Morning brought brilliant sunshine, dappled by gently tossing trees, and air that held amazing clarity from the night’s light rain. The only sign of the passing wetness was the faint, gray fog beneath the trees, a fog that slowly swallowed the stockade. Above it shone a sky like a blue dome, so bright that it almost hurt to look at it.
While Krystal often skipped breakfast in the lodge so she could sit at her computer and try to work, this morning she decided to follow the path through the woods. To her left the creek ran more quickly and loudly than usual, the gorge filled with the night’s gift of water. The steep sides contained it safely, though.
As fresh as the air were the forest scents filling it. Krystal drew deep breath after deep breath, savoring it. Rarely did the world seem as perfect as this. Mother Nature’s great gift.
But this morning she was also a bit preoccupied, primarily because she wanted to get a sense of how last night’s mood might have shifted. Had uneasiness grown? Or had matters quieted down? What she didn’t want to do was sit alone at her computer wondering, speculating and creating bad stories of her own.
At least the lodge would offer some distraction. She hoped. There had been disagreements in the past that had temporarily divided residents, but nothing like this. Overall, the retreat was exactly that: a retreat. People preferred the quiet. Nature. Their privacy in their cabins. When they wanted human company, they arranged it in their own cabins or in the lodge.
One of the other rules at this place was that you didn’t go knocking on anyone’s door without an invitation. Peace undisturbed. That’s why people chose to come here.
But that didn’t mean this morning wouldn’t be interesting. Not at all. Some minds would be too fired up by yesterday to think about much else.
Krystal smiled wryly. She seemed to have a case of that herself.
Tucked in a heavy-weight blue flannel shirt and jeans with hiking boots, she felt ready for the day. Well, except for her writing. She wondered when she’d ever get around to calling it writer’s block. Calling it that seemed so much more important than she could claim.
Maybe her problem was that she didn’t feel enough like a writer to call it a block. Laziness, lack of concentration, but nothing as important as a block.
Then her irrepressible sense of humor took over. What did it matter what she called it? Writing a novel was her pipe dream. Helping her mother with the retreat was her job. Big difference.
She was smiling as she entered the lodge, but paused on the threshold, surprised by the emptiness of the space. While it was true many of their residents liked to stay in their cabins making coffee and quick breakfasts of their own, there were usually more people here, reading the news on their laptops or tablets. Some making notes of ideas.
This morning there were only four, Mary Collins of the romance writer school, Lars the sculptor, who claimed to have no second name, and Davis Daniels, the graphic artist.
And one more woman, a quiet academic sort who said she was working on her dissertation. Giselle Bibe, that was her name. Preferred to be called Gizzie. Gizzie or Giselle or whatever, with her mousy, lank hair and big dark-rimmed glasses, could have melted into any wall and drawn no attention. Maybe that worked best for the world of academia. Regardless, the single time Krystal had managed to have a conversation with her, she’d proved to have a bright, flexible mind. Even an occasional touch of impish humor.
Krystal hoped they’d have a better chance to grow acquainted, but Gizzie seemed almost entirely buried in her work.
Joan stood propped and sleepy-looking behind the beverage bar as if she were keeping an eye on the coffeepots. Two other employees, both women, hovered around, walking in and out of the kitchen as if waiting for something, anything, to do.
“So, what’s up?” Krystal asked Joan.
“Boredom. This place is entirely too empty even for breakfast.”
Krystal nodded and pulled a stool over to sit beside her mom. “You look exhausted.”
“As if I could sleep last night, thanks to that uproar.”
“Mason wasn’t any help.”
Joan snorted. “Mason is a walking, talking ad for how a normal mind shouldn’t work.”
Krystal laughed with delight. “Good description.”
“I spent most of the night thinking about all of it.” Turning a bit, she filled two mugs with coffee and passed one to Krystal. “That dog is really disturbing me, Krys. We’ve had neighbors take the occasional potshot at one another, but since we, and the Forest Service, got rid of trapping nearly fifty years ago, animals go unharmed around here.”
Krystal answered wryly, “So it’d be better if two guys shot at each other over water rights? Grazing rights?”
Joan frowned. “You know exactly what I mean, Krys. This was pointless cruelty. Everyone knows Harris Belcher’s sled dogs around here. Never a lick of trouble, unless you want to count that racket those dogs call singing, but Harris is far enough out of town...”
