Page 9 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
Son of a bitch.
I recognize him—old male, territorial, den's about a quarter mile east. He's not hunting. Just doing his evening rounds, checking the scent markers I've been using to keep other predators away from the trap site. But he's curious about the commotion, and a bear's curiosity can kill just as dead as its hunger.
The woman freezes. Smart. Finally some sense.
But the bear keeps coming. Ten feet. Eight. Six.
I should let this play out. Let nature handle the problem. She's in my territory, caught in my trap, and her dying means one less complication. One less witness. One less person asking questions I can't answer.
But I'm not a murderer.
I've killed. Combat doesn't leave room for clean hands. But there's a difference between war and letting a woman get mauled because I couldn't be bothered.
Damn it.
I bring the rifle up, sight on the sky above the bear, squeeze the trigger.
The shot cracks through twilight like thunder. Birds explode from trees. The bear's head jerks up, massive body going still as it processes the sound.
I'm already moving, crashing down the slope through snow, making noise, making myself big. "Hey! Get! Go on! Get!"
The bear swings toward me, huffs once. I can see the calculation in its eyes—is this threat worth the trouble? Is whatever curiosity drew it here worth tangling with something that makes loud noises and smells like gunpowder?
It decides no.
The bear drops to all fours and lumbers back into the brush, disappearing fast for something that size. I keep shouting until I'm sure it's gone, then silence crashes back down.
Just me, her, and the wind in the trees.
I approach slowly, rifle still in hand but pointed down. She's watching me with wide eyes, chest heaving, one hand gripping the knife she was using to saw at the snare wire.
Up close, she's smaller than I expected. Five-four maybe, dark hair pulled back and tucked up under a knit cap, features that suggest Mediterranean heritage somewhere back. Pretty, in a sharp-edged way that has nothing to do with softness and everything to do with survival instincts.
City pretty. Doesn't last long out here.
I kneel beside the snare, pull my knife from my belt. "Hold still."
"What...”
"I said hold still." I hook the blade under the wire loop, twist, and the snare releases with a metallic snap. The wire falls away from her boot.
She scrambles backward the second she's free, gets her feet under her, stands in a fighting stance. Like she thinks I'm the threat now. Maybe I am. Her hand's on that knife.
"What the hell kind of trap is that?" Her voice shakes, but there's anger underneath. Good. Anger means she's thinking instead of just reacting. "You could've killed me!"
"Could've killed a lot of things. That's the point." I stand, sheathing my knife. "What are you doing out here?"
"What am I...” She stops, remembers breathing. "I was checking the perimeter. Getting my bearings. That's what you're supposed to do, right? Know your surroundings?"
"Not by wandering off the marked trail your first night here." I gesture at the path, visible even in fading light. "You were twenty yards off. In unmarked territory. Where traps get set."
"There was no sign. No warning."
"The warning is the trail. You stay on it, you're safe. You leave it, you take your chances." I turn, ready to head back to my own camp before this gets more complicated. "Go back to your cabin. Stay inside. Don't come out here again."
"Wait." She steps forward, taking me in now that panic has passed. Eyes scanning my face, my gear, the way I move. "Who are you? You're not Wildlife Protection. Nate didn't mention anyone else working this area."
"Nate doesn't know everything."
