Page 38 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
I’m still considering that when Dalton returns with Anders. I show our deputy the scene and explain to both what I found on the campfire, complete with photos.
“Wasn’t there something like that with the hostiles?” Anders asks. “Weird shit marking their territory?”
“This doesn’t seem like a territorial marker, but yes, there’s a troubling resemblance.”
“Also don’t like Louie just happening to show up again,” Dalton says. “I confiscated his boots to check against that heel mark.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Last night, he conducted his own bear hunt because he claimed to be an expert … and proved he wasn’t. Tonight, he conducted his own missing-person search while, again, claiming expertise he doesn’t possess.”
“The man really does think we’re morons, as he puts it.”
“Ready to swallow any story he feeds us? Both of his reasons for being out here do seem like half-assed excuses. First, he’s searching for Max. Then, he claims to think Max is dead, which doesn’t explain his fervor to search after dark. Finally, he’s aiming blame at Max’s mom.”
“Eric told me about that,” Anders says. “Louie doesn’t believe Dana and her husband were innocent victims. Love how he jumped on ‘drug cartel.’ Wouldn’t have anything to do with Dana being Latinx, would it?”
“Right? Again, I’m not sure he even cares whether we take him seriously. He’s blowing smoke in our eyes.”
“Better than blowing it up our asses.”
I shake my head, and we search the clearing until we’re certain there’s nothing left to find.
* * *
I wake up to a sight even lovelier than the northern lights. Dalton is in our bedroom doorway, dressed only in a pair of sweatpants. His hands are braced on the top of the open doorway, and he’s stretching, which probably means his muscles are stiff, and I should feel a pang of sympathy, but I’m too busy admiring the view. He’s stretching up on his toes, sweatpants riding down, muscles flexed.
“Mmm,” I say. “Looking good, Sheriff. Any chance I can get breakfast to go and use my extra time more wisely?”
His mouth quirks in a slow smile. “I believe that could be arranged. I was just coming up to see whether you were stirring. If not, I wasn’t going to wake you.”
I waggle my brows. “I could pretend I was still sleeping if you want to try waking me.”
“Any suggestions for how I could do that?”
“Oh, I have all the suggestions.” I flip over to brace on my elbow, but at the sudden move my stomach lurches, and I gag.
“Casey?” He hurries forward.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Wow. Definitely not sexy.”
He pushes to sit beside me and lowers me back to the bed. “You look green.”
“Is that a thing?” I say, struggling for a smile.
“Never thought so, but hell, yeah.” His hand goes to my forehead. “Let me get April.”
“For a two-second bout of nausea caused by a lack of sleep?” I shake my head. “I’m just annoyed by the timing. I was looking forward to that wake-up, and now I’ve spoiled it.”
I’m waiting for him to say it’s not spoiled. That’s what he’d normally do if something—often a lumbering canine—interrupted us. Resolve the issue as quickly and efficiently as possible and then continue. When he doesn’t, my stomach tightens, which only makes it lurch again.
“You really don’t look good,” he says.
“I’m fine.” It’s a little brusque, and I apologize for that with a cheek kiss. “We’ll skip the diversion, but only if you’ll promise I get to wake up again to you stretching in the doorway, ’cause that was hot.”
He chuckles under his breath and kisses my forehead. “If you think it’s hot, you’re going to see it until you’ll be gagging to make me stop.”
“Oh, that’s not happening.”
“Give it thirty years, when I’m looking a little worse for wear.”
