Prey

While it heated, he scowled at the floor. Why was he even thinking what he was thinking? Angie had made it clear she thought it was his fault that she had to sell, and that she hated his guts because of it. She’d hate him even more now that he’d made the offer on her property, because she’d think he was taking advantage of her situation. The last thing she’d want was him tagging along on a job to make sure she was safe, even if he had the time or the inclination, which he didn’t. Mostly. That last word sneaked into his brain and made his scowl deeper.

The microwave dinged. He opened the door and stuck his finger in the coffee to see if the brew was hot enough, then quickly jerked it out. Shit, yeah. He dumped in enough sugar to disguise the crappy taste, stirred, then leaned back against the counter and took a sip. Not bad. Not bad at all. Why couldn’t he just enjoy a cup of coffee and the fact that business was good? For the most part, life was good. He didn’t need to take on Angie’s problems.

Why did he let her get under his skin this way? In all his thirty-seven years, he’d never met another woman as annoying as she was. She was stubborn as an old goat, and she’d made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. No ass in the world, no matter how fine, was worth the kind of aggravation she’d caused him. Like it or not, though, she was definitely under his skin, lodged there like a tick.

What was wrong with him? In a matter of moments he’d mentally compared her to both an old goat and a tick, and yet here he was, still stewing over Harlan’s words and, damn it all, still worrying about a woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

If Harlan had expressed the same concerns about anyone else in town, Dare wouldn’t have given them a second thought. Angie was an adult. She’d be armed. Surely she vetted her clients before taking them on. She knew the territory as well as … no, better than anyone else, except him. She had such a pissy attitude, he should be more concerned about her clients’ safety than he was about hers.

Dare drank his coffee, savoring each sip. His rancor eased some, as he glanced at the pile of paperwork on the table. He had ten days off, ten days of freedom. His winter preparations would do, for now. There was maintenance to be done, but nothing pressing. The paperwork wasn’t going anywhere. And forget tailing Angie Powell as if she was a helpless female in need of a fucking white knight.

He was going to go fishing, damn it. He was going up on the mountain on his own for some much needed peace and quiet, a little down time. And if that down time put him in Angie’s vicinity, maybe even in her path, well, that was just a coincidence.

Yeah, right. He’d just keep telling himself that. And he’d damn sure tell Angie, if he was unlucky enough that she saw him.

Once he’d made up his mind, Dare packed with the speed and precision of a man who’d done the same thing a thousand times. In his backpack he arranged strips of jerky, power bars, a small first-aid kit, some cans of bear spray, bottles of water, aspirin—because he might run into Angie and she was sure to give him a headache—and an extra flannel shirt. His satellite phone, charged and ready, went into the pack. There were more supplies up at the camp, but he never headed in empty-handed.

The fishing gear was another matter. Dare hadn’t been fishing on his own in months, so he took some time to inspect the fly rod, put on new line. Most of his clients came in to hunt, but he’d taken out the occasional fishing party. He never fished when he was with clients, though; if he intended to fish he preferred to go on his own, to enjoy the peace and quiet.

If his fishing clients knew what they were doing, he enjoyed the trips. If they were novices, he’d rather eat ground glass. They talked, they splashed, they tangled themselves in the line, caught themselves on the hooks. Teaching a beginner to fly-fish was a huge pain in the ass. He’d started referring callers to a fishing guide in the next county over, because business was good enough that he didn’t have to fuck with it if he didn’t want to.

Dare thought about packing waders, but given the cooling weather and dropping temps of the water he decided against it. He’d cast from the bank.

As he sorted through the flies, he wondered if Angie could fish, and imagined maybe sending the beginners her way. It was a perversely satisfying thought.

A few times in his career as a guide, clients had come in with their wives. One nightmarish job had included two teenage daughters. He’d rather be shot than do that again. But a woman … how many wives would be more comfortable with another female around? Angie probably wouldn’t be as annoyed by the constant chatter of a young woman as he was. He’d barked at that one girl when she’d squealed because she saw a deer, and then she’d cried. The trip had gone downhill from there. It wasn’t like having women around was the norm, but still … it was worth some thought. Why hadn’t Angie attempted to specialize in couples, families? Why hadn’t she used her gender to her advantage? Instead she’d tried to step into her father’s shoes and continue on as he had, as if nothing had changed, when in fact everything had changed.

It wasn’t the best time of year for fly-fishing. Weather and water conditions were changing, but the trout weren’t in their winter lies just yet. He might have good luck in a slow current, maybe target some pre-spawn browns. A big pan of trout would taste a helluva lot better than a power bar and jerky.

And if he happened to coincidentally keep an eye on Angie at the same time, well, keeping her safe would make one part of him very happy. His brain knew better, but his dick hadn’t given up hope. Not just yet, anyway. This trip might be just what he needed to convince his little brain that it had had a lucky escape.