Savaged

Who are you?

Her eyes moved to his hands, resting on his thighs. They were large, and even through the monitor she could see they had numerous scars. He had the hands of a . . . warrior, scarred and supremely masculine, and Harper wanted to study them, as though they were a work of art. They were . . . brutally beautiful in a way she’d never before seen. And she couldn’t help wondering what he’d done with those hands to cause so many injuries.

A tremor went through her, not born entirely of fear. But she sucked in a surprised breath when he suddenly turned his face to the camera like he’d done before, his eyes seeming to study hers. She felt her face flush as she looked away and then almost laughed at herself. He couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see anyone—he was simply looking up at the blinking eye of a camera. She stepped closer, studying his expression. There was something in his eyes . . . bitterness if she wasn’t mistaken. But . . . why? If he didn’t know what a vehicle was, how in the world would this man know that the flashing red light he could see would enable someone else to watch him? And even if he did, why would it cause that fiery intensity on his face? She tilted her head, studying him intently. He stared back as though he could feel her on the other side of the camera. Silly, of course. She knew that and yet the feeling persisted. His eyes were piercing as he stared at the piece of equipment high up on the wall in the room he occupied, and . . . there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence in his gaze. Caveman maybe. But no brainless Neanderthal.

Though

ts were whizzing through his brain. She could see it. Perplexity. Confusion. Anger. So many emotions.

He looked away, facing forward again—expression suddenly blank—as if he’d heard her thought and refused to accept that she could see what he hid. Or tried to. It didn’t stop her though. She leaned closer. From this angle, she could see a scar arcing down the side of his face under his right cheekbone. It was slight and mostly faded, but it called attention to the sharp lines of his bone structure. And . . . yes, his expression was blank now, but there was a war being waged behind his eyes. She recognized it as someone who had perfected the art of stoicism. Don’t react. Don’t let them see your fear. Don’t let them know you care.

Harper felt a surprising jolt of empathy, but then chastised herself internally. She was creating a narrative about the man based on her own experience, not his. She really knew nothing about him. Although . . . if he was only a “person of interest” as Dwayne had said, was it ethical to keep him sitting in that cell? If all he’d done was have the bad timing of stumbling in front of a police vehicle and they weren’t charging him with anything, he had the right to leave. Would he know it? Had they even told him that?

The door opened, startling her from her voyeurism and the questions running rampant through her mind. She blushed again, turning off the monitor, but not before Dwayne and the older man entering the room had seen what she was doing.

The man who must be the agent extended his hand and Harper took it as Dwayne came to stand next to them.

“Mark Gallagher, this is Harper Ward. Mark, Harper knows why you’re here. Harper is our local wilderness guide, slash psychologist.”

Harper let go of Mark Gallagher’s hand, and gave Dwayne an exasperated look. “The first is true. But Dwayne, I’m not a psychologist, and you know it.” She gave him another stern look, but he didn’t look the least bit contrite. She breathed out a sigh and gave Mark Gallagher a small, embarrassed smile. “I work part-time at a group home.”

“And you’re taking some classes in Missoula, aren’t you?” Dwayne asked.

“I haven’t signed up for those yet,” Harper said, feeling like a complete loser. The accomplishments Dwayne had obviously listed under her name were dwindling by the moment.

Dwayne winked at her. “Well, closest we got. And it’s mostly your knowledge of the area that Mark needs. And that truck you have. Now, I’ve got to make a couple of calls, but you and Mark chat and then you can let him know if you’re available.”

“Okay.”

The sheriff left the room, and Mark Gallagher nodded to the table where they both took a seat across from each other.

The agent took a notebook and a pen from his coat pocket and began flipping through it while Harper took that moment to study him. He was older, probably in his fifties, but he was still fit and very much an attractive man with a full head of salt and pepper hair, trimmed short, and a sort of . . . capability about him. A competence few men carried. He was the type of man who would always take charge during an emergency situation, and he’d remain calm while doing so. He was the type of man you’d naturally turn to if you were having a problem. He seemed like . . . like her dad had been. She recognized that quality in him because she’d experienced it in her father. And because of that, her comfort level increased immediately.

“Dwayne tells me your father was the sheriff here before him.”

For a moment Harper simply stared at him, the question taking her by surprise after she’d just literally been thinking about her dad. She gave herself an internal shake and cleared her throat. “Yes. He . . . he was. For a short time.”

Mark Gallagher paused for a beat before nodding. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Harper’s eyes darted away. She wasn’t used to speaking about her parents and especially not with strangers. “Thank you. It was a long time ago.”

“Time can be relative.”

She nodded and looked away. When she returned her eyes to him, he looked down to his notebook, tapping the pen on the cover.

“Dwayne also says you grew up in this area, and that you know every nook and cranny of the surrounding wilderness.”

Harper blew out a breath. Dwayne apparently had said quite a bit. “I did grow up here. I moved to Missoula when I was seven, but spent summers here when I was in high school, and then moved back four years ago. Since then, I’ve spent practically every day in the wilderness, nine months out of the year. I’m very familiar with the area. But there’s no way any one person could know every inch of the wilderness surrounding Helena Springs. It’s vast, and it’s extremely harsh in winter—deadly even . . .” Unexpectedly, her breath hitched. Deadly even. Yes, she should know. She’d lost both her parents in that unforgiving terrain. She shook off the emotion, surprised that it’d gripped her so suddenly. Time can be relative. Yes, and who knew that better than she did? She still grappled with their loss well over a decade later. But she rarely lost control of her emotions, and especially not in front of a perfect stranger. She cleared her throat, annoyed with herself. “But I’m very familiar with quite a bit of it, depending on what you’re looking for and where you’re looking.”

Mark Gallagher leaned back in his chair. “That might be the difficult part. We’re not quite sure what we’re looking for, other than someone adept with a bow and arrow. Although there were some unusual things found at the second crime scene that might prove helpful. I’m assuming Dwayne filled you in on the basics about the two crimes?”

Harper nodded. “Yes. I’ve got the basics.”

Agent Gallagher leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Good. Mostly, I need someone who can get me out there, and you seem to be just that person.” Before she could reply, he went on. “You’d be paid as a consultant to the case. Reimbursed for your mileage and any other expenses.”

Harper bit at her lip. She could use the money. She could always use the money. Still, she’d never imagined she would be a consultant to anyone, much less someone trying to solve two grisly crimes. “How long do you think you’ll be here?” She had no idea how crime solving worked, despite that her father had made his livelihood in the field. But she’d been so young when he died. And anyway, then, or now, crimes simply didn’t occur in Helena Springs. In fact, the last time she could remember a crime that had been remotely similar to this one was when Lyle Fredericks beat his wife half to death and then used his shotgun on himself. His wife, Samantha, had survived, but she’d left town to live with her cousin—and to escape being “the woman whose husband almost beat to death before committing suicide.” Labels were difficult to get away from in a small town.

Of course, what had happened to her parents, what had happened to her, had been an accident, not a crime. Still, she’d heard the whispers, knew the labels she wore.