Running Wild (Wild 3)

A hundred and two pounds, according to the scale. “Yeah. Cory and I can manage him.” She’s in the back, keeping Beau calm on the surgical table.

“Okay.” He bites his bottom lip in thought.

The move drags my mind back to the Ale House parking lot. It’s clear to me now that things between us have changed, at least from my perspective. Can he feel it, too? Did he go home, laden with regret for following me out to my truck? If he did, he must’ve worked through it already, because he’s not giving off awkward vibes.

“Thank you.” He reaches out to give my elbow a gentle squeeze.

Even such a simple, innocuous touch has my blood racing, my body craving more. But I don’t have time for this. “Yeah, yeah, I have work to do,” I mutter, trying to squash the distraction. “You’ll see yourself out?”

The crooked grin he flashes, dimples and all, tugs at the corners of my mouth despite my efforts.

I feel his gaze on my back as I march to the surgical room, shifting my focus to the grim task ahead.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Molly’s tired wail drifts over on the evening breeze as Vicki loads her into their truck. My sister has been next door every day this week, moving truckloads of belongings and readying the attic between bouts of vicious pregnancy sickness.

Their landlord let them out of their lease at the end of this month without any penalties. Oliver thinks it’s because the man lives on the first floor of the duplex, and he can’t handle Molly’s crying anymore. He wants them out as soon as possible.

Whatever the reason, my parents have had a spring in their step—or in my father’s case, in his crutches—that they’ll have another daughter and a granddaughter back home soon.

On the off chance that Vicki checks her rearview mirror and sees me perched in my red Adirondack chair on my porch, where I often am in the evenings, I throw up a wave. A horn tuts in answer.

I smile through a sip of my Coke. I’d kill for a cold beer, or maybe something stronger after the day I’ve had, but a three-legged Bernese mountain dog is resting in the clinic. It’s going to be a long night.

My task is mostly done. Rachel has a lot of work ahead of her. I feel terrible for the girl. Her only error was allowing Beau off his leash, something everyone does from time to time. That could’ve just as easily happened to Bentley or Yukon. There should never have been a trap set anywhere near that trail and especially not in July.

My ears catch the sound of wheels rolling over gravel, and I assume it’s Vicki, hopping over one driveway to say hello before she heads to pick up Oliver from work. But it’s a familiar olive-green truck that rounds the bend in the trees and coasts forward, pulling up next to my vehicle.

My pulse quickens as Tyler slides from the driver’s side. He’s changed out of his uniform and into jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. A six-pack dangles from his fingers as he saunters toward my little screened-in porch.

I regret the oversized gray sweatpants and heavy plaid jacket I threw on, and the haphazard topknot I pulled my hair into, but it’s too late to do anything now, so I hold my casual position, feet propped on a small table. “Twice in one day?”

The door opens with a creak as he ducks in and holds up the cans. Coors Light. “I won’t judge you for your taste in beer if you’ll let me have one of them.”

That he remembers what I was drinking at the Ale House means he was paying attention—a rare occurrence for most men I’ve met. Even Jonah forgets how I take my coffee sometimes.

I try not to read too much into this as I smile and gesture toward the empty Adirondack chair opposite me. “Knock yourself out. I’m on duty until Cory gets here at midnight to take over.”

“Just the two of you running this whole place, huh?”

“It’s a small place. And it works most of the time.”

Tyler sinks into the chair, his thighs falling apart as he yanks a can off the ring. The sound of the tab cracking cuts through an otherwise silent night.

Every nerve ending in my weary body has come alive. “So, how was the rest of your day?”

“Frustrating.” He takes a long sip. “No tags or markers on the trap, and it was set maybe fifty feet off a main trail. On top of the long grass, not buried under it, so it couldn’t have been put there too long ago. I think someone was trying to catch a dog.”

“Asshole.” My stomach clenches. It’s hard to imagine someone doing something so cruel, but it happens, and his theory makes sense. Trapping and hunting is allowed in the recreation area, but not in July. The season for animals needing that size of trap doesn’t start until November. “You call the trappers’ association?”