High Stakes (High Mountain Trackers Book 2) Read online

  “I had no choice, they’re too high,” she huffs, shaking her shoulder-length waves from her face. “And my brand is up there.”

  She points at a single, red can of coffee sitting well back from the edge of the top shelf before smoothing her hands down the front of her plain, white blouse.

  I reach up, grab the can, and drop it in the basket by her feet.

  Without another word I move past her, tossing Ama’s coffee in my cart as I aim for the produce section.

  Fifteen minutes later when I push my cart out the doors, I just catch a glimpse of her behind the wheel of an older Dodge Caravan.

  She’s so close to the steering wheel, her nose almost touches the damn windshield.

  Two

  Nella

  “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize her.”

  The woman gives me an apologetic smile before returning to her computer.

  I tuck Pippa’s photo back in my purse. It’s one of the last pictures she sent me a few weeks ago. A selfie in front of her rig with a beautiful mountain view behind her.

  “Thank you for your time,” I mumble, walking out the door.

  This was the third RV park I’ve tried today without any luck. I figured if I could find the park she stayed at last, perhaps she spoke to someone there about where she was heading. She mentioned the name to me in our last conversation, but for the life of me all I can remember is the name had something to do with trees. So I’ve narrowed my list. This was the Paul Bunyan Campground.

  I do recall her telling me she was off to boondock near Scenery Mountain for a few days before coming home, but that’s a pretty vague concept considering the vast area that would include. Boondocking is just another term for dry-camping and means camping off the grid, which makes it harder when you’re trying to find someone. It would be of great help if I could pin that down to a general area on the map, which is why I’d love to find someone she’s spoken to recently.

  Scratching another RV park of my list, I check my map for the next closest one. Libby Creek Campground. It doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with trees, and from what I could glean online, it has dispersed, primitive campsites but Pippa would probably like that. It’s only a mile or so down the road, I may as well check it out.

  Ten minutes later, I’m pretty sure this wasn’t the best idea. I had an inkling when a few hundred feet in I noticed the road turn into no more than a pair of muddy ruts. I should’ve turned around there, but instead decided I’d come this far, I may as well see it through.

  Well…I’m not going anywhere soon. Not with my front wheels buried up to the rim in mud. I’ve tried to rock my way out of the giant pothole, but all I’ve done so far is spray mud everywhere. And of course there’s no one in sight.

  I feel like crying, but that’s not going to get me out of this pickle, so instead I try to channel my sister to find a solution. What would Pippa do?

  How ironic; I’m supposed to be looking for her—an experienced outdoors woman—when I don’t even know how to deal with a little mud. Good intentions alone will get me nowhere and for the first time I’m starting to doubt my blind determination.

  In the end it isn’t so difficult after all. Once I stop feeling sorry for myself and start thinking, it doesn’t take me too long to come up with a plan. Gathering a stack of branches approximately the same thickness, I line them up behind each of the front wheels. I hardly notice my clothes are now as covered in mud as the van is when I get behind the wheel.

  Starting the engine, I put the vehicle in reverse and ease my foot off the brake, praying the wheels will grip onto the branches. The moment I feel the traction, I get a bit too excited when I hit the gas. I wince at the crunch as my rear light is taken out by the trunk of a tree, but at least I’m no longer stuck in the mud.

  Unfortunately, I’m wasting too much time. Time my sister may not have.

  The moment I feel the hard dirt under my wheels, I stop the van and pull out my phone. Time to call in the big guns. Or gun. I have the number saved.

  “High Meadow Ranch.”

  The same friendly female voice answers again.

  “Yes, hello. It’s Antonella Freling and I’m terribly sorry to bother you again, but I really do need to speak to Fletcher Boone.”

  “He still hasn’t called you back?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, I’m looking out the window at him right now. Why don’t I go grab him? He’s on his way out.”

  Rather than running the chance he’ll dismiss my call again, I have a better idea. The ranch is only a couple of miles farther down the US-2, maybe I should drop in. He can hardly ignore me if I’m standing right in front of him.

  “Actually, I’m not far. Is there any way you can keep him there for a few minutes?”

  The woman on the other side chuckles.

  “You bet. I’ll make sure he sticks around.”

  I white-knuckle it all the way to the turnoff to the ranch, going as fast as the speed limit will allow.

  The ranch is to the left of the drive, a rustic two-story building with a porch stretching the width of the house. On the other side is a fenced enclosure where I spot someone working a horse. Beyond it are two barns, one large one with its doors wide open, and a smaller one set farther back. Outside the enclosure two men in cowboy hats are leaning on the fence, their focus on the horse.

  It’s a beautiful animal, even as someone who avoids any animals taller than my knees, I can see that. Horses intimidate me, they always have, which is why I’m suddenly hesitant to get out of my vehicle.

  Both cowboys turn their heads at once and my hand reaches for the gearshift, primed to back right out of here. I almost jump out of my skin when I hear a tap on the window beside my head.

  A beautiful, dark-haired woman peeks in the window, smiling wide.

  “Are you coming out or what?”

  Oh dear, that doesn’t make for a great first impression.

