Prey

Supper, what there was of it, was strained and silent. Angie kept her rifle close to hand, because the theory went that once a man-killer, always a man-killer. Couple that with a black bear’s propensity for stalking, and she had more than enough reason to be alert. It seemed everyone was angry at everyone else, so they all retired to their respective tents as soon as they returned from the food-prep site.

She secured the zipper on the tent flap so it couldn’t be opened from the outside, then sat on the cot for a while, so mentally exhausted she needed a minute to regroup. She couldn’t get the gruesome image of the mauled body out of her head. Yeah, she had to deal with people like Mitchell Davis, her business had taken a nosedive, and she had to deal with Dare Callahan, but all of that was nothing when balanced against what had happened to that poor guy.

Sleep might be impossible, but at least she could rest. Eventually she went through her nightly camp routine, using the wet wipes for the camp equivalent of a bath. Sleeping in jeans could get uncomfortable, so she always brought a pair of sweatpants to sleep in. In the summer she’d pair that with a T-shirt, but this time of year the T-shirt was exchanged for a sweatshirt. Between the sweats and the sleeping bag, she was usually toasty warm without having to resort to the camp heater. After pulling on a pair of thick socks, she crawled into the sleeping bag. She checked to make sure all essentials were right there at hand. Rifle—check. Boots—check. Pistol—check. Flashlight—check. She was as safe as she could make herself.

She reached out to turn off the camp light, and took one of those deep meditation breaths, because the darkness inside the tent was absolute. Normally that didn’t bother her, and from experience she knew that after a while her eyes would adjust and there would be a very, very faint lightening, but tonight she felt as if the darkness was alive, pressing down on her. She lay very still, listening to the night, forcing herself to breathe.

Maybe she dozed, maybe she didn’t. She heard the first far-off rumble of thunder, and lifted her hand to look at the luminous face of her watch. Thirteen after midnight. Great. She’d been hoping the rain would hold off, given that she had to ride back to Lattimore’s, but it looked as if the weather front was rolling in right on schedule. She could almost feel the air changing, gathering force and electrical energy. The wind began whipping through the trees, producing a sound that was almost like a low, mournful whistle.

At first she thought it was the wind she heard. She’d been restlessly trying to find a comfortable position within the confines of the sleeping bag, which normally felt roomy enough, but tonight seemed to be twisting around her legs. With a sigh she forced herself to stillness, because she had to get some sleep, even if it wasn’t much.

The noise came again. Angie stopped breathing, every muscle in her freezing as she listened. Her heart rate doubled. Bear? Without thought she darted out her hand, touched her rifle, and just the feel of the smooth wood settled her heart rate down.

She cocked her head, listening.

No, not a bear. And not the wind, either. Voices. She definitely heard voices, too far away for the words to be distinct. There was a sharpness, a tone, that told her an argument was going on. For whatever reason, Davis and Chad were going at it, though it was probably more Davis berating Chad for the hunt being a total failure than anything like a real argument. But—

At this time of night? Really?

Exasperation surged, pushing out the fright. Part of her wanted to just leave them out there, let them slug it out or do whatever else their manly little hearts pleased, but if she could possibly get some sleep, even just ten minutes, she’d rather do that than listen to them argue.

Growling to herself, she pulled herself free of the sleeping bag. She didn’t want to turn on the camp light, because it was too bright, so she grabbed the flannel shirt she’d pulled off and draped it over the flashlight before she turned it on. There—that was just about right. She had enough dim light to see what she was doing, but her senses weren’t being assaulted by so much light that it would overwhelm what little chance she had of getting some sleep that night.

She stomped her feet into her boots, tied the laces. Then she dragged on her coat, because even though the weather was mild for November, it was still November, she was still in Montana, and the mountain air at night was cold. Swiftly she unzipped the tent flap, then debated for about two seconds on whether or not to get the rifle or the pistol. The pistol was more convenient. The rifle packed more power. She got the rifle.

For reasons she couldn’t explain even to herself, she turned off the flashlight. She gripped it in her left hand, and the rifle in her right, and ducked out of the tent.

Standing there, both of the other tents were to her left, and so were the sounds of argument. She stood a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness again, because even the dim light she’d allowed from the flashlight had been enough to destroy her night vision. When she could make out dim outlines again, she headed toward the voices.

Lightning glowed overhead, outlining a towering mountain of clouds, and thunder rumbled. The storm blew its breath ahead of it, as if to clear its path, and the wind whipped her hair around her head. She passed Chad’s tent; it was dark, but there was a light on in Davis’s. The voices weren’t coming from there, though, they were coming from the direction of the cook camp … not as far away as that, but in the trees.

A few fat raindrops splatted on her head, on the ground around her. Great. She could turn around and get her rain slicker, or she could try to break up the argument and get everyone back in their tents before the real rain got here. She chose to plow ahead, on the theory that the sooner she cooled things down, the better. If she delayed, the situation might escalate to actual fist-swinging.