by Aubrey Rose
"The ranger was looking for you," the teenager said.
"Oh?" Wren swallowed. She hoped that her blush wasn't visible. "Why?"
"We're having a dance night over at the hotel tonight. He was gonna ask you if you wanted to come."
"Dance night?"
"Yeah. Kind of lame, but whatever."
"What kind of dancing?"
"You like to dance?" The teenager raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "It's swing dancing. My dad teaches the beginner lesson."
"Really? I wouldn't have pegged him for a dancer," Wren said, trying to picture the gruff hotel owner out on the dance floor.
"My mom used to dance a lot," Shawn said, leaning against the gas station door.
"Used to?"
"She died when I was little," the teenager said. He cast his eyes across the street toward the hotel, and for a brief moment Wren saw his face change, grow old, more mature. Then he turned back and his face slipped behind the casual mask of a teenager. She could tell he didn't want to make a big deal of it, so she didn't. "Anyway. Dance tonight. If the ranger asks—"
"—you told me about it," Wren said, nodding. "I'll be there. Thanks!"
She headed to the small restaurant next to the hotel, where she ordered a patty melt on rye and sat in the back corner. After the long hike that morning, she was famished, and she quickly devoured the sandwich, washing it down with glass after glass of ice cold water. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious, except maybe the blueberry pie she ordered for dessert.
Sitting in the back, she rubbed her stomach in satisfaction. Despite the...strange encounter she'd had with the ranger, the first half of her day of tracking had gone surprisingly well. She'd have to go back to the creek when Dawson wasn't anywhere near, so she could figure out exactly where the bear's den was hidden. And the side path on the other half of the loop was another mystery she needed to explore later.
Wren pulled out the secure cell phone and dialed back the last number.
"Isabel?" Marty's voice was comfortingly familiar. "How's your long trip?"
"I'm on the moon," she said, confirming the passcode. "Any news, Marty?"
"Nope." He sounded disappointed. "Sit tight. No killings on the east coast, and it's been six weeks."
"I found tracks and a tuft of bear fur along the trail I tracked. I overnighted half of the fur sample to the Los Angeles lab P.O. box."
"Great. We'll get it analyzed first thing tomorrow. I can't say I'm too hopeful, though. Looks like this one might have disappeared, Wren."
"We don't know that. He could still be here."
"I guess. Good thing you're still out there. If anyone has a chance of tracking this bastard down, it's you."
Wren didn't say what they were both thinking—that Chief was the best tracker, even better than her, and he'd died tracking this creature. Tommy's face flashed again in her mind, his dark features more intimidating than handsome to anyone who didn't know him. She came out of her thoughts to hear Marty's voice trailing off into something she didn't hear.
"Sorry, what?" she asked.
"I heard from a little birdy you met the local ranger. Pretty cute, huh?"
Wren's breath stopped for a moment. No, of course Marty didn't know about what had happened that morning.
"Is he one of us?" she asked.
"No."
"Oh. Okay." For a moment, Wren had hoped that the handsome ranger would be someone she could talk to about her work, about the assignment. She swallowed her disappointment.
"But he might be able to give you some tips on where the best places are to hide in this forest. What do you think about him, though? Is he a suspect?"
"No," Wren said, too quickly. "I mean, I don't think so. He seems like a normal guy, nothing suspicious that stuck out to me." She coughed, thinking about that morning's kiss. It had been anything but normal.
"Okay. Keep tracking for the rest of the week, and—"
"I've gotta get back home soon, Marty. My boyfriend thinks I'm out consulting, and we have a spa trip planned for this weekend. I mean, I'll stay here as long as you need, but if you don't think we're gonna catch this guy..."
"You still haven't told your boyfriend what you do?"
Wren frowned.
"We're not supposed to tell anyone but spouses." That was a CSE rule, and one she had stuck to for as long as she'd been dating outside of the Center.
"I know, but jeez, Wren, how long have you been dating this guy? He's practically your husband."
