Murdered In Conard County. Rachel Lee

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       Chapter One

      Blaire Afton slept with the window cracked because she liked the cool night breeze, and the sounds of animals in the woods. As park ranger for the state of Wyoming, she supervised a forested area with a dozen scattered campgrounds and quite a few hiking trails, most all the camps and trails farther up the mountain.

      Her cabin was also the main office, the entry point to the park, and her bedroom was upstairs in a loft. The breeze, chilly as it got at night, even in July, kept her from feeling closed in. The fresh air seemed to make her sleep deeper and more relaxed, as well.

      It also seemed to keep away the nightmares that still occasionally plagued her. Ten months in Afghanistan had left their mark.

      But tonight she was edgy as all get-out, and sleep stubbornly evaded her. Maybe just as well, she thought irritably. Nights when she felt like this often produced bad dreams, which in turn elicited worse memories.

      Sitting up at last, she flipped on the fluorescent lantern beside her bed and dressed in her park ranger’s uniform and laced up her boots. If sleep caught up with her finally, she could crash on the sofa downstairs. Right now, however, early coffee was sounding delicious.

      There was absolutely no way she could make her boots silent on the open wooden staircase, but it didn’t matter. All her staff were home for the night and she could bother only herself. Right now, bothering herself seemed like a fairly good idea.

      The electric lines reached the cabin, having been run up the side of this mountain by the state, along with a phone landline that extended out to all the campgrounds in case of emergencies. Neither was perfectly reliable, but when they worked, they were a boon. Especially the electricity. Phone calls about vacant campsites didn’t light up her life, nor did some of the stupid ones she received. Want a weather report? Then turn on the weather.

      “Ha,” she said aloud. The good news was that she had electric power this night. She walked over to her precious espresso machine and turned it on. A few shots over ice with milk and artificial sweetener...oh, yeah.

      And since she was wide awake and had the power, maybe she should check her computer and see if she had internet, as well. Monthly reports were due soon, and if she had to be awake, she might as well deal with them. Reports weren’t her favorite part of this job, and sometimes she wondered if some of them had been created by a higher-up who just wanted to be important.

      When her coffee was ready and filling her insulated mug, she decided to step outside and enjoy some of the night’s unique quiet. It wasn’t silent, but it was so different from the busier daylight hours. Tilting her head back, she could see stars overhead, bright and distant this nearly moonless night. The silvery glow was just enough to see by, but not enough to wash out the stars.

      Sipping her coffee, she allowed herself to enjoy being out in the dark without fear. It might come back at any moment, but as Afghanistan faded further into her past, it happened much less often. She was grateful for the incremental improvement.

      Grateful, too, that the head forester at the national forest abutting her state land was also a veteran, someone she could talk to. Gus Maddox guarded a longer past in combat than she did, and there was still a lot he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about. But he’d been in special operations, and much of what they did remained secret for years.

      In her case, her service had been more ordinary. Guarding supply convoys sounded tame until you learned they were a desirable target. She and her team had more than once found themselves in intense firefights, or the object of roadside bombs.

      She shook herself, refusing to let memory intrude on this night. It was lovely and deserved its due. An owl hooted from deep within the woods, a lonely yet beautiful sound. All kinds of small critters would be scurrying around, trying to evade notice by running from hiding place to hiding place while they searched for food. Nature had a balance and it wasn’t always pretty, but unlike war it served a necessary purpose.

      Dawn would be here soon, and she decided to wait in hope she might see a cloud of bats returning to their cave three miles north. They didn’t often fly overhead here, but occasionally she enjoyed the treat.

      Currently there was a great deal of worry among biologists about a fungus that was attacking the little brown bat. She hoped they managed to save the species.

      A loud report unexpectedly shattered the night. The entire world seemed to freeze. Only the gentle sigh of the night breeze remained as wildlife paused in recognition of a threat.

      Blaire froze, too. She knew the sound of a gunshot. She also knew that no one was supposed to be hunting during the night or during this season.

      What the hell? She couldn’t even tell exactly where it came from. The sound had echoed off the rocks and slopes of the mountain. As quiet as the night was, it might have come from miles away.

      Fifteen minutes later, the phone in her cabin started to ring.

      Her heart sank.

      * * *

      TEN MILES SOUTH in his cabin in the national forest, August Maddox, Gus to everyone, was also enduring a restless night. Darkness had two sides to it, one favorable and one threatening, depending. In spec ops, he’d favored it when he was on a stealthy mission and didn’t want to be detected. At other times, when he and his men were the prey, he hated it. The protection it sometimes afforded his troops could transform into deadliness in an instant.

      As a result, he endured an ongoing battle with night. Time was improving it, but on nights like this when sleep eluded him, he sometimes forced himself to step outside, allowing the inkiness to swallow him, standing fast against urges to take cover. He hated this in himself, felt it as an ugly, inexcusable weakness, but hating it didn’t make it go away.

      The fingernail moon provided a little light, and he used it to go around the side of the building to visit the three horses in the corral there. His own gelding, Scrappy, immediately stirred from whatever sleep he’d been enjoying and came to the rail to accept a few pats and nuzzle Gus in return.

      Sometimes Gus thought the horse was the only living being who understood him. Probably because Scrappy couldn’t talk, he often added in attempted lightness.

      But Scrappy did talk in his own way. He could communicate quite a bit with a toss of his head or a flick of his tail, not to mention the pawing of his feet. Tonight the horse seemed peaceful, though, and leaned into his hand as if trying to share the comfort.

      He should have brought a carrot, Gus thought. Stroking the horse’s neck, he asked, “Who gave you that silly name, Scrappy?”

      Of course the horse couldn’t answer, and Gus had never met anyone who could. The name had come attached to the animal, and no one had ever changed it. Which was okay, because Gus kind of liked it. Unusual. He was quite sure the word hadn’t been attached to another horse anywhere. It also made him wonder about the horse’s coltish days five or six years ago.

      Scrappy was a gorgeous, large pinto whose lines suggested Arabian somewhere in the past. He was surefooted in these mountains, though, which was far more important than speed. And he was evidently an animal who attached himself firmly, because Gus had found that when Scrappy was out of the corral, he’d СКАЧАТЬ