Aware

By TR Thomas

Tomahawk, an end-of-the-road town in the Wyoming mountains, where nothing ever happens and the people there appreciate it, is about to have a wake-up call that could be its last. A wounded mountain lion, starving and dying, eats something that falls out of the sky. The people also end up infected through a contaminated lake water supply. Animals become smarter and the people discover and indulge their animal natures... to fatal consequences for all. It becomes a fight for survival, for all species, and into this sudden and dangerous turmoil comes a teenager, Owen Temple, orphaned and with an aunt he doesn't know. He meets a rough tomboy, her editor father, a veterinarian and a game warden. Together, they will have to fight for survival, while protecting the rest of the few inhabitants - some of which are undergoing horrible transformations and are as dangerous, if not more so, than the animals which are now cleverly lethal. The people will have to adapt, and quickly, or perish. They are so preoccupied with understanding what's happening, fighting for survival, and trying to control their sharpened senses, that they barely have time to wonder who... or what... is causing the crisis.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641380423

Book preview

Chapter 1

She was hungry. Almost starving. She had no concept of the fine points of existence. Just the basic need for food and shelter. To feed. Stay warm. Escape pain. The old wound in her shoulder distracted her, though her eyes never left the mountain goat. She was on a rocky ledge, ears and eyes the only part of her visible, but her tawny coat blended in with her surroundings so well that her prey wouldn’t have seen her, even if it did look up.

It was foraging for spring succulents. It had been a difficult winter for all creatures of the high country, particularly so for the big cat watching avidly. The goat was nervous, would dart forward, snatch a mouthful of something, then retreat a few feet to chew rapidly, swallow noisily.

Instinctively, the mountain lion knew where the goat had to be for her spring to be successful. An ambush predator, she could break the goat’s neck easily, could even chase it down in a short, powerful burst of speed, but pain and hunger overcame instinct. It was the closest the goat had come, had only retreated a short distance and was gazing down the hill. Muscles bunched in her large, hind legs, claws extended on her oversized paws.

When she launched herself into the air, pushing off with her powerful legs, front legs planted for traction and direction, all instinctively, her left front leg buckled slightly, lost purchase in the loose rocks. What should’ve been a motion of pure unity, so sudden and certain that her prey would only sense its peril when it was pinned and dispatched, became a scramble, rocks falling around her.

She still landed on her feet, though, without grace or finality. Before she could run the goat down it was beyond her. Even blind speed, which was no longer possible, wouldn’t deliver it. Her growl was primal, should’ve stopped the goat in its tracks, but only succeeded in alarming the rest of the animals. The sharp sounds of hooves striking rocks reached her as she licked her shoulder and gazed around.

A male had followed her recently, ready to mate, but her discomfort was enough to produce a growl and bared teeth, rather than the purr of acceptance. It was part of the balance of things, though she wasn’t conscious of it, because she couldn’t have fed a pair of cubs. They would’ve starved, wouldn’t have understood why life left their blue eyes, and she would’ve felt the most basic sadness possible to an animal mother and would never have revisited that death place. It would cease to exist in her territory, though she wouldn’t understand that, even instinctively.

She heard a sound with ears as keen as when she was a cub. The male, its big head between two rocks, regarded her. A rumbled warning made his ears twitch but he didn’t retreat. When he emerged, a full seven feet long, with tail, coat sleek, eyes clear, she growled again, watched him intently and crouched. Her message was clear. Approach at risk.

He sniffed at the goat smell, stared down the hill, turned as if she wasn’t there and disappeared between the rocks. She remained in her crouch till a jay found her and warned the mountainside that a predator was near. She ignored the bird, as she had been ignored by the male, and made her way slowly to her place of concealment. If she could’ve jumped back to the ledge where she rested, waiting for the goat to wander near, she would’ve been in her cave, safe, hungry, but she might have passed another place of concealment, a higher ledge where the hunter waited.

He was there for the male, had seen the tracks and found the perfect shooting spot. It would almost be too easy but he was patient, had hunted these mountains so long that he was more creature than human, could stay motionless for hours, till something walked into his crosshairs.

