Page 1 of Guard Bear (Return To Fate Mountain #5)
Chapter
One
Mountain lion shifter Joy Kincaid woke while it was still dark outside, her internal clock pulling her from sleep at exactly five-thirty.
She stretched in the narrow loft bed, toes pointing, arms reaching until her fingertips brushed the slanted ceiling.
Through the small window of her tiny house, stars still pricked the sky above Timber Bear Ranch, and the eastern horizon held the faintest promise of dawn.
Joy climbed down the ladder to the kitchen below, filled the kettle from the sink, set it on the two-burner stove, and pulled her favorite mug from the open shelf.
The coffee grounds released their bitter perfume as she measured them into the French press.
This ritual never varied. It wrapped her day in predictable comfort.
While the water heated, Joy leaned against the counter and let her mountain lion stretch inside her consciousness.
The cat had been restless lately, pacing the boundaries of her mind with unusual frequency.
Joy breathed deeply. The familiar ache of loneliness pressed against her ribs, but she pushed it down.
She had work to do. This was her dream, and she wasn’t going to let her lack of a mate distract her focus.
The kettle whistled. She poured water over the grounds and watched them bloom, counting the minutes in her head. When the coffee was done steeping, she pressed down, filled her travel mug, and added a big splash of goat milk cream.
Coffee in hand, she pushed open her door and stepped onto the small porch.
The morning air rushed to greet her, sharp and clean in her lungs.
Pine sap from the surrounding forest made her nose tingle.
Sweet clover from the pasture brought memories of summer afternoons.
The faint musk of deer lingered where they'd passed in the night.
And underneath it all, the honey scent of her hives.
Something felt slightly off, though she couldn't place it.
There was a trace of something foreign mixed with the familiar morning scents.
Her lion shifted restlessly, but Joy dismissed it.
Probably just a raccoon investigating the workshop again, or maybe one of the ranch hands had stopped by late to borrow equipment.
This was her domain. Six acres carved from the larger ranch, given freely by her uncle Leland when she'd turned twenty-one. Not a loan, not a lease, but hers. She'd built everything here with her own hands and sweat. The tiny house, the workshop, the life that answered to no one.
Her mountain lion rumbled with satisfaction.
Time to check the hives. The gravel path crunched under her boots as she made her way to the bee yard.
Twenty-four hives stood in neat rows, their weathered wood gone silver-gray from seasons of sun and rain.
She didn't need her full suit for a morning check.
The bees knew her scent, her movements. She was part of their world, not an intruder.
But something was off.
Her steps faltered. Three hives in the second row had their entrance reducers shifted. One was completely removed, lying in the grass like a discarded toy. The small wooden pieces controlled traffic flow and helped the bees defend against robbers or cold. They didn't just fall out.
Joy's heart kicked against her ribs. She knelt beside the first affected hive, listening. The normal morning hum carried an edge of agitation. Guard bees clustered at the entrance, more than usual, their bodies vibrating with alarm. The sound raised goosebumps along her arms.
She picked up the fallen reducer. Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid it back into place, then checked the others. All loose. All shifted.
A raccoon, maybe. They were clever enough to investigate anything that might hold sweetness. That's all. Had to be.
Her mountain lion snarled disagreement. Something had disturbed this hive. Not a raccoon—she knew that musky signature. This was different. Beneath the morning dew and her bees' alarm pheromones, sharp and lemony in her nose, lingered something else. The scent was faint, but off.
Joy straightened, scanning the bee yard, her pulse thudding in her ears. Nothing else seemed off. Her observation bench sat undisturbed at the yard's edge, the stone water feature still trickling. She'd investigate more thoroughly later. Right now, she had goats to milk.
Joy mentally ran through her week's production schedule as she headed to the barn.
Mondays and Thursdays for soap making—the six-week cure time meant constant planning ahead.
Tuesdays were for candle pouring. Wednesdays for extracting honey.
Fridays for labeling, packaging, and market prep.
Saturdays she was at the market, and on Sunday she prepared for the week ahead.
