Part 2
“Nobody move,” Lena said.
The lion’s head lifted unsteadily. The tranquilizer had not worn off, but pain and the kitten’s cry were pulling her toward consciousness faster than Lena had expected.
Eli froze beside the cat. Lena remained on one knee, her hand inches from the bandaged paw.
Above them, Daniel felt Cal ease his grip away from the winch control.
The kitten vanished beneath the roots. Its mother tried to rise, but her injured foreleg folded. She struck weakly at the empty air and slipped sideways.
“Daniel,” Lena said without looking up, “take in six inches on the safety line. Slowly.”
He obeyed.
It was the first time since her arrival that she had asked him to do anything instead of asking him to stop.
The rope tightened against the padded sling around the lion’s torso, keeping her from sliding toward the drop. At Lena’s signal, Eli delivered a small supplemental dose from behind the protection of the rock.
The cat’s head lowered. Her eyes closed again.
For several seconds no one spoke.
Then Lena exhaled. “We finish now.”
They moved with a speed that did not look hurried. The responders transferred the lion onto a reinforced tarp and pulled her to the wider section of the shelf. Lena cleaned the wound, checked the limb again and gave a cautious assessment.
“No fracture that I can feel. There may be tendon damage. We won’t know how well she can use it until she’s awake.”
“Can you take her in?” Daniel asked.
Lena looked toward the root hollow where the kitten had vanished.
“If she had no young, possibly. Taking her away now could kill three animals instead of saving one.”
She fitted the lion with a GPS collar loose enough to allow movement but secure against the neck. The device would tell Lena’s team whether the cat resumed traveling, remained immobile or moved toward settled areas.
Daniel had photographed collaring operations before. He had watched biologists transform living animals into coordinates and data points, then argue for years over what those points meant. Until that morning, he had never understood how much hope could be attached to a single moving dot.
A second kitten showed itself while the team prepared to retreat. It was smaller than the first and held one hind paw slightly off the ground, but it moved quickly enough to disappear when Eli turned his head.
“Did you see the leg?” Daniel asked.
“I saw it.”
“It was limping.”
“So is the mother. That doesn’t give us permission to crawl into their den.”
Lena’s voice was sharp, but she watched the hollow with the same concern he felt.
“What happens if the cub can’t keep up?”
“We monitor. We don’t create another emergency because we’re afraid one might exist.”
Daniel heard the rest of the sentence although she did not say it: You don’t get to take control simply because waiting hurts.
They moved the lion roughly thirty yards from the unstable ledge to a sheltered patch beneath a stand of young firs. Lena positioned her so that her airway remained clear and the injured leg was protected. She administered the reversal medication, and then everyone withdrew behind the vehicles.
Cal stood beside his truck, cleaning mud from the winch cable with a rag.
“That cat’s been crossing my north pasture,” he said.
Lena turned. “You’ve seen her?”
“I’ve seen lion tracks. Had a calf taken in May and another hurt three weeks ago.”
“Were those investigated?”
“The first one was. Your people said they couldn’t confirm what killed it.”
“I can look at the reports.”
Cal gave a tired smile. “Reports don’t put a calf back.”
“No,” Lena said. “They don’t.”
She did not become defensive. That seemed to disappoint him less than an argument would have.
“I appreciate the winch,” she added. “Without it, we might not have freed her before the shelf failed.”
“I don’t like anything suffering.”
Cal looked toward the trees where the lion slept.
“Doesn’t mean I want her in my herd.”
The distinction was uncomfortable because it was reasonable. Daniel had spent enough years around conservation work to know how easily people praised predators from houses that had never lost livestock.
Eli took Cal’s information and promised someone would inspect any new incident promptly. Cal did not ask for assurances no one could give. He coiled the cable, locked his truck and waited with the others.
Nearly forty minutes passed before the lion stirred.
Her first attempt to stand failed. The second brought her upright on three legs. She held the bandaged paw clear of the ground and turned slowly, locating every person and vehicle.
Daniel remained behind the open door of Eli’s truck.
The lion did not look grateful. She looked frightened, disoriented and dangerous.
She made a low sound. From beneath the roots, one of the kittens answered.
The mother moved toward the call. She put the injured paw down once, recoiled and continued on three legs. Within seconds, the brush concealed her.
No one followed.
Lena remained at the road until the first collar signal registered from the slope. The cat had stopped near the den. Twenty minutes later, the point moved a short distance and stopped again.
“She reached them,” Daniel said.
“She reached the den,” Lena corrected. “That’s what we know.”
Cal left first. Eli and Marisol began carrying equipment back to the state truck. Daniel helped without asking, taking the empty rope bags and medical cases.
Up close, he could see silver beginning at Lena’s temples. The discovery unsettled him. In his mind, her aging had stopped during the months they did not speak, as if her life waited in place whenever he was absent from it.
“How long will you monitor her?” he asked.
“Intensively for the first several days. If she starts traveling and hunting, we’ll back off.”
“And the cub?”
“If the smaller one falls behind, the collar may tell us something. It may not.”
“You could put a camera near the den.”
“We can put one on the travel route after they leave. Not at the den while she’s hurt.”
Daniel nodded. “I’d like to help.”
“No.”
The answer came without anger.
“Because of this morning?”
“Because this is my job. And because you don’t know when to stop once you think a story belongs to you.”
“I’m not here for a story.”
Lena looked past him toward the tripod.
His camera still stood where he had left it, long lens pointed over the ridge. Beneath it, the small video unit blinked red.
Daniel’s stomach tightened.
He crossed the wet ground and switched it off, but the movement came too late. Lena had already seen the light.
“How long has that been recording?” she asked…
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