Wild by Jill Sorenson Page B

said, to both.
    “Where’s your mom now?”
    “She lives in Oregon.”
    “Are you still close?”
    “Very close. She visits every Christmas.”
    “You don’t go there?”
    “No.”
    “Because you don’t like flying,” he ventured.
    She made a noncommittal sound, reluctant to say more. He’d retrieved a shocking amount of personal information from her in a short time. He was a good listener, which probably put women at ease.
    Josh seemed to get the message that she didn’t want to talk and stopped trying to engage her, but he managed to be just as intrusive when he was quiet. He removed his belt and one of his shoelaces. Needing both hands free to work, he bent his forearm around the guard before securing a loop to the end of the belt. Then he reached into his pocket for a set of keys. He uncoiled one of the key rings and twisted the thin metal into a hook.
    Once the hook was attached to the belt, he put the loop around his wrist. The contraption still wasn’t long enough to reach the guns, so he added his tactical baton, using it like an extension of his arm.
    “Give me the pepper spray,” Helena said.
    Josh handed it to her. They both moved down on the ladder and got into position at the bottom of the guard. They were vulnerable to attack here, guard or no guard. Zuma couldn’t climb the pole, but she could jump at least ten or twelve feet high. With a well-placed swipe, she could do a lot of damage.
    He lowered the hook while Helena watched Zuma. The big cat didn’t seem interested in what they were doing. She yawned, displaying sharp incisors.
    Josh’s hook hovered above the strap of the tranquilizer gun, not quite touching it. He descended another step and tried again. It was a risky move, but this whole strategy was dangerous. Helena’s pulse raced as the hook slid along the edge of the gun strap and almost caught.
    Then a sandy-brown blur sailed across the space.
    Zuma.
    Helena let out a little squeak of panic and pressed the button on the spray canister, sending an arc of chemicals through the air. Some of the mist hit Zuma’s torso and tail as she lunged for the belt. She bit into the leather with so much force that the baton flew out of Josh’s hand. He nearly lost his balance. Helena moved her arm and took aim for a second shot, not realizing she was still holding down the button.
    Josh got sprayed instead of Zuma.
    Maybe the toxic cloud saved him from another attack, because Zuma fled the scene as quickly as she’d entered it. She retreated to the nearby bushes, where she paced back and forth in agitation. Josh started coughing and spitting. His eyes watered from irritation and his face turned beet red. He looked as if he wanted to peel his own skin off. Although he didn’t vomit, he gagged several times.
    Helena felt terrible for him. Tucking the offending canister into her pocket, she rubbed his arm and made soothing sounds. It took him about five minutes to recover. He straightened, clearing his throat.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said.
    “Why did you do that?”
    “It was an accident! I missed the first time, and when I tried again, you were in the way.”
    He spat on the ground again. “Remind me not to stand next to you when you’re holding an assault rifle. Christ.”
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated, cringing.
    “At least it wasn’t a direct hit.”
    “It wasn’t?”
    “My head was turned. I can’t imagine taking a full shot to the face.”
    “Most men can’t.”
    He squinted at her blearily.
    “Never mind. It’s kind of a girl joke.”
    “I get it,” he said. “I just can’t believe you said it.”
    “I thought it would make you feel better.”
    They moved back to their higher perches. His belt contraption lay coiled on the ground next to the weapons. Zuma continued to pace, saliva dripping from her jowls. The chemicals had irritated her, too.
    “Do you think she’ll attack again?” he asked.
    “I don’t know. She might be afraid.”
    “Or she could be ready