Ranger's Justice. Lara Lacombe
Читать онлайн.| Название | Ranger's Justice |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Lara Lacombe |
| Жанр | Короткие любовные романы |
| Серия | Mills & Boon Heroes |
| Издательство | Короткие любовные романы |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9781474079327 |
She was very nearly perfect.
He stood over her, head cocked to the side as he ran his gaze over her still form. Limbs arranged just so, hair an artful tangle obscuring her face, one sightless eye playing peekaboo from between the strands. Yes. This would do.
He stripped off his gloves and shoved them into the bag at his feet. Walking over to a small shrub nearby, he broke off a dry branch and set about erasing the footprints he’d left in the sand. It was tedious, almost boring work, but it was important he destroy any evidence that might point in his direction. The police might catch him someday, but he still had much to do.
Finally finished, he stood on the rocky trail and surveyed his work. Pride surged through him, along with a pang of regret. He wanted nothing more than to stay with her, to tell her all the secrets of his heart. But as much as he wanted to linger, it was too big of a risk. The first orange tendrils of dawn were streaking across the sky, and hikers started early in the park. Better for him to leave. She wouldn’t be lonely long—someone would find her soon enough.
“Goodbye, lady,” he whispered. He blew a kiss on the wind and smiled sadly. “I enjoyed our time together. I’ll see you again.”
With one final glance back, he turned and set off down the trail.
* * *
Park ranger Quentin “Quinn” Gallagher crested the small hill and paused, adjusting his hat against the glare of the morning sun. The ground was still cool from the night, but the air was warm and it wouldn’t take long for the heat of the day to set in.
The trail in this section of the park was rocky and on an incline, and he stepped carefully as he set off again. He hadn’t run into anyone so far, but that would likely change on his trek back. This was one of the more challenging trails in the park, and experienced hikers liked to test their mettle against the sloping switchbacks and narrow path. The reward for their determination was one of the best views in the park, which, in Quinn’s mind, made up for all the work.
He enjoyed hiking for pleasure, but for today’s journey he was focused on work. Yesterday, two campers had reported a section of safety railing was deteriorating to the point of falling down. Since the area in question was in an especially treacherous area, Quinn had volunteered to check it out today. He had a few supplies in his backpack, but if things looked as bad as the campers had described, he’d probably have to close the trail until they could bring a crew in to repair the damage.
The muscles in his legs burned pleasantly as he moved up the mountain. Big Bend National Park was no match for the Rocky Mountains, but the Chisos range was nothing to laugh at, either. The landscape changed as he made his ascent up Emory Peak, the low, green scrubland giving way to exposed rock. Small clumps of weeds sprouted tenaciously in the gaps between rocks, and he passed the skeleton of a rabbit, the bones bleached white from exposure. Quinn knew he was getting close as he spied the large solar panel and tall antennae at the top of the peak—the equipment was part of the two-way radio system employed by the Park Service in Big Bend. It wasn’t the prettiest of additions, but the setup served an important purpose.
He rounded a curve and a flash of pink caught his eye. He paused, scanning the area again with a slight frown. The land in this part of the park was all browns and greens—pink was definitely not a normal part of the scenery. Probably trash left behind by some hikers, he thought sourly. Most people were respectful of nature and took pains to collect their debris, but there were always a few bad apples who couldn’t be bothered to do the right thing. He peered against the glare of the sun, hoping to catch the flash of color again. A breeze drifted by, and he saw pink flutter in the wind. Over there—about twenty feet off the trail.
Quinn carefully moved off the trail, mindful of where he stepped so as not to cause too much damage to the landscape. As he approached, it looked like the pink was a bit of fabric caught on the branches of the bushes that dotted the area. Maybe a scarf, or perhaps a discarded jacket cast off by a hiker who got too hot on the trail.
He bent down to untangle the fabric and froze as he got his first good look at the spot. His body seemed to recognize what he was seeing before his brain registered the scene—the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and a chill swept over him.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered. His stomach twisted violently, and he turned away as a wave