by Nina Bruhns
"What if you're pregnant?" He turned on the tree stump and tugged her onto his lap. Tenderly he took her face between his hands. "What if you're having my child?"
Then he kissed her. Long and sweet and warm and persuasive. In his kiss she tasted his hunger, his yearning for her, and the sincerity of his desire for their child. He wrapped his arms around her and she almost melted into him, wishing with all her heart she could just let herself go and be everything he wanted her to be.
But she knew he was only feeling guilty about the baby he hadn't known about, and blaming himself for her losing it. He was grasping at a straw of redemption by trying to turn their relationship into something it wasn't.
"I'm not pregnant," she murmured, trying to pull back. "We were careful. Besides, it's the wrong time of month."
"You can't be certain. Not until we do a test."
"We will. But I am sure," she said with a confidence she didn't come close to feeling. She couldn't even bear to contemplate the choices ahead if she was. But she wasn't. Withdrawal wasn't foolproof, but it generally worked.
He kissed her again, tearing away another brick from her crumbling defenses. "If you can't forgive the past," he whispered, "and won't give me your future, at least grant me now. Now, while we're together."
Her whole body trembled, crying out with a need to say, Yes! Yes, let's be together, truly together, for these few precious days. Damn the cost to my heart!
But he was right. She was scared to death. Not just of being pregnant, or reliving the horrors of eighteen years ago. But because if she let herself fall for him again, to the depths she had before, this time she'd never recover.
* * *
The sound of tires crunching and a door slamming across the meadow filtered into Roman's consciousness. He tore his eyes from RaeAnne's to look. Sheriff O'Donnaugh was walking through the grass toward them.
Roman muttered a vivid curse and tightened his hold on RaeAnne as she started to jump from his lap. "We aren't done with this conversation," he said, waiting for her reluctant nod before allowing her to escape.
Damn the sheriff and his meddling. The man could take his fake smile, his evil plots and his corrupt deputies and go to hell with them all.
Pausing for a deep breath, Roman banked the hot spike of anger and rose to his feet. He shook out his shirt and donned it, along with his best official expression. He was nothing if not a professional, and he had a job to do. O'Donnaugh held potentially important information about the case he was working, and getting in the man's face in any way, even under present circumstances, would not help solve it. The sheriff would pay dearly for having him beaten, but that would keep.
"I thought you left town, Santangelo," O'Donnaugh said as he strode over to where Roman stood waiting with RaeAnne.
"I'm not that easy to get rid of," he replied stonily.
"Where's Dawson?"
"Up in Bishop. I'm in charge of the crime scene now."
"You?"
Roman flipped open his FBI credentials and held them up like a dare.
The other man's brows flared, then beetled as he read them. "You're working this case?"
"Got a problem with that?"
O'Donnaugh shrugged. "Why should I?"
The man was cool, Roman had to give him that. Very cool.
The sheriff looked him over assessingly, a perusal that stopped briefly on his fresh haircut, then moved to RaeAnne. "Morning, RaeAnne. Are you all right?"
Her warm smile for his rival sliced right through Roman. He had to restrain himself from putting a protective arm around her and growling.
"I'm fine, Philip. Though I'll be glad when this investigation is over." Roman didn't care for the voice inside telling him she really meant she'd be glad when her time with him was over. "I don't suppose you've found out anything new?" she asked.
O'Donnaugh pulled a file from under his arm. "Well, as a matter of fact, I came to deliver this to Dawson." He reluctantly turned to Roman and handed it over. "It came in from AFIS this morning for him."
"The fingerprint ID?" Roman snapped open the jacket from the National Automated Fingerprint ID system and scanned it quickly.
"Yeah."
"What does it say?" RaeAnne asked, peering over his shoulder to read.
The sheriff bristled. "RaeAnne, I really don't think you should be—"
"Jason Danforth? Any idea who he was?"
Roman turned to the second page, a photocopy of the victim's driver's license. "Forty-eight years old. From Bishop."
