Breaking Free: A Colorado High Country Crossover Novel, Pamela Clare [i can read book club .TXT] 📗

fell. At first, I figured they belonged to you, but you’re both wearing cowboy boots. Some of these tracks have deep tread with a circle in the center of the heel. What kind of boots were you wearing when you covered the site?”

Nate lifted a foot, showed Jason the tread. “These same cowboy boots.”

Jack scowled. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Jason stood, led them back toward the gate. “There are drops of dried blood on the grass. I also found tracks with that same deep tread, as well as a few wolf tracks. The wolf left the pasture the same way you entered it—through that gate.”

Winona met his gaze, understanding in her eyes. “The wolf didn’t kill the steer.”

Jason looked from Nate to Jack. “Your predator walks on two legs.”

“Son of a bitch.” Jack removed his cowboy hat, ran a hand through his gray hair.

Nate swore under his breath. “A poacher.”

“That fits with what Winona found on the remains of the head.” Jack left it to Winona to explain.

“There are tooth pits and scoring on the bones, which could be from a wolf. I think coyotes and a squirrel got at it, too. But on the last vertebra, there’s a striation that must have come from a knife.”

Jason put the pieces together. “Someone killed the steer, probably with a firearm. Then he dressed it, cut it into manageable pieces, bagged it, and carried it away. The wolf probably fed on the viscera and the head.”

Nate glanced back down at the wolf track. “The wolf must have been drawn by the scent of carrion.”

Jason wasn’t sure about that. “Winona’s the wolf expert.”

“A wolf would definitely be drawn by the smell of the kill. Wolves aren’t obligate carnivores, so, unlike mountain lions, they do eat the digestive organs of ungulates, including the rumen. It could have followed the scent trail left by the blood droplets over to the gate. An adult wolf would have no trouble jumping over the fence. But there’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?” Jack asked.

Winona seemed to hesitate. “It’s just a hunch.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“It’s strange that you found wolf tracks at all of the kills. I would expect a lone wolf to range over a territory of hundreds of square miles. There’s a chance that the wolf might belong to the poacher.”

Winona helped Jason cover the spot where the steer was killed to protect the evidence. She was conscious of his every movement, every breath, every glance, her senses heightened, some kind of awareness stretching between them.

He’s taken. Don’t forget that.

“Hold the tarp down so I can hammer in these stakes.”

She dropped to her knees and held down one edge of the tarp, fighting to keep the wind from taking it.

Jason glanced up, his gaze catching Winona’s. “Are you disappointed that it’s not a wolf pack?”

“A little.” Winona couldn’t deny it. “I would love to see wild wolves back in Colorado. I’m also relieved. At least now, I don’t have to worry that ranchers are going to start killing them out of fear for their livestock.”

“You can’t shoot what isn’t there.”

“I’m impressed with how quickly you put it together.” She’d only watched him work for a few minutes, but she’d found it mesmerizing—the way he moved, the concentration on his handsome face, his ability to read the land at a glance. “Who taught you to cut sign?”

“My grandfather. He and my grandmother took me in after my parents were murdered. They taught me about the Tohono O’odham himdag, our way of life. They made sure I learned the traditional skills so I could pass them down one day.”

Winona stared at him. “Your parents were … murdered?”

The word cut through her like cold barbed wire, sent chills down her spine. Some part of her wanted to tell Jason that she’d almost been murdered, too. But she wouldn’t open that door. She couldn’t. Besides, this wasn’t about her.

“The police said it was drug traffickers.” Jason hammered in another stake, his face downturned so she couldn’t see his expression. “They were shot execution-style while coming back one night from my grandparents’ home on the Mexican side, their bodies left in the desert.”

“I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“So young.” She’d been only ten when her mother had died. “I guess that’s why you became a federal agent.”

He hammered in another stake. “Yeah.”

“I’m glad your grandparents were there for you. You grew up on the Mexican side? You must speak Spanish.”

“Sí, por supuesto.” He grinned. “All O’odham speak English and Spanish, as well as our own language. We all have dual citizenship, too—US and Mexican.”

“Our grandparents taught Chaska and me Lakota. There aren’t that many Lakota people who still speak the language, especially young people.”

“Have you thought about going back to Pine Ridge to teach Lakota classes? It sounds like they need you.”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I’d be a good teacher. I wouldn’t want to leave the clinic or move far away from Chaska.”

Jason reached for another stake. “You two are close.”

“When I was little, our mother had too much to drink one night and got lost in a snowstorm. Chaska and I found her the next morning, frozen to death, just ten feet from our front door.”

Jason’s head came up, sympathy in his dark eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Our dad had a girlfriend and wasn’t around much, so Chaska took care of me. For a time, all we had was each other. He kept me safe, got me to school, and made sure I had something to eat every day until our grandparents came for us.”

“He sounds like a good big brother.”

“The best.”

“Where’s your father now? Or maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

“I’ve had a hard time forgiving him for being unfaithful to our mother and abandoning us. He and Chaska were on speaking terms for a while after Chaska completed his fourth Sun Dance. But then Chaska caught him taking money from non-Native tourists for bogus ceremonies—vision quests, naming ceremonies, and the like. That was the last