“That it’s no big deal,” Krystal finished.
Joan shook her head. “You know all this. It’s just my mind’s been running in circles, mainly about that poor dog.”
“And about it being left outside Healey’s stockade,” Krystal reminded her.
Joan nodded and sipped her coffee, adding a dab more cream to it. “That bothers me, too. Except no one knows a damn thing about any of them inside that stockade.”
Krystal sighed and stared at her cup of coffee. Her stomach burned with acid, probably from talking about the dog. Instead, she reached around and grabbed a cruller wrapped in a napkin, hoping it would help. “How many people in our retreat run around announcing their bios to the world? So those soldiers are private. It’s their right.”
Joan shot her a glance. “Don’t tell me you aren’t curious. When did you stop wondering? I’ve heard you.”
For once, Krystal didn’t mind changing tack. Pulling a mental U-turn, although she couldn’t have said why. “Curiosity is natural. Beyond that it gets sick.”
Joan bridled. “Sick?”
“Yeah, Mom. As in rumormongering. As in creating a horror story in here last night, all of it aimed against a group who have done not one bad thing around here.” The cruller at least tasted good. She wiped crumbs from her chin.
Joan chewed her lip, then laughed quietly, without any real humor. “You’re right, but wasn’t it fun?”
Krystal’s answer was sour. “Count on Mason Cambridge to start weaving a story that could result in a dangerous mob.”
Joan shook her head. “He couldn’t do that. Not with all these nice people.”
“I have a slightly more jaundiced view of the human race.” Which was hardly surprising since she hadn’t spent her entire life in these parts and even had a broken heart to show for it. No, she’d gone off to college, a real eye-opener. “Anyway, I’ll ask you again. Why do we keep letting that blowhard come here? For him it’s just a giant ego stroke to get all those women hanging on his every word.”
“Publicity for us.”
“Yeah, right. Then people leave here and say bad things about him and by extension about us.”
Joan shook her head. “What got into you this morning?”
The same thing that had kept her mother up during the night. The thought of a dog being brutally attacked. The thought of the poor, suffering thing being left outside the stockade where it might well have died in agony before being found. Left like a message, like a piece of trash.
Which led her to the question: Why? Who out there would have it in that much for Josh Healey’s group?
Bright sunlight notwithstanding, Krystal felt a shiver of apprehension.
Then, turning her back to her mother, she reached for the landline and called the Conard County Sheriff’s Office. Harris Belcher might think it was a waste of time, but Krystal refused to ignore what had happened to that dog.
Someone in this community needed to be scared into behaving or else discover the risk of a jail cell.
If there was one thing Krystal knew about most people in Cash Creek Canyon, they valued the life of any working animal.
So who were the rest?
IN THE STOCKADE, the morning group therapy ended, followed by a breakfast of homemade bread, orange juice and fried eggs. Everything was prepared by the residents except the juice.
Then everyone, man and woman, scattered around to follow their own pursuits. Some were fond of making furniture. Cleary Howe worked on the plumbing endlessly, slowly bringing hot water to every room in the original house and the scattered outdoor facilities.
Janice Howe, Cleary’s wife, took over the garden, sometimes giving orders about hoeing and weeding and fertilizing to anyone who appeared to be just standing around. Around Janice, few stood around.
Elaine Ingall ran a kitchen where they were beginning to put up preserves from the fruit Josh and Angus, Josh’s right-hand man, brought back from town by the truckload.
Some of the preserves would probably sell at the county fair. Some of the wooden furniture that was beginning to fill the house would also face the same future.
There wasn’t a soul in the compound who didn’t take pride in helping the group to be self-supporting. Useful, whatever their other limitations.
But they still suffered from nightmares that tore the night wide open. There were still bouts of loss of self-control, not always caused by anything anyone else could know. There were nights, and some days, when all that would help was staying close, offering comfort, letting the man or woman ride out the horror that memory spewed. On those days a lot of labor stopped as other vets got triggered or hung on to sanity for dear life.
Yet through it all, Josh saw improvement. Maybe only in small increments, but improvement just the same.
The incident with the dog hadn’t helped anyone. Josh should have found it on his night patrol, but instead Marvin Damm had snuck out for some reason. Residents were supposed to stay inside at night because the night often brought out their biggest fears, their worst memories. Josh believed it best that none of them was left alone in the dark hours unless they chose the isolation themselves.
