Page 7

Seven

Jackson

“Tranquilizer darts?”

The tent is crowded. Jonas called the team back and we just finished replaying the video for them to see.

“I don’t think that momma bear is gonna let you get close enough,” I answer Dan’s suggestion. “But even if you’d manage that, the accuracy on those dart rifles is questionable at best, and if you missed you’d have a really angry bear on your ass.”

“Too risky,” Jonas confirms. “Sully is on his way with the spare drone so we can monitor from the sky. We’ll try to avoid a confrontation.”

Unfortunately, the spare drone is cheap and clunky compared to the Matrice and doesn’t hold that long of a charge, but it’s better than nothing.

“Dan…you, Wolff, and JD, you’ll be retrieving the body,” Jonas continues. “Make sure you have all the necessary tools to cut him free from those branches. Bring a body bag, extra rope and, because you’ll have to go through rough terrain both coming and going, you might want to consider bringing another horse to carry the extra weight.”

It makes sense he’s sending in those guys. They’re in better physical shape, which is a good thing; they may need to run. It still sucks though, getting sidelined, especially since this kind of assignment—a challenging one with a sharp edge of danger—would’ve been right up my alley at one point in time.

“Judge is strong, he shouldn’t have a problem carrying the extra load,” Wolff suggests, referring to his horse.

Jonas shrugs. “If you’re sure; you guys may be in a hurry to get out of there.”

“Yeah, he can handle it.”

“Still, it’s going to be a dangerous proposition trying to steal the grizzly’s food source out from under her nose, especially from a mom with?—”

He stops talking abruptly at the sound of a vehicle approaching and pokes his head out of the tent.

“God-fucking-dammit,” he grinds out as he returns his attention to the team, clearly unhappy. “We’ve got company.”

Company in the form of Buck Adams and the suit from the DOS, the U.S. Department of State, who appear to have been tipped off. I didn’t catch the DOS guy’s name, but my guess is he’s more concerned about the political optics than the viability of a recovery effort.

Confirmation follows five minutes later when he proposes we straight out kill the bear to simplify the retrieval of Juan Pérez’s body.

“This bear happens to be a grizzly, and they are a protected species,” the game warden points out. “You can’t just randomly shoot one.”

“That’s preposterous,” the suit returns. “They’re dangerous animals.”

The collective eye roll from most everyone else in the tent is almost audible. Luckily Buck shows more patience than I would’ve had with the idiot. Who the fuck shows up at a base camp for a field search in a tie and loafers? That should tell you enough about the guy.

“I’m not going to debate the merits of the law with you,” Buck calmly returns. “There has been plenty of discussion on this specific topic here in Montana recently. If you want, you can take it up with whoever creates the laws, but in the lower forty-eight states, the grizzly bear is protected under the Endangered Species Act. You can’t shoot one unless it’s in self-defense, or if it’s attacking or killing your livestock. That’s the law.”

“With all due respect,” Jonas interjects, thick with sarcasm. Not that anyone really believes he has even the smallest scrap of respect for the DOS rep anyway. “We start losing daylight in less than four hours. We’re gonna need at least that, and a healthy dose of luck, to retrieve the body. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish laying out our approach and get going. Unless you want parts of the ambassador’s son to end up dinner and dessert for that grizzly as well?”

The guy—looking mildly green around the gills—wisely shakes his head.

“Okay, where were we?” Jonas’s eyes turn on me. “Got your rifle in your truck?”

I nod. I always have my rifle in a gun safe mounted behind the front seats. The high velocity weapon is a reminder of my specialty in the armed forces. Jonas is the one who encouraged me after my discharge to keep my skills sharp. He pointed out there was no way to know when it might come in handy.

Guess today is the day.

“I want you to find a high spot with a good view on the body and surrounding area. Any sign of that bear, you know what to do. Your priority is keeping your team safe.”

He didn’t need to remind me of that—the team’s safety is always a priority—but I suspect that last comment wasn’t meant for me.

