Breaking Free: A Colorado High Country Crossover Novel by Pamela Clare (well read books .TXT) 📗

“That’s what my great-grandfather thought.” Jack reached into his lunch bag and drew out his apple. “He bought this land after fighting in France in World War One. He wanted to escape the world and find some peace.”

Winona unwrapped her brownie. “Did he? Find peace, I mean.”

“I surely hope so.”

After lunch, they moved on again, heading across the mountainside but no longer gaining elevation. The wind picked up, got colder, a bank of gray clouds moving in from the northwest.

Nate looked up. “That storm is coming.”

It was around three in the afternoon when they reached the western property line of the Cimarron and found the fence down.

“This is the old mining road.” Jack pointed with a gloved hand. “That’s Forest Service land on the other side.”

Jason held up one end of the severed wire. “Wire cutters. This is where he’s coming onto your property. You could repair the fence, put up more warning signs, let him know you’re aware of him, maybe even put up some kind of surveillance camera.”

Nate turned to his father. “I’ll bring up some men and repair it as soon as I get a chance. He could just cut the fence again or enter somewhere else, but at least the bastard will know we’re watching.”

Jason knelt by the road. “The tracks lead that way, down the mountain. But there are a lot of other tracks mixed in—bike tires, other four-wheelers, horses.”

Deputy Marcs knelt beside him. “It looks like this road is popular with mountain bikers, hikers, horseback riders, and all-terrain vehicles. Are you able to discern one set of tire tracks from another in all this mess?”

“Yeah. I could lose it farther on, but for now, it’s pretty clear.”

Winona walked over, looked down at the overlapping tracks. “How is that clear?”

Jason touched a finger to the track. “See the flying chevron here in the center of the tire tread? That’s our guy. Let’s see where this goes.”

Jason followed the four-wheeler’s tracks down the road, the others behind him, the wind ice-cold. They moved faster now, partly because the sign was easier to see than it had been in the forest and partly because they were heading downhill.

Jason stepped over a large pile of horse manure. “I wonder why he’s getting onto your property at that location. Why drive all the way up this road? This is Cimarron land here to our left, isn’t it? Why not cut the fence somewhere closer to the pasture?”

“Good question.” Deputy Marcs fell in beside him, ponytail swinging. “There are miles of fence line here. He could have cut through at any point. Why spend the fuel and the time driving up here?”

“There has to be a reason the poacher chose that spot.” Jason considered the possibilities. “Jack, are there any natural obstacles?”

“There’s a steep ravine. He could be trying to avoid it.”

“Why wouldn’t he try to enter your land below the ravine?” That seemed a lot easier to Jason. “The pastures are down here, not up there.”

Nate had that answer. “That would put him near the Forest Service parking area—and a lot of potential witnesses who might wonder what a guy with a rifle, a freshly bagged kill, and a wolf is doing out here.”

Jason turned to Winona. “Would a wolf be a problem around people?”

“If he has a wolf, he’ll do his best to avoid people and other canines. Wild wolves never become pets. Even hand-reared ones like Shota and wolfdog crossbreeds remain pretty wild. Their behavior can be unpredictable. They can be wonderful, but people have been mauled and even killed by animals they thought were tame.”

Then Jason saw another breach in the fence. “Someone cut through here, too.”

“Is it the same guy?” Deputy Marcs asked.

“I don’t know how long ago this happened. There might not be any sign left.” Jason searched the ground for wolf tracks, tire treads, boot prints, or anything else that might offer information about who had done this. “There.”

Under the canopy of a tall pine was a small section of tire tread. In the center was the telltale flying chevron.

Nate knelt beside Jason. “The bastard must have tried here first and found himself cut off by the ravine. Then he did some recon and moved farther up the mountain.”

“Looks like it.”

They kept going down the road and soon came to a creek. About ten feet wide from bank to bank, it bisected the trail. Someone had placed a couple of boards over it to act as a bridge. The water wasn’t deep, but the erosion and sand deposits on the downhill side told Jason that the creek frequently overflowed.

“This part of the road floods in the spring,” Jack said.

Jason crossed the makeshift bridge—and the trail went cold. He stopped, doubled back, tried again, moving more slowly. When that yielded nothing, he walked farther down the road, hoping to pick up the trail again, but he found nothing. “The trail stops here. He might have driven up the creek bed. We can follow this onto Forest Service land and see what we find.”

Deputy Marcs zipped her parka to her chin. “We get squatters on Forest Service land sometimes. I’ve helped rangers clear off more than a few.”

Jack stopped, looked up at the sky. “I think we ought to call it a day. Those storm clouds are headed this way, and the temps are dropping fast. It will take us longer to get back up this trail than it took to get down. I’m guessing it will be a few hours before we get back to our vehicles.”

They turned and hiked back up the road.

They hadn’t gone far when Jason spotted a rough-looking man with a long beard, long hair, and a sidearm standing off to the side of the road, a grin on his face.

“I don’t like the feel of that guy,” Deputy Marcs whispered.

Neither did Jason. “He looks like one of those squatters you mentioned. No backpack. No winter coat. No vehicle or mountain bike.”

Jason wasn’t one