Soul of the Wildcat (26 page)

Waylon Barnett cried out as he realized what was happening. Screaming mightily, he threw his weight against her, trying to wrestle himself out from under her hold even as he scrambled for the weapon she'd knocked from his hand. Dakoda felt his desperation, his fear. She knew he'd kill her if he got the chance.

He wasn't getting it.

The instinct driving the cougar inside shoved her human side away. Far away. She was all animal.

Gathering every bit of anger she had, Dakoda lowered her head. She clamped her massive jaws around the outlaw's neck, felt her sharp teeth dig into fragile human skin. She heard his scream of agony reverberating off her eardrums, but the sound of human fear meant nothing to her. Nothing at all. He had an instant to realize he was about to die. That was all the mercy she would grant him.

Dakoda knew what it felt like to be the one afraid. Now it was his turn, and she reveled in the power of the cat that had granted her the strength to kill. His skin tasted hot and salty beneath her fangs.

Perfect.

She was about to rip the man's throat out when a savage blow came out of nowhere, knocking her senseless.

“Get off him, you bitch!”

From the corner of her eye, Dakoda saw Willie Barnett raise his pistol, aiming it right for the center of her skull. The bastard had kicked her and when his attack didn't back her off, he'd had resorted to a more permanent solution.

The fucker
.

Barnett thumbed back the hammer on his pistol. “You're gonna buy it!” he snarled. “Them claws and paws will still sell.”

Dakoda bit down harder, refusing to let go of her prey. A low growl rumbled up from her chest. The man was a swine, rabid and extremely dangerous. Rotten to the core. He needed to be put down, out of everyone's misery.

But she never made the final, fatal bite.

A faraway thwacking sound cut through the air.

Gun slipping from his grasp, Willie Barnett staggered, falling down into the ground. Screaming with pain, he clutched at his shoulder. A long arrow protruded from the affected area. He was writhing like a bug impaled on a pin. An unintelligible series of curses slipped over his lips. So did his chewing tobacco. Choking on the mass, he gagged himself into silence.

Chief Joseph Clawfoot slithered out of the overgrowth. Instead of a gun, he held the traditional weapons of his people, the bow and arrow. He was wearing the customary clothing of a hunter, and had a knife strapped at one hip.

The chief curled a lip over his fallen prey. “Guess this one forgot to look over his shoulder.”

Approaching the downed men, Jesse kept his rifle level. “There's another,” he warned his brother.

The chief nodded. “Robin's got their lookout trussed up tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey,” he said, grinning.

Jesse prodded Willie Barnett with one booted foot. “I was just about to shoot that fucker dead,” he grunted. “Man, that arrow has to hurt ten times worse, though.”

“Serrated.” The chief flashed a predatory grin. “It won't be coming out easily or painlessly.”

Jesse Clawfoot eyed the outlaws. “Killing was too easy of an out for these two, anyway,” he said. “I want them to stay alive and pay for what they've done. For a long time. A very long time.”

Dakoda's ears perked up as Joseph's words filtered through the mind of the predatory cat. The words made sense. She understood them. A glimmer of human thought burst through the irrational anger driving the furious cougar she'd become.

Sudden dizziness overtook Dakoda. An itching, creeping sensation drizzled over her, as if her skin was ripping in a thousand places. Everything around her began to waver. The blood in her veins felt like slivers of pure ice.

Still crouched over her prey, she shifted. For a moment she was immobile. Crawling away seemed like a good idea, but her limbs just wouldn't obey the commands of her brain. Her clothes lay a few feet away, little more than a tattered pile. She'd shifted so fast and so hard the material had come apart at the seams. Her body still pulsed from the raw surge of sheer force she'd pressed into her shift; every muscle and nerve felt shredded. Her captive convulsed under her, trying to push her weight off his chest.

“Get off me, bitch,” he shouted, swatting at her.

Turning his rifle around, Jesse cracked the outlaw across the forehead with the stock. “I'd shut the fuck up and talk nice to the lady, since she's got some pretty sharp teeth.” Handing his rifle to his brother, he slipped off his shirt. He draped it over Dakoda's shoulders, covering her nudity. “It's over,” he murmured. “We did it.” His encouraging smile held a tinge of pain.

Eyes narrowing on the hated outlaw, Dakoda shook her head. A growl rose in her chest. Bitter regret sifted into her mind.
I should have killed him
. One chomp and that bastard would have been toast.

“No, it's not.” Pushing her arms into the sleeves, she pulled Jesse's shirt tighter around her body. His smell, so familiar and welcome, sifted into her nostrils.