I’m grateful for the assignment though. My marksmanship is the one thing my missing limb has had no impact on, whatsoever.

I’m good.

* * *

An hour and a half later, I’m wedged securely in the fork of a tree, about fifteen feet off the ground, my cheek pressed against the butt of my rifle, and my eye lined up with the scope.

I’m about five hundred yards downstream from where the body is trapped in the pile of debris, at the edge of the creek. I can’t see much detail with the naked eye, but I have a 12-25x scope on my rifle that allows me as clear a picture as if I were watching from only feet away.

Here I am in the zone, focused on my objective in a way that has time suspended. This is familiar territory for me, up in a tree or an elevation of some sort, patiently waiting for my cue. My breathing is steady, my heartbeat slows down, and I have no trouble ignoring the discomforts and aches of my body. My whole world is through the scope of my rifle.

This is where I shine.

I watch as the rest of the team cautiously approaches the narrow clearing.

“Any visual?” Dan’s voice crackles in the receiver in my ear.

The tiny microphone is attached to the earpiece.

“Negative. You’re clear.”

At least they are for now. I track the trees constantly, back and forth along the creek bank.

“Fuck me,” I hear JD mutter. “He’s ripe.”

I listen to the guys talk as they start cutting away at the debris to try to get the body dislodged. Some of the comments are off-color, but we’re on a private frequency, and sometimes dark humor is the preferred way to cope with a disturbing task like this one.

It’s not until I see Dan free a large branch from the tangle, and pull it off to the side, I catch the slightest of movements in the trees to his right.

There’s no time to even shout out a warning when the large grizzly comes charging out of the brush.

My finger is already depressing the trigger before my brain catches up with my eyes.

* * *

Stephanie

“What happened to you?”

I take in the parallel scratches running down the side of his face and into his neck.

“A little tussle with a bear,” Jackson responds with a wry grin.

“A bear? My God…”

I step aside and wave him in. As he hangs his hat and coat on one of the hooks in the tight entrance, I grab the opportunity to take him in. His short, dark hair looks wet and has hints of auburn in the artificial light. He showered, but didn’t shave; the stubble he sports on his strong jaw makes him even more attractive.

On top of that, he smells fabulous; of leather, something woodsy like pine, and a hint of allspice. Just a faint scent, but enough to make me want to bury my nose in his neck.

“It was only a little one. A cub,” he clarifies.

“Yikes. Where was its momma?” I ask innocently, moving ahead to the kitchen, where I left a pot of four-bean chili simmering on the stove.

It was a bit chilly today, which inspired my choice for dinner. It also happens to be a meal that lends itself perfectly to leftovers, and tastes even better the next day. I made enough to last me a while.

Grabbing the large wooden spoon, I gently stir, scraping along the bottom to prevent the bits of shredded beef getting stuck. It’s far from a traditional recipe and the chili purists among us would be horrified, but I love to add chunks of sweet potato and a tablespoon or so of dark cocoa to the mix. The slightly sweet flavor enhances the mild heat from the poblano peppers.

“What are you making?” Jackson’s voice sounds behind me.

I step aside and let him peek into the pan, realizing he never actually answered my question about the bear. I’m curious about other things too, like for instance, what happened with the search, and what brought him to my doorstep again tonight?

“Chili. Smells good. Different.”

There’s a glint of something in his eyes when he looks at me with one eyebrow raised. Is he fishing for an invite?

“I’ve got plenty.”

One corner of his mouth pulls up. “I see that. Were you expecting company?

“Not really. I just like making a big batch so I can have leftovers and freeze some for later. But you’re welcome to stay for a bowl,” I add quickly.

“Won’t say no to that.”

I point at the fridge. “Grab a beer while I get the garlic bread out of the oven. And maybe you can tell me about the bear cub and what brought you here tonight.”

“Fair enough. You?” he asks, holding up one of the beers I picked up in case Janey and JD dropped by again.

