into the food closet. Jinx paced while they waited, the officer’s murmuring voice coming through the thick door, indistinct, but reassuring in tone.
At last he emerged, his face grave.
“The cub’s about five months old. Probably not long out of the den. Definitely the first time without her mother. Her jaw looks dislocated, like you said. Probably fell out of the tree her mother chased her into when she sensed danger. Did you happen to see any lights outside last night?”
Vivie had been so focused on baking. “I might have seen a light, but it was far away. Back there.” She pointed out her kitchen window. “I guessed it was fireflies, or heat lightning. Why?”
His mouth thinned and he glanced down at her rambunctious pets. “It’ll help me narrow the search area. Would you keep your animals inside while I scout the property?”
Her hand rose to her jumping heart. A large predator could be near. One who might confront the officer. As much as she disliked the guy, she didn’t want him hurt. Much. Not that he seemed concerned. In fact, his no-nonsense attitude projected confidence. The pistol on his right hip heightened the impression. “Sure. I’ll put some coffee on.”
“That’d be kind of you.” He tipped his hat and let himself out the back door. “Thanks.” His reassuring smile lingered in her mind’s eye, flash lightning in a pale blue sky. She shook the unwelcome sentiment away.
She untied her apron and raced upstairs. No telling how long he’d be gone, but she wouldn’t wear this crazy outfit another second. Within minutes she’d whipped on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, thrown her hair into a messy bun and dashed back downstairs.
In the kitchen, she paused at the pantry door and pressed her ear against it. Silence. Fear pulsed through her. What if the cub wasn’t well? Guilt welled up inside, filling places she hadn’t known existed. She should have called 911 last night instead of waiting for morning. Maybe they would have responded instead of Officer Walsh. Someone reasonable. With a beating heart.
She glimpsed his hat in the thicket behind her house and hurried to put on the coffee. He’d better take care of the cub. Protect it. Or she would. Hopefully it’d be in a good place soon—maybe with its mom—and she could breathe easier.
A burbling sound, punctuated by a hazelnut aroma, permeated the room in minutes. Officer Walsh talked on his cell outside, pacing alongside her back porch.
What had he found and who was he speaking to?
She set out two mugs of coffee and the sugar doughnuts she’d fried up a couple days ago. She eyed the creamer and sugar and left them beside her mixer. He looked like the kind of guy who took his brew black. Her diner-honed instincts were rarely wrong. At last, the back door creaked and she whirled, swallowing a bite of doughnut.
“Any sign of the mother?”
His features sharpened, his expression grave.
“Possibly. Did you hear any gunshots last night?”
Her heart swooped low. “Maybe. When I turned off my oven timer, I might have heard something. But it was faint and ended too fast for me to be sure.”
“What time?”
She glanced at the cuckoo clock beside her wall calendar, trying to remember. “Somewhere between nine and nine-thirty, I think. Was a bear shot?” Her throat tightened. “The mother?”
His pen flew across his pad and his eyes, more hazel than green now that he was closer, rose to meet hers. A smattering of light freckles dotted his nose. “It’s possible. There are tracks and blood a couple hundred yards east. Looks like big game. Have you seen any strange vehicles or people around your property lately?”
Her gaze swerved to the pepper spray still on her table, a ribbon of nerves moving through her stomach. She might well and truly have confronted an intruder last night. Someone armed. Again.
She held herself, hiding her shudder.
No. Not here. This remote, sleepy town was largely immune to random violence, a major factor in her decision to settle here rather than sell the house.
“My neighbor Muriel and her husband have some nephews from the Midwest house-sitting while they’re away. The guys are here on a fishing trip.”
His eyes narrowed. “Have you met them?”
“No, just heard about it from Muriel. They’re her sister’s sons.”
“Names?” His voice clipped, he sounded different from the guy who’d joked about a dog named Extra Pickles and high-fived Scooter. Back was the man who’d once ignored her pleas to let her keep feeding the animals last winter.
A breeze rushed through the open window above her sink, carrying the crisp smell of a spring morning—pine sap, fresh earth and growing things. It loosened a strand from her bun and sent it fluttering across her mouth.
She handed him a mug, then lifted her own. “She didn’t say. Just told me they’d visited during hunting season last fall and had come back to fish. Would you like a doughnut?” She cursed her ingrained manners, wishing she could give him the boot instead of baked goods.
“Thanks.” He split one in half and dunked it in his coffee before taking a bite. “These are good.” He chewed another piece, his expression intent as he stared outside.
She grabbed a dish towel and wiped up a bit of pie filling she’d missed last night. “Do you think they killed her?”
He gulped more coffee and lowered his mug, his mouth in a straight line. “I’ll find out.”
“What about the cub?”
His gaze swerved to hers. “I’ll have to put it down if I can’t find the mother.”
Vivie clutched the back of a chair, light-headed and nauseous. “What? No!” How could he say that so casually?
“I’ve called around and our wildlife rehabilitators are overloaded. Since the cub is too young to fend for itself, the humane thing to do is—”
“Kill it?” she stormed, interrupting. “How is that humane?” The cub’s frightened eyes came to mind and she backed up against the pantry door. Officer or not, he wouldn’t take the bear. Stop her from helping. It’d come to her home. Had sought refuge here.
He pulled off his hat and rubbed his forehead. “Ma’am, I don’t expect you to understand. But you need to trust me and move aside so that I can do my job.”
“Not a chance,” she ground out, wishing her pepper spray wasn’t across the room.
“Please be reasonable.” He raised his eyebrows, looking harmless. His holstered weapon told a different story.
Maybe she could reason with him, though she’d failed before. There had to be a way to save the cub. “How do you become a wildlife rehabilitator?”
He drew in a long breath and crossed his arms over his chest. “Pass a certification test, then work under the supervision of a rehabilitator for six months.”
Tests. She hated them.