"No, he's not." The words came out too fast.
"I thought he was going to propose, like, a year ago."
"It's hard, Marty," Wren said, her voice lowering. "He's in the Senate. I don't know if he would understand."
"Honestly? You want my advice?"
Wren licked her lip. She was scared of what Marty would say, but he'd always been a trusted friend.
"Sure."
"Tell him before you get married. Figure out if he's right for you."
"I just— I don't want to scare him off." Wren shredded the paper napkin with her nails. Was that what she was afraid of?
"If this scares him off, then he's not Mr. Right. Just my two cents, Wren. Don't listen to me."
"Sure, Marty." Wren crumpled up the rest of the napkin and threw it onto her empty plate.
"I'll tell the guys at the lab that your sample is priority one. Anything else, you send it along, okay?"
"Sure. Thanks, Marty."
Wren hung up looked down at the torn pieces of napkin littering the table.
Maybe Mr. Right didn't exist. She'd dated dozens of guys in Washington, and most of them had been similar to Olivier. Tall, dark, handsome, and ambitious as hell. That's what she'd always thought she wanted. Now, though, she wasn't sure at all what she wanted.
She would have to talk to him. Lay everything out on the table. Then he would know all about her, and they would be able to open up to each other. Yes. That was the right thing to do.
Relief coursed through her as she paid her bill and walked back to the gas station to call her boyfriend. The phone rang and rang, but Olivier never answered.
***
"Olivier, it's Wren. I'd like to talk to you. I'll call back tomorrow morning, okay? Hope to catch you then."
She hung up and realized that she hadn't ended the message with I love you. She picked the receiver back up to call again, then decided against it. Instead she walked briskly across the road, back to the trailhead.
There were still a few hours of daylight left. She could explore the side path on the closer side of the loop. She made her way up the trail a ways, then looked back to make sure nobody was around before pulling her gun. The bear's den must be around here somewhere, hidden back in the forest nearby. Wren was sure of it.
The redwoods sprung from the ground in clusters, their branches criss-crossing over Wren's head. The forest floor was dense with leaves and needles and bark, the loam springy under her feet. A mile and a half in she came to the side path and left the main trail.
As before, the path ended soon after she'd walked a few yards. But Wren pressed on, circling around the dead end of the path in a widening half-spiral. A rustling noise behind a copse of redwoods made her pause mid-step. There. She could hear it again.
Her heart began to beat faster, and she willed herself to breathe calmly. Calm, shallow breaths through her nose. She checked behind her and to the side. Nothing that she could see. She would not be taken the same way Chief was taken. Slowly, carefully, she stepped around the tree, her gun aimed in front of her.
A squirrel darted away from where it had been burying nuts at the root of the redwood.
Wren let out a deep sigh and leaned against the tree, letting her gun fall to her side.
"A squirrel. Just a damned squirrel," Wren said. The adrenaline was still pounding in her system and she tilted her head back against the bark of the redwood, closing her eyes and trying to relax. Then she opened her eyes and blinked at what she saw.
Above her head, in the bark of the redwood tree, were the deep gouges of a bear's claws.
Wren reached up and touched the flayed bark. The rich, woody scent of the redwood's core wafted out of the claw marks. Sap bled out of the edges, sticky and dark amber oozing down the trunk of the clawed tree.
The crack of a branch made Wren spin around, gun at the ready. This time it was no squirrel. She caught a glimpse of something—a bear?—moving behind the distant oak trees. She looked right and left before taking off after it.
The creature moved fast. Wren could hear the crash of it up ahead, barreling through the brush as though it was running for its life. Maybe it was.
"Stop!" she yelled, scrambling through the path it had torn. The leaves here were tossed up, the forest floor ripped by claws of something so big she could barely make out the edges of the tracks it left. She stumbled at the edge of a fallen log and pulled herself back up. There. A black blur across the edge of her peripheral vision. It was trying to circle back.
