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empty.
    Ryker opened his eyes and sat forward slowly.
    Or was it?

CHAPTER THREE
    S OMEWHERE ON THE HORIZON Kit heard a clap of thunder.
    Restless for no reason she could name, she studied the gunmetal sky. The dogs were jumpy, too, interrupting their usual play to shoot wary looks at the high ridges around the ranch. Right now Baby was standing motionless, her nose pointed into the wind.
    â€œDo you smell something up there, honey?”
    The puppy whined faintly, but didn’t move.
    One by one dark clouds began to billow over the mountains, blotting out the sun. Butch and Sundance sat nearby, panting. Only Diesel moved, his pure black coat streaked with dust as he sniffed furiously at a retreating gecko.
    Gravel skipped over the rocks, carried in eddies by the restless wind. After a last glance at the sky, Kit opened her backpack and took out Baby’s red collar. Strapping on the work collar always signaled a transition to focused commands, invaluable reinforcement for service dog training.
    Warmed up from a good run across the mesa, the dogs were ready to focus on training. Baby’s dark eyes probed Kit’s face, and the dog quivered with excitement, awaiting the first command. No one could say that these animals didn’t love to learn.
    Kit began by reinforcing simple stay commands, then followed up with a variety of heel and halt repetitions, alternating ten minutes of training with five minutes of play and copious amounts of praise. After Baby ran through her moves, Kit slipped collars on Butch and the other dogs in turn. Accustomed to working serially, the dogs seemed to compete for fast command acquisition. Sometimes they even seemed to think as a team.
    A family of quail shot out of the brush, making the dogs start. Even then, none moved, still on down command. “Stay,” Kit repeated quietly.
    Baby whimpered, bumping against Kit’s leg. Lightning cracked over the ridge, followed by the roll of thunder.
    Baby’s ears flattened.
    From a cluster of rocks up the slope Kit heard a shrill, rising wail. On a punch of fear, she recognized the cry of a mature cougar. Despite the wild pounding of her heart, she suppressed a primal urge to run.
    â€œStay,” she ordered, one hand on Baby’s head. If the dogs bolted, the hunting cat would be on them in a second, drawn by their motion.
    Across the clearing Kit saw her rifle in its sling next to her backpack, and she cursed herself for not keeping the weapon within reach. Over the last months she had seen a rare cougar track on the higher slopes, but none of the animals had ever come close to the ranch.
    Brown fur flashed up the ridge. Kit felt the skin tighten along her neck. She gripped her big oak walking stick, the only weapon at hand against a predator with ten times her strength.
    Wind sighed through the cottonwood trees.
    Kit heard the big cat cry again, the high wail like a physical assault. Beside her leg, Baby gave a powerful twitch.
    â€œStay, all of you.” Kit’s voice shook.
    She knew she would have to take on the big cat armed with only her stick. Her father had done it once, and he’d told the story in electrifying detail for years afterward.
    Staying calm was crucial. Sudden movement would trigger an immediate attack. In the face of a cougar, she also had to stand tall, raising her stick so that the cat would recognize her as an intimidating predator prepared to fight back. Her father had also warned her never to stare into a cougar’s eyes, since this was considered a dominance challenge from one predator to another.
    With one hand still on Baby’s neck, Kit raised her big oak stick. “Heel.” She spoke loudly to the Labs as she moved backward. As the wind shook the trees, she took another cautious step, the dogs ranged close beside her.
    The low, stubby branches of a mesquite tree shook furiously. Brown fur brushed against shivering leaves, and a mature male cougar stepped onto a boulder,