by Linda Howard
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“She’ll be armed, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then she’s as safe as any other woman with a rifle in her hand. But she isn’t as safe as I’d be.” He paused. “You asked if I’d heard of any women having trouble on a hunt, and the answer is yes. I’ve heard about it, but I don’t have any firsthand knowledge, so I can’t swear what I heard was true. Common sense says it probably is, though, people being people and assholes being assholes.”
Harlan blew out a breath. “That’s what I thought. Damn it.”
His tone dragging with reluctance, Dare asked, “Where’s she going? Do you know the area?”
“Yeah. She gave me her location, and the name of the men she’ll be with.” Harlan passed along that information. “She’s supposed to call me when she gets back.”
“What are they hunting?”
“Bear, going by the bear call I saw her packing.”
Dare grunted. “And both of her clients are first-timers?” He meant the first time hunting bear in particular, not hunting in general, but he didn’t have to explain himself to Harlan.
“I don’t know about the client’s client; he might be experienced.” Harlan felt he had to be fair about that, considering all the other bad thoughts he was having about these two men whom he didn’t know. He cleared his throat, bracing himself for a sharp rejection as he moved to the main part of his objective. “Like I said, I have an uneasy feeling about this; don’t know why. Do you know anyone who could check up on her while she’s out there, kind of? You know, so she won’t know she’s being checked up on?”
There was a moment of silence during which Harlan could all too plainly imagine Dare holding the phone out and staring at it in disbelief, then his ear was blasted with a shout so raspy it sounded as if it had been fashioned out of sandpaper. “You want me to check up on her? That’s what you’re asking, right? There isn’t some convenient ‘anyone’ who’s going to be up in that area.”
“Unless you’re busy,” said Harlan, totally without shame or guilt; in fact, he felt a sense of triumph. If Dare had had a guide trip himself, he’d have immediately said he was busy, but he hadn’t, which meant he wasn’t. Harlan had taken a gamble.
“I don’t have anyone coming in, but that doesn’t mean I’m not busy,” Dare said, sounding thoroughly pissed.
“I know I’m asking a lot—”
“A helluva lot more than you know. In case you haven’t noticed, Angie and I don’t exactly get along. She won’t appreciate seeing me.”
“I had noticed,” Harlan admitted. “And if she sees you she won’t be happy. But I’d rather she be unhappy than raped or dead.”
“You really think something like that might happen?”
“Normally I don’t even think about it. This time, though, I’ve just got a bad feeling in my gut.”
“Shit,” said Dare, but it wasn’t a dismissal of Harlan’s instincts. If anything, it was an acknowledgment from someone who had been in a lot of tense situations and tight places; cops and soldiers learned to pay attention to their guts, more so than the general population. Harlan didn’t think he was psychic or anything like that, but he did think that people had an animalistic sixth sense that could warn them of impending danger, if they’d only listen to it. Maybe Angie had picked up some of the same sense of danger and would be extra cautious, which might be all that was needed, but maybe she was too preoccupied with her situation to notice some details.
“I’ll think about it,” Dare finally said grudgingly. “But if I do go up there and she shoots my ass, I’m holding you responsible.”
Fuck this. Angie Powell wasn’t his problem. She was a pain in his ass, but she wasn’t his problem.
Dare made a habit—no, a religion—of not taking on other people’s shit if he could find a way around it, and he was no goddamn babysitter. Harlan was just being an old woman, worrying about Angie because his gut told him something wasn’t right. More than likely he just felt overprotective because she was his dead best friend’s daughter, he’d watched her grow up, and all that other psychological crap, so he’d worked himself into a fit of guilt. He was discounting that Angie had chosen to be a guide, knowing damn well that taking men she didn’t know out for days or even weeks at a time would be part of the deal. She was a smart, tough cookie; she’d have thought of all that, and taken precautions.
But Angie was going through a tough time, selling out and moving, so probably Harlan was just feeling extra protective. That explained it as well as anything else.
Dare snorted as he went through to the kitchen and snagged a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. He could just imagine what would happen if he showed up at her campsite, checking up on the little lady like some Old West throwback. Angie Powell would kick his ass if he even hinted that she wasn’t capable of taking care of herself. Well, she’d try.
In spite of his sour mood, a smile twitched at his mouth. She pissed him off with those drop-dead looks she gave him, she got on his last nerve without even trying, but the mental picture of her coming after him with both fists swinging lifted his mood. For one thing, he’d win any tussle with her. For a second thing, the tussling would be fun. For a few seconds he enjoyed the scenario, imagining that almost-skinny body wiggling against him, that world-class ass right there where he could get his hands on it—yeah, right before the part where she head-butted him and broke his nose, which was way more likely than the ass-grabbing part, though if he kept his mind on the fight and his hands where they were supposed to be, she’d never be able to get near his nose, or his balls, or any other vulnerable part. He’d have to decide ahead of time if getting his hands on her ass was worth a knee in the balls.
His dick twitched a Hell, yeah! Dare snorted again. Stupid fucker … literally.
Spend a week up in the high country trying to stay hidden and watch over Angie Powell at the same time? What, did Harlan think he lived in a vacuum and didn’t have his own shit to take care of?
