Untamed: Duty Bound Book 3
Untamed
Duty Bound, Book 3
J.S. Marlo
Breathless Press
Calgary, Alberta
www.breathlesspress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Untamed: Duty Bound Book 3
Copyright © 2013 J.S. Marlo
ISBN: 978-1-77101-952-1
Cover Artist: Mina Carter
Editor: Megan Martin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Breathless Press
www.breathlesspress.com
Dedication:
To Joe and the kids. Love you!
Acknowledgments:
Teresa and Tara, without your inspiration and support, I may never have gathered the courage to write a deaf heroine. I hope I did Hannah justice. Thanks!
Kim, you spoke so fondly of Newfoundland that I had no choice but to post Avery in your beautiful corner of Canada. I hope you enjoy.
Megan, working with you was a pleasure. Thank you for being my new editor.
Many, many hugs!
J.S.
Chapter One
This wasn’t reckless. It was insane.
Sensible women don’t search for a dog at sundown when a snowstorm looms on the horizon, ready to strike.
Every bone in Hannah Parker’s body agreed this was a bad idea, but her heart refused to listen.
The female rat terrier meant everything to her son. She couldn’t let the little dog freeze in the bitter February cold. Not only would it be wrong, it would also be cruel.
Snowflake, what possessed you to run away in such weather?
Hannah swerved between the trees in a part of the forest she hadn’t ventured in since October. The vibration of the snowmobile coursed through her body, and the single headlight illuminated the paw prints in the fresh snow.
How did you manage to run this far?
The feisty dog liked to chase after squirrels, grouse, and rabbits, but she didn’t usually venture kilometers away from the cabin.
Twigs and branches Hannah couldn’t avoid scratched her winter coat. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Behind her, her son was harnessed to the seat, the visor of his yellow helmet down. Rory should be in his pajamas leafing through his picture book in front of the fireplace, not bundled up in a snowsuit, but she couldn’t leave him alone in the cabin. They only had each other—and Snowflake.
A clearing opened ahead, and the wind picked up, prickling the exposed flesh around her mouth. The evergreens shook, their branches heavy from the last snow dump they’d received a few days ago. Powdery snow swirled into the darkening night, lowering visibility and erasing the paw prints.
A path where Hannah often hiked during the summer skirted the clearing. She followed it to an old log bridge. No one knew who’d built it or when, but the structure had withstood years of abuse at the hands of Mother Nature—until now.
The handrail and the post on the left side were broken, as if something had smashed into them. In September, Hannah had come fishing here with Rory and they’d caught five trout in the creek flowing underneath the bridge. Before she’d let her son lean against the handrail, she’d shaken it to ensure its solidity. Back then it’d been intact.
She parked the snowmobile a few feet from the broken post, lifted her visor, and turned toward her son. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
His head bobbed up and down. At four years old, Rory could be trusted to follow her directives. Leaving the engine running, she disembarked.
There was a ledge under the platform where birds nested, the perfect nook for Snowflake to crawl into and weather the coming storm. The headlight of her snowmobile shone under the bridge. As she approached the frozen creek on foot, the light reflected on a ski protruding from the snowbank near the opposite pillar.
A snowmobile can’t possibly be buried under the bridge.
The damage to the handrail appeared consistent with a vehicle ramming into it. In these parts, the forest was dense, and few people rode here. It was conceivable the rider had lost control and plunged over the bridge. As she trekked down the bank, she peered under the platform for a sign of her dog. The ledge was empty.
Snowflake, where are you?
With the colder than normal temperatures they’d endured since Christmas, the creek would be frozen solid. She crossed the ice and started digging into the snow. Within a few sweeps, she exposed a second ski and the hood of a vehicle.
A violent gust of wind stung her eyes, briefly obscuring her view. A warning to go back home before the storm trapped them in the forest.
A few more seconds.
If someone had crashed here during the winter she would have been told. She hadn’t, and that sparked all sorts of discordant vibrations in her body.
Driven by a sense of urgency she couldn’t explain, she scooped snow by the armload baring a cracked windshield...then a black helmet. At the sight of the red maple leaf painted on its side, her heart summersaulted.
No. It can’t be.
With a trembling hand, she lifted the visor. The shock of seeing his bloody face and lifeless blue eyes silenced the scream roaring inside her chest.
