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caught up with him when he tried to hide in a low area next to a big sagebrush. He was shaking violently, huddling into the small hollow. The sound and wind of the helicopter were enough to scare anyone. But only a few months before, Mountain had been airlifted by a chopper during a wildfire when he’d been severely injured. I could still remember how he looked then as he hung suspended in the air from the rescue belt—weak and frightened, as if he were about to let go of life. I approached the shallow pit, crouched down next to his head and shoulders, and leaned over him in a protective way. I put my arms over his back and sheltered his head. He shook with fear, his body trembling like a tuning fork.
    When the chopper’s blades stopped beating and began to shift from a high-pitched whine to a sputtering drone, the wolf got to his feet. I grabbed hold of his collar, thinking he was going to flee again, but he stayed beside me, still quivering, his body pressed tight against my leg. We walked partway back down the slope, then stopped and watched as the heavy cloud canopy to the east parted, and the morning light burst through a gray cowl, bestowing the helicopter with a shimmering silver halo.
    The door of the airship opened. A man dropped to the ground, light on his feet, stooping to avoid the slow-spinning blades overhead. As he stepped toward us, he straightened. A thick crest of shining silver hair topped a suntanned face and a tall, powerful physique. Agent Sterling wore black—from his shades to his boots. He looked like Adonis. Behind him, the medical examiner climbed out and someone from inside the bird handed her a black bag. The ME trudged toward Diane, clutching her hat to her head with one hand, holding her bag in the other.
    But I could not take my eyes off the Silver Bullet. And neither could Diane.
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    While the FBI and the medical examiner went to examine the body, I returned to the ruin to check on the cougar offspring. But the den was abandoned—the she-cat had moved her cubs in the night during the storm.
    After he’d seen the body, Agent Sterling wanted to talk with me. “Tell me your name again?” he asked, removing his shades as we stood in the dim light of the chapel.
    â€œJamaica Wild. I’m a resource protection agent for the BLM.”
    He smiled, his teeth white against his tan face. “I know who you are. I just wanted to hear you say your name. So what brought you here?”
    â€œI was after a wounded cougar.”
    â€œTell me about how you got in here,” he said with a flip of his hand.
    â€œWe got caught in a blizzard—”
    â€œWe?” He moved his head slightly toward me, tilting it to the side as if he hadn’t heard me correctly.
    â€œMy wolf, my horse, and I. We needed shelter. The slat over the double doors was loose.”
    Sterling walked out the door and looked to one side. He pointed with the sunglasses in his hand at the piece of wood on the ground. “Was that the slat?”
    â€œYes.”
    He squatted and scrutinized the wood. “Did you make these pry marks here?”
    I bent down to look. “No, I pulled it off with my hands. It was loose.”
    â€œAnd the door?” He stood up and pointed with his sunglasses again. “Did you do this damage to the door?”
    â€œIt was the only way I could get the horse through.”
    He nodded, pressing his lips together. Then he walked across to the entry gates. “And these gates? Did you break them for the same reason?”
    â€œThat was an accident. The storm made Rooster skittish—”
    â€œRooster is the horse?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd the wolf, what’s his name?”
    â€œMountain.”
    â€œGorgeous animal.”
    Sterling waited, but I didn’t reply. Someone who kept a pet might have said “thank you” with pride of ownership. But Mountain was not my property, nor was he my pet. He was my