Linda Howard - Prey

The success of the trip would depend on whether or not the hunt was a good one. Though it was getting late in the year, not all the bears would have denned yet; the weather had been relatively mild, so some bears would still be active. She would find Mr. Davis a bear or bust a gut trying.

She half-expected Chad to come up to the house before the dinner hour, but to her surprise it was Mr. Davis who showed up. He carried a laptop case. “I need to check some reports,” he said brusquely.

“Sure. Right in here,” she said, showing him to the small den outfitted with a flat-screen television and satellite Internet; in the corner was a desk with a wifi modem. She gave him an index card with a string of numbers typed on it. “This is the wifi password.”

“Thanks.” He was already taking out his laptop, but at least he’d made a nod toward manners.

“You’re welcome.”

She left to give him some privacy, and finished setting the table. People didn’t come on hunting trips expecting bone china and silver utensils, so she didn’t even try to go that route. The plates and bowls she set out were sturdy earthenware, glazed a dark green with black rims, and she used a particularly heavy set of stainless steel. She did put out cloth napkins, made from a thick, heavy-duty, dark green cotton that didn’t show stains.

The meal was a simple one, with the stew, fresh homemade biscuits, and chocolate cake. She knew all three were above average. Maybe she wasn’t a great cook but she was a darn good one, and she enjoyed it when she had the time. When she’d lived in Billings, with access to a greater variety of ingredients, she’d liked experimenting with different dishes. Maybe someday she’d be able to try her hand at different stuff again, but right now all she could handle was the basic, hearty dishes. Part of this stew, for instance, had already been put in the freezer for next week, when she was back from this hunt. With nothing else on her books, and no anticipation of any further income for the next several months, she couldn’t afford to throw away any food.

At ten to seven, Chad appeared in the door to the dining room. “Smells good,” he said.

“Thank you.” She gave him a smile, keeping it neutral, but a smile all the same. “Mr. Davis is in the den, on his laptop.”

Chad made an awkward gesture. “I won’t disturb him. Is there, ah, any way I can help?”

“Just by eating your fill,” she replied. “Everything’s under control.” She checked the time. “The biscuits are ready to come out of the oven, so if you’ll excuse me-”

“I’m sorry. Sure. I didn’t mean-”

“You’re my guest,” she said, breaking in on his stammered apology. She tried another smile on him, hoping to settle him down. “It’ll take just a minute to bring in the food. I hope you like chocolate cake!”

“I love it,” he said, looking relieved at the change of subject.

Dinner conversation was going to be heavy-going, but at least she didn’t have to be in there, she reflected as she took the biscuits out of the oven and placed them in a napkin-lined bread basket, which she placed on a tray along with the big tureen of stew. She carried the tray into the dining room and set everything on the table, then put the tray aside. “What would you like to drink? I have milk, hot tea, coffee, and beer. Water, too, of course.”

“Ah, beer.” He seemed a little self-conscious as he said it, though she couldn’t think why.

“A beer for me, too,” said Mr. Davis as he came into the dining room.

Angie returned to the kitchen, got two beers from the refrigerator, and poured them into glasses. As she set the glasses down in front of the men, Chad said, “Aren’t you eating with us?” When he’d been here before she’d done exactly that, but the company had been more convivial. She didn’t have any hard-and-fast rule about eating with clients, but neither did she believe in torturing herself if she could get out of it, so no way was she having a meal with these two tonight.

“I’ve already eaten,” she said, which was a bald-faced lie, but so what? She’d get something to eat in the kitchen, either that or wait until she was cleaning up and have a bowl of stew then. She’d rather do without entirely than eat with them.

“Have you scouted out the area where we’re going?” Davis asked as they sat down to eat.

She paused on her way out of the dining room. “I have, a few days ago when I took supplies up to the camp I’ve leased. There was fresh bear sign.”

“But you didn’t actually see a bear?”

“No, but I wasn’t trying to. I didn’t want to make contact with one beforehand.” She’d been armed, of course, but she’d also been alone. Bears gave her the heebie-jeebies, even when she was with a hunting party, so she sure wasn’t about to go looking for one when she was by herself. That was something she’d keep to herself, of course; knowing your guide was afraid wasn’t something that would make a client feel confident.

“So you don’t know if the bear is a decent size.”

The tone of his voice made it plain he thought she’d already failed test number two of guiding, the first one being not having a shiny new dual-axle pickup like Dare Callahan’s. Chad looked embarrassed and fumbled his spoon, making a clattering noise when he dropped it on his plate. For his sake, Angie kept her voice bland and didn’t let any hint of irritation show through. “I do, going by how high the claw marks are on the trees. I estimate this particular bear is about seven feet long, which is big for a black bear.”

“And how do you know it’s a black bear?”

“By the fur that was snagged on some chokeberry bushes. It’s always possible a brown bear is also in the territory and didn’t snag any of its fur,” she said, before he could make that argument, “but I know a black bear is in the vicinity.” She kept a death grip on her patience, and her tone pleasantly neutral.

“What’s your plan if this bear has gone to den in the time since you’ve been up there?”

Every sentence was like an interrogation with this man. Angie reached for a larger supply of patience. “If we don’t find fresh scat the first day or two, we move farther afield. A bear’s territory is usually two to ten miles. This time of year they aren’t as active as they would have been earlier, but some are still moving around. The weather is still relatively mild, thank goodness. This time last year, we were already a foot deep in snow.” Last winter had been horrendous, beginning early and hanging on weeks later than normal, taking a huge chunk out of time when she normally had at least some photographers wanting to go out, and that had been another nail in her financial coffin.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Powell, how long have you been guiding?”

“Most of my life. When I was a kid, I helped my dad, and as I got older I began taking out clients on my own.” That was all true; she kept to herself that her teenage solo trips had been mostly photography, some bird hunting. She had gone with her dad on a lot of his hunts, though, so she wasn’t a novice. He’d loved teaching her what he knew about reading sign, how to call game to the hunter’s location, and how to shoot. What she’d learned had gone deep; when he’d died and she moved back home, she’d stepped into the life with barely a pause.

“These are great biscuits,” Chad offered, making an obvious stab at changing the subject, and taking a big bite of biscuit to prove his statement. “Did your mother teach you how to cook?”

“No, I learned by trial and error, and there were a lot of errors along the way.” She put humor in her tone, and completely bypassed the mention of her mother because it was irrelevant. Some people had great mothers; she wasn’t one of them. She’d had a great dad, so fifty percent wasn’t bad. Life was what it was, and she’d been luckier than some.