But Marvin had gone out and almost stepped onto the shivering, wounded animal that lay right outside the small door.
God! Now Marvin was half a wreck, and nobody in the compound was doing all that well. They all had memories from the military of animals that had been badly injured. Some had been able to endure the general command order to leave the animals be. Others had not. Pet dogs had wound up being concealed in barracks by men and women who found comfort and pleasure in them.
Now they faced an ugly, familiar situation beyond walls that were supposed to keep them safe while they dealt with their demons. A dog had been shot in the hip.
Wonderful.
Finally, overwhelmed by a need to do something simply because he wasn’t by nature able to ignore much, Josh loaded himself into the massive Humvee that usually could get them over the worst roads in the worst conditions and set out for the sled dog operation. He wanted to see for himself how that husky was doing. He hoped to be able to carry back some good news to his group.
The road was decent, once he got past the narrow gravel stretch that led to the stockade. Twenty years of abandonment meant the county hadn’t spent a dime on road maintenance. At least he’d been able to pay the power company to hook them up again.
As for the road, once he turned out of his property, he found buckled blacktop that had seen better years.
He knew his way to the sled dog operation run by Harris Belcher and his few mushers. The kennels were rarely quiet, and as Harris had explained when Josh had brought Reject to him yesterday, huskies were talkers. Seldom quiet, holding conversations of their own.
Quite different from the quiet Josh had grown accustomed to in his stockade.
Harris Belcher greeted him warmly enough. “Bet you’re here to check on Reject. He’s actually doing pretty good, but he just became a house dog.”
Josh arched a brow. “House dog?”
“His cast.” Harris nodded. “Can’t be out getting it wet. But to tell you the truth, I think he’s enjoying life in front of a warm fire on a soft rug. Spoiled forever now, probably. Jenine, my secretary, isn’t helping much.”
Josh smiled, as he rarely did. “You sure he won’t want to get back on the trail?”
“Hah!” Harris said. “Damn dog is named Reject for a reason. Never been too cooperative in harness. When he was little more than a pup, I thought he was going to make a great lead. Then he changed his mind and wouldn’t change it back. Sometimes I wonder if he just hates having all those other dogs behind him.”
Josh’s smile widened. “I can identify with that.”
Harris eyed him up and down. “Reckon you can.”
Just then they both heard the grinding of an engine and the crunch of wheels outside.
“Can’t be the vet,” Harris remarked. “No need.” Then he pulled a ragged curtain back. “Krystal Metcalfe, of all folks. Guess Reject has his own fan club.”
“After last night,” Josh agreed. But he stiffened anyway, wondering why Krystal should be here when she could have just made a phone call. Most phones did work out here.
She slipped a bit on damp pine needles as she approached. Harris threw the door open.
“Girl, what you doing here? You coulda called, which I’m pretty sure Joan would have preferred. Reject’s doing pretty good.”
Krystal unzipped her jacket, revealing a blue flannel shirt, and looked at both men. “Thought I should give you a personal heads-up. I called the sheriff about Reject and he’s going to want to talk with both of you.” She eyed Josh. “Good thing you’re here because I couldn’t get a word out of your compound. Wouldn’t want the sheriff banging on the door there, would you?”
No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t need his people getting unnerved by a noisy—and it would be noisy—bunch of deputies banging at the gate. But before he could speak his objection, Harris beat him to the punch.
“If I’d wanted the sheriff I would have called him, Krystal. Like I said last night, they aren’t going to be able to do a damn thing. One dog. A dozen or more residents out here with guns. How much time and effort do you think they’re going to spend? Waste of resources.”
Krystal’s chin set stubbornly. “Never. Maybe making a point that this is illegal will make someone else give it a second thought before using another one of your dogs for target practice.”
Just then, Reject hobbled out the door of Harris’s cabin and pressed himself to Krystal’s leg. She bent and scratched him behind the ears.
After a noticeable pause, Harris said, “Looks like you two have just been invited to coffee.”
Josh felt more awkward than he liked to admit. It had been a while since he’d been a guest in someone’s house, an ordinary house occupied by ordinary people. He should have turned and left, making some lousy excuse, but a remnant of courtesy held him back.
