“Is the power on?” I asked.
“You bet. I checked it this morning. My fence has enough juice to stop a rhino. Nothing came through that wire. Can’t find a spot where they went under, either. Whatever it was, jumped over.”
Not a bear, then. Bears went through things because their jumping abilities were limited. Cougars and wolves could do it. Wolves had frequented the Beausejour area as of late, and I knew the farmers worried about their livestock. Could this be the work of a pack? But six feet was pushing it for a wolf, unless they touched down at the top. And the big canids didn’t use their claws to bring down prey.
Not to mention that last I checked, none of them—bears, wolves, or cougar—displayed the heads of their kills like a trophy.
“Has to be a chance thing,” Ted said. “It tried to carry it off and left it there. But it freaked me out to see it like that.”
“Yes,” I agreed, my mind still occupied with the fence, and what it signified. What the hell got over that wire? What can kill two mature bison almost simultaneously? Then rip the head clean off and carry it away? My thoughts raced, pulling in possibilities from everything I’d ever seen or heard of. Which included some pretty odd things, ranging from space aliens to rabid grizzlies and escaped tigers. Then my logic center focused on the one predator that could mimic others just for fun.
“Do you suppose this is someone’s sick idea of a joke?” I asked.
His eyes widened. “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know. But they could have shot them, torn them up, making it look like an animal attack.”
“But . . . why?” He seemed genuinely bewildered.
I knew from experience that people could do twisted things. Maybe someone wanted Ted scared.
Ted watched me. “But what about the claw marks on the youngster?” He shook his head. “Had to be a cougar. Or rather, two of them.”
He had a point, although I’d never heard of the big cats doing something like this. But I wasn’t an expert on predators. Well, not on animal ones, anyway. “I’d call and make sure the adjuster brings out a conservation guy,” I suggested. “Maybe he’ll have seen this kind of thing before.”
“Yeah. Good idea.” He backed from the fence, his hands still tight on his gun. I turned away with a conscious effort, ignoring my instincts to run. Keen bolted about five feet from me, returned, and then bolted again, as though barely able to stop herself from running all the way to the SUV.
I had to admit I was right there with her, but I maintained the façade of a calm pet owner despite my pounding heart. Sometimes being the leader in a relationship really sucks.
Because no matter how I crunched the data, it all boomeranged back to one thing: I had no idea what had killed those bison. Which might not be all that unusual, considering that as a vet my focus was on keeping animals alive, not studying how they died.
But as we walked—quickly—toward the safety of the farmyard, my instincts told me that the conservation guy wouldn’t have the answers Ted sought. And I wondered if the bison farmer would forever walk that pasture carrying his gun.
2
My thoughts circled those dead bison as I went about my day, through the regular farm calls and the small animal emergencies. By the end of it, I’d basically convinced myself that humans had killed them. I should have pressed Ted a little more on that, but at the moment it all seemed unimportant compared to bringing this day to a close. It had been a long one, and I forced my lids to remain open as I approached my driveway with an excessive amount of caution.
With the spring melt in full flood, ice appeared in unexpected places, and I was far too tired to deal with a skate into the ditch. As soon as I started the turn, I flicked off the SUV’s lights. At one o’clock in the morning, I didn’t want to wake Peter.
The farmhouse sat quiet and dark as I pulled into my spot and shut off the engine. I leaned back and sighed, enjoying the silence and letting the tension drain from me. I’d been ready to head home after the long shift when the clinic received a frantic phone call—someone had run over their own dog. After battling for hours to save the animal and dealing with my second emergency, a blocked bladder in a cat, every muscle in my body trembled. That the dog would live to see another day, as would the cat, did little to ease my debilitation. I craved sleep, but first I needed to unwind.
A soft whimper vibrated from the passenger seat. I turned my head to meet Keen’s gaze. Her blue eye stood out in the darkness, and the other, a deep brown, remained in shadow. As usual, she sensed my inner turmoil. After the drama of the shredded bison, she’d spent a boring day hanging around the vet clinic. She needed to get the antiseptic smell off her fur. I exited the SUV, reached to unhook her safety harness, and paused long enough for her to bounce out on my heels.
I lived in the lower level of the farmhouse. Originally built as the primary residence for the farm, with land stretching for miles in each direction, the house was eventually sold to a couple who turned the basement into a mother-in-law suite. Peter purchased it from them and lived alone for years before I came along. My landlord was in his early seventies and appreciated having a strong young back to maintain the place. I think he also liked my company. As he had no family to speak of, it worked out well.
I ducked into the house to change into something that didn’t stink of vet clinic, stepped