The jay’s cry brought his head up and he saw something disappear over the ridge above and to his right. The male. Watching me, he acknowledged, smiled. You’ll be more difficult to bag, but I’ll get you. Eventually. He stood and stretched, popped his neck and allowed himself a chew. He went over his own ridge and was gone when the female occupied the same ground the male had, minutes before.

She was uneasy, sensed something that bothered her. Circling the area with the male’s scent, she gazed up at the shooting spot, growled unhappily but only left her scent over the male’s and finally reached safety. She explored her cave carefully, visiting every corner, huffed when she scented rodent and settled with her head pointing toward the entrance. Her ears came up at the various sounds reaching her but nothing caught her interest, except for the jay, which had followed her to her cave.

It was just outside, hopping about and peering in, head at a quizzical angle, beady eyes trying to pierce the darkness. Her growl was part pain, part warning. The bird flew away and she allowed her ears to flatten on her head, stared at the entrance till her eyes closed and she slept. Her ears still twitched, though she didn’t wake, even when something fell out of the sky.

Chapter 2

It was a new day in Tomahawk, Wyoming, but Owen Temple knew he’d hate it as much as he did the day before. He was kicking someone’s ball along the alley behind his Aunt Jane’s home. He was also actually a little amazed at himself that he was thinking, and favorably, of home. I suppose it’s a comparative thing, I admitted, nudging the black and yellow striped ball with my boot. Quite a difference between Wyoming and New York, Tomahawk and Albany.

I peered past the chain-link fence, noting the faded shed, snowshoes alongside, shimmering in the morning sun, spider webs festooned like the paper banners at my last birthday party. The last time I’d seen my parents together. Alive. They’d argued about something and my father agreed to drive my mother into New York city so she could work on something at the advertising agency. It was an anger issue, taking precedence over my birthday. They only got a few miles from home when a drunk driver in a Mercedes slammed into them, head on, high-speed. It was over. Happy birthday, Owen, with no returns, happy or otherwise.

I kicked the ball, halfheartedly against the chain-link fence, stared unhappily at the shed, snowshoes and the shack.

Hey, Brubaker, I heard behind me. What’s the word for a money debt?

That would be owin’, Colt.

I didn’t turn, gazed grimly at the ball, which had managed to stick in a hole in the chain link. It looked like a bumblebee caught in a super spider’s web. My shoulders bunched when Colt Cameron asked Randy Brubaker what a stone building in a jungle was called.

A Temple, chief.

I considered my choices. Even the slight gratification of my time at the Creighton Military Academy might be of use with the town bully and his sidekick. I recalled Major Andrew’s favorite saying in battlefield strategy class. Style or guile, gentleman. If you can’t dazzle your enemy, convince him to surrender to an inferior force. Failing that, flank and come from the rear, kick his behind until he gives in.

I looked like my mother, auburn hair and green eyes, which I always felt was an image of feminine weakness. In temperament, I was too much my father’s son. Quick to anger, learning nothing from my mistakes but to be quicker next time. But this wasn’t the tree-lined streets of Albany, New York. It was a small town, more rusted than rustic, where another teen’s pocket change could be a knife.

Hey, new kid. You steal that ball?

Maybe. Is it yours?

There I go again, I admitted, replaying some of the fights I’d had with cadets at school.

You being smart with me? Brubaker, is he being smart with me?

Sounds like, Colt.

You being smart with me, Owen? Colt asked, drawing the name out so it sounded as if it had three syllables.

Not so you’d notice. Or would you notice? Should I speak a little slower? Hey, Brubaker. What’s a baby horse called? I asked, finally turning. Brubaker didn’t get it but I could see that Colt did. I expected him to spit, give me a rude gesture, disparage my dead mother with a comment on my parentage. He did none of those things and surprised me. More guile than style.

That your aunt’s neighbor’s ball? The little girl who wanders around her backyard? Drooling and looking for a way out? You go visit her? She wouldn’t say no but probably doesn’t even know the word.

Randy Brubaker frowned at that. Even if crass cruelty knew no bounds, there’s still something instinctive about not victimizing the handicapped. Baby horse Cameron may have just unstyled himself out of an ally, I hoped, picked the ball out of the fence and walked slowly toward him.