Like it or not, he was soon sitting at a handcrafted wooden table with two other people, total strangers, and a coffee mug in front of him. Along with a plate of small pastries that looked as if they’d been around for a while. He helped himself anyway. Grub of any kind was always welcome.
Krystal addressed the issue first. “I still can’t believe anyone would treat a dog that way. You say someone must have removed him from the kennel?”
“Yup.”
Reject took that moment to curl as best he could around Krystal’s feet. Ignoring her coffee and the dubious pastries, she bent and began to pet him. “Poor baby. Are you going to be okay?”
Harris’s face darkened. “Lame. He’s going to be lame. But nobody could have hurt him like that unless they managed to pull him out of his run. Damn dog could have leaped any one of those fences like lightning. Danged if I can figure how anybody managed to catch him.”
Continuing to pet Reject, Krystal raised her head enough to eye Harris. “Then how do you keep these dogs from scattering all over hell and gone?”
Harris sighed and raised one shoulder. “Huskies are interesting dogs, Krys. They listen as much as they choose. They like sledding, they like the communal nature of the big yard and the runs. If they didn’t like it, they’d be gone. But another thing.”
Krystal nodded. “Yes?”
“They get attached just like we get attached to them. Can’t keep any husky that wants to run, but a lot of them choose to stay. You’d have to ask them the difference.”
“Loyalty,” Krystal suggested.
“I sometimes wonder. I ever tell you about one of my mushers?”
“Which one?”
Now Harris grinned and shook his head at the same time. “Aaron he was. One of the best. He was training his team and some backups for the Iditarod. Anyway, every single day he’d take them out for a good run with a loaded sled. Tires instead of runners unless there was snow.”
“And?” Josh asked.
“Well, now, that got interesting. His team went absolutely nuts somewhere along the trail. You got to understand something about these dogs. They behave until they sense trouble. Saved more than one musher from serious harm by refusing to go over a river that wasn’t frozen enough or down a gully that was steep enough to break a neck. They won’t go into trouble and won’t take their musher into it even when ordered. Smart buggers.”
Krystal found herself waiting almost breathlessly. “What happened?”
“Aaron’s team came running back here, hell-for-leather, harnesses snapped or jerked out of. Every single dog except one.”
“That’s a problem,” Josh remarked. “Always trouble when a team comes back missing a dog.”
Harris nodded. “You got it. So we gathered another team, well rested, and took them out to follow Aaron’s trail. They’d find him, for sure.”
Harris slugged more coffee. “They found him, all right. Went nuts. We managed to keep them on harness, but they kept yanking to go back home. We knew damn well something had happened there. Finally, handling the team and trying to hunt for Aaron was too much. We let them run home and started bellowing into the woods.”
Krystal was now on the edge of her seat. “Aaron? What happened with Aaron?”
“Maybe I should tell you that bears and huskies are sworn enemies. A husky will take off like greased lightning from a bear, and bears hate the dogs just as much. Wanna kill ’em.”
Harris shook his head. “Long story short. We heard Aaron call out and found the damnedest thing. He was most the way up a tree, bleeding from a swipe at his hip, and his lead dog was at the foot of the tree, snarling and barking at a damn bear. Don’t ask me how that dog survived, or why the bear kept backing off. Six hours of that, Aaron said. Anyway, we made a lot of gunfire to scare the bear off and get Aaron down. He was okay but he was done with sledding.”
Josh leaned forward. “Wasn’t that unusual behavior for the bear?”
“Yeah. Unusual for the dog, too. Loyalty. Anyway, Cannon, the dog’s name, died a couple of years later. Got a hero’s funeral here. Not many like him.”
Krystal looked down at the dog now sleeping at her feet. “What happens to Reject now, if he’s lame?”
“Somebody’s house pet, if he doesn’t skedaddle on them.”
Krystal hesitated only a moment. “Do you think he’d come with me?”
“Do you think those fool clients of yours would tolerate him?”
Krystal felt an instant of rebellion. “I don’t give a damn.”
Surprising her, Josh Healey laughed. “Go, lady, go. You gotta have something the way you want it.”
She bridled. This man made her want to fight for some reason. “How would you know what I have?”
He shrugged a shoulder, but his smile never quite faded. “Something about you.”