"So he was fairly local," she said.
"Seems so." Ignoring O'Donnaugh's continuing protests, he leafed to the third page and whistled low as several coincidences clicked into place. "Fish and Game," he read, and swiveled to meet RaeAnne's gaze. "I'll be damned. Jason Danforth was a Fish and Game agent."
* * *
"Poaching. I just can't believe it."
Roman had spent the better part of the trip to Big Pine Reservation relating to RaeAnne the story Toby had told him at the cave. He described the contents of the notes the boy had given him, including all the sordid details about how the sheriff's office was the hub of a small but steady trade in illegal animal parts. Bear gall bladders for oriental herbalists, mountain cats for trophy seekers, exotic meats for pricey restaurants and hides, eagle feathers and porcupine quills for Native American regalia. Roman's father, and later Toby, had carefully recorded dates of suspected dealings, along with species, location and any other details, depending on the source of the information—usually elicited from a hunter or backpacker who'd come across what was left of the remains. Over the years they had built up quite a list by talking to everyone possible who came off the mountain, but unfortunately none of the notes contained any hard evidence.
"Why would they do it?"
"Poaching, even on a small scale, is a very lucrative business. When profits are big enough, some people don't care if the animals they kill are endangered."
"But murdering Danforth?"
"People are killed every day over a wallet with ten dollars in it. Here, we're talking thousands, maybe tens of thousands per year. The punishment for poaching is basically a slap on the wrist. They probably didn't want to lose their golden goose."
"But still, murdering someone… These people are law enforcement officials!"
Roman snorted, fingering his cheek. "Right."
She darted a somber glance at his bruises and grimaced. "Point taken. So you think this Fish and Game guy stumbled on their scheme and they eliminated him?"
"It's a theory."
She didn't speak for the short drive from the highway onto the Reservation and to Toby's house, but he could practically hear the cogs spinning in her head. She obviously didn't care for the conclusions she was reaching.
"I still refuse to believe Philip is involved in any of this," she said as they walked up the driveway.
"Time will tell," he answered, knocking on the door.
He wasn't going to get involved in that debate. Only real evidence would convict the man in her eyes. The fact that the initials O'D appeared in the notes written by his father wasn't proof. They could mean Old MacDonald for all they knew—not that he thought for a second the initials referred to anyone but the good sheriff.
Maybe Dawson would come up with some angle or connection between the sheriff's office and Danforth in his questioning. Since the Bishop Police Department had handled the initial investigation into Danforth's disappearance, Dawson had moved his base of operations to the Bishop Homicide squad, bringing himself up-to-speed on the missing person's file, reinterviewing everyone mentioned in it and following up on all the leads. That left Roman free to pursue things from this end—working from the physical evidence backward. Hopefully they'd meet somewhere in the middle, and he'd bet his last dollar that would be right on top of O'Donnaugh and his deputies.
"May I help you?" A middle-aged woman peered at them from behind Toby's screen door, bringing him back to the situation at hand. He
assumed it was the kid's mother.
"Yes, ma'am."
Roman introduced RaeAnne and himself, once again inwardly flinching at the woman's warm reaction to his father's name. He also noted that she politely pretended not to notice his bruises but couldn't quite mask her curiosity. Interesting. Toby must have skipped Mom when he'd consulted Grandma about the herbal tea.
"We're looking for Toby. Is he home from school yet?"
"Is there a problem?" she asked, motherly concern clouding her eyes.
"No, not at all," he said, choosing not to make this an official visit. "He delivered a box to us up at Miss Martin's archaeological dig, and we just had a couple of questions about it, that's all." Roman smiled reassuringly.
"He won't be home until Sunday." She hesitated, then added, "He went up the mountain."
The way she said the words made it clear she believed the trip was some kind of spiritual quest or pilgrimage. Roman had his doubts. He figured the kid was either off investigating another wildlife kill report, or dodging Roman.
