It takes twenty minutes, with much grinding of gears and spinning of wheels, but Andrews jerks the pickup to a stop just on top of the slope and just short of the trees.
He slams the door behind him emphatically. His freckles stand out against the flaming red of his face; sweat runs down from the brim of his h. He says equably, “Fuck you, buddy. You, and the horse you rode in on, and your grandpa’s paint pony. It woulda been easier to push the goddam rattletrap. You got any idea how we’re gonna get it down again?”
“No sweat. We just drive it along this level section here till we get to the end of the treeline.” Manny pats his pocket. “Then we cut the fence and use the road. Give me a hand here, will you?”
Without ceremony, they bundle Dietrich into a length of plastic, careful to retrieve his hat and weapon. Getting almost a hundred kilos of dead weight into the truck bed three-handed leaves Manny swearing with frustration at his useless shoulder. The wolf, still frozen and seventy pounds lighter, is easier. Andrews draws the body carefully onto a waiting blanket, then onto a tarp. Together they carry him gently as a child back to the truck and, after a moment’s hesitation, settle him in the back of the cab.
“You sure you don’t want to bury him out here?” Andrews asks as he folds a disturbed length of plastic back into place. “Taking him in—it doesn’t feel right.”
“It isn’t right,” Manny answers grimly. “He’s evidence of a crime, though. And nothing against you, buddy, but he’s the best corroborating witness as to why I shot that piece of shit.”
Over the next hour, they find three more traps. The coyote, caught by his tail, looks up at them with wary eyes that still hold a glint of mischief, and his lip rises in a defiant sneer as Andrews raises the Winchester to place the tranquilizer dart accurately in his thigh. A few moments later he is out cold and in one of the wire cages, a blanket tucked around him against the chill. The badger in the fifth trap, caught by a foreleg gnawed down to bone, is beyond help, eyes glazed with fever, sides rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths that make an audible gurgling sound. Andrews raises the dart gun questioningly, and Manny shakes his head. “That’s sepsis,” he says. “Pneumonia. Nothing we can do except end his suffering.”
Andrews reaches for his pistol, but Manny stops him. “Wait.” Opening the trap, he gently draws the steel teeth back from the shattered leg. The badger watches him dully from dimming eyes, making no resistance. “Easy, boy. Easy.” Then to Andrews. “Now. Let him die free.”
The last trap holds the bobcat. She is freshly caught, her wound bleeding bright scarlet into the snow. At their approach, her nose wrinkles in a snarl, baring fangs fit to tear off a man’s hand. Hissing, she backs away from them, dragging trap and chain with her to the limit of its length. “Oh boy,” Andrews observes, unnecessarily. “This one’s not gonna cooperate.”
When he finally does get a clear shot, they lay her carefully in the other cage, her wide unseeing eyes black, rimmed with gold. Manny runs his hand gently over her flank as he settles a blanket over her, rubbing behind her fine ears, still unmarked by fighting. “We’re gonna help you, girl,” he whispers. “You’re a real beauty, you are.”
Andrews grins as he starts the truck and it lurches along the flat strip parallel to the treeline. “You never told me you were a cat person. You’ve got a thing for that bobcat like your cousin the vet has for wolves.”
“Yeah.” After a moment he says, “That’s why I put up such a fight to get into Allen’s squadron. Bobcats.”
“That’s what they’re calling her, you know.”
“Allen? Bobcat? More like man-eating tiger, you ask me.”
“Nah, your cousin. ‘She-wolf of the Cheyenne.’”
Manny snorts. “Well, I guess it’s better to have a she-wolf chew your ass to shreds than just anybody. She’s not gonna like it that we brought the old man back…”
“Sounds like cold comfort to me.” Andrews hauls left on the steering wheel, and brings the truck to a juddering halt in front of Callaghan’s fence. “Now what?”
Manny hands him the wire-cutters. “Clip the fence. Get on the road. And drive like hell.”
*
It’s well past midnight when Kirsten, bone weary and with a headache that has increased its level exponentially, enters the house. Her usual greeter is conspicuously absent, and she makes her way through the kitchen quietly until she stands in the doorway to the living room. The rhythmic thump-thump of Asimov’s tail gives his location immediately, and as she steps closer, she can see his sparkling eyes from atop the human hip he is using for a pillow.
Stepping around the couch, her vision is filled with the sight of Dakota half-curled on her side, facing the fire and fast asleep. Her crooked arm supports her head as her hip supports Asi’s. Her chest rises and falls in a slow, easy and silent rhythm. Her flannel overshirt lies draped over one arm of the couch, leaving her in her black tank and jeans.
Kirsten’s eyes travel with true pleasure over the sweeping curves of her bronzed and muscled body, taking in each facet as if seeing it for the first time. Her own body warms and flushes, her exhaustion quite suddenly a thing of the past as a new, and seldom felt energy flows through her on eagle’s wings. Asi watches her curiously, but doesn’t move from his self-appointed perch. Kirsten circles around him, quiet as a wraith, and slowly lowers herself to the ground by Dakota’s head. The Vet’s face is obscured by the thick fall of her hair, which shines like silk in the light of the cheerily crackling fire, beckoning Kirsten silently to run her fingers through its inky mass.
She heeds the summons, barely daring to breathe as her fingers, not quite steady, tentatively brush against the silken strands. When Dakota’s breathing remains deep and easy, Kirsten, emboldened, brushes the thick locks away from her face with a slightly firmer touch, smiling as the Koda’s flawless profile is slowly revealed. Her skin is burnished copper, unlined and fairly glowing with vitality. Her lashes, long and dusky, rest softly on her cheek, creating tiny crescent moon shadows on the soft flesh beneath.
Whining softly, Asi tickles her with his cold, wet nose, and she giggles softly, lifting her hand from Koda’s hair and pushing him away. Looking affronted in a way that only German Shepards can, he nonetheless settles, resting his head back on his human pillow.
When Kirsten turns back, she finds herself swallowed whole in eyes the color of the Caribbean. She forgets the mechanics of breathing as Dakota’s gaze, warm and tender and yet with a spark of fire hot enough to scorch, takes in every inch of her face. A strong, long-fingered and perfectly sculpted hand raises up, and fingers trace themselves with impossible gentleness over the cupid’s bow of Kirsten’s lips.
“Nun lila hopa.”
The voice that speaks the words is deep and husky with sleep, and Kirsten feels a current rocket through her body. She smiles against the butterfly touches, understanding the sentiment, if not the words themselves.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “And you…you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
This earns her a smile that is equal parts radiant and innocent, and her breath leaves again with the intensity of emotion washing over and through her. She moves not a muscle as Dakota’s fingers leave her lips and trail along her jaw, then slide down her neck, lingering at a pulsepoint she is sure is bounding like an orchestral bass drum. They travel further, soothing against the hollow of her throat, feeling the skin as it stretches taut from a convulsive swallow.
Still smiling, Koda lifts her head and props it on her free hand. Her fingers blaze a molten trail down the “V” of Kirsten’s collar, and still themselves there, resting lightly on the fabric covering the rest of her body from view.