The setting is stunning. Broad views of mountain peaks stand majestic in the distance, with endless sky over the treetops that falls away down the hillside, but that's not what initially captures my attention. It's that the front yard is completely torn up, and two trucks are parked askew, with a motorbike ditched on its side near the treeline.
I park my car and climb out slowly, walking around to examine the state of the ground out front.
Massive paw prints are gouged deep into the mud, going in every which way, and I blink hard, my mind scarcely believing what I'm seeing. Is that a wolf print, right next to a bear's?
What the hell is this place?
I crouch and stare down at some reddish-brown streaks in the wet mud, and tufts of fur that are scattered across the yard. The trees closest to me have deep gouges in them, high up, so high, I can't actually fathom the size of the beast that carved them into the bark.
My brain immediately conjures an image of the giant bear on the roadside. He could probably reach that high on his hind legs.Rather than being pleased to have an answer, the thought of any creature being that big, or that close to an inhabited property, scares me.
Walking back toward the house, there are bloodier pawprints on the ground, tracking toward the cabin where the porch railing has been smashed clean through, and splintered wood is scattered across the steps. Dark stains are splashed across the decking and soaked into the dirt.
Even on the door, there are smears of blood. A lot of it.
Suddenly grateful for the heft of my gun in my holster, I march up the porch steps, past the blood and splintered railing, and push through the front door without knocking.
The warmth of a wood fire hits me first, then the welcoming smell of coffee. Next is the sight of four Lennox men arranged around a small open plan kitchen diner and living area.
All huge, with dark hair, broad shoulders, and at least a head taller than me, their presence seems to occupy the entire space. It's like a lumberjack convention and a modelling agency mated and threw up in the living room.
And Beau is one of them.
He's leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug in his hand, arms folded, looking like he's been there all morning waiting for me to walk through that door. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't move. Just lifts his eyes to mine over the rim of the mug, and the look hits me low in the stomach in a way I am absolutely not prepared for.
The closest brother rises from his chair that's facing the fireplace, not appearing one bit surprised by my arrival. His thick arms are covered in deep scratches, and he has a nasty gash across his temple that's held together with badly applied butterfly strips.
He approaches and holds out a hand for me to shake. Ben, I assume. The reclusive brother.
"Detective," Beau says, staring at me as I greet his brother, whose strong fingers wrap around my hand, dwarfing it entirely. The other two Lennoxes nod their heads politely, making to stand, but I wave them back into their seats. There's no need for formalities.
"I just need to see Zara," I announce to nobody in particular before returning my gaze to Ben, who's still holding my hand in his firm grip.
Beau frowns at my formal tone, but his brothers seem less offended by my lack of small talk.
"Zara's just having a bath," Ben says, his tone softening when he says her name. "Didn't sleep well last night."
One of the brothers struggles to hide the smirk curling the corners of his lips. "And whose fault is that?"
The sight of two pink dots forming on Ben's cheeks is nothing less than adorable, that is, until he releases my hand and thumps his brother in the back of the shoulder. With a pained yelp, that Lennox brother gets to his feet and switches to another chair further from reach, rubbing the spot and wincing.
"What the hell happened here?" I ask Beau, gesturing toward the window and the carnage outside while looking pointedly at Ben's shredded arms. It looks like he went ten rounds with a chainsaw. "I thought you said she was safe here, but there's blood all over the porch and wild animal tracks cutting every damn direction through your yard."
They all stare at me, every last one of them looking like a kid caught in a lie.
"Just an injured squirrel," Beau says smoothly, pointing at the dog. "Jerry brought it back to the cabin. Messy business."
The large husky sprawled in a patch of sun by the door lifts his head lazily, one eye open, then goes back to sleep, neither confirming nor denying Beau's story.
"A squirrel." There's no disguising my disbelief. "You're saying that a squirrel left all that blood outside. What about the paw prints? And those claw marks on your front door, which are wider than my hand. That was a squirrel too?"
After a beat of hesitation, they all nod, eerily similar brown eyes moving in unison.
Great, so all Lennoxes are liars. At least they're bad ones.
"Sure it was," I drawl sarcastically, keeping my eyes firmly on Beau, who's suddenly fascinated by the contents of his mug.
My grandmother's voice drifts through my head again, unbidden. She used to tell me everyone in Black River had a little bit of mountain man, of mystical bear spirit, way back in their family tree, diluted through the generations until it was barely a whisper.