just come off the water after a long day patrolling, which involved checking that fishermen had current licenses, guiding a few lost tourists in the right direction and issuing a warning to a group of teens who had been trying to dive for “buried treasure.” The depths of the lake were littered with fishing line, lost hooks and decades of rusting boat parts. Only the beach on the east shore had been marked for safe swimming.
All in a day’s work. A man couldn’t ask for a better job. Conservation officer for the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources was a title that fit Joe to a tee. Ninety percent of the time, his office featured open air, lakes, trees, snow and/or sun. Joe’s job was to keep the public safe, but also to protect and guard the wildlife that flourished in this county set in the Superior Forest. Not a day passed that he didn’t get to wander through tall grasses, spot a blue heron or, if he was lucky, spy on a timber wolf from a local pack.
He smiled widely and tilted back the steel canteen of lukewarm water for a few swallows. This job was what made him wake with a smile and dash out to work every morning. Nothing could give him more satisfaction. Except, that is, when he finally nailed the parties responsible for the rampant poaching in the area. Someone, or many someones, had been poaching deer, beaver, cougar, turkey and the animal most precious to Joe’s soul, the gray wolf. But tops on the list was the bald eagle. Taking down the other animals without a proper license was considered a gross misdemeanor. Taking down a bald eagle was a federal offense. And recently he’d begun to wonder if the poachers were using something beyond the usual snare or steel trap. Like death by poisoning.
The autopsy on Max Owen had shown he’d been poisoned by strychnine. He hadn’t consumed it orally, but rather, it had permeated his skin and entered his bloodstream. And even more surprising than the poison? His lungs had been riddled with cancer. That discovery had troubled Joe greatly. If he had known what was growing in Max, he would have taken him to a doctor long ago. The poison had killed him, but it was apparent the cancer would have been terminal. The coroner had ruled his death accidental. There had been no evidence of foul play. Max must have handled the poison improperly, it was determined.
Joe knew the old man was not stupid. He didn’t handle poison. Strychnine was rarely used, and if so, only by farmers for weeds and crops. Max had immense respect for wildlife and would never use or put something into the environment that could cause harm.
After saying goodbye to his mentor in the ER that night, Joe had gone directly to the site where Max set up his campsite from April to October. It had been past midnight, but Joe had tromped through the woods, confident in his destination. Yet when he’d arrived at camp, he had been too emotionally overwhelmed to do a proper evidence search. Instead, he’d sat against the oak tree where Max had always crossed his legs and showered wisdom on Joe. He had cried, then fallen asleep. In the morning, Joe had pulled on latex gloves and gathered evidence. There hadn’t been clear signs of unwelcome entry to the site, no containers that might have held the poison, but Joe had gathered all the stored food and the hunting knife Max used and taken it in to Forensics. The forensic specialist had reported all those items were clean. Whatever Max had touched was still out there, had been tucked somewhere away from the campsite or had been thrown.
And while the county had seemed to want to brush it off—the old man was dead and he hadn’t had any family—the tribe had seen to the burial of his body.
Joe had insisted he be allowed to continue with the investigation. The tribal police had given him permission, as they were not pursuing the death, having accepted the accidental poison ruling as final.
He might not have been family by blood, but Max was true family to Joe. He’d been there for Joe when he was a kid, and had literally saved his life. And he had been the reason Joe had developed his voracious love for the outdoors and wildlife.
Touching the eagle talon that hung from the leather cord about his neck, Joe muttered, “You won’t die in vain, Max.” He’d been allowed to take the talisman from Max’s things after the lab had cleared it as free from poison. The talon had been given to Max by his grandfather; a talisman earned because he had been a healer. It had been cherished by Max.
But the tracks to whoever had poisoned Max—and the reason why—were muddled. Did Max have enemies? Not that Joe had been aware of. He’d strayed from close tribal friendships and had been a lone wolf the last few decades. Not harming any living soul, leaving peaceably. A life well lived, and yet, it had been cut short.
The thought to tie Max’s alleged murder to the poaching investigation only clicked when Joe remembered Max once muttering that he knew exactly who poached in the county, and that they would get their own someday. Joe had mentioned a family name, and Max’s jaw had tightened in confirmation. Everyone knew the Davis family did as they pleased, and poaching was only one of many illegal activities in which they engaged—and got away with.
Now he needed new evidence, a break in the investigation, that would confirm his suspicion. So far, the Davis family had been elusive and covered their tracks like the seasoned tracker-hunters Joe knew they were.
The police radio crackled on the dashboard, and Dispatch reported an incident close to Joe.
“Anyone else respond?” he replied. Generally, if the disturbance was not directly related to fish and game, Dispatch sent out county law enforcement.
“We’ve got two officers in the area, but both are at the iron mine cave-in.”
This morning a closed taconite mine had reported a cave-in. It was believed three overzealous explorers who had crossed the barbed wire fence closing off the mine could be trapped inside.
“No problem,” Joe said. “I can handle it. What’s the call?”
“Skylar Davis reports she’s been shot at on her property. Her address is—”
“I got it.” Joe shoved the canteen onto the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. His heart suddenly thundered. He knew Skylar Davis. Too well. “Is she hurt?”
“Not sure,” Dispatch reported. “Sounded pretty calm on the call. You know where she lives?”
“I’m ten minutes from her land,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
He spun the truck around on the gravel road and headed east toward the lake where Merlin Davis—brother of Malcolm Davis, who owned Davis Trucking—had owned land for decades. Skylar had inherited her father’s land years ago after cancer had taken his life. His daughter now lived alone on hundreds of forested acreage set at the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. She was a strong woman. A beautiful woman.
She was…the woman Joe could never sweep out of his thoughts. The one who had gotten away.
And she’d been shot at?
He slammed his foot onto the accelerator.
SKYLAR OPENED THE door and sucked in a gasp. Joseph Cash stood on the front stoop, dark hair swept over one eye and looking smart in his uniform. The forest-green short-sleeved shirt and slacks served to enhance his tan skin. Hand at his hip where a gun was holstered, he had been looking aside until she’d stepped onto the threshold. When he turned to her and his stunning green eyes connected with hers, she clasped a hand over her heart.
“Skylar, are you all right?” She heard genuine concern in his urgent tone.
She had so many things she wanted to say to him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t