For some reason, Krystal felt as if those strangely intense aquamarine eyes of his had just stripped her emotionally naked. She didn’t like the feeling at all and immediately stood.
“Thanks for the coffee, Harris,” she said. “I’ve gotta run. Just keep me posted about Reject. Trust me, I’d like to have him.”
“If he climbs in that truck of yours with you, then he’s made up his own mind.”
JOSH LINGERED A bit longer, thinking the matter over, deflecting some of Harris’s questions about the stockade, but doing so carefully. He didn’t want to feed the curiosity around here in a way that would be dangerous to his soldiers.
“You know,” Josh said presently, “I have some folks who’d love a puppy or two as well.”
Harris eyed him closely. “How can you be sure of that?”
“Because I saw them with strays over there in combat zones. I saw them rescue dogs in defiance of general orders. Some worked every angle they could to try to get a dog home with them.”
Harris nodded slowly. “I’ve got a new litter of five. I don’t separate them until the bitch weans ’em herself. Maybe four weeks more.”
“That’s good, not weaning them early.”
Now it was Harris’s turn to smile. “Guess you know something after all.”
Then the crunch of tires on the gravel drew both men’s attention.
Harris cussed. “That’ll be the sheriff. Why the hell did Krys have to call him? Not gonna do a damn thing about this, I swear.”
KRYSTAL WASN’T FAR behind the sheriff’s vehicle. As soon as she saw it passing uphill toward the sledding ranch, she pulled a U-turn and followed. Harris had been so dubious about help, she wanted to hear the conversation for herself.
She stopped right behind the official vehicle and climbed out. Josh’s Humvee was still here, too, which kind of surprised her. She’d expected him to follow her down the hill within minutes. Of course, where would he have gone that she wouldn’t have passed him, too?
Dang, was she scattering all her marbles around here? The obvious sometimes escaped her. Maybe it was time to visit Conard City and her friends there. Fresh concerns, fresh topics of conversation. A livelier world. One that might actually wake her up.
The officer who stepped out of the official Suburban surprised her, however. It was the sheriff himself, Gage Dalton, a man with a long history around these parts who commanded a whole lot of respect. Given his old injuries, however, Krystal was more used to seeing him behind a desk.
He limped when he walked, wasn’t always able to conceal a wince when he moved, and one side of his face bore the shiny skin of a bad burn in his past.
He turned as he saw her and gave her his patented half smile, all his scarred face would still let him do. “Riding shotgun, Krystal?”
“Curious, more like. Mind?”
Dalton shook his head as he clapped his tan uniform Stetson on it. “Public service and all that.”
She arched a brow and laughed. “Right. All public until you need to keep secrets.”
“About investigations in progress? You got that right.”
They were now side by side, heading for Harris’s porch when the door opened.
“Crap,” said Harris succinctly. “What are you gonna do about one dog, Gage? Like you don’t have enough to do keeping a lid on this entire county? But get your butt in here. I seem to be having a meeting.”
Josh was still at the table, a mug in front of him. Harris, rather gracelessly, ordered them all to chairs, then brought out another plate of pastries, saying, “Well, these are fresh, anyway.”
Krystal couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I’m heading into Conard City later. I’ll get you some fresh from Melinda.”
“Good, because I don’t get there often.”
Which was true, Krystal thought as Harris freshened her mug and poured a coffee for Gage. Then he faced the three of them before boring his gaze into Gage.
“So, Sheriff, what the hell you gonna do and why should you even want to bother?”
Gage leaned back in his chair, wincing a bit but otherwise concealing his discomfort. “Interesting question, Harris. Why should I give a damn about a dog, huh?”
Harris shifted unhappily. “I didn’t say it that way. Not exactly.”
“But that’s what you’re thinking. And that’s why I’m here instead of one of my deputies.”
Harris shook his head. “So tell me.”
“Because,” Gage said quietly, “I got a hang-up about people who torture animals. And from what Mike Windwalker, the vet, told me, this was torture. Not meant to kill, not even the shooting.”
Krystal drew a deep breath. Harris’s face darkened like a thundercloud. “No,” he said after a few beats.
“I’m sure you hate it, too,” Gage continued, now reaching for his coffee and taking a sip. “Damn, Harris, I think you’ve got Velma beat in the lousy coffee category.”