  I quickly brush uselessly at the splatters of mud clinging to my shirt, before grabbing for my purse and opening the door.

  “You must be Antonella,” the woman says, holding out her hand. “My name is Ama.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I mumble politely as I shake her hand.

  “You’re persistent,” Ama says with an easy grin. “I’ll give you that.”

  Then she turns her head toward the small group. “Fletch! You’ve got a visitor.”

  I follow her line of sight and get a good look at the taller of the two men in the light-colored hat when he turns this way.

  Oh, no. I should’ve left while I could.

  Fletch

  It can’t be.

  Yet apparently it is; the woman from the grocery store. Even without the van, I would’ve recognized her. Fuck if I know why.

  I wouldn’t recognize the barber in town I see every six weeks if I bumped into him on the street, so why is this unremarkable woman—after about two minutes of interaction, ever—so memorable? It’s clear from the look on her face she remembers me too.

  That fucking van looks like someone threw buckets of mud at it, and as I get closer, I notice she’s covered in it too.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Bo, the nosy bastard, starts chuckling right behind me.

  “Way to charm the ladies, brother.”

  I ignore him and instead focus on the woman, who is pressing those generous lips into a thin line as I approach.

  “Uh, Fletch?” Ama interrupts. “Remember those four messages I handed you? This is the woman who left them. Meet Antonella Freling.”

  Holy shit. She even has a name to fit the profile.

  Bo ducks his head around me and holds out his hand.

  “Name’s Beauregard Rivera, ma’am.”

  “Fuck off, Bo.”

  She startles at my bark and immediately pulls her hand back.

  “Can you try and be civil?” Ama scolds.

  I grab the woman’s elbow and march her a few steps away from those two.

  “What do you want from me?”

  I have to give it to her, she may have all the appearances of a doormat, but the way she twists her arm free and shoves her chin defiantly in the air shows fire.

  “Absolutely nothing. You may be good at what you do, but I dare say you are the most unpleasant individual I’ve ever encountered. I’ve changed my mind.”

  With that she walks back to Ama.

  “I’m terribly sorry I’ve wasted your time. I won’t bother you again.”

  Then with a nod to Bo but ignoring me, she reaches for her door handle.

  “That van is not the best vehicle to go off-roading in,” Bo comments dryly.

  She freezes for a second before swinging around to him.

  “Thank you. That’s good to know, but for your information, I got stuck in the mud while looking for my sister. She’s missing. Your friend’s contact information was given to me as someone who might be able to help, but my information was clearly incorrect. Like I said, I won’t bother you again. Have a good day.”

  With that she turns back to her vehicle, yanks the door open, and slips behind the wheel. As she backs up to turn around, she darts a quick glance my way and I catch a suspicious shine in her eyes.

  Her sister’s missing? Well, shit.

  “I swear, Fletcher Boone, if I didn’t know under that foul mood of yours there’s a good heart, I’d lay you out myself,” Ama declares before stomping off to the house.

  “Can’t argue with her there, brother. That was pretty brutal, even for you.”

  Then Bo turns his back as well and returns to the corral, where Dan is working with one of the young horses.

  Ignoring the niggle of guilt, I try to go about my day while staying out of everyone’s way, but I keep seeing that woman’s tearful eyes.

  I may have been a bit of an asshole. Fine, a huge asshole. Already in a bad mood because, while I should’ve been up in the mountains trying to bag my bighorn, I’m here with Bo holding down the fort while the others are out on a job.

  A fifteen-year-old never came home last night. The last place he was seen was at a party in a clearing off one of the hundreds of logging roads not far from the Kootenay River. A preferred spot for underage drinking, especially on the weekends. Wouldn’t be the first time someone with a little too much alcohol in their system wandered off and got lost.

  They rode out this morning, leaving Bo and me with the running of the ranch. Jonas’s old man, Thomas, usually chips in, but he’s not feeling well today.

  We’re busy, but thoughts of Antonella Freling eventually drive me inside where I find Ama in the kitchen.

  “Sorry.”

  She turns when she hears my voice.

  “Not me you should be apologizing to. I called Tiva—”

  Ama’s sister is an evidence technician with the Libby Police Department.

  “—and she says a report was filed on Thursday for a Fillippa Freling, who was last heard of August twenty-sixth.”

  She recounts the details from the report but there isn’t a whole lot to go on. A physical description, the license plate and make of the motorhome, and the last known conversation the missing woman had with her sister.

  That still doesn’t explain why Antonella came looking for me, but I guess she would be the best person to explain that.

  “Do you still have her number?”

  Ama rolls her eyes at me and disappears into the office, coming back with her message pad. She points at the carbon copy left on the pad and I enter the number in my phone.

  Then I walk outside and lean against the porch railing, hitting dial. Five rings and then the call goes to voicemail.

  “You’ve reached Antonella Freling. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I can.”

  I fucking hate leaving messages so I hang up instead. I’ll try again later.

  Later comes when I’m back in my cabin after eating another meal at the big house. The team returned around dinnertime and after squaring away their horses for the night, Jonas waved me inside.

