Wait. Until we know how many they are. Until we know what they are.

Abruptly, the footfalls change direction, no longer moving on a tangent parallel to their position. The snap of dry twigs grows louder, coming straight toward them now. Closing his eyes, Manny remembers snowy mornings years gone by, crouched among a tumble of stones above the deer trail, waiting in silence as his breath made white fog above the white drifts about him. He calls that silence to him now as his father and grandfather have taught him, drawing it about him like a cloak, willing himself into the landscape, his skin to bark, his spine to living wood. When he has become the center of perfect stillness, he rises to his feet, not so much as the sound of a breath to betray his movement. Like a shadow he slips around the oak behind them, bracing his injured arm against the trunk, sighting over the blunt blue steel muzzle of his gun held steady in both hands. And he waits.

In the seconds that remain, the rustle of underbrush grow suddenly quieter, the footfalls softer and further apart. The end comes quickly, then, a rush of movement, a tall man with a weatherbeaten red face and salt-and pepper hair brushing the collar of his buckskin jacket bursts into the clearing, sweeping its perimeter with the barrel of his deer rifle, settling his aim almost delicately on Andrews where he still lies belly down among last year’s leaf fall.

“Well, now, boy. You been robbing my traps, have you?”

From his vantage point just wide of the trapper’s line of sight, Manny watches as Andrews’ fingers slip from the butt and trigger of his handgun. Very quietly he says, “No, I haven’t. I’m just out to get a rabbit or two for supper.”

“Where’s your friend, then? Oh, hell, yeah, I know there’s two of you. And I know what you been doin. Been pacin’ you ever since you found that goddamn wolf.” The man hawks and spits. “Bad luck, there. Bear got to him. Wolverine, maybe. Pelt’s ruined.”

After a moment he says, “Who the hell are you? You’re not local.”

“I’m from the Base. We’re hungry, too.”

“I just bet you are.” The trapper raises his voice. “Hey, you out there! Show yourself or I’ll give you one less mouth to feed! Won’t need so many ‘rabbits.’”

Manny slides around the side of the tree, gun still leveled. “Drop it, bastard. Now.”

The man turns slightly to his left, the rifle’s muzzle swinging up to aim at Manny’s head. The roar of its discharge mingles with the report of his own weapon, and Manny watches as the long gun flies windmilling out of its owner’s hand to strike the ground butt first, firing again harmlessly into the air, the man himself staggering backward with crimson blossoming suddenly between and above his eyebrows, his Stetson carried off his head in a spatter of blood and brain. He falls on his back, vacant eyes staring, and is still.

Andrews picks himself up, brushing dirt and black leaf rot from his knees. “Manuel my man, your timing was a bit close, you know that?”

“Nah, I had you covered the whole time. Let’s see who we got here.”

A brief search of the dead man’s pockets yields a South Dakota driver’s license issued to one Dietrich, William E., and a ring of heavy keys. Several are the small brass variety that open padlocks, and Manny counts them with growing disgust. “Six. That means there’s at least six of these goddam traps, assuming that each key opens only one lock. We got our work cut out.”

“What’re we gonna do with him?” Andrews gestures toward the dead man with his handgun before slipping it back into its holster. “There’s a hungry coyote family out here somewhere who can use the protein, if you ask me.”

Manny catches the other man’s eye briefly. He is not joking. “Nope. Wish we could, but we’d better take him back and go through the legal motions. Think you can wrestle the truck up here? It’ll be hell of a lot easier than trying to carry him back all that way.”

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.

“I love you, you know,” Kirsten says, and then freezes, unable to believe she’s actually spoken her heart aloud.

“That’s good,” Dakota replies after a moment, gently tugging on the collar of her shirt, “because I love you, too.”

“You…do?” Kirsten’s voice is soft and filled with wonder.

“Mm. I do.”

The gentle tug comes again, and Kirsten goes with it, lowering her head and brushing against Koda’s offered lips.

“So very much,” Koda whispers, deepening the kiss as she helps Kirsten stretch out on her side. Asi gives an affronted grunt, but moves away as the two women settle together, bodies touching and moving along their lengths.

Tracing the tips of her fingers over the delicate whorls of Kirsten’s ear, Dakota deepens the kiss, parting her lips and inviting her inside. Moaning softly, Kirsten accepts the invitation. It’s all she can do not to crawl inside this woman who has so effortlessly stolen her heart, and she growls in frustration as her hands clamp down on the thin material covering Koda’s broad back, stretching and pulling the fabric near to tearing.