Smoked Out: The Shifters of Olsson's Pass, #2

By Trudie Rowland

Freedom and a fresh start; that's all Lisa Hamilton wanted when she came to Olsson's Pass.  She got a lot more than that.  Mystery, murder – and a smoldering police chief – were all part of the package.  Danger too, because not only must she battle her own demons, but there are real monsters lurking in the woods and people are dying.

Tourists and bugs are about all Washington Jones had to look forward to in a Rocky Mountain summer.  Until someone starts to turn up the heat by killing a couple locals and blaming it on the Valley's only wolf.  If that wasn't stressful enough, now that there's a smoking hot biologist come to town, Wash finds himself smitten, and fast.  

The town has turned into a powder keg, and all that it'll take to ignite it is a spark...

A full length novel with HEA, a movable mountain of a bear shifter, thrilling adventure, and bad guys getting their comeuppance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trudie Rowland
• Release date: Feb 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386442356

Trudie Rowland

Trudie lives in the Rocky Mountains with a small brood of children, her husband and pets.  She loves writing (obviously), but also trying to not kill her plants, sewing, crocheting and baking the occasional pie.

Book preview

For the best sisters a woman could ask for.

And, as always,

For my husband, for all we have done and will do in this life.

Also By Trudie Rowland

THE SHIFTERS OF OLSSON’S Pass Series

Book One: Snowed In

Book Two: Smoked Out

Book Three: Tracked Down

Chapter One

JULY IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS brought three things: long hot days, tourists and bugs.

Of those last two things, Bob Crawford wasn't sure which one was worse.  On the whole, he was more inclined to say he preferred the bugs.  As he was apt to say (usually more than once, after a drink or two), at least with the bugs you knew which ones were out to suck your blood.

Bob was one of the 'Good Ol' Boys' of Olsson's Pass.

Born and raised there, he was the eldest in a long line Crawfords who had, once upon a time, helped settle the town.  Widowed, his kids having long since moved away, Bob had spent many a long evening holed up in the local pub with the other descendants of the town's royalty.  Mostly they talked about hunting, and drinking, and drinking while hunting.  Sometimes they talked about fishing, in the summer, and drinking, and boating (while drinking), and sometimes even fishing, boating and hunting, followed by drinking. 

They were all retired now, the Good Ol' Boys, though all of them had worked in the logging industry back when it had been thriving.  They were all leather-skinned and wrinkled, white-haired and prickly with stubble, bodies slightly flabby from years of alcohol and disuse, but still lean and strong from the years of hard work before that.  They dressed in denim and flannel.  They had about 30 real teeth remaining between them, though two or three of them had a decent set of dentures.

Minus one set, now that Glen McDougall was in prison, though it was bullshit what got him set away.  All bullshit.  That Watkins broad didn't know what she was talking about.  And now she was going to turn all that land into a nature preserve?  Hah!  Nature preserve.  So much nature out here, there was no need to preserve it.  And anyway, there was a rumor going around that the land wasn't even hers, but her daddy's, and she had had him brought up on charges to get it.  And with Glen not saying anything to anyone about anybody, the rumors grew wild and unchecked.

So, Bob had said 'fuck that' and was now out hunting.  It was his favorite hobby.  There were bugs, but there also weren't any tourists, so it was something of a win-win. 

He didn't have a license, or a tag.  He didn't even have permission to be where he was, on the southern edge of the Watkins land.  Instead, what he had was a sense of entitlement, born fifty years ago as a young twenty-something, when Bob had been one of the logging crew to strip the trees from the mountainside in this particular spot.  That had been in the good old days, when he and the boys had had real jobs, long before the logging industry had collapsed in on itself in the Pass.  Glen had gone off to teach math at the school, and the others had eked out a living where they could.  Bob himself had gotten a mechanics business off the ground, largely by selling for scrap equipment that technically wasn't his.

Bob's sense of entitlement was as much permission as he felt he needed, regardless of what Chief Jones had said, about the Watkins girl not wanting hunters on 'her' land.

