Wyoming Bold (9781460320891) Page 6

  “At my house or yours?” he asked as he started it.

  “Mine. And please, hurry!” she said. “It may be too late already!”

  He didn’t spare the engine.

  They pulled up in front of Merissa’s cabin and ran onto the porch. Merissa worked her key in the lock, fumbled and finally opened it.

  “Mom!” she called frantically. “Mom!”

  There were sounds of movement. A door opened. Clara came out into the hall, a little foggy, laughing.

  “Here I am. What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw their worried faces.

  “I...had a feeling,” Merissa said, hating to put it even into words, for fear it might come true.

  “A feeling?” Clara asked gently, and now she was frowning, too.

  Merissa relaxed. She laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She turned to Tank. “I rushed you home for nothing!”

  “It’s always good to check,” Tank replied gently. “I’m beginning to put a lot of confidence in your ‘feelings.’”

  She smiled at him warmly. “Thanks.”

  “What sort of feeling?” Clara asked, because she knew that Merissa didn’t give way to panic.

  “I don’t know. Something dangerous. Something planned.” She closed her eyes. “Soon. Very soon.” She opened her eyes. “I don’t know what!” she groaned.

  Clara hugged her. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll be okay.”

  “Just in case,” Tank said slowly, “I’m going to put a man over here, to keep an eye on the place.”

  “That would be so kind of you,” Clara began.

  Merissa frowned. “Do I smell smoke?”

  They split up, going from room to room. All of a sudden, the fire detector in the back bedroom went off like an explosion.

  Tank ran ahead of the women, rushed into the room and stopped dead. There was smoke coming from an extension cord. Beside it, a squirrel was squirming in agony.

  “Oh, dear,” Clara murmured. “I forgot to close the flue in here... Squirrels love to come in the cabin and build nests in the ceiling.” She grimaced. “Is he dead?”

  Tank picked him up. The squirrel was shivering. “He’s not dead, but he’s going to need some attention. I have a friend who’s a wildlife rehabilitator. I’ll call him as soon as I get home. Have you got a shoebox and an old towel?”

  Clara rushed to get them for him so that he could transport the injured squirrel.

  “I’ll unplug it.”

  “Be careful, honey,” he told her.

  She glanced at him and flushed prettily. She laughed and eased the plug out of the wall.

  He loved that blush. He loved calling her pet names. She was the sweetest woman he’d ever known.

  “You think he’ll be okay?” she asked, gently touching the head of the injured squirrel.

  “Careful, he may bite,” he said.

  “Oh, they never bite me. I’ve picked up all sorts of injured things, even a snake, once. I had to put a bandage on his back. Weed eater got him,” she said ruefully.

  “You aren’t afraid of snakes?” he asked, curious.

  “I’m terrified of them,” she said. “But he was bleeding and obviously in pain. So I picked him up. He didn’t seem to mind, even when I started putting antibiotic ointment and a big Band-Aid on him. I had to take him to a wildlife rehabilitator, too. I wonder if it’s the one you know?”

  He chuckled. “Probably. There aren’t too many of them around Catelow.” He paused. “What sort of snake was he?”

  She blinked. “I don’t really know. He was quite large.”

  “Color?”

  She described it.

  He burst out laughing. “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it. That’s a rattlesnake, you crazy woman! They’re deadly poisonous!”

  “Are they? He was very tolerant. He didn’t even rattle when I put him in the box and took him to the rehabilitator. I guess that explains why he was upset when I wanted him to let the snake go. He didn’t tell me.”

  He was amazed, and it showed. “Truly gifted,” he murmured.

  “Animals like me, I suppose,” she said shyly. “I have to shoo the birds away from the feeders. One stood on my wrist while I filled up the tube feeder.”

  “I like you, too,” he said softly, searching her pale eyes.

  Her lips parted on a quick breath. “You do?”

  He smiled.

  “I mean, you’re not afraid I might turn you into a frog or something in a temper?” she asked, not quite facetiously.

  “You don’t have a cat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Everybody knows that witches keep cats,” he pointed out. “Look it up.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “Should I tell him about the two stray cats we feed every morning?” Clara teased as she came back with a shoebox and a piece of towel.

  “Shh!” Merissa said quickly, putting her finger to her lips.

  They all laughed.

  Tank made holes in the top of the shoebox while Merissa held the squirrel.

  “You’re going to be just fine, don’t worry,” she told the little animal. It looked up at her from wide, dilated eyes. It was still shivering.

  “I think it’s in shock,” Tank said. He took the squirrel and put it gently in the box with the towel and closed it up. “I’ll call my buddy right away.”

  “You’ll let us know?” Merissa asked.

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  “I hope they don’t eat the wiring in the attic,” Clara said nervously. “I’m going to close the flue right now!”

  “At least he’s a boy squirrel. We don’t have to worry about any babies in a nest inside that the mother couldn’t get to,” Merissa said. “They say if it’s a mother squirrel and you close her access, the babies will all die. It’s so sad.”

  “True. But so are electrical fires.” Tank glanced at the wall where the cord had been plugged in. “Don’t use that until I can get one of my men over here to check the wiring.”

