She backed the Jeep out of the driveway, checking Bear’s house as she did. All quiet, lights still on, but no movement behind the windows.
Good.
The last thing she needed was Sasquatch trying to be a hero.
Summit Outfitters was a ten-minute drive from Maple Street, located on the edge of town near the Bitterroot trailhead. She’d bought the property five years ago after her father died and left behind a decent life insurance policy—one of the only good things her awful parents had ever done for her. It wasn’t much. A weathered log building that housed her gear shop and office,with a large lot behind for her trailer and equipment. But it was hers, and it pissed her off that someone was messing with it.
The place was closed for the night, the front windows dark, security lights casting long shadows across the parking lot.
She pulled around back, cutting the engine and lights before she reached the gate. Atlas growled softly in the passenger seat.
“Easy, boy,” she murmured, reaching over to scratch behind his ears. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.”
She climbed out, Maglite in one hand, her other resting on the pepper spray clipped to her belt. The night air bit at her cheeks, the temperature having dropped into the low forties. Her breath clouded in front of her as she approached the gate, sweeping the beam of the flashlight across the ground.
The padlock hung open, the hasp bent where someone had forced it. Dammit. She pushed through, Atlas at her heels, and made a quick circuit of the property. The main building was secure with no signs of forced entry. The supply shed was secure. The kayak rack was undisturbed.
But the horse trailer...
It sat lopsided.
She crouched beside it, running her hand along the inside of the rear tire. A clean slash ran along the sidewall, the rubber puckered where the blade had gone in.
She straightened, swinging the flashlight back toward the equipment shed. The heavy padlock was still secure, but fresh pry marks scored the metal where someone had tried to force it open.
“Shit.” Atlas pressed against her leg, his body tense, amber eyes scanning the darkness. “Someone was looking for something, buddy.”
Headlights swept across the parking lot as a vehicle turned in from the main road. Greta straightened, hand dropping to the pepper spray. The truck—a late-model Ford with a GoodwinOutfitting decal on the door—slowed, then stopped as the driver spotted her.
Daniel Goodwin rolled down his window. “Greta? Everything okay?”
She relaxed marginally. Daniel owned a hunting outfitter in Hamilton and had been in business almost as long as she had. They weren’t friends, exactly, but they’d shared coffee at Nessie’s once, and he’d been professional enough when she’d gently shut down his suggestion of dinner. Even though she had little love for the Goodwin family, Daniel wasn’t the worst of them.
“Fine,” she called back, keeping her voice light. “Just some asshole tourist who doesn’t understand ‘closed’ means ‘go the fuck away.’”
He parked and climbed out, crossing to where she stood. Daniel was tall, with the weathered good looks of a man who spent most of his time outdoors.
“You sure?” He frowned, following her flashlight beam to the slashed tire. “That doesn’t look like random vandalism.”
“Nah, just some drunk looking for easy gear to steal.” She shrugged, trying for casual. “Nothing taken. I’ll report it in the morning.”
He studied the damage, then the pry marks on the shed. “I don’t like this. Someone was specifically targeting your equipment.” His voice softened. “Look, why don’t I stay with you tonight? I’ve got a sleeping bag in my truck. I can camp out here, make sure no one comes back.”
The offer was reasonable enough, but something about the intensity of his focus made her skin crawl. “Thanks, but I’m good. Atlas and I have got it covered.”
“Greta.” He stepped closer. “I’m worried about you. This isn’t random. Someone’s sending a message.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.” She kept her tone firm but polite. “Really. I’ve got the security system, and Atlas here has a bite that could take off a hand.”
Daniel’s expression didn’t change. “I’d feel better if you’d let me walk you home, at least.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ve got my Jeep.”
“Then I’ll follow you.” It wasn’t a question. “Make sure you get there safe.”
She wanted to argue, but the set of his jaw told her it would be pointless. “Suit yourself.”
The drive back to Maple Street was tense, Daniel’s headlights a constant presence in her rearview mirror. She was grateful for the escort—she wouldn’t admit that out loud—but the way he’d inserted himself into the situation left a bad taste in her mouth.