What did she know, anyway?  She hadn't even been born here.

The Boys down at the pub generally supported this conclusion.  Usually they came with him when he went hunting out here, but this time he had decided to go alone.  He'd stripped this mountain bare long before Ellen's gran'pappy had gotten it from the collapse.  He knew his way around. 

The trees had grown back since then, of course.  They were thick and bushy here, visibility low.  Everything was green and muggy and he was sitting in a cloud of mosquitoes that was very happy to see him.  Luckily he chewed cloves of garlic and ate onions like apples to keep both them and the ticks away.  Couldn't be getting Lyme's disease at his time of life...

Bob couldn't see far into underbrush.  Everything was dark and cool and green, and perfect to get a young buck or something.  Maybe even that wolf that everyone had been talking about in town.  Huge tracks had been seen out on the old logging road this past winter, tracks in the snow that couldn't possibly be explained away by a 'big dog'. 

A wolf like that would be dangerous.  Smart.  Willing to attack humans.  He had seen it before, out on his cousin Billy's ranch, though it had been a long time. 

Maybe Bob would be lucky and bag that thing, bring it back to town and be a hero.  He grinned to himself, picturing a massive wolf's head up on his wall, with his other trophies.  It'd look real good there...

A stick on the ground snapped, somewhere to the left.  Bob froze, and crouched to the ground.  He peered through the undergrowth to get a glimpse at what was out there.  Some branches rustled, sticks and twigs rubbing against one another.  Desiccated leaves left from the Fall crunched under the foot of something rather large. 

Whatever was there, it was big, and Bob couldn't see it.

His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn't with fear.  He kept his excitement contained, however, through long years of practice at hunting.  Slowly, as quietly as he could, he steadied his rifle, sighting along the barrel.  Whatever it was, it wasn't too far away.  Maybe it was an elk, one of those big ones.  Lots of eating on one of those.  If it was, he might just wait until its antlers had grown back – they were impressive, and the boys down at the pub would love a set to hang above the bar...

More branches rustled.  Bob held his breath, listening.  Whatever it was, it was big, yes...but silent.  If it was an animal, he would have expected it to be breathing, maybe grunting.  Not a silence so complete that it was oppressive.

Slowly, Bob turned.  Every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.  He had been hunting for so long he had forgotten what it felt like to be hunted himself.

Something was behind him.  It snarled.

He spun, and looked up.

What the...

He died screaming.

EARLY IN THE MORNING of the following day, Owen was trotting along the top of the southern ridge of the Gladys Watkins Nature Preserve.  His last name was Woods, at least on paper, though he rarely used it.  He maybe used it now more than before, since he had mostly rejoined society, but he still thought of himself as Owen and nothing else.  Owen the werewolf.

The forests of the Watkins property – now in the process of becoming the Gladys Watkins Nature Preserve – were welcoming and familiar to him.  He had spent much of his life in them, usually on all fours, helping Gladys Watkins around her cabin, or even just running free through the trees.  Sometimes to hunt for food; mostly to run for the sheer joy of it.

Now, he was following an old game path off the road.  Eventually, the path would be widened and marked as a hiking trail.  This one was going to meander through the forests to a small, permit-only backwoods camping site, off grid and secluded.  Owen was currently scouting a location for way station for a backwoods campsite, somewhere where lost hikers could call for help and find shelter, or replenish supplies on the way back out. 

The way-station had been the brainchild of his wife Ellen, and a good one.  It had been barely nine months since The Ordeal, as Owen thought of it. 

He had mixed emotions about that storm:  It had brought him together with Ellen, yes, and ultimately brought them their child.  For that, he was eternally grateful.  But it had also left them stranded at the cabin with few supplies, and later at the mercy of Ellen's alcoholic father who had apparently been in the grips of a psychotic break.  Ellen had nearly died on more than one occasion from exposure to the elements.  She didn't want that happening to anyone else, not if she could prevent it.

So, a way-station fully stocked with emergency supplies it was.  Owen straightened the bright orange vest he had to wear because some of the older residents of Olsson's Pass still hadn't figured out that the Private Property and No Trespassing and Absolutely No Hunting signs meant 'everyone', and not just 'everyone but them'. 