His eyes widened as I closed the distance, but he’d regained his determined look when I reached him. A smile froze Brubaker, allowing me to study my enemy. All style now, I hoped. Colt Cameron looked like umpteenth-generation Tomahawk. His jeans had either been bronc stomped or steer pattied. By his smell, I suspected the latter.

His blue-checked shirt had stains on the front, what I hoped was ink or snuff, not blood or something worse. Even mouthwash would be preferable, if he got some in his mouth. Nothing to be done about his teeth, except hammering them out and starting over. There was only one dentist in Tomahawk and he was only in his office on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. No weekend toothaches, that’s for certain.

His nose had been broken, left cheek scarred in some altercation. Blue wasn’t a color to describe his eyes. Ice was more appropriate, or that midnight snow color that is only a touch of blue, from deepest space. Hair so black that it was like staring at a raven, feathers being blown by the wind. It hung over his forehead and met with his eyebrows. I thought it was like looking at a goat. From a distance he appeared to have a bird on his head. His skin was that buckskin color that indicated a mixed parentage and tribal connection.

It was all style from here on in, I realized, and hoped I could survive this. We were the same height and weight, or close to it. He was the same age, according to Aunt Jane, but he’d grown up where Christmas trees, or some such pagan ritual, were decorated with deer antlers. Our blue spruce had antique ornaments and white candles. It also had harsh words and Santa stuck in the chimney, bad smell lingering into February. I could tell him about dead Santa, ball gloves that gather dust or follow Major Andrew’s teachings. When eyeball to eyeball, be wary but wait for the enemy to make the first move. And don’t blink. I’d blinked plenty walking over, held the bumblebee ball waist high, ready to lower it quickly if he tried the lowest of blows.

I’m going to kick your ass.

He was direct. I had to give that to him, didn’t, handed him the ball instead. When he took it his face clouded in confusion. He tossed it to Brubaker but it sailed over his head and plopped into a yard that everyone avoided.

I am going to kick your ass, he said again, shifted his weight and leaned toward me.

I held up my finger, the way someone would when testing the wind. The snap buttons on my white shirt were unusually loud, I thought. It was a cowboy shirt, according to Aunt Jane, to help me blend in. What I thought it did was to reflect light so much that she could spot me a mile away. I folded it carefully, raised my finger again, and took it to Brubaker. Putting it slowly into his hands, I said, It’s starched, you know, and bloodstains are impossible to get out.

I moved back to Colt, moved my arms back and forth, giving him a chance to see my muscles-- and my Academy T-shirt. It was black, silver and metallic blue. A CMA was emblazoned over a circle with a snarling feline. I knew it was impressive and helped my wrestling team with opponents, even before we got to the mat.

He gazed at it at length, finally asked the question I’d prepared for. What does the CMA mean?

Creature mauling anyone.

Looks like a cougar. You have those back there?

For lunch, I said, glanced at Brubaker, knew the moment had come but didn’t think I had to worry about the puppet.

We all heard the growl, saw Brubaker move quickly away from the fence. When I got my first look I thought the bumblebee was in the clutches of super spider. Then, what I took to be legs clamped down on the ball and it flattened like a week-old birthday balloon.

Champ, Colt said quietly, keeping his eyes on me.

I didn’t know whether he was naming or describing the big dog because I could see now that it was a Great Dane. He continued to chew on the ball but had his eyes on me, shifting his gaze to Colt, then back to me. Brubaker had retreated partway up the alley but still had my shirt, though it was clutched to his chest.

He has his eye on you, newbie, Colt commented, staring at me steadily.

Between the two of us, you’re the most aromatic. If that’s blood on your shirt you probably smell like a meat treat. Is that blood, Cameron?

What’s it to you?

Oh, nothing. If he comes over the fence I’m counting on personal hygiene. Too bad that concept is beyond you.

I think the dog was picking up on our shared hostility because it started to growl. A low, back-of-the-throat warning. No style or guile. Just a basic I’m-through-with-a-rubber-toy- and-want-to-chomp-on-flesh indication. I wanted to watch the dog, especially if it came flying over the fence, but Colt’s eyes showed that he’d gotten past the T-shirt diversion and was about to move on me.