Breathing hard, she ran straight for the place she'd seen it disappear into the brush. The branches here were broken, and the sharp edges tore at her clothes, but she ignored the scrapes. Her legs pumped fast to keep up. She could hear the bear in front of her, the limbs of small trees cracking like gunshot as it snapped through them like nothing. It was heading downhill, toward the creek.
Finally, at the top of the hill, the brush cleared out. Wren saw the bear for the first time in full form. It was huge, a black bear that rushed down the hill, covering ground so quickly that it was almost a blur. Wren stopped and raised her gun, trying to get the bear in her sights. If she could injure it, at least, she'd be able to catch up to it. She aimed, her finger on the trigger, but then the bear disappeared behind a boulder.
Wren swore and continued the chase. She tumbled down the steep embankment, her feet slipping on the wet leaves underneath her. Her legs burned with the effort to stay upright and balanced, and she knew that tonight she'd be sore as hell. But for now, she ignored the pain and ran, ran as fast as she could. In front of her, the bear was getting away.
She'd thought she was fine, but nearing the bottom of the hill her foot caught on a loose branch and she fell. She landed on her arm in the wet dirt and leaves on the slope, rolling twice before catching herself and scrambling back up. Mud streaked her body, and she had to wipe it out of her eye as she continued to run where the bear had gone.
She reached the creek bed and stopped, panting hard. She couldn't hear the bear anymore. The gurgle of water was the only sound in the forest, and the thud of her heart in her temples.
And here, the bear had escaped. Whether upstream or down, she couldn't tell. The creek washed away any trace of trail there was, and while she knew she could search around for the place it had left the water...well, it could be anywhere along the creek.
She sat down hard on the edge of the creek, trying to catch her breath. Mud caked her knees and as she shook her head, leaves rained down from her tangled braid.
But she had seen it. A bear that ran away from a human instead of trying to defend its land? Wren was no expert on bear behavior, but she thought that was a pretty clear sign that it was a shifter. She would have to tell Marty. She would have to—
A sound from behind her made her spin.
"Hey, there," Dawson said. He stood at the top of the creek bank, looking down at her. She sighed and tucked her gun away, standing to face him. His eyes moved from her leaf-encrusted hair down to her mud-streaked arms, down to her feet soaked in creek water.
"Did you—uh—did you get lost?" he asked. She could see a suppressed smile peeking out of the corner of his mouth.
"Attacked by a wild gang of squirrels," Wren said, flipping her mud-caked braid back. She reached her hand to his and he helped her up the bank.
"Really."
“I beat them all off. See, you don’t have to worry about me.”
“I would never doubt you.”
"I'll never go off-trail again," Wren said. "Pinky promise."
"Aw. How am I supposed to find you if you stay where you're supposed to be?" Dawson teased.
"What were you trying to find me for?" Wren asked. A flash of suspicion crossed her mind, but was assuaged by his reply.
"One of the hotel guests just left," he said. "I took the liberty of reserving it for you. I thought you might need a hot shower after your hike."
"Shower? Pfft. Who needs a shower? You think I need a shower?" Wren moved past him, picking another leaf out of her hair and tossing it his way. He grinned and turned to walk back toward the town.
"I would never say you needed a shower. Maybe just a little freshening up."
"A little touchup. Powder my nose."
"Not even. I like a wild woman. But Matt won't want you tracking mud all over the dance floor."
Wren stopped and raised one eyebrow. He met her stare with wide eyes.
"What? You're coming to the dance tonight, aren't you?"
Before Wren could answer him, he'd stepped past her and back onto the main trail that had appeared out of seemingly nowhere. She scrunched her nose and followed him down, picking leaves out of her hair.
“How are you liking it here?” Dawson asked.
“The forest is amazing. I can see why you became a ranger.”
“Can you?”
Wren wished she could see Dawson’s face. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, she thought. But then he turned and gave her a smile that wasn’t bitter at all.
