. “I’m tough.”