What are you two half loads doing there? That got my attention because it matched the dog with malicious intent.

Sorry, Mr. Bodeen, Colt said, full attention on the man standing by the dog. This guy was teasing your dog and tossed the ball in there.

I turned to protest but realized that I was the new kid in town, credibility zero. I chose instead to study the man who now had the pancake ball. Somewhere around fifty, he obviously preferred a long- john look, as in underwear and not actor. Lean but not skinny, his black pants were beltless, but were snug across his flat stomach. Scuffed cowboy boots completed his style statement. His gray hair was close-cropped, reminded me of Major Andrews. He even had that faraway, brown-eyed stare but the resemblance ended there. Tobacco juice stained the stubble around his mouth. As if to confirm my observation, he spat a stream of brown over the fence, eyes still fixed on us.

Nowhere near us, the sludge spattered the spot Brubaker had occupied. That definitely wouldn’t wash out, I decided, wondered if Brubaker had been christened before.

How about it, boy? You been botherin’ my dog?

As if I ever could was on my lips but I settled for a head shake and shrugged.

‘Cause if you do I’ll tell Champ to jump the fence. He loves to get out, goes kind of silly. Runs around, biting everything he sees. Ain’t that right, Colt?

My adversary swallowed and touched his cheek. I thought I understood where the scar came from. Yessir, that’s right, Colt said.

The man touched the top of the dog’s head when he growled, said, House and the dog disappeared. Colt relaxed a little but there was still a tightness across his mouth and jaw.

Go back to what you’re doing but if I hear you I’ll send Champ out. To jump the fence.

Colt watched him all the way in, took a deep breath when he was gone and turned to me. I’m going to kick your ass, he whispered. Still, but with more pleasure now.

I don’t know about you, I murmured reasonably, but when I’m knocking the tar out of someone I tend to shout, even louder when I score a point or almost get pinned.

He frowned, more at my wrestling lingo than my warning, I figured, but his expression was dead serious now.

I’m also a sprinter, I confided, have been known to outrun a greyhound in about thirty yards…and I figure that’s all I need before the biting starts.

You saying you can outrun a bus?

I looked to Brubaker for some puppet comeback, but he was gone. In his place was my white shirt, brilliant in the dirt, still folded. When I looked back at Colt I noted that he was a few feet closer. He wasn’t going to surrender, there was no getting around or behind him and he was way beyond my dazzle.

I found my balance, hunched my shoulders and waited for him to move, intended to throw him, gather up my shirt and follow another bit of wisdom from Major Andrews. When all else fails, run like hell.

Colton, what are you doing?

A girl, I realized, and she’d sneaked up behind Colt, fronted me but I’d been concentrating on him.

Holly, he sighed, looked at the ground. We were postponed only, I knew, but didn’t mind being saved by a girl that looked like her.

Your mom’s looking for you, she said, wrinkling her forehead when she saw me staring at her. She continued to give Colt a bad time and I relished the interruption and time to admire her attire.

Her jeans were clean, tight to distraction. She’d tucked her blue blouse snugly, which accented her figure. She wore her simple tennis shoes the way some young women would show off in boots. Auburn hair was ponytailed with a blue bow. Eyes were green, I thought, but they were charged with anger so I couldn’t be certain. Her face was angular, skin flushed and her ponytail bobbed when she scolded Colt even further.

She was beautiful…but I finally realized that she was speaking to me. I said, is this yours? she asked, indicating my shirt, which she used to get my attention.

Yes, thank you. It was over there, kind of out of the way.

Thank you? Do you think I’m holding this for you? Why don’t I blow my nose on it and put it back where I found it?

I glanced at Colt as I moved past him but he was looking down the alley, planning his retreat, no doubt.

I didn’t mean it like that, I said, tried my best smile but saw that it was yard-sale quality for her.

Here, take your Roy Rogers shirt before I change my mind. She handed it to me, gave me a once over. You’re Jane Roberts’ nephew, I imagine.

Yup, I offered, didn’t think I’d ever used that word before, just wanted to try it out. It was like the first attempt at chew…but I didn’t spit.

