Fatal Inheritance by Sandra Orchard Page A

“Okay, we see movement... The front door’s opening... A lone woman, Caucasian, curly hair.”
    Relief washed through him. “Yeah, that’s her. Rebecca Graw,” he confirmed.
    “She’s fine,” the officer assured him.
    A second voice cut in. “Need first aid. West side of the house. Hurry.”
    “Hunter?” Josh careened onto his road, a whole other fear welling inside him. “What you got?”
    “It’s Tripod.” The harsh rattle in his friend’s voice clutched at his throat. “He’s been hit.”
    Josh screeched to a stop behind the row of police cars and raced to the side of the house. The circle of uniformed officers opened, and the officer in charge ordered a search for the shooter.
    Bec was kneeling in front of a whimpering Tripod. She stroked the pup’s head. “What a brave boy you are. A real guard dog.”
    Josh stared at them, his heart pummeling his chest.
    Hunter, dressed in street clothes—he must have picked up the call on his police scanner—glanced up from examining the dog’s lone back leg. “He’ll be okay. Just a graze. The force must have knocked his foot out from under him.”
    Josh let out a breath and nodded. Hunkering beside Bec, he squeezed her shoulder and ruffled Tripod’s ears with his other hand. “You did good, bud. Real good.”
    He cleared the emotions clogging his throat and rubbed slow circles on Bec’s back. “You okay?” he whispered close to her ear.
    She shook her head, moisture clinging to her eyelashes. “Why would someone do this?”
    “I don’t know. But I promise you we’ll find him.”
    Hunter swabbed the dog’s wound with antiseptic. “He should be as good as new in a day or two.”
    When Josh nodded his thanks, Hunter held his gaze. “We need Miss Graw to answer some questions.” The unspoken question in his eyes asked if Josh could handle the job without becoming emotionally involved.
    The answer was no, and Hunter clearly recognized as much. This was little Becki Graw, the girl he’d been getting out of scrapes since she was knee-high. Of course this was personal. “I’ll take care of it,” Josh said. “Can you run a trace on incoming calls over the past hour?”
    With a brisk nod, Hunter disappeared around the house.
    Josh gently scooped Tripod into his arms. “We’ll talk inside.”
    As they approached the front door, Hunter came out. A squirming cat leaped from his arms. Tripod tried to jump after it, but Josh held him fast.
    “How’d that get inside?” Bec asked.
    “Not sure. Found it cowering in the basement when I came in. Probably squeezed under the root-cellar door to get away from the dog. Knocked a canning jar off one of your shelves by the looks of it.”
    “That must be what you heard in the basement,” Josh said to Bec before turning his attention back to Hunter. “See if the cameras picked up anything useful, will you?”
    Bec led the way inside and spread a thick blanket on the carpet for Tripod. “Maybe the shots were from a hunter. Someone might have mistaken Tripod’s movements in the woods for game.”
    “You said the shots were directed toward the house.”
    She smoothed the edges of the blanket. “I was rattled from the phone calls and Tripod’s barking. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he got winged by a hunter in the woods and then ran to the house.”
    “On the phone, you said you heard the dog barking at the house before the shot.”
    “Do you think a hunter could have misjudged the distance his bullet would travel?” Bec asked, clearly grasping for any explanation that would put some much-needed distance between her and this latest incident. Her fingers worried the edge of the blanket.
    Josh covered her hands with his to still them. “It’s not hunting season.”
    “How about a farmer? Aren’t they allowed to take down an animal that goes after their stock?”
    “Sure, but they wouldn’t be doing that on your property.” He decided against mentioning his suspicions about the abandoned car they’d found