The white cat slunk through the trees surrounding the cabin, every sense alert for any sign of an intruder. Sniffing the air, he caught the scent of another cat. Faint—and old, perhaps a few hours old, he thought, still lingering on the brush close to the cabin. He climbed up to a low tree branch then onto a higher one, scanning the area. Small sounds of movement filled the air, the denizens of the forest going about their daily business. If he’d been hungry, the white cat could have fed well on the pair of rabbits he saw skittering from one low bush to the next a few yards away.
Deeming it safe for the moment, the cat leapt down, startling a squirrel who chattered angrily at him after dashing up the nearest tree. Moving to the cabin, the cat walked slowly around it. The scent of the other cat lingered there as well, stronger on the porch. Overlaying it was the scent of a man.
* * * *
“I’m outside the studio,” Wynn told Mick, holding his phone to one ear while he dug his keys out of his pocket.
“No sign of Deacon?”
Wynn hesitated a fraction of a second before replying. He hated lying to Mick. “Nothing so far. I’m going in now. I’ll call you as soon as I know it’s all clear.”
He closed his phone, shoving it into his pocket, then unlocked the cabin door. He pushed it open, stepping back quickly just in case. Nothing exploded, for which he was heartily glad. Quickly he stepped inside and disarmed the alarm box before closing the door again.
* * * *
The white cat moved inch by inch around the interior of the cabin, following the scent of the other cat in its human form. The human had touched several things, foremost among them the pencils and sketchpads lying on the work table. Taking in deep breaths, the cat searched for any foreign scents that would say the human had left something deadly behind.
Finding nothing to indicate he had, the white cat shifted, clothing himself again.
Then Wynn opened the sketchpad where Deacon’s scent had been the strongest. How childish. He stared at the blood-red line drawing Deacon had done. It showed two figures locked in battle—one human, one jaguar. Or at least Wynn presumed it was supposed to be a jaguar from the blotches on the body that could have been spots.
He called Mick again to fill him in on the sketch Deacon had made.
Mick was not happy, as indicated when he snapped, “Get out of there. He could be anywhere—watching, planning his attack.”
“Not happening. If he’d wanted to ambush me, he’d have done it when I got here. He’s just letting me know he can get in here too. It’s part of his game. I’m going to pack up my supplies and head up to the cave, just as we planned.”
“Wynn—” Mick said, his voice filled with disquiet.
“Mick, I’m going to do it! Stop worrying, I can take care of myself. He’s not going to shoot me. That would take away the fun of the game in his estimation. He wants to drag it out then take me on one-on-one. That’s why he left the sketch, to let me know how he sees this ending.”
There was a deep sigh from Mick then, resignation filling his voice, he said, “I know you’re right. I just—”
“Worry. I know. I promise I’ll call when I get to the cave. And just a bit off topic as they say, I love you.”
Mick chuckled. “That was, but I like hearing it. Love you too. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
* * * *
Wynn’s muscles were tight when he finally reached the cave. Not because of the hike up, he’d had no problem with that. He realized as he set down his pack a few yards from the cave entrance that while Mick might have believed his confident words that Deacon wouldn’t take potshots at him, his own mind must have thought otherwise. His whole body ached with tension. Taking several deep breaths, he bent, touching his toes, straightened, and repeated the exercise several times before kneading the back of his neck. Finally unwound, he picked up the backpack, moved the last few yards to the cave, and crawled through the tunnel, standing when he was far enough inside that he could.
Taking a sketchpad and his box of pencils from the backpack, Wynn returned to the small ledge outside and set to work. He became so involved in what he was drawing he didn’t realize it was noon until he looked again at he scene below him and saw how much the light had changed.
Time for part two. He added a few more lines to the drawing to complete one section then stood, stretched, and returned to the cave.
* * * *
The white cat stood poised at the entrance to the cave then paced slowly around the brush that hid it to stand on the narrow ledge. The air smelled fresh and cool with autumn fast approaching.
He swiveled his head, searching for any danger, knowing he stood out against the greenery of the brush and the darkness of the mountainside. But then, that had been the plan to lure his foe to him.
Be obvious. Be aware. Taunt him with my presence. Let him know I’m not afraid.
Slowly he ambled downwards toward the valley floor, leaping on occasion from ledge to ledge along the way.
For a brief instant, the scent of his foe wafted past the white cat, carried by an errant breeze. He tested it and found only the odor of the jaguar, not of the human armed with a weapon. Satisfied that, for the moment at least, his foe could not attack with anything other than its claws, the cat continued on.
He reached the cabin with no further indication his foe was nearby in either his jaguar or human forms. Stretching out on the cabin’s porch, the cat soaked in the sun’s warmth as he cleaned his white fur. Then he stood, nudged open the cabin door, and entered.
* * * *
“He was around when I went to the cave,” Wynn said, once he disentangled himself from Mick’s embrace. “Or, to be more specific I sensed him after I left.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Mick tried to keep the worry and anger he felt at Wynn’s words from showing. He knew deep inside Wynn probably was able to defend himself against a physical attack by Deacon. It was the ‘probably’ that bothered him. True, he’d seen the end result of Wynn’s battle with Lionel, but it had been the result of a direct attack by the black jaguar. Deacon was playing games, ones that could prove deadly for Wynn if he dropped his guard for even a moment.
“What would you have done if I had called?” Wynn replied, glancing at his lover before going to the fridge to see what they could fix for supper. He snorted softly, turning back to face Mick. “Come riding in, guns blazing? That would hardly be an inducement for him to have stuck around.”
“I know,” Mick admitted, taking the steaks Wynn handed him. Then he chuckled. “I’d have snuck in silently, gun in one hand, a knife between my teeth.”
“With a bandana wrapped around your head and an earring dangling from one ear? I’d pay to see that.”
“No earring. I gave those up when I took over as sheriff. They sort of destroyed the image of bold, brave lawman.”
“You are so kidding me.”
Mick grinned. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Wynn stepped closer, fingering one of Mick’s earlobes. “You’re kidding, unless you were into clip-ons.”
Mick shivered, reaching back to drop the steaks on the closest surface before pulling Wynn into his arms. “You know, that’s one of my sensitive spots.”
“For which, read erogenous zones.” Wynn grinned wickedly. “I know. So are we going to do something about it?” He ground against Mick, laughing when Mick told him to stop or they’d never get supper made. “I think in this case, sex takes precedence. Right?”
“Right,” Mick managed to get out before Wynn’s lips descended on his in a fiery kiss that drove everything else out of his mind except taking his lover then and there—which he did, with no resistance at all from Wynn.