Twenty-four hives produced more than enough honey and wax for her three product lines. The fifteen goats gave plenty of milk for her signature soaps. Everything was interconnected, each piece supporting the whole.
The path to the main barn led past her workshop and through a small grove of apple trees. Motion sensor lights should have clicked on as she approached the goat pen, but darkness held. She reached up, found the bulb loose in its socket. A few turns and light flooded the area.
First the hives, now this. Thinking critically, she decided weather, temperature changes, or vibration from the old barn settling could loosen a bulb. So she brushed it off.
Then the gate required more jiggling than usual to release. Another coincidence. Had to be. Her fifteen dairy goats crowded the fence, bleating their morning demands. The pregnant doe, Clementine, hung back, sides bulging with the kids she'd drop any day now.
"Morning, ladies." Her voice came out rougher than intended. She cleared her throat, tried again. "Hungry girls today."
The milking parlor occupied one corner of the barn, the raised platform allowing three goats at a time. She'd designed the system herself, every angle calculated for efficiency. The does knew the routine, hopping up without prompting, munching grain while she worked.
Warm milk rang into steel pails, her hands moving automatically. The barn cats appeared from whatever corner they'd spent the night, winding between her legs, hoping for a squirt of milk. She obliged the orange tabby who'd been here longest, aiming a stream that he caught in his open mouth.
By seven-thirty, she carried her fresh milk pails to her workshop beside her tiny home.
The pole barn design had cost her three years’ of savings, but every penny showed its worth.
She'd chosen function over form, investing in proper ventilation, commercial electrical, reinforced concrete floors with drainage.
The thousand square feet gave her room to grow, half for production, half for storage.
She stepped inside and flipped the bank of switches.
LED panels flooded the space with clean, bright light.
She let out a satisfied sigh and smiled at her workspace.
Everything was in its place. Stainless steel worktables gleamed.
Scales were calibrated and waiting. Supplies were arranged exactly as she'd left them.
Joy carried the steel milk pails to her workshop's small kitchenette. She grabbed the dedicated ice cube trays from the cabinet, the silicone ones she used only for soap making. Each cube held exactly one ounce, making her recipe calculations simple.
Working at the sink, she poured the fresh milk in a steady stream, filling each ice cube compartment to just below the rim, leaving room for expansion.
She'd learned to do that the hard way after her first frozen milk explosion in the freezer.
The creamy liquid settled into perfect portions, thirty-two cubes that would become two batches of her signature goat milk soap later in the week.
She carried the trays to the workshop's small freezer, sliding them onto the flat shelf she kept clear for this purpose.
By tomorrow they'd be solid, ready to pop out and store in labeled freezer bags—Monday's milk for Thursday's soap, always working three days ahead to ensure the milk was completely frozen when she needed it.
The remaining fresh milk went into a glass jar in the refrigerator for her personal use—her morning coffee always tasted better with milk from her own does.
Organization was everything in a small operation.
Each frozen cube, each careful label part of the system she'd built to turn her does' daily gift into the luxury soaps people drove hours to buy.
When she was done processing her milk, she pulled on her work apron and began measuring oils for a new batch of soap.
Coconut first, its sweet scent filling her nose.
Then olive, golden-green and smooth. Palm and castor followed, each adding their own note to the symphony.
She set the pot of combined oils on the burner, warming them to 110 degrees.
The lye required respect. She pulled on safety goggles and thick rubber gloves and double-checked the ventilation system.
From the freezer, she retrieved the container of frozen goat milk cubes—Sunday's milking, frozen within hours of collection.
She placed them in her lye-mixing bowl, the cubes rattling like dice.
This was the tricky part. She sprinkled the caustic soda slowly over the frozen milk, stirring constantly as the cubes began to melt from the heat of the chemical reaction.
Too fast and the milk would scorch, turning her soap orange.
Too slow and the mixture wouldn't dissolve properly.
The slushy mixture gradually smoothed out, never getting hot enough to curdle the proteins.