Where’re you from?

Albany. New York.

She studied me for a moment, said, I thought so.

What does that mean? I complained.

That if I stepped on your foot you’d go, ouch! Why did you do that? Whine. Rub your instep. Maybe threaten to sue me. Definitely make with the big eyes, the way you are now.

I don’t get any of that, I said, raised my eyebrows when I heard the whine in my voice.

You’re a tenderfoot, could tip toe on feathers and claim it was pine cones. You’ll have boots next, try to walk like you’ve been riding horses all your life. Fight with Colton and you’ll think the horse rode you. She poked my shoulder, indicated that we should leave the alley. Where did you get those clothes, by the way? New York Western store?

Oh my God, I thought. She reminds me…of…me! Aunt Jane, I managed, tried not to whine.

She should know better. That shirt and those jeans are just begging to be soiled or stolen. Put them in water, flop them in the dirt and try to get the crease out of your Levi’s.

I’ll do my best. Could you show me how?

She ignored my question, asked, How long will you be here before you escape east again?

There is no escape, I said honestly.

Oh, your parents coming here?

Not unless they rise from the grave.

She stopped walking, gazed at me intently. Sorry, major, but sometimes you just have to surrender to reality.

I apologize, she said simply. My father says I have a devil’s tail and lash it around when I should be silent and listen. I lost my mother three years ago but can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost both my parents. Is there anything back there for you?

Tombstones and strangers living in my home. I hope that didn’t sound like a whine, I said.

I started to move forward but she remained where she was, said, This is home. For me.

I looked past her. It was the Tomahawk Tattler, a newspaper office that I’d only noticed in passing, asked, Am I going to be a feature article? Scoop by…what is your name, other than devil’s tail?

Holly Winters. I’d say pleased to meet you but then you’d think that was the way we talk here. So I’ll just say that I could use a friend who doesn’t fight, chew or shoot animals.

How about two out of three? I’m Owen Temple, by the way. Or did you already know that?

I do now. Would you like to see the newspaper office?

Sure, I said, realized that I did and would probably see more of it.

She opened the door for me, waved me in and showed that chivalry wasn’t in high regard there. Be careful of the tail, she said, smiled.

Only if you don’t step on my foot.

Chapter 3

Doctor Lorna Brahms was annoyed, showed it when she said, I told you to keep that area clean.

She was holding a champagne-colored cat, trying to administer to a spot on the animal’s stomach but it was twisting, trying to claw her.

She won’t stay in and I can’t watch her door all day, an equally-annoyed woman said, shaking out a cigarette.

Don’t smoke that in here, Dr. Brahms said, still struggling with the cat.

Why not, for pity’s sake?

That’s reason enough. Pity’s sake. Some of these animals are as sensitive to cigarette smoke as I am.

She’d managed to clear away some of the dirt and such from the cat’s stomach, applied some salve and gave the cat a rawhide pouch to occupy the animal’s attention.

What is that? the woman asked.

Dried catnip. A kitty’s cigarette, the doctor answered, looking pointedly at the woman’s cigarette till she’d put it away.

Will Ghost be all right?

I thought her name was Belladonna.

I got tired of that name and Ghost is shorter.

The doctor paused before saying, Her cut was infected again. If you don’t keep her inside she’ll fit her name and you won’t have to call her anything but deceased.

Oh, for pity’s sake, the woman said, picking up her cat and banging through the door.

Judy, the office girl, caught the door on the swing, frowned at the woman, stuck her head in and said, Mr. Thorpe is here with Billy. She smiled apologetically, glanced behind her when a little dog barked. You need a few minutes? Judy asked.

Lorna nodded, put her hands on her desk and took several deep breaths. She turned back to the exam table, noticed that the catnip bag was gone and swore softly. An urgent whine brought her head around and a smile returned to her tanned face. Sorry for the bad language, Popcorn, she said to a white poodle looking at her anxiously, wagging a stubby tail, paw outside the cage. She examined the paw, scratched the dog’s ears and stood up, stretched and thought about a cigarette. Practice what you preach, peach head, she mumbled, chuckled at her childhood nickname.

