Night Prey. Sharon Dunn

of them. She loved the world she’d built for herself and her birds—and she wouldn’t let anyone harm it.

      Her feet padded on the stone path to her house. The cool breeze caressed her skin, and a handful of stars spread out above her. God had done some nice artwork tonight. Late summer in Montana was her favorite time of year. The center stayed busy, and the weather was perfect. Jenna opened the door and stepped inside her living room. She left the door open to allow the evening breeze to air out the stuffy house.

      After retrieving the computer cord for her camera from a kitchen drawer, she shifted a stack of magazines and bills she had piled on her coffee table and flipped open her laptop. The wallpaper on her desktop was of an eagle perched on a tree. Now that people had been shot at, the sheriff seemed more concerned.

      He had been dismissive yesterday when she had called him about the eagle. He had theorized that the bird had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been shot by accident. She had reported the incident to the game warden, as well, who had expressed a little more concern. She didn’t expect everyone to be as upset about injured birds as she was, but shooting at eagles was illegal even if they weren’t on the endangered species list anymore. Jenna shuddered. She cared about the birds, but after what had happened today, going out into the forest alone would be no easy task.

      She wasn’t going to let herself get hopeful. In her experience, poachers were almost impossible to catch unless they were discovered with the dead animal or there were witnesses. Because Greta had been injured with a shotgun, there was no bullet to trace.

      Knowing Sheriff Douglas, his looking into the events on the King Ranch would probably not happen until the next afternoon. Finding out who had shot the eagle was probably even lower on his priority list, and she doubted he was giving any weight to her theory that the two shootings might be related—that someone could be targeting the birds.

      A crashing noise emanated from inside the rescue center. Jenna jumped to her feet. What on earth was going on? She ran through the open door and raced up the stone path. The sound had come from the side where the birds were housed. Jenna pushed open the back door, and gasped.

      The sheets had been torn off all five of the cages. A golden eagle fluttered and bashed itself against the wooden bars. A red-tailed hawk let out its distinctive cry, like a baby’s scream. Medical equipment and the X-ray table had been pushed over. Two small Kestrel hawks flew wildly around the room, making high pitched noises that indicated agitation.

      Jenna stepped toward one of the cages, then knelt and picked up the torn fabric that had covered it. Twisting the cloth, she turned a quick half circle. Fear spread through her. It looked like someone had gone through and randomly tossed off the cage covers to stir up the birds. It didn’t look like any of the birds had been hurt, but they had been spooked, and so had she.

      She shook her head as her mind raced. Who would do such a thing? And why? And most frightening of all—was the person still there?

      The sharp slap of one object slamming against another startled her. It had come from the office. Her heart pounded. Someone was in the next room. She wished she could call for help—she had the sudden memory of Keith from before, sheltering and protecting her—but her house had the only land line. They used cell phones for the center, and her cell was in the Subaru.

      Grabbing a pair of surgical scissors for a weapon, she pushed open the door that separated the birds’ cages from the office area. She scanned the room. Freddy’s perch had been knocked over. That must have been the noise she heard. Freddy might have been alarmed and pushed it over himself…or someone could have knocked it over. Her eyes darted from the top of a low file cabinet to her desk, Freddy’s other favorite places to perch.

      “Freddy?”

      Her stomach twisted into a knot. If someone had hurt or stolen that little bird… She checked several more places before finding Freddy backed into a corner behind an empty bucket. Poor little guy. After settling Freddy again on his perch, she surveyed the rest of the room. Her breath caught. The front door was slightly ajar. Someone had been in the office, too. She raced across the room, slammed the door shut and dead bolted it. Then she grabbed the keys off a hook and exited the rear door, careful to lock it behind her. Was the intruder still around? She was going to have to call the sheriff right now. Her feet pounded the stone walkway. She glanced from side to side. She’d have to check on the birds in the other buildings and clear up the mess the vandals had made later.

      By the time she burst through the open door to her house, her legs were wobbly. Her sweating hand fumbled with the lock, and then she turned her attention to the phone. She had just heard the dial tone when she noticed her laptop had been turned around. She walked over to the coffee table and stared at the screen. The photograph of a bird had been replaced by a message.

      STAY OFF THE KING RANCH OR THE BIRDS IN THE CENTER WILL DIE, ONE BY ONE.

      Keith lifted the cover off the painting he had been working on and dipped his brush in a shade of blue he thought would capture the intensity of the Montana sky. He clicked on a light and positioned it so it shone on the canvas. This attic room in Gramps’s house, which he had set up as his living space, was hardly an ideal artist’s studio. It had small windows. At this hour, there wasn’t any natural light at all. Lack of ventilation made the space hot in the evening. But even with all its flaws, he liked the place for the quiet it provided.

      In the corner of the sparsely furnished space, a German shepherd rested on a bed. With only a little brown on his nose and at the ends of his paws, Jet was an appropriate name for the therapy dog the V.A. had provided.

      Keith took in a deep breath. It had to be past midnight. He slept on an erratic schedule and when he couldn’t sleep, he painted. Originally, his physical therapist had prescribed painting as a way of getting his dexterity back, but the hobby had proven to be useful for working out emotions, as well.

      Seeing Jenna again had stirred him up. Had it been a mistake to come back here? After the death of his mother, it had seemed as though God was leading him back to the ranch to heal things between him and his grandparents since they were his only living relatives. Now he wasn’t so sure.

      Grandma and Gramps had long ago turned off the evening news and gone to bed. They had adjusted to their night owl in the attic. The arrangement seemed to be working out well. The attic had a separate entrance with outside stairs, so he could come and go without bothering them. He helped out as much as they would let him. In the two weeks since he had been here, he and Gramps had mended some fence and repaired the dilapidated barn. He had tiled an entryway for his grandmother and weeded her garden. It felt good to make amends for what had happened twelve years ago, and they had welcomed him back with open arms.

      The summer he had his first drink, a fellow kayaker who had been like a father to him had drowned on a run that Keith had decided not to go on at the last minute. Keith had spent a week in turmoil wondering if he would have been able to save his friend if he’d been there. At seventeen, he hadn’t known why he’d started drinking. Only when he was in treatment did he realize the alcohol numbed the guilt and confusion. His brush swirled across the canvas. In the left-hand corner, he’d painted an eagle in flight. He’d done that before he had ever run into Jenna Murphy. Jenna with the bright brown eyes. Jenna who had been a skinny-legged ten-year-old the first time he had seen her sitting in the park reading a book. Jenna who had become a beautiful woman.

      He angled away from the easel and massaged his chest where it had grown tight. He had kept all those memories behind some closed door. Whenever he allowed the good memories in, the bad ones were bound to follow.

      The last time he had seen her, she had been fifteen, standing with her back pressed against the door of her house. The silence of the summer night had surrounded them as she looked up at him. That night, he’d come to her house for a reason. He hadn’t expected her cold response.

      “Keith, I heard about what you have been doing…about the drinking.”

      “I haven’t had anything to drink for a week.” She had refused to be a part of his drinking life, so they hadn’t seen each other for two weeks. The time apart made him realize how much she