his head and then bobbed it in a nod, even while squinting questionably. “Yes?”
“She’s one of my rehab residents.”
“That’s right, you rehabilitate animals. I’m not even going to ask about the sweater.” He followed the chicken’s retreat across the yard until she scrambled around the side of the house.
“Uh…come inside.” Skylar stepped back and allowed him to enter the log cabin where she’d been living for two years.
When her father passed, the family land had become her possession, as she was his only child. At least, it was hers according to a handwritten note Merlin Davis had written a week before his death. Skylar had lived in the house until she’d moved to Duluth for college. Eventually, she’d made her way back to the town of Checker Hill and set up shop as the resident veterinarian. She’d never gotten much business. The townspeople were leery of the name Davis. Now this home felt too big for one person, but it was a comfort to nestle onto the aged leather sofa in the evenings, blanket wrapped about her shoulders, and admire the photos of her and her dad that she kept on each and every wall.
“You want something to drink? I’ve got lemonade.”
Joe grabbed her by the upper arm to stop her from fleeing across the open floor plan living area and into the kitchen.
“What is it?” She shrugged out of his grasp with a huff. He looked concerned now. Too much so. She didn’t want any man’s pity.
“Seriously? Skylar, I’m not here for lemonade. I’m here to make sure you’re okay. And not bleeding.” He looked from her head down to her shoulders and all the way to her feet, then back up again. “And—where did the shots come from? Do you know who it was? How long has it been? I should go outside and take a look around. It’s this way, right?”
He headed through the living area and skirted the long quartz kitchen counter. Toward the back of the house sat the screened-in sunporch that stretched the width of the cabin and overlooked the lake. Once before, he’d been in this cabin. When her father had been dying, he’d come to pay his respects. But how dare he traipse on through—
Skylar stopped herself from reprimanding him. He was here on duty. And she had called the police for help, much as her better judgment had screamed for her not to. Would she hear about this from her uncle? On the other hand, maybe Malcolm Davis already knew about the incident. And, yes, that thought sickened Skylar.
“Just through the sliding doors,” she called to Joe. “You can take the deck stairs down to the backyard.”
After grabbing her cowboy hat, which rested on the back of the couch and which she wore like any other woman might wear earrings or a favorite necklace, she followed the man’s bowlegged pace out to the deck.
Standing on the high wood deck, which was stilted ten feet up due to the slope of the ground below, Joe took in everything. The perimeter of the yard was round, echoing out from the firepit in the center. Surrounding the yard were striped hostas that grew thick and lush in the shade provided by the paper birch and sugar maple.
He took the stairs down to the ground. “Where were you? Were you burning a fire?”
He walked over to the fire pit and peered over it. Burnt cedar lingered in the air. As well, the grass was speckled with gray ash flakes from her hastily dowsing the flames with the garden hose after calling the sheriff.
Skylar cringed when she noticed the wedding dress was only half burned and melted among the charred logs. She hadn’t thought to cover up what she’d been doing. It had been a personal moment. A much-needed ritual of release. A reclaiming of her power.
Joe scratched his head. Hands at his hips, head cocked downward, he stared at the remnants of the dress. Skylar didn’t want to answer the question that must be lighting all the circuits in his brain right now.
“Tell me everything,” he said. Then he stretched his gaze around the backyard and out toward the lake. “Did you get a look at the shooter? Were they on your property? Cruising by in a boat? Partyers out for a spin on the lake?”
“I don’t know.” Skylar walked over to the smoldering fire pit and stood beside the hitching post, which she utilized as a stand to hang roasting sticks and an emergency water bucket she always kept filled when she was burning.
“I was burning a few things. And… I was about here.” She stepped to the right a few feet and Joe turned to eye her intently. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. The golden evening light, beaming through the tree canopy, granted his eyes a rich emerald cast. Everything about the man was intense, dark and—waiting on her.
“Yes, here,” she decided, stomping her boot toe into the grass. “I was talking to Stella—”
“There was someone else here?”
“Stella, my wolf.”
“Your…wolf?” He hooked his hands in the back pockets of his pants and looked about. “What the—? You took in a wolf cub?”
“Stella has been with me a few years. I found her in a snare trap when she was a pup. I hate it when hunters call those things humane. They are anything but. I took her to the office in town and had to amputate her back leg. Since then, she’s flourished. She’s not around right now.”
Skylar scanned the area. The wolf must be off with the half-dozen chickens—surprisingly, her best friends. Stella was protective of Skylar, but she always left the immediate area when visitors or company arrived. She was a little skittish until she could scent out the newcomer, and then she would eventually put in an appearance.
“I do rehabilitate animals,” Skylar pointed out to Joe, who nodded.
“Right. I just thought keeping a wolf as a pet…”
“I have a permit.”
“Sure. Still, they are a wild animal.” He gave her a side glance that dripped with judgment.
“She had nowhere else to go. I tried to get her to return to the pack, but they wouldn’t have it.”
“Uh-huh.” He wasn’t having it, either.
Yes, wolves were wild and should never be kept as pets. Skylar agreed with that wholeheartedly. But when injured and abandoned by their pack, the wolf’s only future was living as a loner. And for a pup living out in the wild populated with predators, the fate was most certainly a cruel death.
It didn’t matter to her what Joe thought of her choice to keep Stella. Skylar loved her like a family member.
“So you were standing right there and…?” he prompted.
“I was watching the flames, talking to Stella and…at first I felt something on my ear. Thought it was a wicked mosquito bite.”
She touched her ear and Joe stepped forward. It was well past the supper hour, and the forest edging her backyard filtered the setting sun, turning it into a hazy twilight. He dug out a small flashlight from a back pocket and shone it on her ear. The man stood so close she could smell his aftershave—something subtle yet masculine with a hint of lemony citronella.
He examined her ear, which had been nicked on the top and had bled minimally. Of course, she’d gasped at the sight of it in the bathroom mirror. She’d never been so close to being killed in her life. And that had angered more than frightened her. What would have become of Stella and the other animals she cared for if she had died? The thought of them being relocated, or worse, was heart wrenching.
As Joe looked her over, she studied his face. There were three Cash brothers, all born and raised in Crooked Creek, a sister town to Checker Hill. There wasn’t a female in either of the two close towns who didn’t know who they were, because those boys were genetic anomalies, fashion models roughed up by the wild. Sinuous and muscular. So sexy. And Joe’s deep green eyes were a thing to behold.
“If that bullet had been half an inch closer…” The man suddenly bowed his head and winced.