Soul of the Wildcat
This book is dedicated to the two people who made it possible:
To my incredible agent, Roberta Brown, who continues to hold my hand when I am in meltdown mode. Without her support I would not be where I am today.
Thanks also goes to Peter Senftleben, my incredible new editor. The man truly has the patience of a saint, and for that I am grateful.
B
inoculars pressed to her eyes, Dakoda Jenkins watched the cougar pace the confines of its cage. Sinew and muscle strained as the cat fought against captivity. Blood-chilling screeches poured over dangerously bared fangs.
Her breath caught at the raw beauty and power exuded by the large, tawny, long-tailed feline. By the size of it, the sleek cat was a male. The sound of the cougar's roars rippled across her ears. A hot flush prickled her skin as her heart sped up, filling her mouth with a sultry tang. A slow trickle of heat pooled inside her core. Something about the cougar's enraged power drew her in, exposing and then scraping her nerves raw.
Heart missing a beat, Dakoda shifted her focus toward two men working around the cougar. Awe turned to anger. There were times when her job sucked.
Today was one of those times.
Dressed identically in faded jeans, flannel shirts, leather jackets, and military-style hiking boots, they were in the process of loading the cougar's pen onto a travois fashioned between two packhorses. It didn't take an expert to recognize both men were clearly accustomed to surviving in the harsh mountainous terrain.
Swallowing thickly, Dakoda lowered her binoculars before glancing toward her partner. Watching the lustrous cat fight so valiantly for its freedom was painful to watch. The strain of keeping still, of not rushing to defend the cougar, made her teeth ache. “Is that really what I think it is?” she whispered in a hushed, low tone.
Lowering his own specs, Ranger Gregory Zerbe nodded. “What you are seeing is the real thing, the
Puma concolor couguar
.” He took a longer look, barely suppressing the low whistle slipping past his lips. “Magnificent. It's a perfect specimen in every way.”
Dakoda carefully slid her binoculars back into their protective case. She didn't want to look again. The sight made her sick. “Then it is true. The Eastern cougar is making a comeback in these mountains.” A little thrill went through her at the thought. This was much more than she'd ever bargained for when she'd signed on as a ranger cadet working in North Carolina's South Mountains State Park.
A recent graduate of the program, this was her first assignment as a full-fledged state park ranger. She'd worked hard to be assigned to resource and protection management, primarily what veterans like Gregory Zerbe called the P-patrol. P stood for
poachers:
those idiotic assholes who preyed on the land's natural resources with the intent to destroy.
Zerbe made another affirmative motion with his head. “Reports of the cougars' presence have been coming in since the Wildlife Resources Commission sent in a team to verify the cougar's reemergence from extinction about two years ago. Thanks to their findings, even more land outside the state park's holdings is now earmarked by the government to be preserved.”
Back and legs cramped from squatting behind the heavy foliage shielding them from the cougar thieves, Dakoda mentally willed herself to overcome the discomfort and remain rooted in place. One false move would blow everything. If those animal-snatching bastards managed to take off on horseback, there would be no way to follow them on foot.
“That must make the local natives happy,” she commented in an attempt to take her mind off her discomfort. The territory directly abutting the state park belonged to the
Tlvdatsi
, a tribe of the Cherokee Nation. Though she'd never personally encountered any of the Indians on her patrols, she was aware the natives guarded their land and its boundaries very closely. Fiercely proud and protective of their heritage, they were not inclined to let strangers onto their property. The reservation was closed to outsiders, but even those safeguards didn't stop those determined to commit illegal acts such as trespassing.
Crouched beside her, Zerbe scratched his own scruffy face. With his deeply tanned skin, heavy brow, and handlebar moustache, he looked like a classic pioneer, one of the settlers who might have come through the area looking for gold in the 1840s. If not for his ranger uniform, most would likely mistake her tall, lanky partner for one of the poachers. “The cougar is sacred to their clan, and you can bet Uncle Sam is doing all he can to make sure their totems and traditions are preserved. There won't be any vacation resorts moving into the area anytime soon.”
