Wounded

By Lindsay Buroker

When Tara Blankenship’s writing assignment takes her to an “eco village” on Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, she anticipates a quiet couple of weeks in a quaint setting. (She’s far too mature to use the word boring, thank you very much.) What she stumbles into is anything but quiet and quaint.

Someone has been slaughtering livestock to scare the villagers, mysterious intruders are searching the property at night, and Tara finds a grisly welcome-warning on the porch of her guest cottage. To top it off, the surly neighbor nearly runs her off the road on her first day. Why are the handsome ones always such jerks?

Malcolm Ashcroft is the last person a sane woman would want to deal with, but he may be the only one with the key to solving the mystery—and giving Tara the story of her career. Of course... he might also be the man behind all the trouble.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lindsay Buroker
• Release date: Jan 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310861413

Lindsay Buroker

Lindsay Buroker war Rettungsschwimmerin, Soldatin bei der U.S. Army und hat als IT-Administratorin gearbeitet. Sie hat eine Menge Geschichten zu erzählen. Seit 2011 tut sie das hauptberuflich und veröffentlicht ihre Steampunk-Fantasy-Romane im Self-Publishing. Die erfolgreiche Indie-Autorin und begeisterte Bloggerin lebt in Arizona und hat inzwischen zahlreiche Romanserien und Kurzgeschichten geschrieben. Der erste Band der Emperor’s-Edge-Serie „Die Klinge des Kaisers“ ist jetzt ins Deutsche übersetzt.

Book preview

Wounded

by Lindsay Buroker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Lindsay Buroker 2014

Chapter 1

The car bumped down the muddy one-lane road, ferns and rhododendrons slapping at the windshield. When a pothole with aspirations of becoming a crater came into sight, Tara swerved, trying to avoid it, but one of the tires slipped in. Brown water sprayed up, painting the windows. The car halted with a definitive lurch. The smartphone flew off the dashboard and disappeared under the empty passenger seat. Again.

Tara nudged, pumped, then finally floored the accelerator, but the wheels refused to catch on the mud.

What are the odds of some kindly stranger with a winch coming along? She had a vague notion that four-wheel-drive vehicles with winches and tires big enough to belong on tractors were the norm on this side of Puget Sound. "Except that I don’t think the people who live down this road drive anywhere."

Tara rolled down her window to stick her head out and eyeball the hole. Yup, it was a big one. She sighed and looked over her shoulder, intending to throw the car into reverse. But someone was coming. A black Jeep Wrangler barreled down the road toward her, the mud-spattered vehicle having no trouble with the rugged terrain.

The speed with which it approached suggested the owner didn’t have roadside rescues in mind. Oh, well. She had never liked asking for help anyway. With the car in reverse, she nudged the pedal, again hoping to find traction.

A horn blared, startling a heron to flight from some roadside marsh.

I know I’m in the way, Tara muttered. I’m working on it.

She tried to wriggle the car free from the pothole, but the Jeep roaring ever closer made her nervous. There wasn’t room for it to go around. It would have to slow down, if it wasn’t going to hit her...

The horn blasted again.

I’m trying, you bastard, she growled. The car’s tires finally caught, and she backed into the ferns, hoping the other driver could squeeze past. Actually, she hoped the stupid Jeep would plummet into the same pothole and get stuck as well. At that speed, it might throw its idiot driver out into the mud.

Never slowing, the Jeep bombed past, somehow finding enough road to pass without knocking a side mirror off Tara’s car. The man in the driver’s seat glared at her. He probably didn’t try to hit the pond-sized puddle on purpose, but it sprayed a jet of water to the side nonetheless. Tara saw the mud spatters coming, but couldn’t do more than lift her arm in protection. Dirty water drenched the side of her face and her shirt.

Only through extreme willpower did she refrain from leaning out the window, flipping the bird, and hurling some curses at the bastard. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him, but the glimpse had suggested height, breadth, and the pissed off demeanor of a drill sergeant having a bad day. For all she knew, he had a gun in the glove box. Out here, it would take a long time for someone to find a body stashed under a fern.

