I carted my prizes back home and straight to the person I trusted most in the world. Checking my watch, I sighed with relief. The Sasquatch would be at work.
“Careful,” I said, as Peter lifted the cast for a closer look. “They won’t be fully cured for a few days yet.”
Even if you knew nothing about animal tracks, these prints were enough to make you sit up and take notice. The two I assumed were fronts showed a handprint similar in shape to that of a giant raccoon, with four fingers and a fifth digit much like an opposable thumb. Except raccoon tracks tended to be solid, and this had interruptions between long, narrow pads along the fingers and a single, fatter one associated with the fifth digit. And of course, the size ruled out any fuzzy bandit involvement. With the digits splayed, likely while running, it measured almost a foot across. Claw impressions showed clearly at the tips of the fingers. The single hind paw print was even weirder. The innermost toe appeared larger than the other four and a little apart, and the others decreased in size to the outermost toe. Again, long narrow pads ran along the toes and there were clear claw impressions.
“Any idea what made these?” I asked Peter.
“You said it killed a hare and scared the Thompsons’ horses?”
I nodded as I watched Chloe, who bustled around the kitchen, putting away lunch plates and making us tea. She’d barely glanced at the casts. I noticed her movements seemed stiff. Was something bothering her? Did she have another fight with Dillon?
Chloe didn’t meet my eyes as she handed me a steaming mug.
“But it wasn’t a wolf?” she asked.
“No, it wasn’t a wolf,” I said, adding sugar to my tea and stirring.
When I looked up, they were both staring at the plaster casts.
“It was dark; you sure? Could it have been a dog?” Peter asked.
“Do those look like dog prints to you?”
“The mud was soft. That can alter tracks.” Peter’s pale-blue eyes locked with my disbelieving stare, and he sighed. “If it wasn’t a wolf, what the hell was it?”
That’s the million-dollar question. “I have no idea. It could be a new species.”
Peter hesitated. “Yeah, I guess.”
His skin had an unhealthy, flushed tone. Is he coming down with my flu?
“Do you feel okay?”
“Yeah, fine. I’m fine.” He dropped a hand to trace the cast’s contours. “Have a few friends I’d like to run these by. Can you leave them with me?”
I had intended to see if I could round up someone at the university to take a peek, but running them by some of Peter’s local hunter friends had merit. “Sure, that’d be great. I’ll put them near the window to dry.”
Peter stood to help. The old farmhouse had started life as a log structure, and the width of the walls and heavy wooden windowsills remained the only clue to what lay within. Even so, the casts of the paw prints were so huge that they hung over the edge.
Peter sat back at the table and poured himself more tea. “You feeling okay?” he asked.
“Good. I’m over that flu.”
“Still having animal issues at work?”
I grimaced. “Yeah. I keep dousing myself with cologne, but it doesn’t fool the horses.”
“Your mood been good? Upbeat? No anger or frustration?”
What the hell? What does my mood have to do with the animals at the clinic, or the flu? Unless . . . “I don’t have rabies, Peter. I’m vaccinated. All our vets are.”
I looked at him, but he and Chloe had locked glances, like they were sharing a telepathic secret. Does he know I like Chloe? Of course he does. I am such a dumbass. My thoughts switched to Dillon. Has she had her talk with him yet? If I were to pursue anything with her, I needed to be sure they were no longer an item. Which, considering the kiss on Thursday, seemed unlikely.
“How’s Dillon doing?” I asked. “Does he like his job?”
Both swiveled my way and stared. Uh, okay, weird. Hello, I’m Liam. Here in your kitchen.
“He’s alright,” Peter answered. “He’s a good mechanic when he doesn’t lose his temper.”
“That wasn’t his fault,” Chloe said with heat. “That guy was a prick. Said Dillon left the drain plug out after he changed the oil. Dillon would never do that.”
“Chloe, he hit him. Dillon’s lucky the guy didn’t call the cops, and that I’m buds with the garage owner.”
“The guy got in his face, shoved him.”
The tone of her voice told me more than the words. She defended Dillon as though—well, as though she loved him. I had no doubt that Dillon had crossed the line with the client. I mean I barely knew the Sasquatch, but I’d seen the rage the guy carried like a club. If Chloe could only hear herself, she’d be able to answer the relationship question. They’re way more than friends.
Sighing, I gestured to Keen, who trotted to me from under the table. “I’m going for a run.”
“I can come.” She took an eager step after Keen. Her eyes held not a glimmer of guilt, only excitement.
“Stay.” Peter’s voice brooked no argument. “Dillon’s due home.”
Chloe frowned and stepped back, and I took Keen out to run off my worries, my work, and my frustration.
* * *
When I returned, the Chevy was in the driveway. Any doubts that Dillon had returned vanished as I approached the house. I could hear the shouting from the backyard.
Curiously, it stopped when I appeared out of the bush—a sure sign that I was the topic of discussion. Keen and I entered my suite with total silence above.
I was unprepared for