At that Harris delivered a reluctant smile. Velma was the sheriff’s chief dispatcher, and her coffee was infamous. “Took lessons, Gage.”
“You might give her some yourself.” Gage put the mug down and looked at both Krystal and Josh. “You found the dog, Josh, right?”
Josh nodded. “Well, one of my people did. Gave him what first aid we could and brought him up here.”
Gage nodded again, pulling a small notebook from his pocket and scanning it quickly. “Says here about two a.m.”
“About that. Close enough.”
Then Gage turned his attention to Harris. “Your dogs found where the attack happened?”
Harris nodded. “Right after the vet left around three yesterday morning. The dogs were going bonkers, Gage. They knew. So I let out a team of them and they took off hell-for-leather. Found the place where there was blood.”
“You gonna show me?” Gage asked.
“Hell yeah, much good it’ll do. Dogs been all over it.”
“Maybe a lot of people haven’t. I’ve got a couple of good trackers. I’ll bring them up.”
Harris snorted. “Won’t find much. Somehow these bastards got Reject down to the stockade and I didn’t see a trail of any kind.”
“You never know.” Gage reached for his mug again, then thought better of it. Instead he took a pastry. “Okay, Harris, I got another concern than just Reject.”
Harris’s face tightened, but he nodded.
“I’m furious that anyone would treat an animal that way, but there’s another issue here. If someone would do that to your dog, they’re dangerous to people, too. You follow me?”
Krystal felt her face drain. She hadn’t thought of that. Beside her, Josh stiffened.
“Takes a certain kind,” Gage said, pushing back his chair. “I’m not going to let this go just because of Reject, Harris. I’m also not going to let it go because of people. You could say this creep just unleashed a two-edged sword. We aren’t going to stop.”
Soon three vehicles made their way down the slope toward the retreat and the stockade. Toward Cash Creek Canyon, such as it was. Beside Krystal on the bench seat of her truck, Reject lay curled up. Apparently he’d made his decision.
Harris’s road was in great shape, thanks to the business he brought. Lots of folks evidently liked the idea of mushing through the winter woods and sleeping in yurts covered with snow.
Nobody in their right mind, Krystal privately thought. Oh, she loved sledding with one of Harris’s teams for a day, but for a weekend? Or a week? That much cold didn’t appeal to her. Too many winters up here, she supposed.
To her surprise, Josh followed her down her narrow driveway to her cabin. Now, what was she supposed to do about that? She didn’t know him well enough to invite him inside, but she didn’t want to be rude either.
When he climbed out of his Humvee, however, he stared across the creek at his stockade and didn’t at all look like a man who expected any kind of invitation. When he spoke, his direction surprised her.
“Gage unnerved you?” he asked.
She hesitated, wanting to be honest but not sound like a wimp either. “Not completely,” she said after a bit.
“Yeah.”
Wondering where this all might be leading, Krystal climbed her two porch steps and sat in her favorite Adirondack chair. Then, after the briefest hesitation, she motioned Josh to one of the others. Surprising her, totally out of character from what she’d seen of him, he accepted the invitation, sitting with one ankle on the other knee. A perennial masculine pose. Shrugging, she put her feet up on the railing. Beyond that, she offered no hospitality.
“I suppose,” he said presently, “that you have no idea what we’re doing across the creek.”
“You hardly advertise,” she said dryly.
“No. That’s on purpose. But given this development, you should know.”
She turned her head, curiosity awakening in her. “How so?”
“If anything more happens around here, we’re apt to be blamed for it.”
Now she pushed forward, sitting up straight. “Why on God’s earth...?”
He passed his hand over his face. “Because we’re vets. Every damn one of us. You know what some people say.”
Krystal drew a deep breath, her hands tightening. “I know what some people say. And most of it isn’t true.”
“Then that makes you a majority of one.”
She thought she detected a bitter note in his voice. “But why do you all have to stay over there? Are any of you afraid of what you might do?”
“Goddamn,” he swore, sitting bolt upright. “You know, it never occurs to anyone that those walls might have been built to keep the rest of the world out, not to keep us in.”
Krystal felt slammed as her world tilted in an entirely new direction. No, she hadn’t thought of it that way. Not at all.
Josh stood, evidently having had enough of his attempt to be sociable. Krystal felt just awful and jumped to her own feet.
