“Ow,” she muttered under her breath as she unlatched a nasty vine from the sheeting. She needed to be mindful of keeping a silent, remote figure in case she actually found her rogue crane. Handlers were always careful to erase any human aspect of their form when interacting with the cranes. The goal was to produce birds as wild as possible—birds that avoided human contact.
Where are you, L9-10?
She swiveled her head left and right, scanning the swaying marsh grass that was little more than five acres in scope. Then she raised her eyes and scoured the tree line across the wet grass bordering an inlet from the sluggish bayou to her right. A flash of white appeared before disappearing completely.
“Got ya,” she whispered as she stepped over the barriers Mother Nature tossed in the way of all wetland biologists and conservationists. The hum of a boat on the bayou accompanied her muttered curses as she slogged through the grasses toward the area where she’d glimpsed the flash of white. L9-10 obviously had taken to roosting in one of the ginormous oaks dappling the remote landscape. Perhaps she was showing a creative way to adapt. Maybe she’d found something to eat in the wide-spread branches of the tree. Or maybe she’d taken to the thick limbs because an alligator sat below her.
Renny stopped walking and stared at the big gator on the sloping bank, tail halfway in the marsh water, basking beneath her poor L9-10.
“Damn it.”
The huge prehistoric reptile lay sprawled with its baby claws spread looking like a socialite on a cocktail cruise. Wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere, especially since its next meal perched a few feet above, solemnly contemplating the marsh.
Perhaps the bird’s tracking bands had snagged on something or perhaps it was already injured.
“And what are you doing here, big boy?” Renny whispered. Gators were notoriously shy and didn’t frequent populated areas. But this little patch of St. Martin Parish was remote and near fresh water teeming with crawfish, snakes and frogs, along with the animals that fed on them. It was odd to see the gator away from a large body of water, but perhaps it was protecting hatchlings, since it was September. That would make her dangerous.
Rotten luck for L9-10.
Renny stood completely still many yards from the seven-foot gator and contemplated her course of action. She wanted to get the crane to safety, but where was safety? The purpose was to release the cranes into the wild. The wild had big teeth. The cranes had to learn how to adapt and live on their own. She didn’t want to go all Darwin on L9-10, but it was about survival of the fittest.
But L9-10 wasn’t just any bird. She was a very expensive endangered species like the American alligator below her had once been.
Nature couldn’t win this round.
Renny would.
Even if it went against all she believed as a biologist. But how was she going to get L9-10 away from the gator?
A loud crack sent Renny ducking for cover.
She covered her ears and crouched down just as the gator started thrashing, its long tail whiplashing the ground as it moved toward the tree line.
“Good Lord,” Renny squealed as L9-10 took flight right over her and two hunters appeared to the left of her, heading for the gator that now moved toward the inlet hidden behind the trees. Three more gunshots followed, clouding the area with something invasive and foreign.
Renny unplugged her ears and looked frantically around for L9-10, but the crane had taken flight, which made her wonder why the silly bird hadn’t taken to the skies in the first place to avoid being al fresco dining for the now-doomed gator.
Two hunters leaped from an ATV and moved quickly toward the place where the gator had disappeared. It had not been a boat she’d heard earlier, but rather a camouflaged, glorified golf cart favored by hunters. One of the men caught sight of her and stopped. He did a double take.
Well, she was an odd sight.
This man, clad also in camo, lowered his gun and moved toward her, his strides long and purposeful as he tramped through the lowland.
Renny tugged her draped hat off and started digging for her credentials. She’d already received permission from Picou to access the land, and these hunters themselves could be poaching on Dufrene property, though she was fairly certain the man who’d slipped through the tree line heading for the bayou was Nate, the oldest Dufrene brother.
“What the hell?” the man coming toward her muttered, shaking his head.
She lifted her eyes and her mind clicked and whirred as a horrible realization bloomed in her brain.
She blinked once before trying to school her features into something other than shock.
The man she hoped to never lay eyes on again was standing right in front of her, looking like a model for The Great Outdoors Magazine.
Darby Dufrene had come home to Beau Soleil.
ISBN: 9781459242005
Copyright © 2012 by Janice Kay Johnson
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