Strawberry Hill

by Catherine Anderson

  “You boys go ahead and take off,” he said. “I’ll be slower getting back down the mountain on horseback.”

  Wyatt shook out the blanket, refolded it, and fetched his hat. “See you there, boss.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Slade got back to the ranch by four in the afternoon. Kennedy unsaddled Bogey and promised to rub him down so Slade could call the Department of Fish and Wildlife before the offices closed. Slade walked away, thinking that the boy was starting to come around, no longer acting sullen all the time and griping when he had to work. After sitting on the porch steps, Slade placed the call on his cell phone. He got straight through to a man named Wilson, which he took as a good sign, but things went downhill from there.

  Wilson listened to the story and said Slade couldn’t be sure that the cub he found belonged to the sow killed in the avalanche. Slade hadn’t seen the blond cub with the sow prior to the rockslide, and the baby in the trap was nearly a mile from the accident site.

  “I searched the area around the avalanche,” Slade said again. “My dog’s got a good nose. There were no cubs anywhere near the carcass.”

  “I understand your frustration,” the man said.

  “No, I don’t think you do. I’m no stranger to bears. I’m certain it’s orphaned. It’s injured and too young to survive on its own.”

  “I know you believe that, sir, and I commend you for helping the cub and treating its wounds. Normally I would advise against that, but it sounds as if your man did a great job. A trap with teeth would have done a lot more damage by the time we got someone out there.”

  “It did enough damage as it was.”

  “I’m sure it was awful,” Wilson commiserated. “And now you have a vested interest in the cub’s survival. You have to see our side of this, though. People rescue newborn animals from the wild all the time when it isn’t necessary. And just because you didn’t see the mother doesn’t mean she’s dead or not in the vicinity.”

  “The mother is buried under a pile of rocks,” Slade said flatly. “I saw her. I looked for cubs. I found none. The only cub in the area was the blond one.”

  “You don’t know that for a fact. Black bear sows will share their territory with other female bears, especially daughters. They don’t hang out together, but they encounter each other. It’s possible for two sows with cubs to be in the same area, and it would be tragic if we took a cub away from its mother. Black bear rescue shelters have made great strides in releasing orphaned cubs back into the wild, but the attempts aren’t always successful, and the failures end sadly. The cubs either die or are returned to a shelter. If possible they’re then placed in zoos or wildlife observatories. If not, they remain in shelters for the rest of their lives. Do you think that makes for happy bears?”

  Slade rested the back of his head against the porch post and closed his eyes. The punctured tips of his fingers still ached, which made him wonder how badly the cub’s foot must hurt. “Ideally all bears would live in their natural habitat. But looking at the flip side, bears don’t have it so bad in zoos, and their presence educates children and adults about their species.”

  “Zoos and observatories are fabulous alternatives, but there are twenty-five to thirty thousand black bears in Oregon alone, Mr. Wilder. How many rescue facilities do you think there are in the continental United States?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  Wilson sighed. “I don’t know the exact number, but I do know there are black bears presently in custody that haven’t found homes yet, and their numbers continue to grow.”

  Slade could see where this was going. Four Toes wasn’t going to be rescued, and nothing he said would change that. He wished he had seen the baby with its mother prior to her death, but he hadn’t, and he couldn’t blame the state for refusing to remove a cub from its natural environment without absolute proof it was necessary.

  By the end of the conversation, Slade believed Wilson was a good man who had a very difficult job. Feeling heavy of heart, he wasn’t happy to see Kennedy, blond hair ruffled by the breeze, walking from the stable to the house. He knew the kid was hoping to hear good news.

  “What did they say about Four Toes?” Kennedy asked when he was still twenty feet from where Slade sat. “Are they going to rescue him?”

  Wishing he were a gifted liar, Slade found himself searching for a way to sugarcoat the facts. Only that wasn’t possible, so he gave it to Kennedy straight, and the kid walked away with slumped shoulders. After a few minutes Slade followed him. There were evening chores to be done, and sitting around feeling frustrated would accomplish nothing.