“Josh, I’m sorry...”
“Why?” he asked bluntly. “You’re no different from the rest.”
Then he strode to his Humvee and took off with a pointed scatter of gravel.
Great, Krystal thought, watching him disappear into the woods along the winding road. This was a guy who’d saved a wounded dog and then she’d hinted at the general view of vets as a threat.
God!
And she’d blown her one chance to get to know the man better. She seriously doubted she’d get another one.
Totally annoyed with herself, she went inside her cabin and switched on her computer. As soon as it booted itself, she turned it off again.
Screw that. Climbing into warmer gear, she grabbed her rumpled pack and headed up the trail to the lodge. Reject limped beside her. Now would not be a good time to be alone.
BACK AT HIS COMPOUND, Josh found his crew considerably quieter than they’d been since they found the dog. Most of them had picked up their regular chores. Those who hadn’t sat clumped together, trying to talk in spurts about feelings that didn’t lend themselves to words.
He wondered how much the ugly incident had set some of them back. Didn’t know exactly how he was going to deal with it. Maybe this was one of those things that would take the entire group.
He found plenty of coffee in the urn and poured himself one of those tall, insulated mugs with a dash of cream. Cream was still a luxury to him.
Then he sat on his usual wood chair in the big room, waiting for the circle to gather. He wondered how many would show, especially since this wasn’t the usual time for group. Slowly, however, most of the gang gathered.
For a long time, no one said anything. Silence in this group of men and women often spoke more than words might.
It was Marvin Damm, who’d found the dog the night before last, who spoke first. “Did it live?”
Eyes focused on Josh.
“Yes,” he said. “He’s going to be lame, but he’ll be fine. I guess the woman across the creek is adopting him.” He paused, then added, “The dog’s name is Reject.”
A few people swore, one man and two women.
“Who the hell names a dog that? Damn it,” Carly added angrily, “we’re all rejects.”
Angus MacDougall, who’d become a version of Josh’s second hand, spoke. “Ain’t none of us rejects. Need to remember who rejected who.”
Josh nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly and glad Angus had spoken the words, his Scottish burr seeming to add them weight.
“But why Reject?” Carly Narth asked. A roadside bomb had left her with a scarred face and patchy gray hair.
“Simple,” Josh answered, glad he’d learned this much. “Harris thought he was going to make a great team lead when he was a pup, but then Reject changed his mind about that. Question is who did the rejecting.”
That at least brought out a few weak laughs. A couple of the guys gave each other playful shoves. Tension eased from the room.
But Josh knew he couldn’t leave it there. It was too important to leave there. But how he hated to give these people another reason for concern.
“There’s more,” he finally said. Once again all attention fixed on him. “The sheriff is concerned that this could be...something more headed our way. As in someone who might start maiming people.”
This time there was no silence. A cacophony rose in the room nearly deafening in its intensity. Josh let it run, let the energy burn out as it needed to. There’d come a point when fury and despair would give way to other feelings. None of them good, of that he was certain.
But eventually the noise quieted. A few cusses and nasty remarks escaped, then everyone fell silent. Except for Elaine, their head cook.
“Let me guess,” she said bitterly. “They’re blaming us.”
“Nobody’s blaming anyone.” Which was true insofar as Josh knew. “Not yet, anyway.”
Marvin Damm stood up, knocking his chair over. “They’ll get around to it,” he said, anger creeping back into his voice and posture. “There isn’t a one of us in this room that hasn’t been picked up by cops for questioning the instant something bad happens.”
Grumbles of agreement answered him.
Josh tried to conceal his own growing stress, even though he knew this group was right. All of them. Even himself with his bloody degree and years of training. Easy targets, vets who couldn’t readjust. Who had gotten thrown out by their families, who wound up living on the streets because there was nothing for them at a VA hospital except a cup of pills that didn’t always work.
Homeless. Unwanted. Until a crime occurred. Then once they’d been picked up for questioning, for any reason, they were on a list for investigation for the next crime. Innocence meant nothing to the law.
There were a couple of former MPs in this group, and they knew the mindset all too well. They dinned a frequent warning about leaving the stockade, especially alone.
Now this.
“Serial killers du jour,” one of the former MPs said. Rusty Rodes.
The problem was that Rusty wasn’t far from correct.