Tara snorted. Someone’s been reading too many murder mysteries.

Shaking her head at her imagination, she wiped the mud off her face, retrieved her phone, and maneuvered back onto the road. A few minutes later, a sign for Salmon Creek Eco Village came into sight.

The foliage retreated, revealing a couple dozen cottages, communal gardens and greenhouses, a pond, and an abundance of chickens and geese roaming about. She paused to wait for a pig to wander across the road, then turned in where a hand-carved sign read Visitor Center. The proliferation of animals made Tara smile, but her smile dropped when she spotted the other car parked in the lot by the door. The muddy black Jeep.

That guy was a part of the eco village?

Tara shook her head. He’s probably a visitor, too.

She considered waiting in the car for him to finish up and leave but swept away the cowardly thought. It wasn’t as if she had done something wrong. She had only thought about flipping him off, after all.

She stepped out of the car and strode up the gravel walkway leading to the entrance of the modest building. Marigolds and daisies bloomed in flower boxes in the windows, and handmade copper rain chains dangled from the gutters. A cheerful place, Tara decided, and willed her mind to push aside the dark thoughts the stranger had left her with.

A step from the threshold, she lifted her hand to reach for the knob. The door slammed open, and an all-too-familiar brute strode out, smacking right into her. Between his momentum and the hard, unyielding surface of his chest, the force sent her stumbling back. Her heel caught on one of the rocks lining the flagstone patio, and she would have taken a mud bath, but he caught her before she fell. Calloused hands wrapped around her bare arms, pulling her back to her feet. She found herself scowling at his collarbone. When she summoned the gumption to lift her eyes to his face, she caught an exasperated you-again? expression before he brushed past her and strode to his Jeep.

No, no, I’m fine, thank you, Tara called, unable to squash her indignation this time.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t look back. No doubt he would have continued to ignore her if she voiced her second thought, that cut-off camo pants and flip flops were a stupid look, even if they provided a nice view of his sculpted calves. The fitted gray T-shirt highlighted muscular back and shoulders, with arms to match. Why was it always the utter asshats that had such nice bodies?

Because they have nothing better to do than biceps curls, she reminded herself in a low mutter.

He disappeared into the Jeep, and it backed up with an angry crunching of gravel, then he barreled back onto the dirt road and disappeared.

Hello, can I help you? someone asked from the doorway. Two women were standing there, eyeing her curiously.

Tara blushed, thinking they had overheard her comment.

An older blonde woman in dusty overalls with a weathered face and stringy build matched the image Tara had of Sam Jackson, the person her boss had spoken with on the phone and had described as the embodiment of the back-to-the-land movement. She didn’t know who the other woman was, but guessed she was about her own age. Early twenties with red-brown hair tugged into a ponytail, she wore glasses, had freckles, and clutched an e-reader in her hand.

Hi, I’m Tara.

The older woman looked her up and down, then frowned. "You’re the intern?"

Tara fought the urge to shrink back, though she did slip her hands into her pockets to hide her lavender luster fingernails. She didn’t think she represented the epitome of the fashion-obsessed, consumer-driven world, but perhaps for this crowd, she should have chosen a T-shirt from Goodwill rather than the cute sequin top from Neiman Marcus. Surely, they couldn’t object to her jeans and boots though. They were rugged...ish and suitable for mucking around in a garden. And her hair... some might see the braids tied back from her temples as whimsical, but she’d thought the style practical since it kept her auburn locks out of her face. And—good Lord, what was the woman scowling at now? Her car? It might not be a hybrid or an electric, but she had gotten a good deal on the used convertible. So what if it was a very girly shade of pink? It had been affordable enough to pay cash for.

When the woman’s gaze stopped roving about, and the disgusted lip curl flattened a touch, Tara forced a smile and said, I believe so. This is the address Ms. Bouchard gave me.

Huh.

Tara wasn’t sure how to respond to this dubious acknowledgment. At least the younger woman gave her a sympathetic smile.

