Tempted (Two Marks 1)

I might not have known my trackers were leading to the death of wolves, but I was still responsible. I’d reported Dr. Andrews. Now, I needed to deal with the animals that still had trackers in them. Then there was Tim Hollaroy, the rancher who’d killed White Paw.

Unfortunately, repercussions for violations of Fish and Game regulations weren’t that severe, but Hollaroy could face a fine of up to four thousand dollars and the suspension of his hunting license for up to five years. I didn’t think that would actually stop him, or keep him from getting someone else to do his dirty work for him. It didn’t feel like real justice, but it was something.

I slowed my car and pulled up in front of the small Fish and Game shack on the edge of National Forest land. Taking a deep breath, I climbed out of my car and headed to the door. I wasn’t sure whether to hope I found John Randolph, the shifter who’d chased us down the day I was planting trackers in wolves with Landry and Wade, or not. While I did want to see him specifically, I didn’t expect a warm welcome. He might even be outright hostile. I had no doubt he’d heard about White Paw, and my involvement. One thing I’d learned about the Two Marks pack was that they were tight.

Still, he might at least be equipped to help me, and I’d learned from my time with Wade and Landry that I needed all the help I could get.

I knocked on the wooden screen door and pushed it open.

It was the shifter John Randolph who swiveled on a stool and peered at me. His bushy brows slammed down in disapproval. From that one look, I knew everything I’d anticipated was true.

Rather than try to defend myself, I launched into my purpose. “I need your help. My colleague sold the signal trackers to all the wolves I tagged to Tim Hollaroy.”

It only took him a moment to comprehend, and he surged to his feet. His nostrils flared, eyes searching my neck. “Where are your mates?”

I now knew he was breathing in my scent. Wade’s and Landry’s, if what they’d said about the marking was true. John could smell them on me, know I was marked.

“We’re not speaking right now.” I didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to know the details other than for the business at hand. “I have proof it was Tim Hollaroy who paid for the data, and I can track the wolves’ locations with my phone the same way he did to find and shoot those three wolves. He might kill others unless we get to them first.”

John blinked at me, processing everything I’d said. “All right. I can help you with that. But show me your evidence first.”

I went over to the counter that had trail and topographical maps under glass, and set my cell down. I played the recording of Dr. Andrews’s confession and he nodded, his jaw clenching more the longer he listened. “This is good. Can you email me the digital file?”

I exhaled, relieved I had an ally. He might not like me, but we now had a common purpose. “Yes. Give me your email and I’ll send it right now.”

He shared it with me and I forwarded the link on to him.

“Now, what about those wolves with trackers? They’re not all in this area, are they?”

I sighed, knowing my task was huge. “No.” I pulled out my cell and opened the app that showed the trackers. With two fingers, I zoomed into West Springs and the surrounding area.

He stared blankly down at the topographical map, and thought for a moment. “How many are here in West Springs?”

“Just one. Here.” I pointed at the display. “This is the wolf we need to get to. It’s the closest to us, but also to the cattle ranches of Hollaroy and his cronies.”

John picked up his Stetson from a peg on the wall behind him and dropped it on his head. He wasn’t in a ranger uniform, but instead looked more the cowboy. Snug jeans, sturdy leather boots, and even a huge belt buckle he must have won at some kind of rodeo or other Western-themed competition. “Let’s go get it.”

My mouth hung open at how quickly he was ready to assist. My stomach was still twisted in knots—its constant state since I drove away from West Springs three days ago—but a small measure of relief went through me. I could do this much. John knew the area better, knew wolves better—a PhD couldn’t compare to being a shifter—and was motivated.

I got my backpack out of my car, which held water and snacks, a raincoat, and other outdoor gear, but most importantly, the tranq gun. As I approached John’s truck, he was thumbing over his phone. We climbed into the cab and I pulled up the location of Comet—the name I’d given the second wolf—on my cell. John’s phone beeped, and he read the display of his phone without comment.