Alphas in the Wild (4 page)

Nope, she just wanted her things and her more than half. Let the bastard refinance if he had to. Most of the down payment on their house had come from her.

California’s a community property state,
one of her internal mavens reminded her.

Community property or not, there was no way she was sharing any of her federal retirement. She’d been quite clear with the attorney on that point. After all, she and Ryan had only been married for a few months. Hopefully the brief time they’d lived together before that wouldn’t work against her in court.

Her mind drifted to Tim. Now he was a much more pleasant topic to contemplate...

Whoa there, sweetie. Rein it in. I don’t know enough to toss my eggs into that basket. Not yet, anyway.

Cold seeped into her back from the rock she rested against. Moira flexed her fingers. They were cold too. She shook her head, hard. “I know better,” she muttered as she shoved to her feet so she could get moving again. It was too cold to stay put for long, unless she layered up on clothing.

The trail was deserted as she chugged toward Baxter Pass. Odd that she hadn’t seen any other backpackers. It was late in the season, but still...

Her orders to oversee the trail crew had finally come through in an e-mail from John early that morning. She’d clicked all the appropriate boxes, added her electronic signature, and sent it back to him.

She would’ve been on the move well before dawn since she was awake, but in light of his insistence about the doctor, she waited for official authorization. A ten-year veteran of the Park Service, she had enough seniority to stay in the backcountry if she chose—rather than being chained to a desk—but not quite enough to pick her assignments. She didn’t want to sully her track record by being insubordinate.

She thought about the roster tucked in her pack. She knew some of the crew, but about half of them were fresh recruits. Trail crews were always a mixed bag. Some were serious, Sierra Club types who were hard-core environmentalists. Some hated people, viewing the backcountry as a refuge, and then there were the ubiquitous druggies. They brought their own stash—never mind it was against Park Service regulations. She always worried one of the latter bunch would have a major meltdown on some hallucinogen and start killing people.

Moira shivered. Reaching up, she zipped her buff-colored fuzzy jacket all the way to her chin.

Something wet landed on her face. A snowflake. The sky looked threatening enough to really dump. For a minute, she considered stopping again to dig out her weatherproof parka and pants and then decided against it. Speed was her friend. She needed to crest the pass before the weather turned really rotten. At twelve thousand feet, Baxter Pass was a low point on a long, exposed ridge. Not a good place to be caught in the middle of a storm. Moira laid into her afterburners. Even uphill, carrying a fifty-pound pack, her long legs could churn out better than three miles an hour.

An hour passed. Then part of another.

Only two more sets of switchbacks, and I’ll have it.

Her breath came fast in her throat. Thin, cold air burned her lungs, but she was used to it. A side benefit of pushing herself hard was it thrust Ryan and his betrayal out of her mind. Of course, he had lots of excuses. She was never home, and he had
needs
. She snorted derisively. Well, she had needs too, but you didn’t find her spread-eagled across her desk for anything with a dick between his legs.

She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d fallen out of love with Ryan, but it hadn’t been all that long after the wedding. She winced as the truth struck home. Sex was always great, but in every other respect he was a self-centered boor who blamed everyone in the world for his own shortcomings—like his inability to hold a job, for one.

Her mind strayed to his incredible body. Broad shoulders, well-defined muscles, dazzling abs, and a high, tight ass. Mildly disgusted with herself, she realized she’d put up with a lot to maintain her connection to his sculpted body and knowing fingers, mouth, and cock. They’d had sex almost every day—sometimes twice, if she wasn’t working—and she missed the feel of a man’s body stretched against her. Her nipples pebbled into hard points, rubbing against her sports bra. When she realized her pace had slowed, Moira forced herself to think about something else.

Ryan was bad for her. She’d known it for a long time, and getting away from him was the best thing that could’ve happened to her. In retrospect that nameless redhead had done her an enormous favor.

Yeah, well if I ever run into her again, I’ll be sure to let her know.
Moira laughed wryly.