Whatever. The kid had picked a hell of a time to go walkabout. Roman glanced up at the mountains, and tried not to give in to frustration.
"Any idea where he was headed?" Toby's mom shook her head.
No. She wouldn't. Toby himself probably didn't know. That is, unless he'd heard something specific, which Roman gave about a-thousand-to-one odds, considering the microscope local law enforcement was currently under because of the FBI presence on the Danforth case. The kid was almost certainly avoiding being questioned.
"When he gets back can you have him come up to the site right away?" he asked the mom, uneager to go after him.
"Sure."
They thanked her and were heading back down the driveway when he came to an abrupt halt. Toby's truck was parked right there under a tree. Suspicion suddenly filled his gut and he called back to her, "What's he using for transportation?"
"Horseback," she answered and tipped her head toward the main road. "Medicine Wind Stables."
Horseback. He followed RaeAnne back to the Jeep.
Horseback. Good grief. It had been years since he'd sat a horse, and had no desire to renew the acquaintance. Roman Santangelo was strictly a Harley man. There were plenty of other leads to follow without having to chase after a teenager on horseback for answers.
His gaze landed on RaeAnne's shapely backside, all wrapped in tight jeans like a pretty package. On the other hand, a nice long ride might just have its compensations. Especially if it involved overnight camping.
"Where to next?" she asked.
He looked up and almost gave in. A blush rippled across her cheeks. She knew exactly what he was thinking. So he said it. "Feel like a ride?"
Her eyes flared and his lip curled up at the intended double entendre.
"No," she said and flounced around to the Jeep's driver's side.
He was suddenly aching with a desire to strip her naked and zip her into his sleeping bag. With him.
Battling back the unruly impulse, he gingerly slid into the passenger seat. "Me, neither," he lied, forcing himself to think of nasty-smelling horses and not the sweet warmth of her bare skin. "I hate riding horseback."
"I remember." A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she glanced at him. "What was his name again? Jocko?"
She had to bring up that disagreeable beast. "Yes."
"Whatever happened to him?"
"Got sent to the glue factory for biting one too many riders." She gasped and he sent her a long-suffering look. "Just kidding. Unfortunately," he muttered, not really meaning it despite his dislike for the four-legged devil.
"You're horrible."
"No, he was horrible." Jocko, a sixteen-hand bay, had lived next door to Tanya's house at Rincon while they were growing up. Every once in a while they'd gotten it into their heads to go for a ride. Big mistake. "Foul-tempered creature. What you ever saw in him I'll never know."
"He only bit you."
"You bribed him."
She grinned. "Can I help it you didn't bring him sugar cubes and I did?"
"Yes."
"What?" She darted him a surprised look.
"I was too busy thinking of you to remember anything else."
Her expression softened and she glanced away. "You were not."
"Yes. I was." He reached for her hand and brought it from the steering wheel to his lips. "I still am."
She didn't respond except for a little wobble of her chin, which she quickly lifted as she snatched her hand away. "Like hell. I know exactly what you're thinking of."
He couldn't deny it, so he laid a hand on her thigh and gave her a caress. "Only with you, cara."
She harrumphed, but didn't swat away his hand. He took some comfort in that. And for the rest of the way to the turnoff he continued to rub her thigh. Which she pointedly ignored.
"Back to Cleary?" She swung off the highway onto the dirt road leading up to the site.
"No. Let's check out the lumber camp first. See if we can come up with a suspect in Danforth's murder up there, before we go accusing the sheriff's office of foul play on top of poaching."
* * *
Headquarters for the busy lumber operation was located about five miles up the road from the dig. On the drive, RaeAnne filled Roman in on the few facts she knew about Tecopa Logging Co.
"They got their permits from the Forest Service decades ago and everyone says they've run a clean, ecologically sound and profitable operation ever since."
"Hmm."
"Doesn't sound to me like a company that would be involved in murder or poaching," she admitted.
