Page 31 of Burning Escape (Chasing Fire: Alaska #3)

The woman wore a blue jacket, hiking boots, and lay still, curled in a ball next to the wolf.

But his heart nearly stopped when she lifted her head. Sat up, staring hard at him.

Pretty. Brown hair, long and in a braid, wide hazel-green eyes, long lashes, a sweetheart face, and it hit him that he’d maybe seen her before.

Maybe around Copper Mountain, one of the many tourists.

He braked.

She lifted a gun.

What? He raised his arms. “Don’t shoot.”

Her grip shook, and tears glazed her eyes. Had she been crying? “Stay back!”

He eased off the four-wheeler. “Calm down?—”

“Calm down? Did you shoot Brutus?”

Who? “Are you hurt?”

She stared at him, her hand still shaking, wiped the other hand across her cheek.

“So maybe put the gun down.” He took a step toward her.

“Stay. Back!”

He stopped. Glanced at the mound of fur at her feet. “Listen. I’m sorry about the wolf. I thought he was going to attack you.”

She drew in a breath, glanced at the wolf, nodded. “I don’t know—he was acting…it’s not normal.”

Not—“What, you two have a long-standing friendship?”

Oops. He’d been kidding, but her gaze snapped up to his.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’ve been studying Brutus and his mate, Cleo, for the past month, watching their cubs, documenting their behavior. And yeah, Brutus has seen me before, but he’s never attacked me.” Her gun had lowered, her voice breaking. “Something was wrong.”

His gaze stayed on the gun. “What kind of wrong?”

“He seemed unhinged, unafraid of me.”

“Was he protecting his young?”

She had crouched beside the wolf, lifting his eyelids. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

He took another step toward her, the ground crunching beneath his hiking boot.

She looked up. “Stay.”

He raised his hands again. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her eyes narrowed and then glanced at the four-wheeler behind him, and something flashed in her eyes. Fear?

It occurred to him then how he looked—camo jacket, filthy hat over his dark hair, scruffy beard, canvas pants, a .308 Winchester strapped to his machine. The unofficial uniform of a Son of Revolution, and wasn’t that nice?

Whatever respite he’d found on top of the hill, away from the darkness, settled right back into his soul, a deep ash that stained everything.

His voice softened. “I was just out checking traps.”

Her mouth tightened. “And now I know you’re lying, because there is no trapping season open in Alaska right now.”

Oh.

Shoot.

He sighed, ran a hand across his chin. “Fine. I’m not out trapping. But I promise I mean you no harm.”

“You shot at me!”

“I shot at the wolf. Trying to kill you .”

She considered him a moment, then shoved her Magnum into her shoulder holster. “Fine. Prove it. Help me get Brutus on your four-wheeler and back to my truck.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

She’d started hiking toward the cliff, up the hill from where she’d fallen. “I need to get him to Copper Mountain so we can do an autopsy.”

“I think I know how he died.” He looked at the wolf. His shot had landed in his body—rib cage—left a bloody through-and-through. Blood caked his fur, puddled the ground, and an odor lifted. Gross.

“Don’t be a jerk,” she said, now from atop the cliff. She held a backpack. “Listen—okay, yes, he was…”

“Attacking you?”

“Acting deranged. Maybe rabies, so yes, thank you.” She turned and headed back down the hill.

He crouched. The animal had blood in its teeth, foam at its lips. A feral odor lifted from its body.

Her boots crunched up to him. “Do you have a tarp or anything?”

He stood up. She wasn’t tall—maybe five inches shorter than him—but she owned a presence about her that suggested she fancied herself in charge. Blood prickled along a scrape on her jaw. “You sure you’re okay? That’s not a short fall.” He indicated the cliff. “Maybe you need to get checked out.”

“I’ve had harder falls, believe me. Tarp?”

His eyes narrowed a moment, then he headed over to the four-wheeler and opened up the seat. Wire, ammo, knife, the radio to the compound—turned off—a fire-starting kit, a rope, and there, grimy and wadded on the bottom, an orange rain poncho. He pulled it out. Shook it open. “This could work.”

“Thanks, MacGyver.” She took it. “Help me roll this guy into it.”

“Tell me again why we’re bringing this show-and-tell to Copper Mountain?”

She’d crouched and spread the poncho out on the ground beside the wolf. He helped her and then took the animal’s front legs as she took the back, and they rolled it onto the plastic.

“There’s some rope too.” He went to retrieve the rope and knife.

“I think he might have ingested something—a hallucinogenic or maybe eaten some poison.” She wrapped the animal in the poncho, held the poncho shut as he secured it with the rope, making a sort of bundle.

Her words were a punch. Hallucinogenic? Oh no…He stared at the wolf, the darkness seeping into his bones, his breath. And then her other word hit him. Ingested. “As in he ate something?”

“Maybe. Take that end. Let’s lift him.”

He grabbed the animal and helped her lift him onto the back of the four-wheeler. Secured him with a couple bungie ropes, the math of her words freezing him through.

The food supply.

Oh no. But it made sense?—

She’d stepped away from the four-wheeler, pulled out a monocular, and now scanned the riverbed.

“What are you looking for?”

“The pups. And his alpha female, Cleo.” She sighed, turned. “You haven’t seen anything…like dead salmon in the river, have you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

And the answer, of course, was yes. Oh no, yes.

He wanted to hit something.

“Just…nothing.” She frowned. Eyed his four-wheeler again, then looked at him, her jaw tight. And he didn’t know why, but he had the strangest urge to raise his hands again.

Silence thrummed between them, backdropped by the river rushing by, the hush lifting into the breeze.

“Who are you again?” she asked.

And for a second, he was back on the cliff, twenty minutes before he’d taken the shot, waiting for Rio to text him.

Staring at the blue sky, the clouds congregating at the peak of the Denali massif.

Surveying the vast green of the aspen and Sitka spruce, the craggy gray of the jutting mountains, the wildflower beauty of the valley.

Even smelling the crisp, boreal-scented wind and hearing his own voice.

Lord, I need light. I need hope. I need answers.

I need out.

And maybe that’s why he looked at her, took a breath, and said the first true thing he’d said in over a year. “My name is Michael Crew Sterling. And I promise you, I’m one of the good guys.” He stuck out his hand. “You can call me Crew.”

She considered him a moment. A long, fragile moment where his hand sort of hung in the wind.

Then she sighed and took it. “I’m going to choose to trust you, Crew. Joann Butcher. My friends call me JoJo.”

“Are we friends, then?”

Her mouth pinched. “As long as you don’t try and kill me.”

His mouth quirked. “Not real high standards, then. I think I have a real chance here.”

She frowned, and then just like that, laughed. It emerged light and sweet and maybe a little short, but with it, light simply poured into his soul, swept out his breath.

He stared at her, nearly clutched his chest.

Yes, he wanted out, and now.

“Let’s get going so I can get back and figure out if his pups are in trouble.”

Oh.

He climbed onto the four-wheeler. Moved his foot so she could climb up behind him, her legs around his, her body against his back.

“Hang on,” he said. “It’s bumpy.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, and gripped the side handles on the seat.

And as he pulled out across the bumpy terrain, all he could think was…I hope not.