Shifting to ease the aches in her legs, Dakoda settled down on her knees. She sighed inwardly with relief. Despite the sharp rocks digging into her knees, the cramps in her legs were easing up. The humidity, though, was another matter. Sweat plastered her heavy uniform to her skin and gnats buzzed all around, sticking to her damp skin.
“An environmental act still won't stop men like those,” she grumbled, bushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead. Though she wore her long hair tucked up under her ranger's cap, a few stray pieces had snuck down, clinging to her sweaty skin. Thirst scratched at her parched mouth, but she ignored it. Her khaki uniform clung in all the wrong ways. Perspiring heavily, she was a nasty, stinking mess.
Following the scumbags through the forest without being detected had been a chore of perseverance and sheer determination. Evergreens, pines, and oaks soared up across the rugged terrain, so thick in some places the sun was entirely blocked out. Remote and damn near inaccessible, the landscape branching off the Appalachians and carved out of the Blue Ridge by erosion was still pristine, almost untouched by the invasion of modern civilization.
Through the last two months, rangers on patrol had worked hard to catch up with the canny outlaws. When the trails became impenetrable by machine, they'd had to abandon their ATVs and strike out on foot. Horses could take the rough terrain, but wheels had no chance in these parts.
It was pure luck they'd stumbled onto the poachers at work. The poachers were obviously very pleased with the day's bounty.
“Not anytime soon,” Zerbe half spat, half growled. He pointed down the ridge, toward the left. Their high vantage point allowed them to see everything going on without being easily detected. “The bigger one, that's William Barnett.” His finger jerked right. “That tall one is his brother, Waylon. We've actually had him in custody, damn it. The fucker made bail and hightailed it back into hiding. Everyone calls him Skeeter.”
Dakoda cocked a brow. “Skeeter?”
Zerbe's jaw tightened. “Because he's crazier than a mosquito carrying malaria. He's been known to take shots at anything that moves, including people, if you get my drift.”
Dakoda got the drift. The men they hunted were wanted criminals, ruthlessly pillaging the land of its natural resources. Her thoughts raced.
Putting the cuffs on these two outlaws will be a pleasure
.
“They both sound like charming fellows,” she replied under her breath.
Zerbe rolled his eyes to indicate his own disgust. “Both of them were born and raised in these mountains. They've got a permanent settlement, but only God knows where. Between the state park holdings, the Cherokee reservation, and the acres of private property, there's no telling where it's located. In these parts, mountain folk burrow in deeper than ticks in skin. They know coming onto state and reservation lands is illegal, but they don't give a tinker's damn. To them, the land owes them a living and they're going to take it.”
Zerbe's words were suddenly interrupted when a loud roar split the air again.
Dakoda peered down into the ravine. She didn't need the binoculars to see that the cougar inside the cage had renewed its fight. Lunging against the bars, the big cat pressed its claws against the narrow wire, attempting to slash at the men.
A wall of red fury passed in front of her eyes. The cougar was fighting for its freedom with every last ounce of its strength. It clearly didn't want to be taken alive. “What are they going to do with it?”
Reaching for his shotgun, Zerbe didn't blink an eye when he answered. “They sell them on the black market. There's a huge demand for wild game, dead or alive. Bears, foxes, deerâ¦But thisâ” He made a motion with his head toward the edge of the ridge. “This is the most valuable because this species has been listed as endangered since 1973.” Using the greatest of skill, he quietly jacked a round into the chamber. “And now that we know they're back and being hunted by assholes like those two, it's our job to put a stop to it.” He stood, holding his weapon. Loaded and ready to use. “Those sons of bitches aren't making off with any live cougars if I can help it.”
Cranking to her feet, Dakoda felt a fresh rush of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. Suddenly she didn't feel hot, sweaty, or utterly exhausted.