  They’d found the kid wandering around in circles; dehydrated and confused. Stupid kids, drinking more than their bodies can handle. It doesn’t take much to get alcohol poisoning, and without food and water to dilute the alcohol content in the blood, it can have serious, even life-threatening effects.

  This kid was lucky, but we had a case a few years ago where a seventeen-year-old wasn’t so fortunate. When we found him his heart rate was so low, we didn’t think he was alive at first. That boy lived for two more months in a coma and hooked up to machines. What a waste.

  I flick on a few lights when I walk in and drop down on my threadbare couch. It doesn’t look like much but it’s comfortable, molded to my ass over the years. Toeing off my boots, I lift my feet on the coffee table and pull out my phone.

  Five rings and the same message, but this time when I hang up, my phone rings right away. It’s her.

  “Boone,” I answer.

  Dead silence on the other side.

  “Antonella?”

  Jesus, that name is a mouthful. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

  “Uhh…yes. I’m sorry I missed you earlier, I’m a bit surprised you called.”

  Heck, lady, so am I.

  “Guess I’m curious to know how you got my name.”

  I wince, I should probably have led with an apology for being an asshole, but it’s too late now.

  “Of course,” she responds primly. “Jeanine—a friend from my book club—suggested I contact you.”

  I wrack my brain trying to remember if I know anyone by that name, but I’m drawing a blank. Not a surprise, since I don’t socialize much and I’d been with only a few women while in British Columbia. I have a hard time remembering what they even looked like, but I’m pretty damn sure they weren’t in any book clubs.

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Oh, it’s Jeanine Hicks, her husband is a park ranger. She mentioned you’d worked with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  I have no trouble remembering Phil Hicks. I’d helped him out a few times locating missing campers. One of the very few people who knew how to find my remote cabin and possibly the closest I had to a friend while living up there. He’d even crashed there a couple of times when the late hour and inclement weather made it dangerous to return to the station.

  A veteran, like me, he was someone I could be myself around, much like my team here. Still, we’d lost touch six years ago when I moved here. Guess neither of us is the kind of person to check in from time to time, but it’s good to know he hasn’t forgotten me either.

  “Well, if that’s all,” she says suddenly in a curt tone, jarring me back to the present. “It’s been a long day.”

  Before I have a chance to say anything else, the line has gone dead. Goddammit, I never even got around to asking about her sister, she’d been too eager to get off the phone.

  So be it.

  I push the conversation from my mind, drop my phone on the coffee table, and pick up the remote for some news before I hit the sack.

  Getting up early to try and bag me a bighorn tomorrow.

  Three

  Nella

  “Four hundred twenty-seven dollars and sixty-three cents, please.”

  I wince at the price tag as I pull out my credit card, and remind myself this is for Pippa.

  It’s not that I’m without means, but I have my share of the inheritance and a good chunk of savings tied up in investments. I’m simply used to living a frugal life on a precise budget. Which means no lavish vacations, fancy hotels, or reckless shopping.

  However, as the friendly camper at the Timberlane Campground so kindly pointed out, I would need appropriate gear if I intended to head into the mountains.

  Yesterday was wasted, hitting up another couple of RV resorts and campgrounds near town. Talking to a manager if I could find one, or otherwise any campers I came across. Pippa’s picture I printed out was already getting grungy from all the different hands it passed through.

  I’d connected with local police again, who didn’t have anything new to report.

  Then today I got the break I’d been hoping for. A nice lady the motel breakfast bar this morning mentioned the Timberlane Campground about half an hour north of town on Pipe Creek Road. She mentioned staying there with a trailer a few times when her husband was still alive. She’s in town to visit a daughter who lives here, but opts for the motel these days.

  I headed out right after breakfast and ended up spending a large chunk of the day there. Unfortunately, I had to wait until noon to speak to Chuck Yates, the manager, but he was extremely helpful.

  Yes, Pippa had stayed here for three nights and left August twenty-sixth, however, Chuck wasn’t sure where she was heading. He hadn’t seen her leave, but pointed me in the direction of a trailer parked in the site across from her.

  Betsy Waters had been in that same spot for the past three weeks and not only remembered my sister, but recalled a conversation they had around boondocking on Scenery Mountain. She helped me mark up my map with the possible dispersed camping spots she discussed with Pippa and offered to help me look.

  Given that the woman is at least in her seventies and firmly in the claws of arthritis—judging by the misshapen joints in her hands—I thought it prudent to kindly decline. She did, however, point out I would need sturdier clothes to be clambering through the wilderness.

  Hence my costly visit to the Libby Sports Center, where I was able to find everything from hiking boots to bear spray. I added in a sleeping bag, a blow-up air mattress, a small bottle-top propane burner, and the cheapest camping cookware I could find. This was after seeing a poster advertising van camping. Sure, the van in the picture was modified, but I’m sure I can make it work if I take out the back seat.

  It’s already past dinnertime and my stomach is rumbling when I lug my bags to the van and drive back to the motel. The plan had been to extend my reservation, but I figure I can save a bit of money and time if I simply camp up on the mountain.