Gazing at her framed veterinary medicine degree, she studied her image and wondered again why she’d come back to Tomahawk to care for animals, domesticated and wild? Still no answer to that one, she admitted, but she could check on appearance.

A red-headed father and black-haired mother had given her a sort of peach-colored frizz of hair that she trimmed, bound in ribbon or pin, but didn’t waste time trying to brush or comb. Eyes are still brown, she noted, more a color of canine than mother. Nose still pushed up and lazy to the left, though I could have had it flattened just now. She thought her mouth was wide, but the fraternity boys at the University of Wyoming thought it was kissable. She wondered if they were still wondering because she kept her head in her books and didn’t share her time, notes or bed.

She knew she was attractive, an absolute beauty in Tomahawk, but had as much chance of finding a decent man here as Ghost did of living down her name.

Let’s see Billy, she told Judy, nodded to Mr. Thorpe and looked at the terrier in his arms. Billy boy, she said brightly, watching the dog’s eyes focus on her, patted her lap and grunted when he jumped on to her lab coat. Are you barking at midnight again? she asked, smiling at Mr. Thorpe when Billy licked her cheek.

He is, Doc. The neighbors either ring my doorbell next morning or give me hard looks. I just don’t hear him. Don’t want to frost all of their behinds, can’t blame them, just don’t know what to do. Can you help us?

What time do you go to bed? she asked, pretended not to see the hopeful look that settled across his face.

Around ten, he answered, scratching his ear.

She nudged Billy and he jumped back onto the man’s lap, catching him by surprise. Covering a smile with a cough, she said, Give him a treat before you go to bed, a couple if he seems hungry. If your neighbors leave you alone next day then you solved your problem.

You think it’s possible? That simple?

I do. He’s hungry. No table scraps now. Especially not sugar. Does he have water for the night? Is he protected outside? If a coyote was near would he smell him, bark for help?

I wouldn’t hear a coyote any more than I hear him.

Dogs are like people, say pay attention to me. I’m hungry. Afraid. Lonely. Somewhere in that is the truth and the answer for Billy. Maybe for all of us.

Whatever you say, Doc. I’ll give him a snack, check on him when I get up to do my…well, I’m sure you know what I mean. You’re the expert.

Sure I am, Lorna thought. Not on the you know what I mean, but on dog behavior, too, much like people. I’m the sage of animal quirks. Sleep well tonight, Billy, she said, watching them leave. You’re marvelous, peach head, she chuckled, jerked guiltily when Judy slipped in the door, gazed at her anxiously and whispered, Seth Bodeen is here with Champ, says he’s jumping the fence, chasing around and bothering people.

Uh, huh. What’s the problem with Champ?

Pardon?

Never mind. Are you feeling brave today, Judy?

Every day, till those two come in.

I thought you’d say that. All right, my girl. I’m going to give you a lesson in courage. Lead the way.

She followed Judy into the lobby, tightened her lab coat, crossed her arms, raised an eyebrow and asked directly, What is it you think I can do for you?

The man rolled something around in his mouth, studied her carefully, glanced at his dog, then back to the scowling woman. I thought you might come watch my dog with me. Together, we might get a notion how to keep him from following his instincts. That male thing.

She wished she had at least a stick of gum to chew on. They’d had this conversation before and she decided never to allow him into the exam area again, wished she could keep him out of the office all together. Her answer was even more direct. I have a solution for your problem but I doubt if you’ll do it. Get Champ and yourself neutered. Then neither of you will want to jump fences again.

The Great Dane’s ears went up, maybe because it felt its master’s hand stiffen on its head. Or because it knew what neutered meant. Whatever the reason, Lorna felt things shift at that moment but kept her place, stance and scowl.

Is that something you do? he asked.

Sometimes. If it’s necessary. I have to be convinced but I’m pretty persuaded with you.

I’m not used to being badmouthed. Makes me want to chase around, bite someone.

Sounds like rabies. Get put down for that. Another new experience.

She and Judy both twitched when the dog growled. Barks began in the back, strangely comforting to Lorna.

Is that something else you do? Put something down because of rabies?