  Two hours later as Slade forked hay over a back pasture fence into feeding troughs for his horses, he caught a flash of gold at the edge of the woods. He froze with the handle of the pitchfork gripped so tightly in his hands that his knuckles ached. The cub. The ranch proper was bordered by fenced pastures that stretched on all sides to the surrounding forestland. About a half mile into the trees, Slade’s land merged with state or federal holdings. How in the hell had that baby found its way through all that rugged terrain to reach the ranch?

  Pistol, always Slade’s companion, growled low in his throat. Slade let go of the pitchfork to fondle the canine’s silken ears, which stood up halfway and then curled over. “Don’t be a tough guy, Pistol. He’s only a baby.”

  The cub mewled. It was probably the way he would call to his mama, only she wasn’t around. Only Slade could hear him.

  “Damn it, Four Toes, don’t do this to me,” Slade murmured. The heart-wrenching sounds that drifted through the twilight rang with urgency. “Go away.”

  Slade nearly parted company with his skin when Wyatt spoke from behind him. “He’s been out there a couple of hours, boss. He must have followed you back.”

  Slade turned to meet Wyatt’s gaze. “Why would he do that?”

  Slade’s question went unanswered for a long moment. Then Wyatt stepped forward to rest his arms on the top fence rail. The green background of a forested hillside contrasted vividly with his blue eyes and blond hair, which wisped over his collar in the evening breeze. He kept his gaze trained on Slade’s face. “We all helped him, but you were the last to leave. He probably watched you from a hiding place.”

  “He was terrified of us.”

  “Maybe we seem less scary to him than being out there alone.” Wyatt shrugged, the flex of his shoulder muscles visible through his shirt. “I don’t have answers, boss. All I can say for sure is that he’s here. He’s little, hurt, all alone, and hungry. Do you really think it’s so strange that he sees us as his only hope?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Whether I say it or not, it’s the only explanation.” Wyatt shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Kennedy told me what the state guy said. The man had some good points. You couldn’t be sure Four Toes was the dead sow’s cub. Not then, anyway. Now it’s a different story. If Four Toes had a mama out there, he wouldn’t be here.”

  Sometimes Slade didn’t like to have another man studying his face. His feelings were private, and he was afraid his expressions might reveal too much. He broke eye contact with Wyatt and stared across the field.

  “I didn’t come out here to push you into doing something you feel is wrong,” Wyatt went on. “I just want you to know I’ll support you in any decision you make.”

  “That’s a comfort.”

  “What?”

  Slade released a rush of breath and turned so Wyatt could read his lips again. “I said you’re a pain in the ass.”

  A grin slanted over the younger man’s mouth. “You’re going to help him. Aren’t you?”

  “If I don’t, he’ll just come closer and keep me up all night. Sounds like he’s saying, ‘huh, huh, huh?’ So innocent, so bewildered. Makes me want to cuddle him up and rock him to sleep. He’
s such a cute little guy. In pain. Probably scared. Definitely hungry. It’d take a harder man than me to ignore him.”

  “You could wear earplugs. Now that we know for sure his mother’s dead, you can call the state again in the morning.”

  Slade shook his head. “I still have no actual proof that he’s orphaned. It’ll be the same answer tomorrow as it was today, and for good reason. The state has to draw the line somewhere.”

  Wyatt sighed. “If you don’t feed him, I’ll have to. Otherwise Kennedy will, and with him on probation, I can’t let him get in trouble again. I promised my folks.”

  Slade held up a hand. “I clean up my own messes. I just don’t know what to feed him.”

  Wyatt smiled. “I found a recipe online for cub formula at a black bear rescue site. Kennedy drove to town to get all the stuff.”

  Slade shook his head and chuckled. “How did you know I’d decide to feed him?”

  Wyatt lifted his shoulders again. “I didn’t. Like I said, if you don’t, I’ll have to. If my brother breaks the law, any law right now, and gets caught, he’ll go to prison for ten years.”