Well, help’s help. This is a busy time of year for us. I’m Sam. The older woman stuck out a hand. There was no lavender luster on those working nails, no, ma’am. Her palms were calloused, and the dirt edging her cuticles promised she had been out in the gardens recently. This is Jasmine. Welcome to Salmon Creek.

Who was that? Tara waved toward the dirt road down which the Jeep had departed.

Sam’s already thin lips flattened. She and Jasmine exchanged looks.

Our neighbor, Sam said.

Good, he didn’t live there. Tara remembered her boss saying the eco village spread across fifty acres, so she ought to be able to avoid rude neighbors.

He almost ran me off the road, Tara said.

Sam gave her a sharp look. By accident? Or... maliciously so?

Jasmine shifted her weight. Uneasily? Tara didn’t know her well enough to be certain.

Just... negligently, I suppose. I was stuck in a pothole, and he zipped past without slowing down. I didn’t think the road would be big enough for him to keep from hitting me, but... Tara shrugged. I guess it wasn’t that big of a deal. She thought about asking more—like why the guy was so mad and what he had been doing here—but the women might not appreciate prying. One should probably wait two or three days before peppering one’s hosts with invasive questions. He seemed angry, Tara said. There, not a prying question, but a leading comment that might invite them to share more.

It’s my problem to deal with, Sam said. Jasmine will show you to a guest cottage and explain your chores.

So much for sharing. Maybe Jasmine would be more open.

Should I leave my car there? Tara pointed toward the small gravel lot. She didn’t see any other vehicles around, or any garages, either.

You can, unless you’d like to donate it to the pool for the duration of your stay, Sam said, then lowered her voice to a mutter as she turned away. I’m sure Brock and Dan would love picking up lumber in that thing.

Heat rose to Tara’s cheeks, but she bit back a retort. Due to an arrangement that had seemed worth agreeing to at the time, this woman was essentially her boss for the summer.

I’ll show you to your place, Jasmine said and led the way back down the path.

Happy to get away from Sam, Tara allowed herself to be led.

Most people sell their cars before moving out here, or give up ownership of them to the pool, Jasmine said. We believe that peak oil has come and gone, so we’re doing our best to limit our use of fossil fuels. It’s not far to the highway, and you can bicycle into Port Angeles. We have friends who keep sailboats nearby, too, and we catch rides to Port Townsend and even over to Victoria now and then. Salmon Creek has sister villages in both cities. We do keep a couple of vehicles and carpool into town when we need something or want to go out for entertainment.

Tara had been to Port Angeles and some of the other communities on the northern end of the Olympic Peninsula and had a hard time thinking of any of them as entertainment meccas. Then again, she was spoiled by having an apartment in Green Lake, where a few minutes by car or bus would take her to anything Seattle offered. Of course, her apartment was sublet for the summer. Tara reminded herself that she had volunteered for this adventure, so she ought to keep an open mind. But in truth, she was more interested in hearing about the feud with the neighbor. Sure, she might have found a satisfying job as a blogger covering green energy and alternative housing options, but she had studied journalism in college and had a reporter’s instincts for news. Or, as her mother called it, she was nosy.

What are you reading? Tara asked, deciding she should get to know Jasmine before asking for the local gossip. Mollison’s opuses on permaculture?

Oh. The girl blushed. Nothing much. I have a bunch of things on here. You’ll be pleased to know that we have a satellite dish on the community center, and there’s wireless Internet available in all of the cottages.

Tara had a feeling Jasmine was trying to divert her. You’re not trying to avoid answering my question, are you? she asked as they walked down a meandering path past a pair of large geodesic dome greenhouses. Have you got something smutty on there? She grinned to let the other woman know she was teasing.

I—no, of course not. Jasmine glanced about—there were people outside working in the garden and on some of the buildings, but nobody was close enough to overhear the conversation. They’re just... science fiction adventures. You know, in space. With ships and things.