Lorna kept her silence, sensed that there was no safe answer to that question. Taking a deep breath she said, Sometimes.

It’s convenient to have an office person, he said, glancing at Judy. Company. Someone to assist in those things you boasted about. On hand. Present. A witness, he added, paused to consider his own words before continuing. When I go into the wilderness, it’s alone. Don’t even take Champ. The dog whuffed when it heard its name. Just me and nature. No silly words. Pretty simple.

No witnesses, you mean, Lorna said. When you hunt mountain lions out of season.

It’s always season on them. Just you or it. No words. Something dies but I haven’t been a meal yet. He stared at Lorna, gazed down at his dog, asked, If you had a gun and Champ was coming for you and you knew he’d kill and eat you, what would you do?

The big dog was staring at her and she tried not to imagine its mouth opening, jaws and teeth closing on her.

Come on, lady. It’s a simple question. My dog is about to rip into you. What would you do?

Look for you and shoot you dead. Champ is a pet and you’re the master. He wouldn’t do anything but what you commanded. She returned his stare and waited for his words.

That wouldn’t work with the cougar.

Nor should it, which is why they should be left alone to live their natural lives. They don’t have fences to jump, commands to follow, masters to appease. No silly words. Pretty simple.

The man studied her…she imagined the same way he watched a target, before he shot.

Judy, Lorna said, frowned when she jumped. Do we have anyone else scheduled for today?

No, Judy answered, voice choked, cleared her throat and repeated it.

I can’t help you, Mr. Bodeen. Feed your dog regularly, don’t leave it for long stretches and it may not jump fences. Set a good example.

He smiled, followed his dog out without a comment or look.

Holy mother of animals, Judy gasped. Was that a lesson in courage or a tutorial in suicide?

A little of both, Lorna said, sitting down.

He’ll be back for certain, now. You might not be here next time. Judy whispered, eyes round.

If I go out on a call you can lock up, put the sign in the window, Lorna suggested.

They gazed at each other, tried not to imagine him coming back. When the door opened they both jumped, then stared at the man in the Wyoming Fish and Game field uniform.

Hi, he said, glancing between the two women. I know I shaved this morning, didn’t have anything for breakfast that could be on my face or shirt. I don’t have a wife or girlfriend so no lipstick on me. I’m out of reasons for this staring and I’m about to get self-conscious, he finished, peering quizzically at Lorna, noting the Dr. Brahms on her lab coat.

We don’t jump fences or bite, so you’re safe, Lorna said, sneaked a smile at Judy, then straightened her shoulders, added, we just had an experience, thought you were someone coming back to threaten us. Please sit and tell us what’s on your mind.

Perhaps we could go into your office? he asked, glancing at Judy.

Oh. Judy and I are keeping each other company from now on. United and all that. Part of the veterinarian’s code. Please sit and tell us who you are.

My name is Kyle Singer and you can see who I work for, am a game warden, though you’ll have to teach me the rules for what’s happening here, Dr. Brahms, he finished, smiled at both women, puzzled expression finally winning over the smile. Kyle, he said, touching his chest. Judy, he added, indicating the woman behind the desk. So you are…? He paused, obviously finished, pointing to the woman who’d captured his attention as soon as he was through the door.

Lorna. Lorna Brahms.

Well, now, he said, sitting back. Should I go look at myself in the mirror or just get on with it? he asked, smiled again.

At least his name isn’t Billy or Popcorn, Lorna thought but nodded at him to continue, leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees, chin and cheeks in her hands and regarded him intently.

He sat up a little straighter, gave them both a look and said, We’ve gotten calls that someone is hunting cougars out of season, he said softly, noted how the doctor’s eyes widened.

Judy, Popcorn is ready to go home. Would you put a sign in the window and take him? Tell Effie to keep him in one more day and then he can romp again. Thanks.

They watched her display a be back…sign, then heard Popcorn’s happy yelp, took the opportunity to study each other. Their mutual admiration was apparent. Lorna appreciated how his black hair curled at his neck, his frank, blue eyes and slight smile were absolutely charming. Darned if his nose didn’t look like it leaned to the left but she wouldn’t ask and had better stop staring or he might leave.