A fine mist, swirling with snowflakes, had all but obscured the last thousand vertical feet of trail, and she couldn’t see much of anything. No point in getting careless—and maybe walking off the trail’s steep edge—just because she was distracted by man problems. Moira shoved the last vestiges of Ryan out of her mind, hoping he’d stay gone this time.

She was grateful she’d been over this pass before. It could be confusing near the top where the trail angled right, just before curving down to the alpine basin holding Baxter Lakes. She raised her hands to her face and blew on her fingers. Gloves would’ve been nice, but she was only about an hour from her destination; she didn’t want to take the time to dig through her pack for them. As long as she kept moving, there was no danger of frostbite or freezing to death.

Whooshing, even louder than the incessant howl of the wind, dragged her gaze upward. A flock of ravens flew overhead, stark against the white mist. She tried to remember what she knew about avian migration patterns. Usually, by this time, most birds had left the high country since they needed trees to survive the cold months.

Wonder what they’re doing here?

She pushed a vague sense of unease aside and plunged down the trail, grateful to have the pass behind her. A thin coating of snow crunched under her heavy boots. After about half a mile, the fog thinned. It was barely snowing anymore, and what had fallen was melting. Her stomach growled. She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight hours had passed since she’d eaten.

Uh-oh. Not good.

She glanced at the lakes below and thought she could see the trail crew’s camp, but wasn’t certain. It could just as easily be a group of large white boulders.

Her stomach rumbled again, complaining about its empty status, particularly since she’d just covered over twelve miles and climbed six thousand feet.

Okay, okay, I’ll stop,
she reassured it, grateful it was sending hunger signals again.

She pulled her parka out of her pack and arranged it on a flat rock to shield her pants from moisture. Balancing the pack against her legs, she sat and dredged through it for the clear plastic canister with her food. As she ate salami, cheese sticks, and crackers washed down with Gatorade, she smiled to herself. Mountaineering food was a long way from haute cuisine, but it did the job.

A squawk from behind startled her. Moira whipped her head around to look, and her mouth fell open. At least a dozen ravens stood on the trail, paired off in some sort of weird formation. She thought about the bunch she’d seen in the sky and wondered if these could possibly be the same ones. Her heart sped up, hammering against her chest. Mouth suddenly dry, she dropped her half-eaten lunch back into the canister and spun the lid shut.

One of them—the leader?—cawed at her.

This can’t be happening.

Oh yes it can,
another inner voice sneered.
Weren’t ravens Ryan’s totem animal?

It felt as if someone jammed a knife into her guts and twisted it. Cold flooded her, followed by prickles of unnatural heat. Ravens
were
Ryan’s totem. Just like they’d been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. She’d seen Singing Bear playing a Native flute and leading flocks of ravens, like some sort of Pied Piper of Hamelin.

Christ, had Ryan pulled some Native American shaman trick and sent the birds to harass her for leaving him?

She worked on modulating her breathing. Animals could smell fear. She wasn’t certain if that applied to birds, but it was best to be on the safe side. Taking care to move slowly so they didn’t mob her and try to peck out her eyes or something, she got to her feet and stuffed everything into her pack.

As soon as Ryan’s possible link to the birds hit home, she’d started to shiver uncontrollably. Even her teeth were chattering. She fished gloves and a hat out of her pack and put them on.

The birds didn’t move. For a moment, she decided she had to be wrong about Ryan. It seemed way too far-fetched. She wondered if the ravens might have some type of bird flu or, God forbid, rabies.

Do birds even get rabies?

She racked her mind, willing a return of rational thought. There had to be a logical explanation for the weirdest avian behavior she’d even seen. It was like they were part of a hive mind, acting as a unit. Birds didn’t do that. Insects did. Setting her jaw in a firm line, Moira swung her pack onto her back. Almost as if they knew what she was up to, the ravens half hopped and half flew around her, blocking the trail below. Another mournful caw split the still air.

She heard something else: the sound of boots coming down from the pass. At least two people—maybe more. Aw shit! Was it Ryan?

Can’t be. He hates the backcountry. My imagination truly is working overtime.