Oh, Tara said, her senses telling her she wasn’t getting the entire story. Like Star Trek? My older brother, Martin, is a big fan of the original show. He went to a con up in Vancouver once and got Shatner’s and Nimoy’s autographs. He framed them. That had been about the time Tara had reluctantly admitted she didn’t have the sort of older brother who would leap to her defense and pummel the neighborhood kids, should she need help. In fact, she seemed to remember being about eight and kicking a teenage boy in the shin for bullying Martin. He’s read a lot of Asimov, Clark, Heinlein, and... Realizing her knowledge of science fiction authors wasn’t all that complete, Tara finished with, some other guys.

Yes, sort of, Jasmine said. But I mostly read female authors. There’s more... character development.

Tara bit back another grin. That had to mean romance. Well, she was no one to judge. She’d had better luck finding romance in books than in the real world, especially since she’d finished school and hadn’t been surrounded by a campus full of potential prospects. Working from home made things even tougher—no attractive colleagues in adjoining cubicles to flirt with, unless one counted the occasional exchanges about the weather she had with the UPS guy.

We’re almost to your cottage, Jasmine said. She seemed relieved that Tara hadn’t questioned her further on her reading preferences. "You can settle in today if you like, then visit the different parts of the village tomorrow and decide what work you would like to do. Most everyone tends the gardens and helps with the livestock, but some people do carpentry and are putting up new buildings. Others fish and forage in the forest. Lots of people have their own businesses. We make everything from pots to furniture to musical instruments here. I’m sure anyone would be excited to show you a few things, especially if you’d consider highlighting their work on your company’s website." Jasmine gave her a hopeful smile, and Tara wondered if she had one of these businesses that she would like publicity for.

I think that’s part of the deal. Tara didn’t know what exactly her boss had promised in exchange for her free room and board for the summer, but had been told to treat this like an internship. Work, learn, and write three posts every day for the blog.

They turned up a path that dead-ended before three cottages, and Tara guessed they were about to reach their destination. Now that she had chitchatted with Jasmine, she thought she could get away with asking a few probing questions.

Do you think the neighbor will be a problem this summer? Tara asked casually. He was a little scary.

Jasmine patted the air dismissively. He doesn’t come around much. It’s just... well, we don’t really have the timber to fence our entire property, and nobody wants to disturb the old-growth trees in particular. She waved to a dense stand of towering firs, cedars, and hemlocks beyond the cottages. From looking at a map that morning, Tara knew the Strait of Juan de Fuca lay in that direction as well, but the grove blocked the view of the water.

You’ve seen some of our livestock, Jasmine went on. Most of them aren’t a problem, but the pigs have started escaping from their pens this last year. Nobody’s quite sure why, but they always end up on his property.

Pigs? Tara’s piqued reporter instincts wilted. This intriguing story she thought she had sussed out was some sort of feud over wandering livestock?

Pigs. Jasmine nodded.

Why does he get upset over that?

We don’t know, but the man has more no-trespassing signs around his property than a top-secret government facility.

Hm. Did he just like his privacy? Or was he hiding something? Tara snorted to herself. What story did she think she was going to rustle up out here in the back of the beyond? Of course, the Hatfield and McCoy feud had started over livestock, hadn’t it? Who knew what might erupt out here?

You can’t really blame him for being mad about the pigs, Jasmine said, "but you’re right: he is a little scary. Nobody’s ever seen him do anything but scowl, and if you follow one of the pigs onto his property to retrieve it... Well, I haven’t done it, but apparently he chased Dennis Beckman’s son off with a hunting rifle."

How neighborly.

Also... Jasmine had stopped walking. She glanced about again, then lowered her voice. A few unpleasant things have happened in the last month, and some people think he’s responsible.

Like what?

"One of the pigs was killed and left on Yoon Kim’s

Reviews for Wounded

[tldegray-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have a not-so-secret weakness for romantic suspense. Think Nora Roberts and Heather Graham. When I saw Lindsay Buroker had written one I had to read it.

This book had the banter I've come to expect from Buroker's characters. It had humor, suspense, and a great deal of fun.

Let's face it, I'm in for anything Buroker writes.