Page 5 of Mating With My Grumpy Alphas
"Copy that," I said finally, keying the mic. "ETA fifteen minutes."
I told myself this was just another call as I loaded my equipment into the truck. Wildlife didn't observe property lines or respect my personal boundaries. An injured owl needed help regardless of where it had chosen to get hurt. Professional duty trumped personal complications every time.
But my hands were tenser than usual on the steering wheel as I drove toward the neighborhood I'd been carefully avoiding for two days.
The call had come from Mrs. Patterson, who lived two houses down from the rental where... where the new resident was staying. She met me at the edge of the wooded area behind the houses, wringing her hands with the kind of anxiety that suggested she'd been watching the injured animal for hours before finally calling for help.
"It's been there since dawn," she explained, leading me through the gap between her fence and the neighbor's. "Just sitting on the ground, not flying away when I got close. That's not normal, is it?"
"No," I agreed, scanning the area for the bird she'd described. "Owls are usually very wary of human contact."
I found her about thirty feet into the tree line. A female great horned owl, probably a year old, sitting motionless on the forest floor. Even from a distance, I could see the problem. Her left wing hung at an odd angle, clearly injured and preventing flight. Vehicle strike, most likely. Young owls were still learning hunting patterns and didn't always account for the roads that cut through their territory.
The capture process was routine. Approach slowly, speaking in calm tones so she didn't panic and injure herself further. Coverher with the heavy blanket to minimize stress, secure her in the transport carrier, quick assessment to determine the severity of the injury. I'd done this hundreds of times.
Except nothing felt routine with the scent of jasmine and rain drifting on the morning air, getting stronger as footsteps approached through the fallen leaves.
"Is she hurt badly?"
The voice came from behind me, soft with genuine concern but tense with something else. I didn't turn around immediately, didn't trust my reaction to seeing her again. Focus on the job. Professional duty.
"Wing injury," I said, carefully securing the blanket around the owl. "Probably hit by a car during night hunting."
I could hear her breathing, slightly uneven, like she was forcing herself to stay when every instinct told her to leave. When I glanced back, she was standing about fifteen feet away. Close enough to see what was happening, far enough to bolt if she needed to. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, and her posture screamed discomfort with the situation.
But she stayed.
"Will she..." She paused, seeming to gather courage, her eyes darting around like she was looking for a threat, or maybe couldn’t decide if the threat was me. "Is that the kind of injury that heals? Or is it..."
The way she asked told me she understood the alternatives. Euthanasia wasn't something most civilians thought about when they saw injured wildlife, but anyone who'd worked around animal rescue would know it was sometimes the kindest option.
"Should heal fine," I said, lifting the transport carrier. "Clean break from what I can tell. She's young, good body condition."
"What’s her rehab time looking like?" The question came out quickly, like she couldn't stop herself from asking.
"Six to eight weeks usually. Depends on how well she takes to captivity and physical therapy."
She nodded, and I caught the slight relaxation in her shoulders. Like the owl's prognosis mattered to her personally. “She should reintegrate well then,” she said almost as if to herself.
"You know about wildlife rehabilitation," I observed, checking the carrier latches as I tried to buy myself some more time to talk to her. She intrigued me in a way I didn’t want to examine.
"A little." Her voice was carefully neutral. "I've... I used to be around it sometimes. The process, I mean."
The way she said it suggested more than casual exposure, but she was already stepping back, putting distance between us again. Whatever knowledge she had about wildlife work, she wasn't comfortable discussing it.
"She'll definitely be okay then?" she asked again, like she needed the reassurance repeated.
"She'll fly again," I said firmly. "Sometimes they just need time and a short period of rehab.”
Something in her expression shifted when I said that. Relief mixed with something deeper, more personal. Like the owl's recovery mattered to her in ways that went beyond general concern for wildlife.
"Can you let me know?" she asked suddenly. "How she does?"
I looked up, surprised by the request. "You want updates?"
"I just..." She struggled for words, hands still clasped tightly together. "I'd like to know she makes it back where she belongs."
Something in her tone suggested this wasn't just about the owl. And the way she was looking at the transport carrier, like she was seeing her own story reflected in an injured animal that needed time and care to remember how to fly...
