Read Online A Dark Lure by Loreth Anne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Loreth Anne White
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lost the scent at the end of the ladder track. As soon as she saw it in his body posture, she raised the tracking line high, letting him work in a wide arc until she saw from his posture that he’d picked up the scent from the top of the next ladder.
“Good boy, Ace. Good tracking,” she panted as she trotted behind him.
He slowed and suddenly lay down. Between his paws at the tip of his nose was a glove, the first article she’d dropped.
“Yes! Way to go, boy!” She picked up the glove and slipped it into her sling pouch, then held her hand to the ground again. “Track, boy. Keep going.”
They entered a stand of skeletal deadfall—pine trees that had been killed by the beetle blight, dry and crackling and eerie. Two huge deer, gray, startled at the sight of them and crashed through the dead brush into a swampy area.
With each article Ace alerted on, she gave hearty encouragement. They’d been going almost a quarter mile when they crested a ridge and Olivia caught sight of a second track through frosted grass.
Man track.
She slowed to study the trace. Boot prints. Big.
From the flagging of the grass, the person, probably male, had headed in the same direction she’d been going when she’d laid Ace’s track. She guessed the prints to be about size twelve. Someone with a long stride. And the flagging was fresh. She lifted her gaze, following the line of the track. It perfectly paralleled her complex box and ladder track. Hairs prickled up the back of her neck.
She told herself it was coincidence.
“Let’s go, Ace, keep at it,” she said softly.
But as he shouldered back into the harness, a chill lingered. Something was off. Ace came to another article on his track, sniffed it, and then passed over it.
“Whoa, easy up, boy. Back up. You missed one.” She restrained him as she crouched down to gather up the missed article. A scarf. Not hers.
Not her scent. It was why he hadn’t alerted.
The scarf was a soft cashmere thing woven in tones of burnt orange, gold, and ochre, with stylized images of cacti and mesas. A tiny tag sewn into the seam said Handwoven by Lulu Designs, Arizona. The chill deepened into her bones. She glanced up.
Ace sat expectant, panting. Her attention shifted back to the boot prints paralleling her track on the left, then to the dark spruce forest into which they were headed.
The sun was still not up yet, the shadows black among the trees. She scrutinized the shadows for a sign of movement.
Nothing.
Slowly she turned in a circle, carefully cataloguing her surroundings. Above her a hawk flew. She recognized the fwap fwap fwap rhythm of the wings.
A duck made a panicky frappity frappity frappity sound. A ruffed grouse was similar. A crow’s feathers produced another kind of sound against currents of air. Out on the lake a fish jumped and slapped on water. All normal.
Once more she scanned the trees. And this time she felt suddenly ice cold. There was something in those trees, dark, tangible, and it was watching her. She felt it in her gut.
Twelve years ago she should have trusted her gut.
She trusted it now.
“Okay, Ace,” she whispered as she crouched down, removed his harness, and clipped his regular lead onto his collar. “We’re done. Let’s go back, boy.”
He looked confused as she led him briskly up to a path that was clear of trees and from which she would be visible from the lodge windows.
As they hit the path, the sun cracked over the horizon, and color spooled in warm shades of yellow and red across the fields. Steam began to rise instantly from the grass as hoarfrost started to melt. The lake shimmered from a flat gray color into a deep turquoise green, and the ranch looked suddenly like a chocolate-box-perfect image of autumn, complete with white-barked aspen and shivering gold leaves. And from the rise, she could see boats heading out from the campground. Tension lifted from her shoulders.
Her fears suddenly seemed absurd. And as her spirits rose,
“Good boy, Ace. Good tracking,” she panted as she trotted behind him.
He slowed and suddenly lay down. Between his paws at the tip of his nose was a glove, the first article she’d dropped.
“Yes! Way to go, boy!” She picked up the glove and slipped it into her sling pouch, then held her hand to the ground again. “Track, boy. Keep going.”
They entered a stand of skeletal deadfall—pine trees that had been killed by the beetle blight, dry and crackling and eerie. Two huge deer, gray, startled at the sight of them and crashed through the dead brush into a swampy area.
With each article Ace alerted on, she gave hearty encouragement. They’d been going almost a quarter mile when they crested a ridge and Olivia caught sight of a second track through frosted grass.
Man track.
She slowed to study the trace. Boot prints. Big.
From the flagging of the grass, the person, probably male, had headed in the same direction she’d been going when she’d laid Ace’s track. She guessed the prints to be about size twelve. Someone with a long stride. And the flagging was fresh. She lifted her gaze, following the line of the track. It perfectly paralleled her complex box and ladder track. Hairs prickled up the back of her neck.
She told herself it was coincidence.
“Let’s go, Ace, keep at it,” she said softly.
But as he shouldered back into the harness, a chill lingered. Something was off. Ace came to another article on his track, sniffed it, and then passed over it.
“Whoa, easy up, boy. Back up. You missed one.” She restrained him as she crouched down to gather up the missed article. A scarf. Not hers.
Not her scent. It was why he hadn’t alerted.
The scarf was a soft cashmere thing woven in tones of burnt orange, gold, and ochre, with stylized images of cacti and mesas. A tiny tag sewn into the seam said Handwoven by Lulu Designs, Arizona. The chill deepened into her bones. She glanced up.
Ace sat expectant, panting. Her attention shifted back to the boot prints paralleling her track on the left, then to the dark spruce forest into which they were headed.
The sun was still not up yet, the shadows black among the trees. She scrutinized the shadows for a sign of movement.
Nothing.
Slowly she turned in a circle, carefully cataloguing her surroundings. Above her a hawk flew. She recognized the fwap fwap fwap rhythm of the wings.
A duck made a panicky frappity frappity frappity sound. A ruffed grouse was similar. A crow’s feathers produced another kind of sound against currents of air. Out on the lake a fish jumped and slapped on water. All normal.
Once more she scanned the trees. And this time she felt suddenly ice cold. There was something in those trees, dark, tangible, and it was watching her. She felt it in her gut.
Twelve years ago she should have trusted her gut.
She trusted it now.
“Okay, Ace,” she whispered as she crouched down, removed his harness, and clipped his regular lead onto his collar. “We’re done. Let’s go back, boy.”
He looked confused as she led him briskly up to a path that was clear of trees and from which she would be visible from the lodge windows.
As they hit the path, the sun cracked over the horizon, and color spooled in warm shades of yellow and red across the fields. Steam began to rise instantly from the grass as hoarfrost started to melt. The lake shimmered from a flat gray color into a deep turquoise green, and the ranch looked suddenly like a chocolate-box-perfect image of autumn, complete with white-barked aspen and shivering gold leaves. And from the rise, she could see boats heading out from the campground. Tension lifted from her shoulders.
Her fears suddenly seemed absurd. And as her spirits rose,
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