“You seem to have gotten your money’s worth,” he said. “Most resorts charge hundreds of dollars for a luxurious mud bath.”
“What can I say.” Wren shrugged. “I wanted to indulge on my vacation.”
“Have you been down to the beach yet?”
“No. There’s a trail?”
“It’s steep. I’ll show you sometime later.”
Wren’s chest tightened up. She wanted to say yes, wanted more than anything to follow this man into the ocean. There was so much else keeping her back, though. Why had she retired? To be able to live with Olivier. To devote herself to their relationship. Now, back on the job, she was beginning to regret her decision to stay in Washington.
Not because of this ranger—yes, he was attractive and funny, but that wasn’t what drew Wren to him. It was the way he walked through the forest, stopping to point out the bright yellow banana slug crawling across the trail, stepping carefully over the newts wriggling through the leaves. He was a part of the forest, she realized, and she had nothing like it that she could compare it with. Despite having lived in just about every state in America, there was no place that she could truly call home.
“Coming?” Dawson called back. Wren realized that she had paused on a corner of the trail. She hurried to catch up.
“Thanks,” she said. “Just woolgathering. There was a big slug on that log I was watching.”
“No worries, ma’am,” Dawson said, tipping an imaginary hat. “We knew you were coming, so we put slugs everywhere for you. No extra charge, just another perk during your stay in Maugham.”
“This place is a wonder,” Wren said, skipping down the trail, and she absolutely meant it.
Chapter Twelve
The hot shower billowed steam through Wren's pores. She took her time, letting the stream of water coat her skin, wash away all of the mud and leaves she'd taken back with her.
She'd gotten so close! The bear must have his den around here somewhere, she was sure of it. She'd mailed the second sample off the moment she got back. Strange, that there should be two bears so close to each other. The fur samples looked completely different—one dark, one light.
It could be the same bear, though, Wren thought as she washed her hair. Maybe it had different coloring on its belly fur.
Her thoughts flitted to the image of Dawson, standing buck naked on the boulder, looking down at her with that damned twinkle in his eye. The tautness of his skin over his muscles, creek water gleaming. The
hard pressure of his lips, gone as fast as it had come...
She shook her head, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. She'd been clear enough that she wanted nothing to do with that kiss. It was only her body that had turned traitor to her, that had responded to his touch with a ferocious desire for more.
Even now, as she told herself that she was going to the dance to scope out other possible suspects, she knew that something inside of her wanted to see him again.
Braiding her damp hair, she murmured the rules for tracking. One. Check your surroundings. Her dad would have been proud of her. She’d found the bear, hadn’t she? Now all she had to do was keep up with it. Or find its den.
Two. Clear your weapon. Wren tapped her fingers on the gun sitting on the counter. She couldn’t keep it in her waistband, not while dancing. The calf holster would have to work.
Three. Anticipate your enemy. Wren didn’t think the shifter would come out for a dance class at the local inn. It would be trying to hide. Covering its tracks. Well, not much she could do for that until the morning.
She hadn't packed anything particularly nice, but she picked out the dressiest top she had—a loose, flowing light green silk blouse—and tugged on a pair of black jeans. It would have to do. Swiping berry chapstick across her lips, she called it good.
Down in the hotel lobby, she was surprised to see a dozen people milling around already. The hotel owner stood in the middle of the dining area where all of the tables and chairs had been pushed out of the way. He wore a nice button down shirt and dress pants, and looked entirely different than he had when Wren first met him.
"Okay, basic lesson," he said, clapping his hand together. "In a circle around me. Partner up. My name's Matt, so just call out if you need help with anything."
Wren cast her eyes over the room, but didn't see Dawson anywhere. Her eyes refocused to find the teenage gas station attendant standing in front of her.
"Partner?" Shawn asked, grinning as he held out his hand. Wren smiled back and let him guide her into their place around the circle.
"Did your dad make you come here?" Wren asked.