Walking over to Ayunkini's body, she knelt beside the old man. The sight of him turned the tide on her ebbing energy. The sun wreathed his body in rays of bright, warm light. The day was going to be clear, beautiful, and full of promise. For a brief moment she was able to imagine the shaman as the lithe cougar he'd once been, perhaps young and headstrong like the man she now loved. It was a perfect day for running through the forest, unhampered by human limbs or limitations.

Tears instantly brimmed, blurring her vision. She felt numb, absolutely exhausted. A raw deep wound had been torn into her, going past mere flesh to penetrate all the way to the bone. She'd only known the old man a few hours, yet he'd changed her life immensely. The gift he'd given her was invaluable, and one she could neither deny nor turn away from. In following this wise spirit guide and learning the truth, she'd finally discovered that piece of herself she'd always been missing.

“I'm sorry,” Dakoda murmured, her voice shaken, almost inaudible. “But I swear your killers won't go unpunished. I promise you here and now I will always help watch out for my people.” She reached out, shutting the old man's sightless eyes. Though his life on earth had ended this day, she knew without doubt his spirit lived on, roaming free and far on another plane. Her mind walk had showed her the beginning and the end all came together on the spirit plane.

Jesse knelt beside her, wrapping her in his strong embrace. He stared gravely down at her. “I think your words would please Ayunkini very much.”

Snuggling next to him for warmth, Dakoda trembled. “Do you think so?” she asked, feeling slow, familiar warmth spread through her. “It hardly seems enough.”

Jesse slid a hand down to hers, twining their fingers together. His gaze bore into hers, looking straight into her soul. A slow smile spread across his fine mouth. “I know it comes from your soul,” he said softly.

Dakoda pursed her lips against a faint quiver of emotion. “It does.” She tightened her grip on her lover's hand, enjoying the simple awareness that she had no desire to pull away. “It always will.” She closed her eyes, no longer feeling emotionally hollow and unsatisfied.

Her heart was so full of love for him it felt ready to burst right out of her chest. It was time to stop running and time to start facing herself and her true feelings. Destiny had finally showed her where she belonged. And whatever challenges the future might hold, she could face them all—as long as she had Jesse by her side.

Turn the page for a preview of “Heart of the Wildcat,” Devyn Quinn's novella from SEXY BEAST VIII, available from Aphrodisia in April 2010!

K
athryn Dayton didn't like the looks of the men walking into her camp. Sometimes you could tell with a glance that certain people in this world were bad news. She had no doubts about these two.

They definitely weren't up to any good.

Gaze steady and unflinching, Kathryn stayed down in a crouch, leaning in closer to her campfire, establishing her territory. She didn't say a word or reach toward the hunting knife strapped to her hip. She just watched as the men casually ambled into the perimeter she'd staked out as a place to roost after sundown. Other than members of her own crew, she hadn't expected company this far into the backcountry.

One of the men stepped boldly up to the fire. “Howdy.” The second man lingered a few steps behind, as if watching his partner's back. One hand wrapped tightly around the strap of the rifle slung over his back.

Kathryn's gaze narrowed. “Howdy.” Both wore backpacks and bedrolls and walked with the gait of men who spent a lot of time on foot in treacherous terrain. Hardcore mountain men, right down to the ruddy skin, shaggy beards, faded jeans, flannel shirts, jackets, and heavy hiking boots.

But that wasn't what disturbed her.

The guns did.

Both carried hunting rifles. Both had dangerous-looking knives strapped on for ease of access. More horribly, each man carried a set of claw-tooth traps commonly used for large game such as bear.
Illegal
traps.

A chill scurried down her spine.
Shit
. She was all too familiar with those vicious creations. Once an animal got a limb in, it didn't get loose. Men carrying weapons and traps meant only one thing.

Poachers.

They were fairly safe from prosecution because of the remote location. No towns existed in the immediate region, and it had taken a helicopter to get her and four crewmates into the remote area. An isolated remnant branching off the Appalachians and carved out of the Blue Ridge by erosion, much of the South Mountains of North Carolina were almost as pure as the day God created them. Even the rush of gold fever in the eighteenth century hadn't inflicted much of an impact on the old-growth forests.

Still, snakes lingered in paradise.

Kathryn ran a quick mental check of her own supplies. Aside from basic food and water, she carried a few hunting knives, a walkie-talkie, a small tent, and a sleeping bag. She'd deliberately turned her radio off, detouring away from the rest of the crew to spend the night alone. She'd needed some time to herself. The recent news her team had received hadn't been encouraging.

Her mouth quirked down.
So much for time alone
. The knot of automatic distrust settled deep in her guts.

