Page 2 of The Crimson Wolf
“It’s just that I have a deadline on this story. I only have two weeks to researchandwrite the article. I need as much information as I can get.”
Granny bustles around the table, tidying things up. “There’s not much I can say. I just know those poor farmers were killed, and their bodies were found completely mangled in that strange circle. I know the same as everyone else.” She stops what she’s doing and pops up. “You know what! I think Jack was at the scene when they found the bodies. Maybe you should head to his hunting supply store tomorrow and ask him yourself.”
My stomach drops. “Jack? As in Jack Lumberton?” He was my childhood best friend and also my childhood crush. The last time we saw each other, we didn’t leave on the best terms. He’s probably one of the reasons I haven’t wanted to return. I donotwant to talk to him tomorrow.
Granny gives me a knowing look. “I know there’s a lot of history there, but maybe you can use that to your advantage. You two were always so close. He would probably be your best chance at giving you some good information.Besides, you're gonna want to see him. He grew up alright.” Granny gives me a wink.
“Granny!” I squeal, unable to contain my laughter. She’s always been a devilish flirt.
When my laughter subsides, I mentally weigh my options back and forth. I don’t have any leads. All I have is that I grew up here, and I was so dreadfully shy that I doubt that would count for anything. Jack may be my only chance to get a start on this story. I shake my head. “Fine! I guess I’ll see Jack before I head to the police station.”
“Oh, goody!” Granny claps her hands like a young schoolgirl. I’ll be sure to make you a hearty breakfast. I don’t want you to faint once you run into him. I know I sure do almost every time I see him.”
“Granny!” I squeal again, but my stomach drops. If what Granny is saying is true, maybe this isn’t such a bright idea.
2
A Burly Past
The chime rings overhead as I swing open the door leading into “Jack’s Tack and Co,” a rustic log cabin with a wide wrap-around porch. It took forever to find this place, deep in the woods and down twisting dirt roads.
“Hello?” I call as I walk into the desolate store. The tiny shack didn’t indicate they were open, but the door’s unlocked, so I guess that’s a good enough sign that I can enter.
I walk past a rack of fishing poles and examine a dusty box of bullets from the shelf to my left. Does anyone even shop here? It sure as hell doesn’t look like it.
“Hello?” I call again. Silence.
Well, shit. How am I supposed to get answers if my best lead is MIA?
A bang comes from the back of the shop, snapping my attention away from the dusty merchandise. I shouldn’t follow it. This is the exact scenario that every dumb bitch in a horror movie puts themself into before they get their head chopped off, but I’m a reporter. I have to go after the source. I follow the sound into a dimly lit back room. The bangs grow louder and more frequent with each step I take. Is it someone trapped in a cellar trying to get out? This is a cabin in the middle of nowhere—a perfect place to store captured victims.
My heart beats wildly as I lighten my footsteps and try to soften my breath. When I get to the end of the back room, I can see sunlight trickling in from an ajar door. The sound comes from outside. I follow it, pushing the door slightly.
An axe swings down, snapping a log in half. The shirtless man with tight brown pants, chopping the wood, swiftly picks up another log and puts it on the chopping block. The man is chiseled, muscles lining every inch of his sweaty frame. His jaw is lined with a full but tightly shaved crimson beard. His hazel-green eyes are intensely focused on chopping the wood before him.
I’m frozen in shock. I know this man. It’s Jack, but it’s also not Jack at all. Sure, he’s always been tall, a staggering six foot three that seemed a little excessive since I’m barelypushing five foot three. But these muscles… He’d always been scrawny. I used to hate it because he could eat whatever he wanted while I ate a single fry and seemed to gain five pounds. He’s definitely not scrawny anymore. Granny was right. I’m feeling a bit faint.
My palms must be sweating because my hand slips from the door frame, and I collapse to the floor, making the door swing wide open and hit a pile of wood neatly stacked next to it.
Jack snaps his attention to me. “Shit, are you okay?” He crouches over me, reaching for my hand to help me up.
Fuck, why does his sweat smell so good? It’s like his pores ooze sandalwood and paprika. God, am I in a men’s deodorant ad or something?
Our eyes catch, and his face looks as shocked as I feel. “Red?”
I reach for his arm, pulling myself up. “Yep,” I grunt and stand, wiping my clamming hands on my jeans. “Sorry for the intrusion and,” I turn to the pile of fallen logs, “the mess.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” He waves his hand in dismissal. “Shit. Look at you. You look great! What has it been?”
“Five years,” I say before he finishes. His eyes don’t leave me—an intense look on his face. My mind races back to that night after graduation, before the earthquake.
He nods. “Yeah, I guess so.”
My eyes trail from his face to his sweaty and muscular chest. I can’t help it.
He notices this shift. “Oh, shit. Sorry.” He turns and reaches for a red flannel on a log, pulling it over his shoulders. “So, what brings you into town and to my little shop of all places?”
I shake my head, returning my thoughts to my mission. “Yes, right. Well, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m a reporter now at the Times.”