Some of that shit was in a pile on the kitchen table, waiting for him. God, he hated paperwork. He loved what he did, but he fucking hated the nit-picking shit that went with it, the stack of crumpled receipts that he swore to God multiplied during the night. Maybe he should hire someone to do the books for him. He was making enough money now—though if he bought Angie’s place, that extra money would disappear. Things would be tight for a while, but if he could make all his plans work …
Damn it, if she got killed on this guide job, all of those plans would evaporate. The property would be tied up for however long it took the estate to be settled. He didn’t know who her relatives were, if she had a will, anything about that side of her life. If he wanted that land, she needed to be alive.
Damn it.
He growled as he took his bottle of water to the table and sat down. He picked up his calendar and flipped through it. Yeah, everything there was duplicated on his computer, but he preferred to keep the names of clients and the dates of their scheduled hunts written down on paper. It was nice to have a computer backup, but he didn’t quite trust that the info would always be there when he needed it. Power outages, computer viruses, the blue screen of death … yeah, paper and pen were better.
The calendar was a map of his success. At first glance, it was a mess of chicken scratching. Maybe his penmanship wasn’t great, but he could decipher it and that was all that mattered. Notes were scrawled in the margins of the notebook-sized organizing calendar, plans and names were scratched out here and there, and in some places other names were added in. He didn’t get many cancellations, but it happened. Sometimes there were other clients on standby, regulars waiting to take the place of the ones who’d backed out for one reason or another—regulars who would prefer to wait for him than to sign on with someone else. He was proud of that, that for some hunters it was Dare Callahan or no one.
The calendar told him exactly what he’d known it would: He didn’t have anythi
ng scheduled for the next ten days. There was no one on standby, either; the end of the busy season was coming up fast. The last few months had been so busy, Dare wouldn’t mind taking a short break. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do. The camps could always use maintenance, and he was always behind on his paperwork, witness the mound of receipts right in front of him now. He wasn’t exactly a nester, but he needed to take care of a pile of laundry before he ran out of clothes, and he needed to lay in some more firewood for winter, and stock up on supplies. He was careful not to let himself run low on anything, but it never hurt to be prepared to hunker down for a good long while during a Montana winter. For a few minutes Dare sat there, thinking of all the things he needed to get accomplished in the next ten days.
He tapped the end of his pen against the tabletop. Flipped through the calendar with no particular purpose. Took a sip of water. Ground his teeth.
He tossed the calendar to the table, sending a few receipts dancing and flying. One fell to the floor, but Dare ignored it. Damn Harlan to hell. Why couldn’t he have kept his fucking gut instincts to himself? He’d planted a seed of worry that Dare couldn’t shake.
No way in hell was he going to tail Angie and her clients like some kind of unwanted bodyguard … or stalker. If nothing else, that was a good way to get shot. Antsy tourists with itchy trigger fingers might easily mistake him for game, from a distance. And if he wore an orange vest, as he should this time of year, it would be damn tough to remain out of sight.
He didn’t think Angie would shoot him on purpose—maybe—if she caught him tailing her, but he wasn’t her favorite person, so she probably wouldn’t shed a tear over his body, either. Once again he tried to convince himself that this was not his business, but a little voice in the back of his head whispered that since he’d made an offer on her place, he’d made it his business. Well, shit.
He drank some more water, then capped the bottle and pushed it aside. Water wasn’t doing it for him right now, and he was out of beer—another item on his list of things to get. The coffeepot still held a couple of inches of cold coffee. He eyed the coffee, thinking it would probably taste like shit, but what the hell. Shoving away from the table, he grabbed his morning coffee cup from the dishwasher—why mess up another one—and filled it, then put it in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes.
While it heated, he scowled at the floor. Why was he even thinking what he was thinking? Angie had made it clear she thought it was his fault that she had to sell, and that she hated his guts because of it. She’d hate him even more now that he’d made the offer on her property, because she’d think he was taking advantage of her situation. The last thing she’d want was him tagging along on a job to make sure she was safe, even if he had the time or the inclination, which he didn’t. Mostly. That last word sneaked into his brain and made his scowl deeper.
The microwave dinged. He opened the door and stuck his finger in the coffee to see if the brew was hot enough, then quickly jerked it out. Shit, yeah. He dumped in enough sugar to disguise the crappy taste, stirred, then leaned back against the counter and took a sip. Not bad. Not bad at all. Why couldn’t he just enjoy a cup of coffee and the fact that business was good? For the most part, life was good. He didn’t need to take on Angie’s problems.
Why did he let her get under his skin this way? In all his thirty-seven years, he’d never met another woman as annoying as she was. She was stubborn as an old goat, and she’d made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. No ass in the world, no matter how fine, was worth the kind of aggravation she’d caused him. Like it or not, though, she was definitely under his skin, lodged there like a tick.
What was wrong with him? In a matter of moments he’d mentally compared her to both an old goat and a tick, and yet here he was, still stewing over Harlan’s words and, damn it all, still worrying about a woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day.