  “We won’t get caught, not way out here.” Slade rubbed the back of his neck. “Not now, anyway. Three years from now maybe, but Kennedy’s probation will have ended by then, and I’ll never say he had anything to do with it.”

  With a frown Wyatt asked, “What will happen in three years?”

  Slade peered through the gloom that heralded nightfall. “That bear out there will be a big boy by then, and he might lumber into town to take a nap on someone’s porch.”

  Chapter One

  Three and a half years later

  What the hell am I doing up here? Erin De Laney had asked herself that question at least two dozen times over the last hour, and the only answer she could think of was, Shit happens. Only she wasn’t really certain she would survive this to laugh about it later. She was all alone in the middle of a montane forest and on a horse, for Pete’s sake. Given the fact that she’d never ridden a horse and her idea of a wilderness foray was a trip to Seattle’s Woodland Park Zoo, she was completely unqualified for this assignment. When she’d been five, her uncle Slade had put her on the back of an old mare and led it in a circle around a corral, but that was the grand total of her experience with equines. She knew even less about remote, high-elevation woodlands. And, damn it, the gelding she rode had no digital compass like the dashboards of patrol vehicles did. What if she got lost out here? Most of the time, she could tell her direction by studying the sky, but in this jungle of towering old-growth trees, she couldn’t find so much as a sliver of blue without nearly breaking her neck to look up.

  Hands clenched on the reins, Erin stared hard at the open space between her mount’s ears. His name was Butterscotch, probably because of his color, a mottled-caramel body with a mane and tail the off-white of whipped cream. Sheriff Adams, his owner, said the gelding was a red roan. Not that Erin cared. What mattered to her right now was being on top of a four-legged giant when her cell phone and portable radio might not have reception to call for help if she fell off. A thirty-minute predawn riding lesson hadn’t prepared her for this, and, emergency or not, she didn’t appreciate being asked to do something when there were other deputies far more qualified. How was she supposed to check hay for noxious weeds with only a skimpy pocket manual as a reference? While tending the flower gardens that bordered the front lawn of her rental cottage, she’d pulled more actual plants than she had weeds, and her landlady had nearly fainted when she saw the damage. In Erin’s parents’ neighborhood, most people hired all the gardening done, and Erin’s mother reviled practically everything that came in contact with dirt. As a result, Erin had never learned anything about plants or the weeds that invaded flower beds.

  Calm down, she lectured herself. Being a deputy in this laid-back county is so much better than working in a crime-ridden metropolitan area, and you don’t want to lose the job because you’re a whiner. Focus on your surroundings. Take a deep breath of the pure mountain air. Watch for deer. Notice the ferns and wildflowers. This is why you left the Greater Seattle area, remember? You wanted a slower lifestyle and to be surrounded by nature. Instead of being such a grump, why don’t you try to enjoy this?

  She straightened her spine and filled her lungs. It was silly of her to be so tense. Horses were just larger versions of dogs. Right? And she loved dogs. Well, she liked them from afar, anyway. She’d never actually had one. Her mother had forbidden it, afraid that Erin would sneak it inside her spotless house.

  The trail ahead crawled ever upward through a stand of old-growth ponderosa pines. Massive tree trunks the color of cinnamon sticks peppered the terrain. Drooping lazily under their own weight, pine boughs formed an overhead canopy of interlaced green and shielded the forest floor from the late September sunlight, allowing only splashes of butter yellow to spill through. On a light, capricious breeze, the smells of evergreen, fern, moss, manzanita, and wildflowers created a heady perfume unlike anything she had ever experienced. This was why she’d pulled up stakes over a year ago and moved to Mystic Creek, Oregon. This was why she’d abandoned a promising career as a law enforcement officer in King County to become a deputy in a country setting. For her, this place should be like a dream come true. Except for the man-made trail ahead of her, there were no obvious signs that humans had ever been here. No buildings. No litter. No city sounds. It was so different from where she’d grown up.