He was also on two legs instead of four, for the exact same reason. 

Being two-legged meant that his senses were diminished.  They were still a lot better than the average human's, but they weren't as good as they could be.  But diminished senses and a painfully orange vest were small prices to pay to not get peppered with buckshot for a third time in his life. 

It also meant that he was practically on top of the remains of Bob Crawford before he smelled him – or what was left of him.

When it hit him, the smell of blood was overwhelming. 

Owen stopped mid stride and froze.  He wasn't yet close enough to see what – or rather, who – it was that was spread all over his mountain, but he did know full well that there were a lot of scavengers out here who wouldn't be as easy to chase off as the ravens.  This time of year, he could very well be disturbing a bear.

So Owen stopped, and listened.  And tried not to breathe. 

Nothing.  No scavengers, and no sign of what had killed the man.  Owen crept slowly forward, listening and inhaling deeply. 

The metallic tang of old blood covered everything.  He couldn't distinguish anything else from it, not even the smell of the trees around him, or the soil beneath his feet.  He swiveled his head, watching the shadows in case something was waiting for him.  He was in a dangerous position, exposed and visible.  Highly visible, thanks to the vest.

Still, he had to know what was going on.  He pushed his way further into the trees. 

There was an arm, flung out into the path, dappled in sunlight and shadows. 

It was – thankfully – still attached to the torso it belonged to, though that was about all the poor sap had to be thankful for, with his guts spread all around the way they were.

Owen stopped again.  He felt a little sick to his stomach, though outwardly he was calm. 

He hunted, as both a wolf and human, and was no stranger to a kill – but whatever had killed this man hadn't been doing it for food, but for fun.  And that was something Owen didn't understand at all.

The fact that he knew who it was, who had been torn apart and spread about in his territory, didn't help matters at all. 

Owen had never been Bob Crawford's number one fan.  He knew what Bob could be like, especially after a few drinks:  An entitled little shit who had grown up into an entitled older shit, whose kids were hardly better.  But regardless, Owen could see what was left of his face, eyes open and mouth agape with surprise and pain, and no one deserved an end like that. 

Owen also knew what the death of Bob Crawford on the Preserve's grounds would look like, especially given that Bob was one of those Olsson's Pass residents convinced that their age and their families' status in the town meant that they could do what they wanted in the surrounding area.

This, though...Bob Crawford's eviscerated corpse in the middle of the Preserve, carved up to look like a wolf hand done it...

This was...bad. 

Owen sighed.  He pulled out the walkie-talkie he carried because cell phones were useless out here, and backed away from the gory death scene in front of him.  He touched nothing; Ellen watched enough police procedural dramas for Owen to know that much.

We're going to need Wash out here, he said into the radio without preamble.

What's up, gorgeous? Ellen's voice was weirdly distorted by the speaker, but Owen could still hear the concern.  His using the walkie was probably cause for concern in and of itself – Owen rarely touched the thing unless he had to, and even then only after he had done everything he could to solve his own problems first.

Get Wash out here.  Southern ridge, he'll find the trail.

What's wrong?

Owen sighed.  There was no easy way to put it.  He just hoped the shock of it wouldn't cause her to go into labor early.  Bob Crawford's...dead.

THE LATE AFTERNOON sun was still high over head, dragging it heels on its way on to night.  This time of year, the sun stayed high in the sky for much of the afternoon and evening, not sinking below the horizon until nearly 11:00pm.  It was past midsummer, so the days were getting subtly shorter, but not enough yet to make any difference.

Washington Jones, Chief of Police for Olsson's Pass, stood at the top of a steep embankment and looked down into the ravine to where the body of Bob Crawford had been found.  Two medical professionals were navigating the remains up the game path to the road, the stark white of the body-bag visible through the trees.  A small crowd of other technicians and officers were combing the trees for clues. 

