Page 3 of The Steel Beast’s Heart

She sits on the tailgate of my truck with her arms folded and her boots swinging two inches off the gravel. She told me she isn't injured, and I believe her because I already checked—pupils equal and reactive, pulse seventy-eight, respirations even. She let me check without argument, which is how I know the situation rattled her worse than she'll say. Two years of bringing injured animals to her intake counter, and the only time Isla Mackenzie lets someone take her vitals without a fight is when she's too tired to fight back.

Her left hand trembles. She hides it by tucking it under her right elbow, deep in the fold of her arms, and from ten feet away with the sun dropping behind the ridge, most people wouldn't notice. But I notice because I've read this woman's body the way I read a patient—respiration rate, muscle tension, pupil dilation, the micro-expressions that flag pain before a person admits to it.

Her breathing shifts when she looks at the coyotes. Deeper on the inhale, held at the top, released through her nose. She's not panicking—her hands stay still, her posture holds—but fear running underneath the anger.

"Thomas."

I look up from the coiled snare in my hands.

"Are you going to stand there documenting, or are we leaving?"

"We can go." I set the snare in the truck bed beside the others and open the passenger door. She drops off the tailgate without help, the tape across her right hand catching on the metal edge. I note it. I don't mention it either.

Knox listens to the full report at the table in the common room without interrupting. Garrett stands against the far wall with his arms crossed, horns angled to clear the ceiling fixture. Colt sits to Knox's left with a notebook open, pen moving.

I lay it out: six snare lines inside the property fence, four coyote carcasses arranged at the east gate, trail cameras disabled, tires slashed with a fixed blade. Two men in a truck who watched Isla pull their equipment and threatened her.

"She's been reporting to Fish and Wildlife for eight months," I say. "The incidents have escalated each time."

Isla sits across from Knox with her spine against the chair back and her jaw locked. She hasn't touched the water Jess left on the table.

"I can handle it."

Knox's attention moves to her.

"How many of those reports got a response?"

She doesn't answer. Her mouth opens and then closes. Her fingers tighten on the edge of the table.

Knox nods at the silence. "That's what I thought. You should stay until we sort this."

"I have animals on that property." Isla leans forward. "A barred owl on a feeding schedule, fox kits that need monitoring, a juvenile hawk that can't thermoregulate without—"

"We can bring them here," Knox says. "The garage bay has space for temporary caging."

"Or someone comes to stay with me. My property, my animals, my routine."

Knox considers that. "We'll figure out logistics tomorrow. Tonight, you stay."

Isla pushes her chair back. She walks out of the common room without slamming anything, which is worse than if she had.

I find her in the hallway between the kitchen and the back stairs. She stands with her shoulder against the wall and one hand gripping her opposite elbow, and the overhead light turning her hair copper.

"He can't tell me where to sleep."

"He's not telling you. He's asking, he's right, and you know it."

Her head turns. Green eyes, narrowed, the look of a woman deciding whether to argue or walk.

"You're taking his side."

"I'm taking yours, but you're too stubborn to see it from this angle."

The hallway holds the sentence. I've never said anything like that to her. I've never pushed back, because pushing back means caring enough to risk an argument, and caring means this stopped being anything professional a long time ago.

She stares at me. I hold her stare.

"Fine." She pushes off the wall. "One night."