Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(30)

This bear can kill me, though. She has fangs and she has claws and she’s twice my weight, and I’m between her and her baby.

She can kill me.

And I’m not sure anyone can stop her.

I run. Dalton shouts. The bear snorts in rage. A gun fires and an arrow thwangs . . . and I race straight for the cub. I scoop it up in my arms. As it bleats in alarm, I throw it, a low and easy pitch that sends the cub smacking into its charging mother. The sow skids to a halt, and then I do run—toward Jacob’s shouts of “Over here!”

Nine months ago, I’d never have led an enraged bear toward anyone I cared about. If I made a mistake, I’d pay the price alone. But Jacob is correct. I need to run to where three people stand ready to help me.

When I reach the others, I wheel to see the bear prodding her cub, making sure it’s all right. She glowers and snarls our way, but there are four of us, a tight-knit mass of large predators. She has her baby. That’s all she wanted. She picks him up by the scruff of the neck and marches into the forest.

“That was . . .” Cypher begins. “I am torn between ‘awesome’ and ‘the fucking craziest thing I’ve ever seen.’”

“I’ll go with the latter,” Dalton mutters.

“Nope,” Cypher says. “I think we gotta admit to both. Awesome and crazy. She threw a cub. At a charging bear.”

Jacob snickers. “It was kind of—”

“No, no it was not,” Dalton says. “You know what you’re supposed to fire at a charging bear, Casey? Bullets.”

“I know.”

“What if you just pissed her off more?”

“I know.”

“Actually,” Jacob says. “The first thing any momma’s going to do is make sure her baby is okay, so—”

Dalton wheels on him, and Jacob steps back, his hands raised.

“I wouldn’t have done it with a grizzly,” I say.

Dalton glowers at me. “Well, that’s good to know.”

“I didn’t drop my gun. If the baby toss failed, at least it would have startled her enough for me to get a good shot. As long as I kept hold of my weapon, I was okay.”

“She has a point, Eric,” Jacob says.

Dalton turns his glower on Jacob.

“In any other circumstances, I’d have shot,” I say. “But if I killed her, we’d have had an orphaned cub, and we’ve already given Mathias the wolf-dog. I don’t know who’d take the bear. It just seemed unwise.”

Dalton turns to me again. “You know what’s unwise?”

A hug throws him off-guard. “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t say I’ll never do that again, but I promise I won’t try it with a grizzly.”

“You couldn’t lift a grizzly cub,” he grumbles.

“Nah,” Cypher says. “Casey’s got some guns on her. She could lift a bigger cub—just couldn’t throw it.” He slaps me on the back. “Creative thinking there, kitten. And it proves my point: you don’t always need to use a gun. Now let’s split up and get out of here before Momma comes back.”

*

Cypher and Jacob each go their own way. They’re both experienced trackers—with very different methods—so it’s best if they separate. Also, too much of Cypher could drive even Jacob to justifiable homicide.

Dalton and I stick together. I’m just lucky he doesn’t tie a rope around his waist and make me hold onto it. As it is, he settles for checking over his shoulder every dozen steps to be sure I’m still there.

When we reach a wider path, he brings me up beside him, his hand locked in mine. I know that bear standoff spooked him even more than it did me. Dalton’s world is one of both endless wonder and endless danger, and he fears that one day, he’ll lose me to it. Either I will fall prey to those threats or I’ll simply declare “enough” and leave. So I let him grumble about the bear, and I let him clutch my hand, and I push branches aside to walk beside him along a path that’s really too narrow for both of us.

We do keep an ear and eye out for the black bear. I don’t know the chance she’ll come back. Bears aren’t as territorial as wolves and cougars. That might change if it’s a sow with a cub. Still, there’s no sign of her. I didn’t hurt her baby, and she seems to have decided retreat is the best option.

When we catch a noise, at first it does sound like a bear. The hair-raising yowl of an ursine in distress. Then the yowl becomes a word.

“Helloooo!”

As we listen, it comes again, a very clear human cry echoing through the forest. Dalton breaks into a jog.

The shouts are sporadic, as if the person knows he has little chance of a response. We run over a kilometer into mountain foothills. Then, as we draw near, I grab Dalton’s arm and say, “Trap.”

I hate being the one who hears a person in need and immediately expects the worse. It makes me feel like a horrible human being. But that won’t stop me from slowing to be sure, even when those extra moments could mean the difference between life and death for another person.

We continue slower now, tracking the sound, pausing when it stops. Finally, we’re close enough to hear ragged breathing. We still can’t see anyone, which worries Dalton. He slows and squints at the open rocky landscape.