Wounded (a mystery and a sweet romance)

Wounded: Chapter 2

Camera in hand, Tara picked her way down a cliff-side trail toward a pebbly beach that gazed out upon the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The mid-morning sun poked through the clouds, and seagulls swooped and soared through its rays. The log-dotted beach stretched toward rocky promontories in both directions, creating a shallow cove that she appeared to have all to herself.

Tara told herself to enjoy the beautiful day and to stop thinking about that chicken head, about the fact that it hadn’t been cut from its perch, but ripped from the neck by someone powerful enough to do so. She told herself that it didn’t mean anything that it had been left on her porch; it was just a coincidence. She also told herself that whatever was going on with the mutilated animals would make for a good story, if not for her boss’s blog, then for the newspaper. Somehow telling herself all those things didn’t result in anything more comforting than a sense that she might have been wiser to stay in Green Lake for the summer.

When Tara reached the bottom of the craggy trail, she paused to shoot a few pictures. She had already taken some of the village, but she wanted people to see the rugged beauty of the peninsula in her blog posts as well. With the camera raised to the west, she noticed something perched on a log in the distance. A book? Or a tablet case? She thought of Jasmine with her e-reader, but had seen her recently, placing beer traps in the strawberry beds to capture slugs. Maybe someone had come down to the beach that morning and had forgotten the item.

Tara eyed heavy gray clouds lurking out over the ocean to the west and guessed it would rain that afternoon. She headed toward the log; the item’s owner should appreciate having it rescued from a drenching.

As she drew closer, she realized it was a spiral sketchpad rather than a book or tablet computer. A pen lay snuggled into the binding. She glanced up and down the beach again, not wanting to take it if the owner was nearby. There was still nobody in sight, though the beaches wrapped around the bases of those promontories and continued on. Someone might have left it and gone for a walk.

“I’ll see if there’s a name in it.” Tara bent and opened the cover.

No name on the inside, though she forgot she was looking for identification as soon as she spotted the first picture. It was an engaging portrait of an old woman with a deeply lined face and a few missing teeth, though that didn’t keep her from smiling broadly. It was hard to get a sense of skin coloring from the black-ink drawing, but Tara thought she might be Native American. The artist had captured an adventurous glint in the woman’s eyes, something that made Tara want to meet her in person. The portrait wasn’t signed, though a scribble in the corner marked a date, two years earlier. Several landscapes occupied the following pages, most of the surrounding area, though a couple featured dry scrublands and ponderosa pine forests that one might find in Eastern Washington.

The next sketch, another portrait, made Tara’s heart beat faster and her belly twist with unease. At first, she thought it was the man from the Jeep, but after a moment’s study, she decided it wasn’t. But it looked a lot like him. The subject of the drawing had short dark hair and wore a jumpsuit and parachute. Some brother who was in the Air Force?

Tara closed the sketchpad before investigating further. She didn’t know if the neighbor was the artist, but she would be surprised if this didn’t belong to him, and the last thing she wanted was for him to catch her snooping about in his—

A low growl reached her ears, just audible over the lapping of the waves. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she turned slowly toward the noise. A big gray dog stood on the pebbles, staring at her with cold yellow eyes. It was close enough that it could reach her in a single leap.

“Nice doggie,” Tara said in her best if-you-don’t-eat-me-I’ll-find-a-treat-for-you voice. She didn’t move. She thought of backing away from the sketchpad, but it couldn’t belong to the animal. Besides, moving might make it twitchy.