Gregory Zerbe shot her a look. “Keep your hand by your gun, but don't draw unless necessary,” he advised. “I want your hands free to handle these.” He flicked a pair of handcuffs off his belt. “Once we've secured the prisoners, we'll get back to the ATVs and radio in for a chopper to come and pick us up.”
Dakoda took the cuffs, hooking them to her utility belt. Though choppers were usually reserved for search-and-rescue operations, they were equally useful when extracting captured fugitives. She mentally imagined how the two men would look behind bars. Given their track records, both would be spending a long, long time in prison.
“What about the cougar?” she asked, concerned about its safety.
Zerbe didn't hesitate. “Because it's one of the first live cougars we've actually laid eyes on since reports began coming in, I imagine it'll be held for tagging and then released for tracking. If there's one, there are more.”
Dakoda's mind sped further with the thought.
More
meant females, and possibly cubs. Though males were accustomed to roaming the land, the momma cats weren't as inclined to travel when raising their young. The idea of these men trapping vulnerable young cubs was more than she could stand.
Unsnapping the latch holding her service revolver in its holster, she grinned. “This time the big cats are going to win.”
Â
Falling into position behind her partner, Dakoda took each step carefully. Her thick-soled boots made nary a sound, her steps muffled by the decaying foliage covering the hard ground. Despite Greg's warning not to draw her weapon, her hand rested loosely on the grip.
Anticipation revved up her instincts and her movements were on autopilot. Blood thrummed in her veins as the rangers eased down the ridge, moving cautiously behind the poachers and their horses.
True to its nature, the cougar kept fighting hard. Spooked by its unearthly yowling, the horses champed at their bits and nervously stomped the ground. Dragging the travois out from under the edge of the cage made it impossible for the men to properly load and secure the flimsy thing. By the look of it, the cage was only meant to be a temporary means to hold the vicious animal. If the lock broke, they'd all probably be running like the ground was on fire.
The men didn't notice they were being stalked until Gregory Zerbe stepped out of the brush. Dakoda followed closely behind him.
Rifle leveling on the two, Zerbe smiled. “Howdy, boys.”
Hearing a foreign voice, the two men immediately whirled. One made a grab for his sidearm. The other sensibly fought to keep the horses from bolting, keeping tight hold on the reins. Lose those horses now and they'd all be afoot.
Body stiffening, Zerbe's steely gray eyes went as hard and dark as a thundercloud. “I wouldn't do that if I was you, boys,” he warned. “This shotgun is loaded, locked, and ready to talk business.”
The larger man, earlier identified as Willie Barnett, slowly let his hand fall away from his gun.
“Well, I'll be goddamned,” he said in the drawl so familiar to the region. “If it ain't Ranger Do-Right.” Sucking on the wad of tobacco stuffed into his lower lip, he spat a brown stream of goo. “It's been a long time since we've seen a lawman around here.” He rocked back on his heels. “I hear one of your rangers had a little accident.”
Gregory Zerbe released an agitated breath, but refused to be baited. “If you boys think I forgot you crippled my partner with one of those damn traps of yours, you're wrong.”
Dakoda's gaze moved to the horses, loaded with saddles and packs. The traps in question hung like grisly ornaments, and were definitely not the type that were safe or the slightest bit humane. These kind were nastyâand illegal to use. Two rows of sharp spikes closed together like fangs.
An icy chill shimmied down her spine. She knew Gregory Zerbe's last partner had also been a rookie. She also knew Dennis Macomb was presently sitting behind a desk because he'd lost his foot, courtesy of the vicious trap he'd accidentally encountered. That one wrong step had cost the young man a promising career in the field.
Anger and disgust twisted Dakoda's stomach into tight knots. The traps were custom designed with the intent to maim, to immediately cripple anything caught in the wide-open jaws. Once triggered, those sharp spikes were guaranteed to penetrate flesh and bone, then hold on tight.
Fighting to swallow her disgust, Dakoda sucked in a calming breath. The fact anyone would use the wicked things to snare helpless wildlife was more than an outrage. It was evil. Pure evil. The more the victim fought, the more damage the trap inflicted.
