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After examining what was left of the calf’s belly, he slowly and gracefully stood and circled the carcass. He kept his head down and several times leaned over for a closer look at something.
    Finally he returned to where she and Beale waited. “This wasn’t done by a dog.”
    How can you say that? she came too close to blurting. Instead she clenched her fingers to keep from touching him. He looked not just grim but also tense.
    “I didn’t think so,” Beale said, “but I didn’t want to say anything until you’d come to your own conclusions. Too clean for curs, right?”
    “Yeah.” Matt rammed his hands into his back pockets. “Damn, I wish I’d brought a camera.”
    “I have one.” Beale nodded at the gelding. “My girlfriend keeps asking me to show her what I do.”
    “I’d like to borrow it.”
    Looking pleased to be able to do something for his boss, Beale hurried toward his mount.
    “Who are you going to show the pictures to?” she asked.
    “I haven’t decided.”
    Although Matt had met her gaze during the short exchange, she sensed his attention was elsewhere. He had the look of a man backed into something he wanted no part of. Different from before.
    And the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
    What is this reaction about? she pondered as Beale demonstrated how the digital camera worked. Matt’s rugged quality had been a huge part of his appeal to her. He was no less rugged and untamed today, but there was a new layer. Mysterious. Dangerous?
    Not rushing, Matt took at least a dozen shots of the sad remains. He even aimed the camera at the sky and captured the buzzards circling overhead. That done, he stepped away from the kill site and started walking in a slow, contemplative circle. He stared at the ground, occasionally brushing grass aside with a boot. Although she hoped the activity—she guessed he was looking for tracks—would calm him, tension continued to ride his shoulders.
    “You ever seen something a pack of dogs has gotten to?” Beale asked her.
    “No.”
    “It’s ugly. They don’t know what they’re doing; hunting’s been bred out of their DNA or something. They rip and tear until not much is left. This”—he jerked his head at the carcass—“is the work of a real predator.”
    “Cougar?”
    “No,” Matt responded. “Cats go for the throat.”
    Matt knew or suspected more than he was saying. So, she gathered, did Beale. Much as she needed to know what that was, she’d wait for them to explain. Watching Matt lean down and snap a picture of something on the ground, she acknowledged that the prickling at the back of her neck hadn’t gone away. It wasn’t just the carnage or even the men’s moods—not that she had a handle on Matt’s.
    Their surroundings contributed.
    Were they being watched?
    Going by Matt’s actions, she surmised he’d found the trail made by whatever creature had killed he calf. She didn’t understand why he found it necessary to take shot after shot. Before he’d finished, he’d covered nearly a hundred yards. Rubbing the side of his neck, he started back. Then he stopped, new tension evident in the lines of his body. Unfortunately, he wasn’t close enough for her to read his expression.
    To her surprise, he turned ninety degrees to the left and took a dozen slow, long-legged steps. Stopping, he drew his rifle from his back and stared at the ground. Didn’t move a muscle. The better part of a minute later, he squatted, holding the rifle in one hand and the camera in the other. She couldn’t see what he was doing beyond studying something on the ground. Everything about him called to her. He was no longer the determined cowboy who’d recently turned down a corporation’s offer to buy him out. That man had been replaced by a creature ruled by instinct.
    After standing, Matt took more pictures, using one hand this time. Done, he slung the rifle over his shoulder but made no move to rejoin her and Beale.
    “Damn,” Beale