Being part bear, Wash was no stranger to an eviscerated corpse – its just that those corpses usually belonged to an elk or a deer that he had come across while out in the woods.  Like his animal counterpart, Wash preferred gathering to hunting, though fishing was something else. 

He didn't think he'd ever seen a human like this. 

General death, yes.  The very occasional, extremely unfortunate accident, or missing hiker lost to the elements.  He had found the body of an elderly gentleman once, while doing a wellness check.  But that was different.  Those deaths were all accidents of nature, or random happenstance on the highway.  That old man had reached the end of a long lifespan and had expired naturally.  It was sad, but a fact of life. 

This...the level of brutality displayed in the remains of Bob Crawford made Wash's hair stand on end.  Someone had done that to Crawford.  And had liked it.  And could very well do it again.

His town – his people – were in danger, and he didn't like it.  It unsettled him.  He didn't like being unsettled.

Looking at him, one would think that Washington Jones had been put on the Earth as some sort of Special Forces killing machine.  Or that he was violent himself. 

If a mountain had come to life, it would look like Washington Jones.  His nickname in high school had been The Golem, largely owing to his size and the fact that he rarely spoke unless necessary.  Phrases like brick shit house and "you are the brute squad! were passed around the station house regularly.  The majority of people who would make how's the weather up there?" comments also seemed to think that having his head so far off the ground meant that he was slow and stupid. 

They were inevitably surprised when it turned out that he was neither.

Wash had long since gotten used to it.  Even among the other bear shifters in his Clan, he was huge.  There was nothing he could do about it, but use his size to his advantage.  And there definitely were advantages.  Usually, he just had to turn up and fights would magically melt away...

No one would ever assume that a death this violent would shake him so. 

But Wash had never been in the military.  Certainly had never been in Special Forces.  He had never really even left Olsson's Pass, either the town or the valley itself.

His father had been Chief of Police; Wash had followed in his footsteps.  His father had also been the leader of the bear Clan.  Wash had taken that role on too.  It was twice as much work, but necessary to keep the peace. 

The bears were the largest – both in number and physically – of the shifter Clans in Olsson's Pass.  While no Clan was given more status than another, the Bear Clan was still well respected among them.  His position in the police gave him respect and a voice among the humans too.  It made for a good balance.  He could keep a foot in each community that way.

That balance was teetering now.  A shifter had killed a human.  He could smell it all over the place, once the wind had cleared out the stench of blood.  The shifters weren't going to like that one of their own had done this.  The humans were going to be furious that an animal had killed one of theirs.

So much for a good balance.

You didn't touch anything? Wash asked Owen.  He was standing beside him, looking down into the ravine, his expression as equally flat and guarded as Wash's

Owen shook his head.  After I radioed back to Ellen to call you, I came up here.

Wash nodded.  He wasn't at all convinced that Owen had been the wolf to tear Bob Crawford's guts out, but he still had to ask.  He had known Owen for years; they had gone to school together, for a time.  And while Owen was the only wolf left in the Pass, he had never shown any sign of being this violent.  The very few times he had attacked humans had only ever been in defense.

And Ellen?

You really think she could make it out this far in her condition?

Wash didn't have to turn to know what expression was on Owen's face.

"If she had to, yes.  Pregnant women have accomplished a lot, in times of need, human or otherwise.  And you know how stubborn she is.  But if you're asking if I think she did this... he added, gesturing to the gruesome scene below them, and sighed.  Then the answer would be a resounding no.  And even if I did, she has an ironclad alibi."

Owen nodded, the relief evident in the set of his shoulders even if he didn't show it on his face.

You, on the other hand, Wash began, and then trailed off.

Owen looked up, eyes narrowed.  I didn't do this, he growled.

I know.  But it was meant to look like you did.  You smell that?

Owen nodded.

Another wolf had been through this area.  The scent was subtle, but there, and would have been lost to everyone except another shifter, especially with all of the cops and crime scene personnel crawling all over the scene below. 

But it was there. 

I've never met another one.  Owen sounded almost wistful.  Wash couldn't blame him. 