Chapter Two
“They demoted you for drinking in your cruiser and posted you on The Rock?” A guttural laugh jiggled Sgt. Greg Reed’s belly. The flab rolled like waves underneath his tight shirt.
News traveled fast, and bad news even faster.
Avery Stone had reported to the isolated Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment in Mooseland, Newfoundland, late last night, and already his past had caught up with him. “I was off duty, Reed. They—”
“
Sergeant
Reed.” If the glare in his eyes could kill, his new superior wouldn’t need the gun attached to his belt. “Now listen,
Constable
Stone. I’m two years away from retirement. You cause me any trouble and you’ll wish they’d sacked you. Understood?”
Before his depressingly fresh demotion to Constable, Avery had outranked the sergeant. Without his four chevrons pointing upward he felt naked and incomplete. “Yes…Sergeant.”
Reed stood in the doorway of his personal office, his winter jacket slung over his shoulder. At fifty-seven, the officer had thirty-three years of service under his gut and not a stain on his record. “Close the files on your desk and try to stay sober.”
In the opposite corner of the room, a wooden stove, with a log burning in its core, rested on four cast iron legs. Against the adjacent wall, Avery’s newly assigned desk stood underneath a frosty window, next to a stack of freshly-cut firewood.
A mountain of paperwork was piled on the desktop. Avery grabbed the closest folder and looked inside.
Five drunken men arrested for disorderly conduct.
The report was dated November 6
th
, and the arresting officer was Corporal Brent Abbott, Avery’s predecessor. Abbott had gone missing two weeks later, and his body had been found frozen in a snowbank twelve days ago, remarkably preserved.
“These arrests took place three months ago.” If not closed, the report should have been filed. It didn’t look like Sergeant Reed or Constable Lee Cooper, the absent Mountie whose desk was on the other side of the stove, had picked up the slack after Abbott’s disappearance.
“That’s called backlog, Stone. I kept bugging the top brass for a replacement ever since Abbott took off, and behold, they sent
you
. Must be poetic justice.” Reed donned his jacket. “If there’s an emergency, you can reach me by radio. I’ll be at Terri’s, Abbott’s widow. Now that we found his body, the poor woman needs help with finalizing the arrangements for the funeral tomorrow.”
An unmanned counter separated the constables’ work area from the lobby, but it didn’t shield Avery from the draft of cold air accompanying Reed’s departure. In a three-person detachment, resources were limited, and the officers were on permanent standby for the duration of their posting.
On call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. No bloody break.
Avery tossed the report back on his desk, then ventured down a brightly lit corridor with doors on each side: a narrow kitchen, a restroom needing attention, and a storage room stocked with filing cabinets and shelves full of boxes. At the end of the corridor were two jail cells separated by a concrete wall, both unlocked and empty, near an emergency exit leading to the back of the building.
Like most members in the force, Avery had heard of the working and living conditions in remote communities, but he’d never dreamed—or wanted—to experience them for himself. If not for his rogue reputation, he would never have drawn this assignment.
Three years ago, Avery had lost his partner in a shooting, and drowned his grief in barrels of beer. Rowan had nursed his broken spirit, and the summer he’d spent with her at Buccaneer unearthing skeletons had given him a new lease on life. He’d pieced his career back together and gone back to active duty—only to be posted in Newfoundland.
Time for a Red Eye.
He backtracked into the galley and searched the cupboards on the outside chance he might find a can of tomato juice and a bottle of beer.
***
Greg parked his brand new four-wheel drive SUV in the street in front of Terri’s bungalow. Her silver Lexus was in the driveway alongside Cooper’s RCMP cruiser.
Dammit, Coop. Isn’t there somewhere else you need to be?
Since Abbott’s disappearance, the younger Mountie had spent lots of time with the beautiful widow. When Terri called him earlier, Greg had been ready to offer a compassionate shoulder to lean on. He didn’t count on Cooper’s presence.
If not for their age difference, and the aggravation of two greedy ex-wives, Greg would have thrown caution to the wind and pursued Terri more openly.
The door opened before he had time to knock. “Hello, Gregory. I saw you from the window.” Feisty and proud, Terri sported mystic green eyes and gorgeous golden curls. “Thanks for coming.”