If Harlan had expressed the same concerns about anyone else in town, Dare wouldn’t have given them a second thought. Angie was an adult. She’d be armed. Surely she vetted her clients before taking them on. She knew the territory as well as … no, better than anyone else, except him. She had such a pissy attitude, he should be more concerned about her clients’ safety than he was about hers.
Dare drank his coffee, savoring each sip. His rancor eased some, as he glanced at the pile of paperwork on the table. He had ten days off, ten days of freedom. His winter preparations would do, for now. There was maintenance to be done, but nothing pressing. The paperwork wasn’t going anywhere. And forget tailing Angie Powell as if she was a helpless female in need of a fucking white knight.
He was going to go fishing, damn it. He was going up on the mountain on his own for some much needed peace and quiet, a little down time. And if that down time put him in Angie’s vicinity, maybe even in her path, well, that was just a coincidence.
Yeah, right. He’d just keep telling himself that. And he’d damn sure tell Angie, if he was unlucky enough that she saw him.
Once he’d made up his mind, Dare packed with the speed and precision of a man who’d done the same thing a thousand times. In his backpack he arranged strips of jerky, power bars, a small first-aid kit, some cans of bear spray, bottles of water, aspirin—because he might run into Angie and she was sure to give him a headache—and an extra flannel shirt. His satellite phone, charged and ready, went into the pack. There were more supplies up at the camp, but he never headed in empty-handed.
The fishing gear was another matter. Dare hadn’t been fishing on his own in months, so he took some time to inspect the fly rod, put on new line. Most of his clients came in to hunt, but he’d taken out the occasional fishing party. He never fished when he was with clients, though; if he intended to fish he preferred to go on his own, to enjoy the peace and quiet.
If his fishing clients knew what they were doing, he enjoyed the trips. If they were novices, he’d rather eat ground glass. They talked, they splashed, they tangled themselves in the line, caught themselves on the hooks. Teaching a beginner to fly-fish was a huge pain in the ass. He’d started referring callers to a fishing guide in the next county over, because business was good enough that he didn’t have to fuck with it if he didn’t want to.
Dare thought about packing waders, but given the cooling weather and dropping temps of the water he decided against it. He’d cast from the bank.
As he sorted through the flies, he wondered if Angie could fish, and imagined maybe sending the beginners her way. It was a perversely satisfying thought.
A few times in his career as a guide, clients had come in with their wives. One nightmarish job had included two teenage daughters. He’d rather be shot than do that again. But a woman … how many wives would be more comfortable with another female around? Angie probably wouldn’t be as annoyed by the constant chatter of a young woman as he was. He’d barked at that one girl when she’d squealed because she saw a deer, and then she’d cried. The trip had gone downhill from there. It wasn’t like having women around was the norm, but still … it was worth some thought. Why hadn’t Angie attempted to specialize in couples, families? Why hadn’t she used her gender to her advantage? Instead she’d tried to step into her father’s shoes and continue on as he had, as if nothing had changed, when in fact everything had changed.
It wasn’t the best time of year for fly-fishing. Weather and water conditions were changing, but the trout weren’t in their winter lies just yet. He might have good luck in a slow current, maybe target some pre-spawn browns. A big pan of trout would taste a helluva lot better than a power bar and jerky.
And if he happened to coincidentally keep an eye on Angie at the same time, well, keeping her safe would make one part of him very happy. His brain knew better, but his dick hadn’t given up hope. Not just yet, anyway. This trip might be just what he needed to convince his little brain that it had had a lucky escape.
Chapter Six
Chad Krugman w
aited in the terminal at the Butte airport as the SkyWest flight carrying Mitchell Davis taxied closer. There were only a few commercial flights a day coming in and out of Butte, most of the traffic was general aviation, but for all that the flight times were decent. Davis was an experienced hunter, so he wasn’t expecting to be able to fly first class in a 747 right up to the hunting area. Out-of-the-way was pretty much the norm for good hunting.
Out-of-the-way was perfect for his plans. In fact, the more remote the area their guide, Angie Powell, took them to, the better. He’d made a point of asking her about the general area, keeping the tone of his e-mails casual, but there was nothing casual about his interest. Once he’d known where they were going to be hunting, at least within about ten square miles, he’d studied maps, downloaded images from Google Maps, and taped them together to give him a better idea of topographical features and possible landmarks. The images weren’t as close up and detailed as he’d have liked, but they did give him a very good idea of the terrain and what he would have to do to execute his plan.
He’d known this day would be coming, had known it from the moment he’d begun skimming cash from the money-laundering service he provided for Mitchell Davis. No, even before that, because what he’d done had been carefully thought out, and all possibilities considered, before he’d ever taken that first step. With that in mind, he’d set a silent alarm on the accounts and computer files, an automatic notice if anyone tried to access certain files and information. That was his tripwire, and he was so good at what he did he’d even anticipated how long it would take Davis to become suspicious, and timed this trip accordingly.
Chad couldn’t help feeling a little smug. As the time neared for the hunting trip he’d begun to wonder if he’d overestimated Davis, the vicious bastard, but then, bang!—just yesterday his silent tripwire had sent out the alarm. The precision of the timing made him almost giddy with triumph. Was he accurate, or what?
