This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(47)

It’s an interesting way to start my morning. I don’t think my neighbors agree.

The cub is otherwise fine. I’d left a bed and food and water. I have to clean up piddle and poop, but I’m not taking him out for a walk until that leg is better. I moved all my blankets and cushions and rugs upstairs, so the damage is minimal. I tend to his leg, replace the food and water, and then I return home for my own breakfast.

At dawn, we’re off to visit Brent. It’s a long hike to the mountain where Brent has his cave. Before we leave, we remind Storm of Brady and Val’s scents, and every time the path branches off, we have her sniff. She finds nothing. As we draw near the mountain, though, she starts getting excited. Which would be exciting . . . if we weren’t on the path Brent uses daily. Storm is very fond of Brent, who always has dried bones for her.

When we reach the cave entrance, she plunks down with a sigh. She still fits, but she won’t for much longer. Once we get through, we shove a rock into the opening, the last thing we need is her wedging in and getting stuck. She sighs again and then sticks her head into the remaining opening to watch us mournfully.

Or that’s what she usually does. This time, when she sticks her head through, her nostrils flare, and she sniffs wildly as she whines.

“Storm, no,” I say. “Brent will come out. He’ll bring your bone.”

She keeps whining, but I’ve told her to stay and she obeys.

We’re going down the first passage when my light catches something on the wall. Dalton is ahead of me, and as I stop for a closer look, he glances back.

I have the penlight between my teeth so I can crawl. Now I take it out and shine it on the wall to see . . .

A handprint.

A red handprint.

“Eric . . .”

“He’s been hunting,” Dalton says. “Must have butchered up top. That’s what Storm smells.”

He says that, but he still moves faster, and I remember Storm whining on the path, getting excited, presumably she smelled Brent.

And if it wasn’t Brent? What if, instead, she picked up the very scents we asked her to find?

As we crawl, I tell myself I’m overreacting. Brady doesn’t know anything about Brent. He has no reason to come for him. No idea where to find him. The chances that Brady would just happen to take shelter in the same cave where Brent lives? Infinitesimal. The opening isn’t even visible from down the mountainside.

We reach the cavern that Brent calls home. There’s blood on the floor, large drops, some smeared. A shelf has been pulled down, contents spilled, another bloody handprint on the wall.

“Brent?” Dalton’s voice echoing through the cavern. “Brent!”

I’m following the blood. More smears here, like drag marks. They lead to the smaller cavern Brent uses for storage. I pull back the hide curtain. And there is Brent, lying on the floor, curled in fetal position, blood soaking his shirt, one hand pressed against it. His eyes are closed.

I bend to clear the low ceiling. Then I crouch beside him. My fingers go to his neck, and he stirs.

Dalton’s figure fills the entrance.

“He’s alive,” I say.

Barely. Brent’s eyelids flutter, but he can’t open them. His face is almost as white as his hair. He isn’t breathing hard enough for me to even see his chest rise. Then there’s the blood. A pool of it under him, his shirt soaked with it.

We get him out of that small cavern. That wakes him, crying in pain. Dalton wets a cloth as I gingerly peel up Brent’s shirt. I take the cloth and clean as carefully as I can. Brent whimpers, his eyes still shut, and Dalton tries to rouse him.

There’s a bullet hole through Brent’s stomach.

“Diagnosis dead?” a papery voice whispers.

I turn. His eyes are barely open, but he’s trying to smile.

“I know the diagnosis,” he says. “Dead from the moment the bullet hit. Body just hasn’t realized it yet.”

He’s right. If he’d been steps from a hospital when he’d been shot, he might have survived. Even that is unlikely. And now . . .

Tears well. I blink them back hard.

“Casey?” Brent says. “I already know.”

“I can try—”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Let’s not waste my time. Not much left.”

“You want a drink?” Dalton asks.

Brent manages a hoarse laugh. “I would love a drink.”

Dalton takes a bottle from the backpack we brought. A gift for Brent, in return for his bounty hunting services.

Brent cranes his neck up. “Is that . . . ?”

“Scotch. I’m told it’s the good stuff. Bought it a while back, in case you ever had anything better to trade than skinny-assed bucks. Never did. But I guess you can have it now.”

Brent laughs, knowing full well that Dalton would have bought this on his last trip, after Brent and I argued over the merits of Scotch versus tequila.

Dalton pours him a glass full.

“Trying to get me drunk?” Brent says.

“Yeah, hoping those conspiracy theories of yours might make more sense if you’re loaded.” He hands him the glass. “Got any theories on who did that to you?”

“It’s the bastard you were keeping in that town of yours. Kid told me you think he’s some kinda killer. Insisted he’s not.” Brent looks down at his gut. “Seems he lied.”