At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself, since I don’t like mixing alcohol with the medication I’m on. I was only ever a social drinker anyway, and seeing that I rarely ever socialized, that didn’t amount to much.

“I’m happy with my water.” I point at the ridiculously large Yeti tumbler I’ve started lugging around.

Jackson takes his beer and sits down at the kitchen table, cracking the tab of his can with a hiss before taking a sip. I try not to look at him and instead, busy myself getting out bowls, a couple of spoons, and some napkins.

“We found the hunter,” he says somberly.

I can tell by his tone the man had not been alive, which isn’t really a surprise. I don’t care what they say, but you never really get used to dealing with the aftermath of death. It’s generally messy, and no matter how hard you try to shrug it off, or bury it under jokes, the images still haunt you.

“A grizzly with two cubs wasn’t happy to give up her post-hibernation snack when we tried to recover the body. Now she’s dead, and two cubs are without a mother.”

I wince at the mental picture that conjures up before I turn to face him, leaning my hip against the edge of the counter.

“That sucks. Where are the cubs now?”

“They’re in a temporary shelter until the warden can arrange transportation to the rehabilitation center in Helena. He seems to think they’re young enough, chances are good they’ll be able to return to the wild eventually.”

“That would be good.”

I’ve heard about cases where these orphaned cubs end up in zoos, or end up being euthanized. Rehabilitating them to give them a fighting chance back out in their own environment is the much preferred route to take, if you ask me.

“Yeah,” Jackson mutters, taking another sip as his eyes drift out the window.

The timer on the oven pings, alerting me the garlic bread should be done.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting across the table from Jackson, steaming bowls of chili in front of us and a warm slice of garlic bread on a napkin beside it.

“Dig in,” I prompt him when I see him waiting for me.

“Looks great, but I want you to know I didn’t come here looking to mooch a meal off you.”

I put the chunk of bread I had halfway to my mouth back down.

“Okay. What did bring you here then?”

“Told you last night I’d be in touch, but I didn’t realize until today, I don’t have your number.”

“I see.” I grin at him. “Could’ve asked JD. He has it.”

He makes a face I can’t quite place before explaining, “I prefer asking you for your number. That way you can tell me to take a hike if you don’t want me to have it.”

I let that resonate for a moment, deciding I like what that conveys; respect.

“406-673-8422,” I rattle off without taking my eyes off him. “Don’t you need to write that down?” I ask when he doesn’t move to take out his phone.

“No. I’ll remember it.”

I’m not sure whether it was those words or my chili that had my stomach happily gurgling throughout dinner. We didn’t talk a whole lot, and when we did it was about general subjects. Nothing too deep or too personal. It’s as if that one brief exchange about something as mundane as phone numbers suggested a level of involvement we both apparently need easing into.

That doesn’t stop me from turning around and slipping my arms around his neck when he catches me in the kitchen, circling me with his arms as I put away the dishes. It’s almost like it’s second nature.

“I should head out,” he announces for the second night in a row.

The faint lines at the outside corners of his eyes deepen when he smiles, and my stomach does a little flip.

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I already scored a bonus meal when I was only looking for a phone number. I don’t want to push my luck.”

I’m very aware of his strong arms, holding my body pressed firmly against his, and my voice is a bit hoarse when I respond.

“I wasn’t complaining.”

“I know,” he whispers, brushing my lips lightly with his before adding, “but if I stay, chances are good I’d be nodding off in no time after my long day, and I’d really like to get out of my prosthesis first.”

“Feel free to take it off here. It doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He kisses the tip of my nose.

“That’s good to know for next time.”

The words hold a certain promise, but I don’t have much time to think about it before I’m distracted. This time when he kisses me, he plunders my mouth, displaying a level of skill that makes me forget my own name.

When he walks out the door a few minutes later, I make a mental note to pick up some condoms tomorrow.

Just in case.

Suddenly tired myself, I take my pills, turn off the lights, and head for the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I’m about to crawl into bed with my book, my phone pings with an incoming message.

That was just what I needed. Thank you.