  “Okay,” Merissa said. “Thanks. I’m terrified of fire.”

  “Me, too,” Clara seconded.

  “Not much danger of that, just from a blown extension cord, especially when you’re standing beside it when it blows. But it’s always best to be cautious. I’ll take our friend home with me. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he told Merissa.

  She grinned. “Okay.”

  He grinned back. “Good night.”

  They went out to the porch to see him off. He waved as he went down the driveway, still covered with the remains of the snowstorm.

  They went back into the living room. The small Christmas tree they’d put up that day was beautiful with its colored lights. Clara didn’t have them set to flash because it gave Merissa headaches. It was pretty just the same. Clara put an arm around Merissa’s shoulders. “So now I can see which way the wind is blowing, and I don’t even need to be psychic.” She laughed.

  Merissa leaned her head against her mother’s. “I’m so happy. I never expected to find anyone who’d like me the way I am.”

  “I thought I had, once,” Clara said quietly. “I made a terrible mistake. And you paid more for it even than I did.”

  Merissa was very still. “Dalton knows.”

  “What?”

  “He knows, about what Dad did. He said if he’d known us back then, my father would have gone to prison for it.”

  “I lived in terror for so many years, afraid that Bill would return, that he’d find us, that he’d want to get even with me for divorcing him,” Clara confessed.

  “Do you know where he is?” Merissa asked worriedly.

  Clara shook her head. “The last I heard, from his cousin who’s still in to
uch with me, he was working on the docks in California. I hope he stays there.”

  “So do I,” Merissa replied. “Oh, so do I!”

  * * *

  TANK DROVE THE squirrel to the rehabilitator. It was necessary, because law prevented any veterinarian from treating a wild animal. That had to be done by a trained rehabilitator, and there were so few that many injured animals died. The rehabilitators were so overworked that many just stopped answering their phones in self-defense, not having realized the incredible number of injured wild animals they were signing up to treat. The law was in place to protect animals and the public, but it seemed to Tank that it was designed to let wounded wildlife die. Like so many other little-known laws, its good intentions sometimes were outweighed by its tragic consequences.

  “At least this one will live,” Tank told Greg Barnes, his friend.

  “Yeah, he’s just shocked and burned a bit.” Greg chuckled. “A couple of days rest and some good food, and he’ll be back out chewing up electrical cords again.” He put the squirrel in a clean cage with water and food. Nearby were many other cages, containing a raccoon with a bandaged leg, a wolf with a leg missing, even a raven with a broken wing.

  “What happened to all of these?” Tank asked.

  “Kids with guns” came the irritated reply. “A teenager shot the raven for sport. I had words with him and his father, and court action is pending.”

  Tank shook his head. “And the wolf?”

  “Ate two of a rancher’s calves. He was trapped. He lost the leg and would have died if I hadn’t found him. People and wild animals just don’t mix.”

  “Ranchers have to live.”

  The rehabilitator nodded. “So they do. Nobody wins in a situation like this. The rancher is being fined for trapping the wolf. It’s an endangered species. The rancher said his calves were also endangered, but it won’t help him.” He glanced at Tank. “Most of the people who write law concerning wild animals have never seen one.” He had a strange, wicked look on his face. “You know, I have this recurring daydream about putting a couple of these legislators in a room with several hungry wolves...” He sighed. “Well, never mind. But I guarantee it would change attitudes. The survivors would probably legislate for change.” He put his hand to the wolf’s muzzle through the cage and stroked it. The wolf didn’t seem to mind. “Not you, old fellow,” he said gently. “There are sweet wolves and mean wolves. Sort of like people.” He glanced at Tank. “But in the wild, a wolf is going to do what comes naturally, whether it’s kill and eat elk or cattle. The trick is to make sure the numbers aren’t so big that the habitat can support the pack and they don’t resort to raiding cattle ranches.”

  “Don’t tell me. Tell Congress.”

  “Wouldn’t I love to tell Congress how I feel about what goes on in the real world out here. How do you tell a wolf it can’t cross a property line? Or a raven that if it goes to ground hunting a rabbit it’s likely to be shot in lieu of a target?”

  “At least you’re trying to help,” Tank pointed out.

  Greg smiled. “Trying to. Yes.” He waved an arm around the room full of cages. “I have two more rooms like this.” He cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Ever wonder why I’m not married?”

  Tank chuckled. “Not really. I don’t know a lot of women who’d like to share space with a wolf. Even one in a cage.”

  “Got a cougar in the other room. A ferret and a couple of skunks. All victims of trapping.” He shook his head. “The raven was a special case, I mostly do mammals.”

  “Who brought him to you?”

  He grimaced. “The boy’s mother. His dad thought it was great, how he hit the raven on the fly. His mother was horrified.”

  “Good for her. I like to target shoot, but I don’t do it with animals. Well, except deer, in hunting season,” he amended. “I love venison.”

  “Me, too,” Greg confessed. “That’s rather a different case. Not enough forage for an overpopulation of deer, so we hunt the excess to keep the herds healthy. Can’t explain that to outsiders, either. We’re killing Bambi.”

  “Bambi can kill you with those hooves,” Tank commented. “They’re like razor blades.”

