Wild Justice (Nadia Stafford 3)

"I'm going jogging," I said. "Not fleeing into the night."

"I know." He stretched. "Hold up a sec."

He swung his legs out and stretched some more. Then he walked to the window and opened the drapes, blinking.

"Fuck. That's bright."

"Yes, we call it dawn. Also? Cold."

He shivered. "Yeah." He glanced over. "How far you going?"

"About five miles. Why? Are you thinking of coming with me?"

There was a moment where it almost seemed as if he was going to say yes. Then he glanced at the frost-laced window and shivered again.

"Fuck, no."

I laughed. "Go back to bed, Jack. When you smell cinnamon rolls, you know it's time to get up."

I reached for the door.

"Got your gun?" he said.

"I'll be grabbing it before I leave. I'll have my gun and I'll have my guard dog, so I'll be perfectly safe in the crime-infested streets of White Rock."

He grunted.

Before I could leave, he stopped me again. "I'll make the beds. Tidy up."

"Emma will still notice, so I wouldn't bother hiding the fact we slept in here unless it bothers you. She's not going to say anything--she'll be too busy trying to figure out why we used two beds."

A short laugh. "Yeah. I'll leave it then. Go on. Enjoy."

I grinned back. "I will."

Jack didn't know what he was missing. The cold air and bright sun that sent him back under the covers were exactly what made it perfect jogging weather, the sunlight dappling the road as the chill air woke me up and kept me comfortable. I stuck to the back roads, empty and clear and silent.

As I ran, I thought about the journal. Not about what Aldrich did to me. Not now. This was morning, time for moving on--or at least for faking it. What I thought of instead was the rest of the journal.

I'd ask Jack to remove the page detailing my rape. Yes, the cop in me balked at tampering with evidence like that and maybe the rest of me balked, too, as if I should read all the details and tough it out. But there was no point, nothing to be gained. I accepted that I'd been raped; I didn't need to read an account from my rapist's point of view. Here I'd draw the line. Take the page out so I could read the rest.

Scout stayed at my side, happily panting, not even distracted by the squirrels that sped across the road or birds that shot up from the shoulders. Then I noticed her glancing into the forest.

At first it was just a couple of quizzical looks, as if to say, "Huh? What's that?" On a run, it took more than a bunny or a raccoon to snag her interest. We don't get a lot of coyotes and black bears, but they are out there, and I really didn't want her tangling with them. Whatever was in those woods, though, clearly she considered it a potential threat, because every time I moved between her and the woods, she'd scoot back over, shielding me.

I touched the butt of the gun holstered under my jacket. If a bear lumbered out, I'd happily send it off with a warning shot. The forest remained quiet, though, so I kept the gun holstered and stayed alert.

The thing about predators up here? None of them are really a match for a human and a dog. And they know it. They'll watch you pass and breathe a sigh of relief when you do. They will not attempt to follow.

Yet as we continued along, Scout kept glancing into the forest; whatever was in there was tracking us. That could only mean one thing: this predator walked on two legs.

Jack might be in full protective mode, but he'd never stalk me. The chance it was a stranger was almost as low. Random assault and random murder, like stranger rape, are practically unheard of out here. We have our crime problems but they don't include guys lurking in the forest.

It had to be Quinn. He wanted to talk to me, and he'd been to the lodge twice before for that. He wouldn't stalk me, but he might follow me, gauging my mood.

To be safe, I waited until I reached an open portion of the road, near a house I knew was occupied year-round. Then I tugged the water bottle from my waistband and took a long drink from it. When a twig crackled underfoot, Scout stiffened and growled, her gaze swinging to the forest. No one hailed me. Meaning it wasn't Quinn.

I snapped on Scout's lead as I tracked the noises in the woods. A twig crackle here, a dead-leaf scuffle there; my stalker was moving to the edge of the forest. I turned my gaze enough that I could see the forest but still seemed focused on the dog.