Kathryn had no respect for men who committed brutal crimes against nature. There were plenty of other places to hunt throughout the state. Legal places. Not that she condoned killing wildlife for pleasure. She found nothing sporting in shooting down beautiful animals through the sights of a high-powered scope.

The stranger held out his hands, palms down, soaking in the welcome heat. A cheery glow radiated from the flames consuming the wood. High summer in the mountains didn't necessarily mean the nights were warm or dry.

“Got cold,” he said by the way of starting conversation. The wind kicked up, tugging at the wide brim of his hat. “Feels like a front's about to come through.” His words were laced with the slow, down-home cornpone accent so familiar in the South.

Gaze lifting to the brewing sky, Kathryn felt as if the coming storm warned her something wicked had arrived. Lightning scratched the sky's leaden underbelly the way a predator would rip open prey. Thunder crashed through the night's uneasy silence. “Yep. Sure does.” Another ten or twenty minutes and they'd all be driven out of the clearing by the rain.

The stranger eyed the blackened tin pot she'd positioned at the edge of the fire. “You mind if we sit a spell and drink a cup?” He inhaled, drawing in the smell. The enticing scent of pure dark Colombian coffee mingled with the pungent smoke. The chilly night air was doubly fragrant with the aroma.

Since she couldn't very well tell these two big boys to fuck off and find their own place to sit a spell, Kathryn shrugged. “Take a load off.”

The stranger grinned. “Much obliged, Ma'am.” He slid the heavy backpack off his shoulders and set it down. His hunting rifle followed, barrel propped at an angle pointing away from the camp. His silent companion followed suit, nodding in agreement before stepping up and relieving himself of his own load.

The first man reached over, offering a brief handshake. The odor of stale tobacco, whiskey, and sour male sweat assailed her nostrils. “My name's Willie. Willie Barnett.”

Kathryn warily accepted his offer. Her hand practically disappeared in the maw of his callused grip. She gave as good as she got. “Kathryn.” She didn't offer a last name.

The slight wasn't noticed.

Withdrawing his hand, Willie's elbow jerked toward his companion. “This here's my little brother, Skeeter.”

“Howdy, Ma'am.” Scrawnier and scruffier than his brother, Skeeter also offered his hand. His fingernails were caked with what must have been a lifetime of grime. He looked like he was many years shy of a good hot shower and hard scrub. No telling what kind of vermin might be living inside his less-than-clean clothes.

After a week of hard hiking and camping, Kathryn didn't exactly smell like a daisy herself.

She shook his hand, keeping her lips in that rictal smile of friendly acceptance she'd perfected through the lifetime trial of being a congresswoman's daughter. “Skeeter's an, uh, interesting name.”

Skeeter grinned, more snaggles than actual teeth. “That ain't my real name,” he confessed. “It's, uh, Waylon.”

Kathryn resisted rolling her eyes. Oh, God. Willie and Waylon. The parents of these two were probably first cousins, and country music fans to boot.

Broad face breaking into a grin, Willie explained. “We call him ‘Skeeter' 'cause when he was born, he weren't no bigger than a 'skeeter bug.”

Skeeter cackled as though hearing the story for the first time. “But I sure growed up big,” he filled in, hammering in the impression that he wasn't the brightest of the two. He smiled at Kathryn again. “You sure are purdy.”

Kathryn refused to be baited. “Thanks.”

Willie gave her a head to toe eye-fuck. “Don't see many women up here.”

She gritted her teeth and glowered back. Terrific. Just what she needed. Two horny mountain men. “Wasn't like I expected to see any men, either.”

Willie shrugged and smiled. “I know what ya mean. Been months since we laid eyes on 'nother human face.” His attention moved back to what had lured them to her camp. “I sure could use a cup of that coffee, Ma'am.”

Kathryn forced herself to relax. At least they were polite. Not that she was accustomed to hearing that word applied to her. She was only thirty-three, many years away from that moniker best suited to half-deaf old ladies with walkers.

She nodded amicably. “Sure.” Maybe if she gave them each a cup, they'd drink it and move on.

The small old-fashioned percolator wasn't exactly the newest or most modern piece of camping equipment, but it made a drinkable cup of coffee. Dinged and more than a little battered, it had traveled the world with her. That it had been a gift from her late father made it that much more valuable. Unlike her career-oriented mother, he hadn't been too damn tied up with work to spend some time with his kid. He'd patiently fostered her love of wide-open spaces and the freedom of the wild, untamed lands.

The two men dug cups out of their packs.

Kathryn filled, careful not to spill one drop of the precious black gold. After walking for hours without a break, she'd been looking forward to a good, hot cup of the mud-thick brew to restore her flagging energy.

