why he let her follow him.
He didn’t know why he watched her every day . . . except that he couldn’t seem to stop. He couldn’t believe she was for real. He scrutinized her, waiting for her to yell, to swear, to complain about the rough conditions or the boredom so much a part of a wildlife observer’s job.
Instead, when she thought no one was watching, she skipped through the forest. She sang songs from movies like The Sound of Music and Annie , and she sang like she believed them. She watched an eagle fly, spread her arms and pretended to soar on the breeze. When the wind blew, she closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun—and he would have sworn she was silently worshiping the day, the place, the joy.
She seemed almost frantic to absorb the essence of the mountains and the woods.
He hated that.
Because he wanted her, and everything she did made him want her more. He craved her the way a drowning man craved oxygen.
He couldn’t have her. Because what he felt when he looked at her was a passionate fascination, a longing and a need.
He didn’t dare yield to that depth of feeling.
He didn’t dare lose control. The last time he’d lost control, death had followed.
Today, he’d been ready to turn away from her forever.
Then she’d crawled off her platform and hung out over that hundred-foot drop to take pictures.
My God. He hadn’t felt that desperation since . . . well, just since. He’d jumped off the boulder at the top of the cliff and made it down to her almost in time to catch her as she fell. Almost. Using his power had been instinctive, a brief burst that caught and deposited her without thought or finesse.
Stupid woman. She didn’t even realize what she’d done to him.
She’d made him use a power he had barely acknowledged for the last two years. Then she’d thanked him. She’d touched him. She’d followed him being perky and grateful and cheerful, like a creature who believed in the goodness of mankind. In his goodness.
So that was why he was taking the girl to Mama Cat’s den. He wanted her to have what she wanted, to take her pictures and see her glimpse of the wildness . . . and then go away. That way, he would never have to see her again.
But . . . what the hell? The girl wasn’t behind him.
He knew she wasn’t, because when she was close, she was talking.
He stopped, turned.
She stood where he had left her, staring at him, her golden brown eyes wide and heartbreakingly innocent.
Ah, to be so young again . . .
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-four.”
“You look younger.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
She said nothing.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I look older?” he asked.
“I can’t tell. You’re so hairy I can barely see your face.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You sound like my drill sergeant.” He laughed again, then stopped, surprised at himself. Where had that brief spark of humor come from? “Are you coming with me?” he asked.
She blinked, and her long lashes fanned the air.
He half expected to feel a breeze.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Is there really a lynx, or are you really crazy?”
So it had finally sunk in for her. She had realized she was alone with the yeti. “I’m definitely crazy. But yes, there’s a lynx.” He waited, sure she would turn back now.
Instead, she said, “Okay, as long as I know the score,” and started toward him.
He didn’t really believe he was crazy.
But she sure as hell was.
He didn’t wait. He strode off toward the riverbank.
Before he knew it, she was on his heels. “Brandon would laugh if he knew how thoroughly he had scared me with his stories of the yeti.”
“Sure.” John remembered Brandon from last year. Short, loud, obnoxious, without interest in the animals unless he could torment them.
John had not been happy to see Brandon return.
Genny was still chatting. “About the lynx—there are babies, too, right?”
“Yes. Two.”
“That is just too
He didn’t know why he watched her every day . . . except that he couldn’t seem to stop. He couldn’t believe she was for real. He scrutinized her, waiting for her to yell, to swear, to complain about the rough conditions or the boredom so much a part of a wildlife observer’s job.
Instead, when she thought no one was watching, she skipped through the forest. She sang songs from movies like The Sound of Music and Annie , and she sang like she believed them. She watched an eagle fly, spread her arms and pretended to soar on the breeze. When the wind blew, she closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun—and he would have sworn she was silently worshiping the day, the place, the joy.
She seemed almost frantic to absorb the essence of the mountains and the woods.
He hated that.
Because he wanted her, and everything she did made him want her more. He craved her the way a drowning man craved oxygen.
He couldn’t have her. Because what he felt when he looked at her was a passionate fascination, a longing and a need.
He didn’t dare yield to that depth of feeling.
He didn’t dare lose control. The last time he’d lost control, death had followed.
Today, he’d been ready to turn away from her forever.
Then she’d crawled off her platform and hung out over that hundred-foot drop to take pictures.
My God. He hadn’t felt that desperation since . . . well, just since. He’d jumped off the boulder at the top of the cliff and made it down to her almost in time to catch her as she fell. Almost. Using his power had been instinctive, a brief burst that caught and deposited her without thought or finesse.
Stupid woman. She didn’t even realize what she’d done to him.
She’d made him use a power he had barely acknowledged for the last two years. Then she’d thanked him. She’d touched him. She’d followed him being perky and grateful and cheerful, like a creature who believed in the goodness of mankind. In his goodness.
So that was why he was taking the girl to Mama Cat’s den. He wanted her to have what she wanted, to take her pictures and see her glimpse of the wildness . . . and then go away. That way, he would never have to see her again.
But . . . what the hell? The girl wasn’t behind him.
He knew she wasn’t, because when she was close, she was talking.
He stopped, turned.
She stood where he had left her, staring at him, her golden brown eyes wide and heartbreakingly innocent.
Ah, to be so young again . . .
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-four.”
“You look younger.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
She said nothing.
“Aren’t you going to tell me I look older?” he asked.
“I can’t tell. You’re so hairy I can barely see your face.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You sound like my drill sergeant.” He laughed again, then stopped, surprised at himself. Where had that brief spark of humor come from? “Are you coming with me?” he asked.
She blinked, and her long lashes fanned the air.
He half expected to feel a breeze.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Is there really a lynx, or are you really crazy?”
So it had finally sunk in for her. She had realized she was alone with the yeti. “I’m definitely crazy. But yes, there’s a lynx.” He waited, sure she would turn back now.
Instead, she said, “Okay, as long as I know the score,” and started toward him.
He didn’t really believe he was crazy.
But she sure as hell was.
He didn’t wait. He strode off toward the riverbank.
Before he knew it, she was on his heels. “Brandon would laugh if he knew how thoroughly he had scared me with his stories of the yeti.”
“Sure.” John remembered Brandon from last year. Short, loud, obnoxious, without interest in the animals unless he could torment them.
John had not been happy to see Brandon return.
Genny was still chatting. “About the lynx—there are babies, too, right?”
“Yes. Two.”
“That is just too
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