  If she hadn’t been on a horse, the majesty of this place would have made her want to linger. She’d find a comfortable place to sit at the base of a tree and just absorb the peacefulness, reconnecting with the basics of life and pondering the fact that she was only a tiny speck on a gigantic canvas painted by a divine artist. Just ahead, the terrain grew steep on one side of the path. Huge slabs of shale and lumps of lava rock, trimmed with clumps of fern, composed much of the hillside. So beautiful and serene. She could almost imagine woodland fairies living here, momentarily hiding so they wouldn’t be seen. Somewhere up ahead, she even heard the rush of what sounded like a stream. If she quit making noise, she’d be sure to see animals. Maybe even a deer or elk. But she’d be happy just to study the squirrels and birds that would surely show themselves.

  With a mental jerk, Erin snapped back to the moment and, with a lurch of sick dread, realized that the gelding had stopped walking. It was almost as if he’d sensed that her mind had wandered off, and he’d been uncertain what to do. The rhythmic clomp of his hooves had ceased. The rocking motion of his gait no longer shifted her from side to side on the saddle to make her thighs burn.

  “Butterscotch?” She leaned forward to pat his neck. “We aren’t where we need to go yet, buddy. You need to keep moving.”

  With a flick of his ears, he snorted and then blew air out his nostrils. Erin’s heart caught. What did that mean? Sheriff Adams, her boss, had given her very few tips during her riding lesson that morning. “There’s nothing to it,” he’d told her. “He knows what to do. Your only job is to stay in the saddle.”

  As Adams had directed, Erin tapped the gelding’s sides with her feet. In response, he chuffed, snorted again, and angled his head around to look at her. She didn’t like that she could see the whites of his eyes. Surely that wasn’t a good sign. She could only hope he wasn’t thinking about different ways he might get her off his back. The thought stripped her of the magical feeling that had come over her moments before. Fact-check. She’d been trained how to fall so as not to injure herself, but during those sessions, she’d been on a gym mat. The dangerous hooves of a slightly overweight male quarter horse and countless jagged rocks hadn’t been factored into the equation. If she got hurt out here in a wilderness area, her goose might be cooked.

  “Okay, Butterscotch.” Who in his right mind named a male horse Butterscotch? “Maybe I’m forgetting part of the go signal.” He’d started fine for her down at the trailhead. She nudged
him with her heels again, then clicked her tongue. At the sound, he flicked his ears but didn’t budge. “Let’s go!” she tried. “Giddyup!” Still nothing. Finally she nudged him and made the clicking noise both at once, and the gelding moseyed forward into a walk again. “Awesome!” she said, uncertain of whom she felt prouder, herself or the equine. “You’re such a good boy. I think I heard the sound of a creek while we were stopped. Maybe when I find a place to set up my checkpoint, it’ll be where you can drink and graze. Sheriff Adams said to make sure you have grass to eat. He didn’t mention water, but if I’m thirsty, you must be, too. You’re the one doing all the work.”

  Only Erin didn’t feel as if the animal had been doing all the work. Being on a horse made her nervous, and she’d been vising her legs around his belly all the way up the mountain to make sure she didn’t fall. She tried to stay in shape, working out five days a week without fail and jogging six miles each weekend morning. But apparently she needed to focus more on her legs. Her inner thighs and glutes hurt. As in, ouch. What was that all about? She’d been convinced as recently as yesterday that she had thigh muscles of iron, but they were sorely disappointing her now.

  The trail suddenly grew steep, and without warning, Butterscotch decided to do the horse version of a jog to scale the incline. Erin’s butt parted company with the saddle and slammed back down, not once but repeatedly, each landing hurting so much that it nearly took her breath away. Only she was so scared, she couldn’t focus on the pain. The saddle seat was slick, and no matter how firmly she tried to grip with her knees, she could barely stay on. Her right boot came out of the stirrup, which started flapping without her foot to anchor it, and Butterscotch seemed to think she wanted him to shift from fast to jet speed.