When it got quiet in back, she said, There’s a back door. You said calls. More than one?

Two. From women, but my boss said it was different voices. Two different women, he said, looking at her closely.

She wondered…but said, I was one of the callers, but she tried to show that she didn’t know who the other woman could be, added, does your boss have an ear for the human voice?

In a way, he replied, obviously impressed by the question. He can identify birdsongs and name the species, says a woman’s voice is a birdsong and you just have to listen carefully to get the message.

But isn’t it the male that does all the singing?

That’s true, but the female answers, in this softer melody. That’s the listen-carefully part. She’s either saying yes, I’ll be your mate, or go get breakfast off your beak.

She sat back, resisted asking leading questions or whistling a tune, settled for, What happens now?

His expression changed, eyebrows went up and she realized that she hadn’t considered her words carefully enough. Her next words were more deliberate. Did you see a grubby man with a brown Great Dane on your way in?

Yes. He marked my tire with tobacco juice. Is that the out-of-season hunter?

Yes.

Have you seen him out hunting, other than between September and March?

No.

If not, why did you call?

Some of the pet owners have told me.

I see…but you haven’t.

That’s right. They’re afraid of the man. Seth Bodeen. Judy and I are afraid of him too. I called him on hunting out of season. Just before you got here.

Bad timing, that.

Isn’t that why you’re here? He goes out with his rifle. It’s April. Bang. He comes back after dark, unloads something. You can guess the rest.

I can’t guess a possible hunting infraction and do more than talk to him, but I think you know that.

I do, she said. He won’t want to talk to you and will bristle.

Bristle. Is that what he did with you?

He was more innuendo to begin with. The male bird singing, but it’s a saloon song, no love notes apparent. I told him to stuff it, said I knew he was hunting out of season. Bristle became a threat. A threat to Judy and to me.

Perhaps you should tell whoever enforces the law here.

That would be the County Sheriff. He comes through once a week, sits in his car having lunch and waits for anyone who wants to make a complaint. Failing that, he hangs out at the post office, watches people come and go, waiting for anyone to say anything to him. They don’t.

So….

"It was one of those insinuation things. Oh, never mind. It’s a small Wyoming town and many people own guns but you have the only badge in thirty miles right now.

You don’t know who the other woman is?

Not even if it’s Judy. She was tired of answering questions.

Where does someone buy a hunting or fishing license here?

Roberts’ General Store, she answered, then stared out the window at nothing in particular.

Who owns and runs it?

Jane Roberts.

He searched her face for any information beyond the name but apparently didn’t see anything because he sat back in his chair, ran his fingers through his hair and pushed his nose from the side. Her habit too. It sounds like it took some courage to brace that man on his illegal hunting, he said seriously, softly.

More angry stupidity than courage. I was sorry before I got to the end of my accusation. Judy was too, and I was sorry for her.

Are you a jump-at-something, then ohmygod, where-am-I-going kind of woman?

At times, she replied honestly. If a jay comes around the nest, I ruffle my feathers and chase it away. If it’s a crow, named Bodeen, I scream foul bird and hope it doesn’t peck me to pieces.

Is there someone to hear your cries for help?

That’s why I scream and hope my save-me song carries thirty miles.

It’s about that far to the station in Yellowstone, he said, gazing at her raptly. It’s a good thing Tomahawk is close.

But off the beaten path, she said, added, no major road or tourists here.

No, there isn’t a highway to speak of but it’s closer than you think, on a bird’s straight path.

I hope so, she said, met his gaze and resisted the urge to nudge her nose.

I’m back, Judy said, making noise in the exam room.

Would you introduce me to Jane Roberts? he asked, rising and opening the door.

Going out, Lorna called. Walk or ride? she asked when he joined her.

Walk. Got the badge, show the badge.

She glanced up at him and started down the dusty road, not minding the faint traces of gray on her white lab coat.

Chapter 4

When she woke she immediately licked her shoulder, didn’t notice that the light was different in the cave. Her growl of displeasure was also a complaint about the pain. She also felt hunger but didn’t understand that food, any kind of food, was becoming more vital to her survival and that the piece of metal in her shoulder was a center of infection.