Bear Meets Bride (R) - Amy Star Page 0,14

that.

She ducked lower, even though she was in human form. Some primal fear rose up and she found herself breathing hard into the moist-smelling ground. Her black hair fell over the headband and she froze, instinct reeling, the only movement was of her half-closed eyes watching the boat.

No, not hunters, she realized. Poachers. Which was even worse. While she knew that she had to be careful of hunters, hunters generally had their own code of ethics, the same way bears did. Kill what you need, use everything, honor the kill. But poachers were a different matter. You couldn’t reason with them, they were ruled by greed and bloodlust. And more often than not, they were unpredictable because of the very fact that they were engaging in illicit activities. A cornered poacher is more dangerous than a cornered bear, she reminded herself, recalling an old mantra her grandmother had taught her.

She watched them another ten minutes as the boat veered over the bay. The men occasionally looked out toward the island and she felt a chill every time they did. They were looking for something, animal sign, no doubt. It wasn’t until the sound of the engine had dispersed and the white boat had become a blinking lash on the other side of the bay did she dare stand up again. Her legs and neck hurt from the awkward position and she felt her muscles crack as she straightened.

The others. She had to tell the others.

She turned back up the slope, not even feeling the burning in her legs until she was back on the path. Her breath caught in her throat like a burr and she sprinted back toward the cabin. Her scalp felt like a thousand needles were pressing into it from every direction and sweat ran off her eyebrows, trying to blind her.

Chris was the only one home when she barged into the cabin, panting. Sweat caked her body making it feel like a second skin, smothering her naked legs and fusing the tank-top to her firm narrow bodice. She collapsed on the edge of the sink as the big man watched her shovel a handful of water into her mouth before she could speak again.

“Poachers. In the bay,” she pointed uselessly in the direction of the ocean.

Chris was usually calm and collected, even in the direst situations, taking it on himself to lighten the mood and approach a problem as objectively as possible. But that single word, poachers, seemed to ignite something behind his eyes as he stood up with a start, causing the chair he was sitting on to reel back onto the planks of the floor.

“Sarah, sit down… take a breath and explain,” he motioned toward the table.

She did as she was beckoned while noticing that there were an array of fishing hooks and lures and flies on the table. Another one of his domestic hobbies, she supposed. She took in a deep breath and found it easier.

“I was going for a run… you know, I always take the main trail, the one that goes around the bluffs,” he nodded, urging her to get to the point, “and as I was making my way down to the beach, I heard a sound. I looked toward the bay and saw a boat. At first, I just thought they were tourists or fishermen or something. But then I saw… they had guns. All of them.”

A cruel arc twisted over Chris’ heavy lips, and he looked away from her toward the window, as if contemplating something. “You’re sure you saw what you saw?” he asked, and she nodded. “That could be trouble.”

“Maybe they’ll just pass by,” she asked, hoping she was right.

“Maybe,” he agreed, but something was bothering him. “Most of these islands don’t have game big enough to worry about. There’s deer, sure, some feral goats but no big game. It’s a well-known fact. However… there have been stories, around the fishing villages, the mainland… about this island.”

Fear clutched at her heart and she was almost afraid to say anything. “What kinds of stories?”

He shifted his weight and reached out, shutting the blue tin case that housed his fishing lures. “The kind about us,” he said at last, “people saying they’ve spotted grizzlies on the island, down by the shore or a black or brown shape disappearing into the undergrowth. Just stories… and most people dismiss them. How could a grizzly possibly get here from the mainland?” he asked rhetorically. Sarah resisted the urge to follow with