By Carole Brown
Blurb:
The big cat sat on the oversized rock, ears pointed toward the sky, every muscle taut, every sense at the ready.
“S-s-shut up and f-f-forget it. You've s-seen nothing and know nothing. I won't warn you again. G-g-got it?”
The cat's head swiveled, his ears twitching as if catching the hint of threat in the whisper. A soft hiss slid from his open mouth and reinforced the overtone of evil pressing in upon the scene. Within hours, lies and dark secrets are slithering all over the campground.
Coaxed into finding the animal killer at Jamieson's Outfitters, Tara Layne, with her sidekick, Boet, is welcomed by a threatening whisper and the unfriendly eyes of a rugged and devastatingly handsome manager. Wesley Clarke, both interesting and frustrating, holds an attraction for Tara that is both primitive and exasperating.
Intermingled with her search, Tara deals with her own heartbreaking buried secrets. When a strange old Native American probes into the recesses of her heart, he encourages her to face her bitter feelings.
As Tara closes in on her search, she finds herself—and Boet—the target of someone who's determined to outrun and outsmart her. Someone determined not to get caught.
Fun as fast as you can, you can't catch me.
Can Tara run fast enough to catch this real live Gingerbread boy
before he decides to get rid of her and Boet?
As he finished, his attention zeroed in on Tara. In slow motion, he popped whatever he’d been fiddling with, into his mouth. An instant later, he excused himself. His strides were purposeful as he headed toward her.
Tara’s pulse quickened in unexpected excitement. An aura of the primitive, wild and dangerous, surrounded him, and Tara felt her spirit leap in answer. She sucked in her breath. Her throat closed.
Stark dislike radiated from dark blue eyes that were the best feature on his craggy face. Why would she evoke that kind of emotion from someone she’d never seen before? The shock sent her nerves quivering in response.
The need to control the situation, to halt whatever he would say, nudged her subconscious. Tara thrust out her hand in a blind rush. “I’m Tara Layne. Brian sent me.”
The man never so much as flicked a glance at her extended hand. His gaze remained on her eyes.
This is what a butterfly pinned to a collector’s board feels like. Tara visualized the man as a scientist with thick glasses, bent over his vast specimens, wild white hair on end. She shifted, a nervous ripple of laughter coursing through her veins.
“I know who you are. Just want you to know from the beginning I’m against your being here. It’s a waste of money.”
The man topped her by at least six or eight inches. He hadn’t looked this tall standing across the yard.
She frowned and tilted her head. She hated the disadvantage of looking up at an opponent. Her grandfather had always told her the best action was knowing you were right before proceeding. She raised her chin a trifle more. “You think you can solve these incidents on your own?”
“If we can’t, the agent can.”
Tara narrowed her eyes. Why did she get the feeling he was being deliberately perverse? “But Brian…”
“Brian never accepts advice. When a pretty girl is involved, he’s blind as a mole.”
“That’s too bad, Mr…?” Tara swallowed the retort she wanted to make.
“Wesley Clarke, manager.”
“You’ve had six weeks to discover who’s behind these ghastly killings, and yet you know nothing. I assume Brian must have wanted someone with a little more experience in detecting to help him out here.”
Rattlebones. What a pompous speech. But then, perverse people had that effect on her British ancestry. Tara bit the inside of her jaw.
“Done any cases like this? The wilderness is not always a friendly place.” His eyes narrowed. He folded his arms across his chest.
“I can handle it.” Tara hoped her color didn’t betray her. There was no way she would confess her earlier panic to this stern know-it-all. “Is my cabin ready?”
His only answer was a quick nod.
“I’d like to see where the bear was killed and the other scenes where the killings occurred.”
“You won’t find much where the swan was found, or the antelope. It’s been too long. As far as the bear…” He shrugged. “It’s a big animal. Sometimes other animals leave them alone; some times not.”
“I understand. But I like to walk around the area where a killing took place.” He didn’t need to know about her acute sense at the scenes of death. Or about Boet’s instincts. “Can you escort me, or do you want someone else to?”
“I’ll do it. Give me an hour.”
“Fine.” Tara turned away and then swung back. “Oh, and over the next few days, I’ll want to talk with all your employees and volunteers. Can you arrange that?”
Wesley paused, the hesitation and desire to refuse, blatant in his eyes and manner. Then, with notable reluctance, he gave a gruff nod.
“Brian said he had two guides.” Tara flicked a glance back at Wesley. He stared around the office grounds, fingers combing his sun-streaked hair. Her gaze lingered on that windtossed hair…She jerked her eyes away and forced her thoughts back to the case. Everything looked normal. Everyone looked busy. Was this man, this tough, good-looking manager, the killer? Was he the one whispering threats?
“Philip Jordon.” He nodded at Blond Giant. “He’s a senior at our local Montana University branch. Studies business and forestry. Jill Longhorn’s not formally trained but well experienced. Knowledgeable of the area. Grew up here.”
Tara nodded and started again for the office building.
“I did my homework, you know. You’ve never handled a case in the high country before.” The words followed her and nipped at her heels. She was getting a little tired of being reminded of her inexperience. “You’ll only be a complication.”
The overpowering sense of danger hovered again, a cloying presence. Tara turned to face him. His unflinching eyes challenged her, daring her to reply, but what could she say to make him accept her?
Nothing. He wasn’t about to change his mind right now. Maybe never. So be it. She would tread easy for now. After all, she had no personal antagonism against him. Tara softened her voice. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m here just the same. I’ll be glad for your help if you’ll give it.”
Wesley scowled, but said nothing.
She moved on. Familiar prickles rose on the back of her neck, but she refused to rub at them. Someone stared at her. Was it Wesley watching her walk to the office? Tara climbed the steps, gripped the doorknob, but stood there, resisting the temptation to turn around. If it was Wesley, she didn’t want him to know she suspected he was watching. So forget him. Forget his dislike of my presence here. Forget
Wesley Clarke and his reason for studying her. Just open the door and walk in. Remember Lot’s wife.
With the slowness of a land turtle, Tara glanced over her shoulder. The shivers escalated their climb up her spine. A nervous smile widened her mouth. Wesley stood where she’d left him, a perfect specimen of a casual western guide. Only he wasn’t emitting friendly and inviting vibes. Those unwelcoming eyes, hard and calculating, grilled her again.
Besides being a member and active participant of many writing groups, Carole Brown enjoys mentoring beginning writers. An author of thirteen, best selling, award-winniing books, she loves to weave suspense and tough topics into her books, along with a touch of romance and whimsy, and is always on the lookout for outstanding titles and catchy ideas. She and her husband reside in SE Ohio but have ministered and counseled nationally and internationally. She has found that the traveling and ministering has served her well in writing her novels. Together, they enjoy their grandsons, traveling, gardening, good food, the simple life, and did she mention their grandsons?
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