She watched the birds. Their beady eyes weren’t looking at her anymore, but above her. It made sense. They could hear the footsteps too. In a whoosh of black feathers, they took to the air and surrounded her. Wings scraped against her face. Something sharp dug into her cheek. Another beak pecked just above one eye.

Always sensitive to animals and their right to the wilderness, Moira tried to restrain herself, but couldn’t. She batted at the ravens with both hands, intent on protecting her head and face.

“Go away. Leave me alone,” she screamed.

Twirling away from the mass of feathers, she pulled her gun from its holster and fired blindly into the air, hoping to intimidate them.

The footsteps she’d heard broke into a run. “Moira. Is that you?” a man shouted. “Are you all right?”

Tim.

The person heading right for her was Tim.

The ravens cartwheeled away from her, formed a pattern, and headed for the valley. Moira sucked air like a bellows. Adrenaline made her feel sick and light-headed. She swiped at her face, not surprised when her fingers came away bloody.

“Moira?” Tim’s cries had taken on a frantic quality, almost as if he were expecting to burst around a switchback and fall over her dead body—or get shot.

“Fine,” she called shakily. “I’m fine.” She squared her shoulders and settled her gun on her hip. It wasn’t entirely comfortable with the pack’s waistband buckled over the upper part of its holster.

Ambivalence roiled through her. She wanted to see Tim. But she was angry he hadn’t paid any attention when she said not to follow her.

She stared after the flock of birds. They’d all but disappeared in clouds floating above Baxter Lakes. “I’d feel better if they flew the other way,” she muttered, turning to face the sound of rock fall as Tim dislodged chunks of granite in his haste.

“No need to break your neck,” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I really am okay.”

“But you were screaming. I heard you. And a gunshot!” He pelted around a switchback, still running hard right at her. White-blond hair streamed behind him, and his blue eyes were filled with concern—and worry.

She took in his khaki pants, blue-and-green patterned fuzzy jacket, and lightweight leather boots popular with fast packers. Groaning inwardly at how inadequate his clothing was, she glanced at his backpack. It was one of those barely there things that didn’t hold much. They worked fine so long as the weather didn’t turn. If it did, the lack of more substantial equipment and warm clothing could be deadly.

Breathing hard, he threw his arms around her and pulled her close, his body vibrating with alarm.

“You need to put on more clothes.” She hugged him back before stepping away.

“What the hell were you screaming about?” He looked closely at her. “Christ! What happened to your face? Who’d you shoot at? I heard the gun.” He peered at her wounds. “That one might need a stitch.”

“Maybe not. The cold should close it up.” It was easier to talk about her injuries than what happened.

“Once we get to where your trail crew is, I at least want to rinse those places with antiseptic.”

Moira blew out a breath, not sure what to say next. Before the conversation turned to her wounds, he’d asked questions she didn’t want to answer. She didn’t see how she could possibly tell him that her husband might’ve sent a raven hit squad to hassle her. It sounded so fantastic, Tim might pull some doctor thing and send her off to the loony bin. After all, he had her boss’s phone number.

She glanced behind him. Something didn’t compute. “Who were you traveling with?”

“Huh?”

“I heard more than one of you coming down the trail.”

Tim looked genuinely confused. “Nope. Just me. You’re the first person I’ve seen since I left the trailhead.”

Okay, then...

Had she been so overwrought from the ravens, she imagined more than one set of footsteps? To avoid wandering still farther down the metaphorical slope of her sanity, Moira edged toward more neutral territory. “Guess you decided to follow me anyway.”

He offered her a crooked smile. “Yup. Didn’t want to let opportunity escape me twice. Besides, I just got great news. I wanted to find you so I could share it.”

A warm glow started deep inside, but she forced herself to refocus. “Did you bring warmer stuff than what you have on?”

He looked sheepish. “Uh-uh. Didn’t think it would be this cold. The forecast was for clear weather. And the pass took longer than I thought it would.”

“It’s six thousand feet of climbing.”

He shrugged. “I’ve run Western States and a few Iron Mans. I’m used to elevation gain. When my pack is light, I can cover five or six miles an hour—sometimes more. It’s how I caught up with you. By moving faster.”