This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(20)

A low growl sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder to see a muzzle and eyes peering from a clump of weeds.





11





“Is that a . . . ?” Anders begins.

He doesn’t finish, but I know what he was going to say. It looks like a wolf—the size, the build, the ears, the muzzle shape, and the white and gray fur. But there are brown spots in that gray, and its face is freckled.

“Wolf-dog,” I murmur.

“Shit,” Anders says.

It’s the dog part that worries me. I hear wolves almost every night, but I’ve only spotted them deep in the forest, as they catch wind of us and disappear like ghosts. Dogs are another matter. They’re feral, descended from those either released or escaped from Rockton, back in a time when pets were allowed. Those canines don’t always slip away like wolves. Even a few generations removed, they retain their fearlessness around humans.

I aim my gun. I don’t want to. But this is Dalton’s rule. If a feral dog makes an aggressive move, we must shoot to kill.

I can’t tell with this one. It’s watching me just as carefully as I’m watching it.

“Got your gun ready?” I ask Anders.

“I do.”

“Count of three. Three, two, one—”

I lunge at the wolf-dog and let out a snarl. I’m hoping it’ll run. It doesn’t. Nor does it attack. It just hunkers down and snarls back, fur bristling. Anders curses some more, and I agree. We like our decisions cut-and-dry, and the universe isn’t complying these days, not even with a damned dog.

“Protocol is to shoot,” Anders says. “If it doesn’t back down, we put it down.”

I notice he doesn’t actually shoot. He’s waiting for me to say yes, that’s what we have to do. When I say, “Wait,” he exhales in relief.

I hunker to crouch.

“Good idea,” Anders says. “Submissive pose. See if it attacks.”

Which isn’t what I’m doing at all. I’m taking a closer look at something I’ve spotted.

“She’s nursing,” I say. “Her cubs must be nearby.”

“Right. Okay. So we leave her.”

“As long as she doesn’t attack, yes. I’m going to pick up the rifle, and we’ll back off slowly.”

The wolf-dog stands her ground, allowing me to get the gun and start backing up. Then she follows, stiff-legged.

“Making sure we leave?” Anders says.

“I hope so.”

When we’ve made it about halfway to the others, I call, “Eric?”

“Here.”

“Our shooter is gone. He left his gun. But we’ve got a wolf-dog backing us off. It’s a nursing mother.”

“Fuck.”

I don’t ask if he wants us to shoot. If he does, he’ll say so. Instead, he calls, “Jacob?”

There’s a murmur of voices. Jacob appears. He ducks to peer under a branch and gets a look at the canine.

“That’s Freckles,” he says. “She’s not usually a problem. It’s the cubs making her defensive.”

I don’t comment on him “naming” the wolf-dog. That’s not what he’s done. It’s just a way to identify her, the same way people name ponds and hills and other landmarks.

Jacob tells us to keep backing away. When the canine continues to follow, he lunges and growls, and she freezes. There’s a five-second stare-down. Then the wolf-dog snorts and stays where she is, letting us retreat.

“You need to be more intimidating, Case,” Anders says.

“Nah,” Jacob says. “You just need to learn the stare . . . and know which animals you can use it on. Do that to a boar grizzly, and you’re dead where you stand. She was just making sure you got away from her litter.”

We return to the others. Anders and I go straight to Dalton. That’s when our sheriff sees the rifle.

“Fuck, no,” he say.

“Fuck, yes,” Anders says. “Now give me that arm.”

“We need to—”

“Arm. Now.”

Dalton lifts his arm for Anders to examine. Residents joke about Dalton being the alpha dog in Rockton. He is, and no one disputes that. But people aren’t animals, and the idea of one person being in charge, at all times, in all situations, is bullshit. This winter, when Dalton contracted the flu in Dawson City, Anders happily turned to me and said, “You’re up.” You play sheriff for a few days. He didn’t want the job. Yet all he has to do is adopt this tone, and Dalton shuts up and listens.

As Anders examines him, Dalton shoots glances my way. He’s trying not to look at the rifle. Trying not to tip off Brady, who’s watching us intently. He’s also trying to hide the worry in his eyes.

“Does it matter?” I say. “Threat-wise? Six of one, half dozen of the other.”

Brady’s brows furrow. Dalton nods. He understands my verbal shorthand. This gun is from Rockton. That suggests our shooter is also from Rockton. On the surface, that’s alarming, but what’s the alternative? An external sniper would mean someone sent to kill Brady. Someone who came from Brady’s world.

The two situations are equally dangerous.

Most pressing right now is Dalton’s arm. Jacob and I are both hovering as Anders works. I see Brady watching, and I want to pull back, tug Jacob with me, but that’s pointless. One glance at Jacob, and Brady can tell he’s Dalton’s brother. And if Brady hasn’t figured out that Dalton and I are lovers, he’s going to soon.