Her supplies were limited to what she could comfortably carry in her own backpack. Before leaving base camp, she'd pared down to the bare essentials in preparation for the rigorous hike. Survival in hostile and remote regions was a part of her profession as an ecologist and wildlife conservationist.

Willie lifted the cup to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Christ, that smells better than anything Skeeter ever made. His fuckin' coffee's like drinkin' pure horse piss, and just as unhealthy.” He gulped, smacking his lips after he swallowed. A moment later every last drop was drunk.

Kathryn sipped her coffee, relishing the soothing warmth settling into her bones. It was hot and strong, but this was hardly the way she liked drinking it. She'd already decided to keep the sugar and few precious cans of condensed milk out of sight.

Skeeter wasn't as quick to drink. He apparently had his own stash of luxury items. He fumbled inside his coat, fishing out a small bottle of Wild Turkey. “Coffee'd taste better if you'd add to it.” He poured a liberal dose into his cup, then tipped the bottle toward Willie's cup.

Willie held his not-so-empty cup out. “I'd be much obliged if you'd fill'er up again, Ma'am.”

Resigned, Kathryn refilled. “Glad you're enjoying it.”
Yeah, just what these two need to mix
, she thought acidly.
Guns and alcohol
.

Skeeter offered her a tip from his bottle. “Have a bit,” he offered with all the amicability of a true Southern gentleman. “It does keep the chills away.”

The icy wind whipping up the fire hastened her acceptance. “Thanks.”

“Welcome, Ma'am.”

Kathryn sipped again, tasting the strong Kentucky bourbon mixing with the tar-black brew. It went down smoothly, leaving a comforting glow in its wake. The temperature was definitely dropping, and would go lower before the night ended.

For a few minutes everyone concentrated on their drinks. The coffee went fast, leaving the two men sharing the bottle between them. The lower the whiskey went, the more they grinned like fools.

Willie scooted closer to Kathryn. By the fire's glow she saw his thick brown hair and bushy beard were heavily tinged with gray. “So what's a nice lady doin' out here all alone?” A big hand settled on her knee. “You lost?”

Kathryn caught a whiff. God! He smelled worse than a pig living in shit. No telling when soap and water had last touched his skin.

Brushing off his hand, she quickly resettled herself a few inches away. “I don't like things easy. Parking an RV, that's not real camping.” Probably better not to reveal that she worked for the Wildlife Resources Commission. They were natural enemies.

Skeeter snorted his agreement. “I hear you there.”

Kathryn eyed the traps on their packs. “You catch anything with those?”

Willie scooted in and patted her leg again. “Not a goddamned thang,” he said. “Haven't been able to bring one of those fuckin' cats down for weeks.”

Nervous about the way he kept invading her personal space, Kathryn scooted over again. “Cats?” The region was home to most common wildlife. Bobcats were plentiful, and not endangered.

A smile played around one corner of his tobacco stained mouth. “The
anitsasgili wesa
,” he breathed.

“The what?”

“What the Cherokees call the ghost cat. Cougars.”

Kathryn didn't believe him. “Impossible.” The Eastern cougar was extinct. “There are no cougars here.”

Taking a shot straight from the bottle, Willie solemnly disagreed. “You're dead wrong, little girl.” As if expecting to see one that minute, he cast a quick glance over one shoulder. “There's cougar in these mountains, as sure as we're sittin' here now.”

Swallowing more whiskey, Skeeter backed him up. “There's good money in 'em. Asians want 'em, from the pelt to the teeth. Hell, even the goddamn paws and claws.” He carelessly tossed the empty bottle. “Catchin' the damn thangs is the hard part.”

Eager to tell more tales, Willie cut back in. “Those cats…” He visibly shivered. “They're smart, like men. They're mean as Satan, too.”

Kathryn doubted she'd be very nice if these assholes were hunting her. “I can imagine.”

Leaning closer, Willie pushed up the heavy sleeve covering his right arm. The firelight easily revealed the long scars marring his entire forearm and part of his hand. “See that?”

She momentarily held her breath. “Yes.”

Willie pulled his sleeve back into place over his mutilated arm. “There's the proof. Fuckin' cat nearly took my arm off once.” His heavy gaze drilled into hers. “I'm gonna get that bastard someday, too. I ain't the only one that took some scarrin'. I got him a few times with my knife. Ol' Scar 'n me, we're gonna tangle up a'gin. When we do, I swear I'll have that cat's balls.” Exacerbated by the alcohol he'd consumed, his words were almost unintelligible.

The thunder boomed at that exact moment, hammering in his vow of vengeance.