  “Indeed they are. Deer are powerful, especially the bucks, with those big racks.”

  “Think the squirrel will live?”

  “If he doesn’t it won’t be my fault,” Greg said. He smiled. “I love animals.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll find a woman who does, too.”

  He shrugged. “Or not.” He eyed Tank. “You got this squirrel from Merissa Baker, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “No comments about curdling milk,” Tank said defensively.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” Greg replied. “She’s got this way with animals, is what I meant,” he said. “Brought me a snake one day that she’d bandaged. She was afraid the bandage wouldn’t stay on.” He whistled. “Biggest damned timber rattler I ever saw, and it was lying in her arms like a baby. Minute I touched it, it tried to strike at me. But I bandaged it and nursed it back to health and turned it loose.”

  “She told me about that.” Tank laughed. He shook his head. “Some gift.”

  “Some gift. There are people among the Cheyenne tribe here who have it. I’ve seen them gentle wild horses with just light touches and tone of voice. You know,” he added, “maybe there’s something to this theory that everything has a soul.”

  Tank held up both hands. “I have to go.”

  “Just thinking out loud, is all.” Greg chuckled. “Anyway, your squirrel is going to be fine. Might not be a bad idea to truck him up north a few miles to turn him loose. For the sake of the wiring in Merissa’s house, that is.”

  “I was thinking the same thing!”

  * * *

  TANK WENT BACK HOME. He was still laughing about the snake.

  “What’s funny?” Mallory asked with a grin.

  Tank smiled. “Merissa once took a snake to Greg Barnes for treatment.”

  Mallory shook his head. “I’ll bet she hates snakes, too.”

  “She does, but that isn’t what makes the story curious. It was a timber rattler.”

  Mallory’s eyes grew larger. “It didn’t bite her?”

  “Greg said she brought it in, holding it in her arms, and it just laid there. Until he tried to work on it, that is, and it struck at him.” He laughed at his brother’s expression. “She has a way with animals.”

  “A timber rattler.” He sighed. “Well, that’s one for the books.”

  Tank nodded and smiled.

  Mallory was watching him with interest. “Things heating up, are they?”

  Tank was surprised. “How would you know that?”

  “You’re my brother. It isn’t like you to take an interest in a woman. Well, it’s not an everyday thing, at least.” Mallory was alluding to his own wife, Morie, in whom Tank had been briefly interested before he realized that Mallory’s antagonism to her was concealing a growing passion.

  “I love Morie like a sister,” Tank said quickly. “Just in case you wondered.”

  Mallory clapped him on the shoulder. “I know you better than that.”

  “We had a very nice supper,” he recalled with a smile.

  “I like the food at that place, too,” Mallory began.

  “We went to a Chinese place in Powell,” Tank corrected.

  Mallory’s eyebrows lifted. “Why?”

  He shrugged, and jerked his head toward the base phone on Mallory’s desk in a corner of the living room. “Just wanted a change.”

  “I see.” And Mallory did see. He was aware of the bugs.

  Just as he said that, Rourke strolled in, one brown eye twinkling beside the one with the eye patch. His blond hair was thick and combed. He was wearing khakis, a habit
from South Africa, where he lived, and he looked very smug.

  “Fourteen bugs,” he said. “I tweaked them all. He’ll be listening, alternately, to ball games from San Francisco, police calls from Catelow and pings from the International Space Station.” He grinned.

  They laughed. “Well, that’s a relief. I was afraid to say anything out loud,” Tank told him. “In fact, I took my girl to a restaurant in Powell because I was afraid they might have bugged the one in Catelow since I mentioned it in front of the phone.” He hesitated. “I’m probably paranoid.”

  “You’re not,” Rourke commented. “They probably did have someone standing by to slip a bug under the table wherever you sat. Someone working as a temporary waiter.”

  “You’re good,” Tank mused.

  Rourke shrugged. “Years of practice. I used to work for Interpol, a long time ago. But the pay was somewhat less than I earn with small arms in dangerous places.”

  “Hazardous work,” Mallory commented.

  Rourke nodded. “But it’s what I do best.” He sighed. “There’s a revolution going on in a country near mine. Near Kenya. I was on my way there when you called for help.” He smiled at Tank’s guilty expression.

  Tank knew about Rourke’s friend, Tat. He almost mentioned what Merissa had told him but he paused. She’d warned him to say nothing or it might cost the photojournalist her life. He kept his silence.

  “Sorry about that,” Tank said gently.

  Rourke shrugged again. “No big deal. I can go later. It’s not as if the war will be over in a day or two. Sad case. The president of the country is Harvard-educated, he’s brilliant and he has a feel for politics. His opponent comes from some dusty backwater village and he can’t even sign his own name.” His expression became grim. “He’s ordered women and children butchered for daring to help the government forces, in ways I can’t even tell you about. It’s like tribal warfare back in the 1800s, only worse.” He looked at Tank. “Even having been in a war in the Middle East, you have no idea how warfare is conducted in such places. I’ve been shot at by eight-year-olds with AK-47s.”

  “Child soldiers.” Tank’s expression was eloquent. “People who employ them should be tried and shot.”