He was the only wolf in the area, his entire family wiped out by poachers.  His survival had come at a heavy price.  And now a human known for poaching was dead...

Wash was afraid that the local shifters would jump to the obvious conclusion of Owen's guilt, even if he had been in the middle of the town and surrounded by video cameras at the time of Bob Crawford's death.

And Owen didn't have a public alibi.  He had been at his home in town, with his very pregnant wife. 

Things were going to get messy.

I'm going to have a hard time classifying this as a homicide, Wash muttered.

An officer approached from behind them.  Neither Wash or Owen turned, though they both knew he was there.

We've found tracks, Chief.  Wolf tracks.

The suspicion in his voice was layered on thick.  He was one of Wash's Clan and new to the police force.  Owen had never met him before – but then, he hadn't met a lot of the shifters in Olsson's Pass.  Or the majority of the humans, for that matter. 

Nevertheless, the bear in him would have recognized the wolf in Owen, even in a crowd of thousands.  Shifters just smelled...different than full humans did.  Or full animals, for that matter.

Owen turned to look at the younger bear.  He didn't snarl or make any sudden movements, but the constable's hackles shot up – or tried to.  He growled, a sound more animal than a human throat ought to be able to produce, and looked considerably bigger than he had a second ago. 

Owen didn't back down, confident in his innocence and ready to fight to prove it.

That's enough out of both of you, Wash snapped.  He hadn't moved either, but the authority in his voice had at least the constable backing down before he even knew why.  Owen is not a suspect.  You'll have to excuse my nephew, Calen, Wash said dryly, turning to look at Owen.  He's...new.

Owen nodded.  He understood.  It was a lot harder to control the animal side when you were also already having trouble with hormones.  He knew that one first hand, from his own youth. 

Plus, it did look like Owen had been the one who'd eviscerated poor Bob Crawford.  Owen couldn't exactly blame a rookie for coming to the obvious conclusion. 

I will return to town, Owen said.  Ellen is waiting for me, and I don't want to contaminate your crime scene any more than I already have.

I'm sorry, crime scene?

Wash, his nephew and Owen turned.  The speaker was a woman, coming along the ridge, whom none of them had heard approach.  She had come the forty or so feet from the old logging road that served as the access to the Watkins Preserve, and the old cabin on the mountainside where Owen had spent most of his life.

She was tall, for a human woman, five foot eight at least.  Her honey-brown hair was pulled back into a tight pony-tail on the back of her head, gray-green eyes bright and intelligent.  Wash very carefully kept his expression neutral, but internally, his heartbeat had picked up speed.  Her scent washed over him, tantalizing and feminine. 

If Owen had noticed the woman's scent and its affect on Wash, he didn't show it.  Then again, Owen rarely showed any emotions.  Unless Ellen was there.

I'm afraid you'll need to wait by the road, Calen began.  He was looking the newcomer up and down with a raking glance that set Wash's teeth on edge.  He was really going to have to give Calen another talk about appropriate workplace behavior.

Wash held up one hand.  Calen retreated.

Might I ask what you're doing out here, ma'am? Washed asked.

Sorry, the woman said again.  She stopped, and looked up.  And up.  She didn't have to crane her neck as much as most people, but she still only came up to the region of his shoulder.  Her eyes widened and she visibly swallowed.  I was coming up the road and I saw the cars and everything.  I'm looking for Ellen Watkins?

Are you?

That got a nervous half-smile.  Yeah, sorry.  I have an interview with her this afternoon, and I thought she might be out here... she trailed off, her eyes widening.  Seems I've walked right into the middle of something.  I'm Lisa Hamilton, she added, sticking out a hand.

Chief Jones, Wash said, taking her hand in his and shaking it.  It was callused, but still smooth, fine boned and delicate but strong.  She, like the majority of humans, seemed surprised when she realized his skin temperature was so high in comparison.  And yes, you have walked right into the middle of...'something.'

She tried to peer around him, but there was a lot of him to peer around.

There's been a...suspicious death, Wash said smoothly, stepping forward and gesturing for the woman – Lisa – to