Free A Dark Lure by Loreth Anne White

Olivia’s thoughts turned to the hot coffee she’d left brewing and the breakfast she’d eat before heading out on her rounds.
    But as she and Ace approached their cabin, she noticed something on the mat outside the door. She climbed the stairs, taking a moment to register what it was.
    A small basket of wild blueberries.
    Words, unbidden, curled like smoke into her mind, his voice thick velvet over gravel. Intelligent, seductive, alluring. Dark . . .
    There are some beautiful wild blueberries in a patch down at the river bend, Sarah . . . They’d make a gorgeous Thanksgiving pie . . .
    Her mouth went dry. Her world narrowed. Her hands started to shake.
    A crack of gunfire shot through the hills. Sweat broke out over her skin in spite of the morning chill, time spiraling back with a sickening nausea. She saw his eyes. Watching her. Pale amber like a mountain cat. Lucent like fireweed honey. Rimmed with thick, dark lashes. His smile—teeth so white and perfect. Wild black curls the color of a raven’s feathers. Sarah . . .
    No.
    She braced her hands on the railing of her porch.
    Stop.
    No flashbacks.
    You’re not a victim. Not a prisoner of the past. No memories allowed. He’s dead. Gone. You’re safe. Sarah has gone with him. You are Olivia. This is your haven. No one can take this from you now. No looking back . . .
    Anger fired slowly back into her veins. She scooped up the basket of berries and opened her door. Once inside, she stoked the fire in the stove to a ferocious roar. She fed Ace his breakfast and poured a stiff coffee. Taking a hot, welcoming sip, she let it scald down her throat, the sensation forcing her firmly back into the present.
    Stay calm. Stay focused.
    There was a simple explanation for the scarf and blueberries. Had to be. She’d find it.
    Coffee consumed, Ace done with his breakfast, she grabbed the scarf and basket of berries and marched up to the lodge.

    From the shelves of the sporting goods and logging supply store he selected rope, bolt cutters, duct tape, a fly-tying vise, forceps, packets of beaver back hair, some brightly dyed cock’s hackle, grouse feathers, a roll of lime-green surveyor’s tape, a packet of shiny red beads, size 1/0 and 2/0 looped eye hooks, and a spool of holographic thread. He then added to his selection a field skinning knife with a slight hump to the blade. The blade was an odd-looking leaf shape, but once the tip was inserted under an animal’s belly hide, all one need do was rock the hand back and the skin would peel away like butter. This skinning knife would complement the all-purpose knife already in his possession in the camper. It would have made things a lot more pleasurable at Birkenhead the night before last.
    On his way up he’d managed to liberate from a hunter’s camp a scoped, bolt-action Remington .308, and a 12-gauge, pump-action Winchester Model 12, along with sever al boxes of ammunition. Guns were tightly regulated in this country—buying one without requisite documentation was out of the question. He was content with these acquisitions. The rifle had good heft, ideal for hunting deer in thick timber. He’d keep the shotgun and give the rifle to her, like the last time he’d set her out for a hunt. Yes, it would be challenging. Yes, he could lose his own life. But that made for a real hunt. A hunter should always face possible death when up against worthy prey.
    The woman behind the counter was charming and flirtatious as she rang up his purchases and took his credit card. She chatted about the bad weather coming and the big buck her brother had bagged over the weekend. Eugene smiled and held her eyes. He watched her cheeks warm and her pupils dilate in response. It reminded him of the girl in the library. But there was only one woman for him now. One game left.
    From the sporting goods store he made his way to a small supermarket, where he bought food. He perused the newspaper and magazine rack.
    No news about the body. His