Prey

“So you don’t know if the bear is a decent size.”

The tone of his voice made it plain he thought she’d already failed test number two of guiding, the first one being not having a shiny new dual-axle pickup like Dare Callahan’s. Chad looked embarrassed and fumbled his spoon, making a clattering noise when he dropped it on his plate. For his sake, Angie kept her voice bland and didn’t let any hint of irritation show through. “I do, going by how high the claw marks are on the trees. I estimate this particular bear is about seven feet long, which is big for a black bear.”

“And how do you know it’s a black bear?”

“By the fur that was snagged on some chokeberry bushes. It’s always possible a brown bear is also in the territory and didn’t snag any of its fur,” she said, before he could make that argument, “but I know a black bear is in the vicinity.” She kept a death grip on her patience, and her tone pleasantly neutral.

“What’s your plan if this bear has gone to den in the time since you’ve been up there?”

Every sentence was like an interrogation with this man. Angie reached for a larger supply of patience. “If we don’t find fresh scat the first day or two, we move farther afield. A bear’s territory is usually two to ten miles. This time of year they aren’t as active as they would have been earlier, but some are still moving around. The weather is still relatively mild, thank goodness. This time last year, we were already a foot deep in snow.” Last winter had been horrendous, beginning early and hanging on weeks later than normal, taking a huge chunk out of time when she normally had at least some photographers wanting to go out, and that had been another nail in her financial coffin.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Powell, how long have you been guiding?”

“Most of my life. When I was a kid, I helped my dad, and as I got older I began taking out clients on my own.” That was all true; she kept to herself that her teenage solo trips had been mostly photography, some bird hunting. She had gone with her dad on a lot of his hunts, though, so she wasn’t a novice. He’d loved teaching her what he knew about reading sign, how to call game to the hunter’s location, and how to shoot. What she’d learned had gone deep; when he’d died and she moved back home, she’d stepped into the life with barely a pause.

“These are great biscuits,” Chad offered, making an obvious stab at changing the subject, and taking a big bite of biscuit to prove his statement. “Did your mother teach you how to cook?”

“No, I learned by trial and error, and there were a lot of errors along the way.” She put humor in her tone, and completely bypassed the mention of her mother because it was irrelevant. Some people had great mothers; she wasn’t one of them. She’d had a great dad, so fifty percent wasn’t bad. Life was what it was, and she’d been luckier than some.

She tried to leave again, but Mitchell Davis asked a few more pointed questions as if he were trying to trip her up. Chad kept awkwardly trying to change the subject and eventually earned himself a cold, pointed stare from Davis, which was when he gave up and simply sat there in squirming misery, eating some but otherwise withdrawn. Through it all, Angie stood without fidgeting and answered Davis’s questions as if they were nothing out of the norm, keeping her expression bland, not letting him get to her.

She finally escaped to the kitchen, where she consoled herself with a big fat slice of chocolate cake, the first one cut. When it was time to serve the cake, she made sure Mitchell Davis’s slice was about two-thirds as thick as Chad’s, and served both of them with a smile before bugging out to the kitchen again. When they’d had time enough to finish, she stepped out and suggested everyone get a good night’s sleep, as they had to get an early start.

Chad immediately stood and began making a slightly incoherent good night, mixed with a thank you for the meal, but Davis interrupted with an abrupt, “I have some more work to do on the Internet before I turn in. You go on, Krugman.”

Chad immediately left, of course. Angie smiled at Davis. “It’ll take me about half an hour to clean up; I hope that’ll be long enough.” No way was she letting him stay in the house with her while she got ready for bed, and neither was she sitting up all hours with a long day—a long week—looming in front of her. Tonight would be the last good night’s sleep she’d get until she was back in her own bed. She didn’t think she had to worry about Davis being a repeat customer, so there was a limit to how much she’d tolerate from him.

He gave her one of his cold looks. “I need more time than that.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s all I can give you tonight. If you want to grab some time while I’m cooking breakfast in the morning, the door will be unlocked. I’ll be up at four in the morning.”

“This really is a second-class operation, isn’t it?” His lip curled in that faint sneer she’d seen on his face when he first looked around.

“I’m a hunting guide. This is my home, not a hotel. Some places, you wouldn’t have Internet available at all.” She gave him a sudden, concerned look. “You are an experienced hunter, aren’t you?” Her booking information indicated that he was, but after all the borderline-rude remarks he’d made, she couldn’t resist making her own little jab at him. She’d be as polite as possible, but what was possible was steadily shrinking. No matter what, she wouldn’t let him bully her.

“I’ve probably been on more hunts than you have,” he snapped. “Regardless of that fairy tale about helping your father since you were a child.”