"Where'd you get your information?"
"Philip mostly."
"Before or after the body was discovered?"
She shot him a glance. "Does it matter?"
He grabbed the door to brace himself as they went over a deep pothole. "A man who doesn't want the FBI poking around the forest asking questions is a man who'd lie through his teeth to prevent it."
She ground her jaw. She didn't blame Roman for his avid dislike of the sheriff. He had every reason to suspect the worst of him. But he didn't know Philip like she did.
"Then why give Tecopa a glowing report?" she reasoned. "Wouldn't a guilty man try to deflect suspicion onto someone else?"
She could see his annoyance as he backed down. "All right, so there's a piece of the puzzle missing. Damn that Toby for disappearing and taking it with him."
RaeAnne pulled into a clearing which served as parking lot to the camp, and immediately a man strode out from a nearby log cabin to greet them. He was short, lithe and muscular, his iron-gray hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail.
"What can I do for you folks?" The tone was friendly but the man's body language said he knew she and Roman didn't belong there and wasn't about to let them get a step farther until he found out why they'd come.
She stood back as Roman pulled out his credentials and explained who they were. Listening with one ear, she looked around the camp. Tidy rows of barracks-like log cabins lined the parking lot area, converging on a larger building which she assumed served as the mess hall or some other community function. Behind that was a massive barn surrounded by an orderly lineup of trucks, Caterpillars and other heavy equipment. The motor pool? Storage? Maybe a combination?
Since her research specialty was human settlement patterns, the way people organized their settlements always fascinated her, no matter how mundane. When she ran across an anomaly—a missing kitchen, an extra shed, or an out-of-place fire ring—she couldn't contain her curiosity to find out the reason behind it.
What struck her most about Tecopa Lumber's camp was that nothing was out of place. Not a single thing. Not a building, not a piece of paper, not even a pinecone on the ground.
Besides the man speaking with Roman, she spotted three others, older-looking men but fit and muscular. None of them were working, or even moving. They all just stood there, watching them. She shivered, a feeling of
intense scrutiny crawling up her spine.
"I'd be happy to give you a list," the gray-haired man was saying in response to something Roman had asked him, "if you'll come with me to the office."
RaeAnne started when Roman turned and she realized she'd moved right up to him, practically leaning against his arm.
He gave her a puzzled smile. "Miss Martin?"
His formal manner threw her for a second, until she remembered they'd agreed it was best not to reveal their personal relationship to any of the suspects.
She rallied. "I'll just stay here, if—"
"I'd prefer you come along," the other man said, and led them toward the cabin.
"What's wrong?" Roman whispered as they followed.
She shook her head. "Later," she whispered back.
Inside the cabin, stark metal furniture gleamed under fluorescent lights. "You have electricity?" she asked the man, who stepped behind one of two desks the room held. On it was a triangular wooden name placket which said "Doug Pritchett" in plain block letters.
Pritchett nodded. "A couple generators in the barn. Couldn't run the operation without them."
"No, I guess not," she murmured, eyeing the generous array of computer equipment and electronics lining the two desks. "Quite a setup." One she'd give her eyeteeth to have available at the excavation.
It took Pritchett about two minutes at the keyboard to cull out the list of the names Roman had requested, print it and hand it to him.
"Is there anything else I can help you with?" Pritchett asked politely.
Roman slowly folded the paper. "How many guns do you have in camp?"
The man's brows narrowed. "Guns?"
"Shotguns."
"Several. I couldn't say exactly."
She could see Roman's jaw set. "Couldn't, or wouldn't?"
RaeAnne's eyes widened as the two subtly shifted positions, squaring off against each other. Despite the smiles that continued to be fixed on both men's faces, she could practically feel the testosterone flooding the small room.
A small thrill zinged through her insides watching Roman stare the other man down. She had to actively resist an instinct to step back and hide behind him, letting him protect her from some unseen danger.
