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James Smith: Hybrid

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James Smith Hybrid
  • Название:
    Hybrid
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Braveship Books
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    2018
  • Город:
    San Diego
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-1-64062-022-3
  • Рейтинг книги:
    3 / 5
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  • Ваша оценка:
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Hybrid: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Once on your scent, it’s too late to run… Dieter Harmon stared in shock at the hiker’s corpse, the head hanging only by a tangled ribbon of flesh. But what horrified him was the sight of claw marks on the victim’s chest. Something has gone terribly wrong with the government’s plan to return wolves to Yellowstone. As Dieter seeks answers, he is drawn into an escalating battle with Jack Corey, the chief park ranger. This is Corey’s dream project. Wolves have been missing from the primitive beauty of Yellowstone for decades—it is past time to bring them back. For Jack Corey, this bitter fight is personal. And to his advantage, he knows well that in the remote backcountry tragic “accidents” happen. That is where Dieter Harmon sets out to track a gruesome hybrid wolf that shouldn't even exist. But he soon finds that two predators are stalking him. They are very different in nature, but equally deadly.

James Smith: другие книги автора


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He smiled and passed the wet cloth along the spine of the mare.

“How long you been here?” she asked.

“Almost three months now.”

“You from Billings?”

“Not quite. Pennsylvania.” He put the cloth on the ground. She wanted to talk.

“That’s awfully far from Montana, I think.”

“I used to visit my uncle out here during the summers when I was growing up,” he replied. “Always loved the West. But my wife loved Pennsylvania where she grew up.”

Charlene shifted her legs to a new position and her long dress slipped an inch above one knee. He quickly averted his glance.

She twisted the braids in her hair between her thumb and forefinger then studied his face. “You got kids?”

He quickly grabbed the cloth again and began to rub the mare. “Two. Michael’s ten and Megan’s six.”

“Your wife must have her hands full.”

He paused. “She’s not around anymore.”

Charlene turned her attention away from the colt. “Might take you a while to get your business going here.”

“I’m getting to know more—”

“Most people use our vet, Doc Hartwell. Or Homer Sellars from Butte. Some use Lester Milburn in West Yellowstone.” She shook her head and snickered. “But I wouldn’t trust a goldfish with him. Now don’t you tell nobody I said that. Word gets around here as fast as roadrunners.”

He put down the cloth and wiped his hands with a towel. Penny struggled to stand and allow the colt to nurse.

Charlene scooted closer and laid a hidden hand softly on his forearm. “If you need help with your kids…”

Startled, he leaned away.

She rose to her knees, pleading with her eyes and wrinkled forehead.

When he stood, she threw her hands on his chest and grabbed onto his jacket with her fists. “Please, Dr. Harmon.”

He recoiled and knocked over the bucket of hot water with his foot.

She quickly let go and backed away as she lowered her head in shame like a child caught sneaking candy.

He turned to see a man, maybe in his sixties, with a straggly beard that covered only his chin. He glared from behind dark eyes that sunk deep into his skull below the eyebrows. “Exactly what you trying to do, Doctor?”

For crying out Jeezus! What was that supposed to mean? Absolutely ridiculous. Dieter quickly offered his hand to shake; he had to nip this one in the bud here and now before matters got out of control.

His hand was ignored.

“Sir, I know what this looks like,” Dieter stammered.

“I thought I could trust a professional like yourself.” The man spoke as if making a clinical observation.

“Oh, yes sir, you see—”

“If I was you, I’d just shut my mouth and get out of here.”

Dieter scooped up his scattered supplies and quickly tossed them into his satchel. When he stood, Charlene had her back to him and her head down. He hurried back along the path off the hill. As he drew near the house he had to step carefully to avoid a clutter of toys—a fire truck with the ladder broken off, a rusted ambulance, a yellow steam shovel—and two small bicycles, one with blue ribbons that streamed from the ends of the handlebars. On the home’s second story, he caught the fleeting faces of kids, tykes to teenagers, scattered between curtains and windowpanes. They stared as if looking down on an animal in a zoo.

When he reached his pickup truck, he hopped in and slammed the door, then drove along the graveled driveway to an open gate. Katherine Belle stood there, holding onto the chain and lock.

He lifted his hand and gave a sheepish wave as he passed. The anger on her face told him there was going to be trouble ahead.

THREE

“Don’t eat the grass, Megan,” Dieter commanded when he returned home from the Loudermilk ranch.

“It’s not grass… it’s flowers,” the six-year-old replied, too occupied plucking blooms from a fistful of clover to look up. His daughter lay in the front yard dressed in jeans, a pink top with a yellow sunflower on the chest, and worn sneakers that were likely too small if he took the time to check.

The rented log cabin of western cedar that he called home stood aged and isolated among the aspen and cottonwoods. His nearest neighbor was at least a half-mile away.

“Please, I don’t want you eating anything from the lawn. You could get sick.”

“Amy said it’s okay.”

No doubt Amy was lecturing the kids again about the glory of nature and the nourishing benefits of wild flowers. “But I’m saying it’s not okay,” Dieter said, a little firmer this time.

“What do you know about this kinda stuff, anyway?”

“Because I’m a dad. Dads know these things.”

“But Amy’s a nanny. Don’t nannies know something? You told me she was smart.”

“Let’s go inside, honey.”

When Dieter walked through the front door, a golden retriever yanked at his trouser leg and growled. He reached for Rusty’s muzzle and nestled his face into the dog’s while rubbing its fur.

Exhausted from the Loudermilk ordeal, Dieter was glad the nanny had arrived early to take them to her parents’ home on Hebgen Lake for the weekend. He needed the time to focus on his practice—in reality, to continue the tireless ritual of seeking clients. He had to take some time to get creative about the search now. It was becoming critical and no doubt the cause of his nervous stomach.

Amy stood tall at the sink rinsing breakfast dishes. Her charcoal hair, pulled behind her ears, fell straight to her narrow shoulders. High cheekbones and bronze skin gave away her Indian heritage. She opened the oven door and reached in with a large quilted mitt. “I saved a plate of eggs and sausage for you.” She smiled back over her shoulder.

Dieter sat at the table and began to cut up the mystery meat to test it one small piece at a time, aware that Amy and her relatives frequently ate organs from unfamiliar critters. “Is the sausage from Bentley’s?”

“Not exactly.”

“You mean, it’s not pork sausage?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is it elk again?”

“Exactly!”

“I believe I’ve told you before, Amy. You can never be sure about these concoctions that local hunters make up.”

“You don’t need to fret. Dad made up this batch. Pretty good, huh?”

Dieter put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth. “Megan was eating clover in the front yard again.”

“I told her to be careful where she picks them.”

“The way she was going after it, Amy, I don’t think we’re going to have a lawn left. The dog pees out there you know. And that’s not all.”

She flicked the side of her hair that had fallen free. “I always let Rusty out in the backyard. And I didn’t tell her to eat weeds.”

“Never mind. It’s not that important.” He had quit keeping score. She was much quicker on the draw than Fran had ever been.

She remarked that he looked bedraggled, as if he’d been up all night. While he nibbled the sausage—rather spicy and tasty, it turned out—he told her about the delivery and that it had taken place at a strange ranch.

“I’ve heard about Loudermilks,” she replied. “I suppose everyone around here has. But I always assumed talk about them was more gossip than fact.”

The colt would have died without his skilled hands, no question about it. He left out the part about the attack by the youngest woman. Her stupid reaction—was it Charlene?—wrecked it all. She was crazy. He should have seen it coming with her smiles. Old man Loudermilk would probably call the law.

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