Free Endangered (9781101559017) by Pamela Beason Page B

area.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Perez asked.
    She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “I’ve got a couple of hours before I need to do this chat thing for Save the Wilderness Fund. I thought I’d see if the search party needs more help.”
    Kent grabbed her sleeve. “Sam, you’re dead on your feet. And take my word for it, you need soap like a fish needs water.”
    â€œBut you were up all night, and you’re—”
    â€œThis is my job. You go do yours.”
    He was right. She was on day two of her assignment for SWF, and what had she done for them? “I’ll be back at park headquarters tomorrow at first light.”
    â€œI hope this will all be wrapped up by tomorrow.” He looked at Perez, who had preceded him to the truck and now stood impatiently beside the passenger’s door. Kent turned his back on the agent and rolled his eyes. “They always travel in pairs, you know,” he whispered. “If you think this one knows nothing about the great outdoors, you should see the other one. She’s wearing high heels.” He raised his voice. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    Sam climbed into her car and headed for the tiny town of Las Rojas.

6
    SAM took a long, hot luxurious shower before she walked to the adjoining Appletree Café and ordered takeout: the cook’s specialty, chicken and dumplings. She added apple pie for good measure. The dining room was filled. The scene felt familiar, reminiscent of the small town she’d grown up in. Cowboy boots and jeans marked the locals, most of whom were drifting out now. Rural folks ate early. The second wave, the tourists, were just now starting to filter in.
    While she waited for her order, Buck Ferguson emerged from the men’s room. Sam pulled herself up on a counter stool and tried to blend into the wallpaper as she watched him work the room. Several of the townspeople hailed Ferguson as he passed. He clasped hands like a politician running for office, switching the toothpick in his mouth from side to side as he exchanged greetings. Then he saw her. Even as he moved toward the exit, his eyes remained fixed on her as if daring her to look away first.
    The bell on the door clanged. Sam looked toward the sound, breaking away from the glaring contest. Fred Fischer entered. His clothes were different and his freshly washed hair was gathered into a bushy ponytail, but the shadows under his eyes were, if anything, deeper than they had been this morning. His mouth had a grim set to it.
    It made sense, she guessed, that the Fischers would be here. The Wagon Wheel was the closest motel to the park. Fischer turned toward the counter, his hazel eyes glittering with anxiety or sorrow or anger or maybe all three. His lips were pressed into a thin line but still quivered a bit at the corners.
    Buck Ferguson smacked Fischer lightly on the arm with a fist. “Stay strong,” he told the younger man before he strode out through the door.
    It seemed an odd thing to say to a stranger, but then it was Buck Ferguson saying it. Fred Fischer turned toward the counter, his face inscrutable. Again, she pictured the silhouetted form slowly turning from the light, compared the memory with the man before her. The dark baggy clothes, the bulge at the back of the neck. Yes. Fred Fischer could definitely have been the man she’d seen. But so could Wilson. Probably any number of men.
    Fischer’s eyes narrowed, and Sam had no difficulty reading the expression in them now. It was anger. His hands balled into fists. He covered the distance between them with three steps. Leaning close to her ear, he growled, “Leave me alone.”
    A chill prickled down her back. “I’m sorry if I was staring,” she said, “It’s just that—”
    A waitress appeared at his elbow with a tray. “On the house,” she murmured in a hushed tone.
    Fred Fischer took the tray