it looked empty. No trucks, or tethered horses—they were often used on bird-watching safaris. Bolts of mosquito netting stretched across the open tent windows. Zambia was a malaria zone; a fact reserved for the pamphlet’s fine print. She had slathered her own skin with mud, a natural and readily accessible mosquito repellent.
Wynne was attuned to the sounds in the bush: the shrill chatter of monkeys; the trumpeting of an elephant; the cough of a hunting leopard. The sounds were always present, a gauging of normalcy, comforting in a way. She heard none of them now, only her own breathing and a dead eerie silence. Had the poachers gotten here before her?
She scanned the area behind the lodge. The trees. Along the road. She was about to take off her slingshot and follow the herd when someone touched her shoulder.
Wynne screamed in surprise and wheeled around. She kicked her attacker in the side, but the large man grabbed her leg and tossed her to the ground. As he came at her again she countered with a knee cut that knocked him off balance.
He staggered back and hit a tree trunk.
Wynne leaped to her feet, ready for the next strike.
He used an aikido side arm thrust this time. She deflected the blow and got in a lucky kick to his ribs.
He flinched a little, but stood his ground, solid as a mountain.
They circled each other, hands up, on the defensive. His face was in shadow and she couldn’t see his eyes. It was important to see an opponent’s eyes; they gave away every intended movement. She felt blind fighting him.
For a broad-shouldered man his movements were decisive and quick and hard to anticipate. He was a head taller than her five foot eleven inch frame. She looked most men in the eye, not this guy.
“We could do this two-step all night,” his voice was deep, honey-coated by a Texas drawl.
“You’re American?” It took her aback for a moment, but she didn’t drop her guard or stop circling him.
“Last I checked.” Amusement laced his voice. He paused and looked too at ease, hardly out of breath.
He’d been sparring with her, not using his full strength. What would have happened had he really felt threatened? “Who the hell are you?” Wynne paused because he’d paused. They stood three feet from each other. She kept her gaze on his hands.
“I was going to introduce myself when I tapped you on the shoulder—that is, before you attacked me like a cat with its tail caught under a rocker.”
“I didn’t hear you behind me. It was a knee-jerk reaction.”
“Guess I should have cleared my throat.” He sounded genuinely contrite. “My mistake. Bygones?” He shoved a hand at her.
Wynne leaped back as if avoiding a mamba attack.
“Whoa, there. Touchy thing, ain’t you?”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.” She narrowed her eyes at his dark form. It seemed massive against the back drop of the moon. She wished she could see his eyes.
“Anything you say.” He slowly raised his hands.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, certain he was enjoying toying with her and had this pleasant harmless act honed to perfection. She felt her patience slipping. “Tell me your name.”
“I could ask you the same, darlin’.”
“I’m a ranger, and so not your darlin’. Your turn.”
“Jack MacKay—nice moves you got. You study under a sifu?”
“Fifteen years.” She wasn’t about to tell him his form was as good as hers—a different discipline than the karate kick boxing she had studied, but impressive. His eyes were hidden in the dark, but she could feel him eyeing her up and down. “And you?” she asked.
“Ex-SEAL.”
A good old boy and a SEAL, a lethal combination. That explained why she didn’t hear him sneak up on her. “Okay, Lone Star, what are you doing in this area? The park closes at night.”
“Most people call me Jack. And I was just walking. Any law against that?”
“The park’s dangerous at night. Big cats and crocs hunt at night along this river, and so do hyenas and wild dogs. Stick to walking in daylight when the park is open. And don’t ever sneak up on someone again. Now, I’m going to have to frisk you.”
“Help yourself, darlin’.” He turned and assumed the position with his hands outstretched and feet apart all too willingly. “I’ll warn you, I’m packing,” he said.
She stood behind him to be on the safe side and patted his ribs none too gently and enjoyed it when he winced. “Guns are not allowed in the park.”
“It’s a man’s God-given right to protect himself.”
“This isn’t Texas, or the Alamo.” She felt the shoulder holster, then found the gun. A massive thing, a .44 Magnum. Dirty Harry had nothing on this guy.
“Careful now. It’s loaded. Wouldn’t want a lady hurting herself.”
He had just pushed the wrong buttons. She hurled the gun as far as she could. It plunked into the river with a loud splash.
“Hey, that was the first gun I ever bought. I’m attached to that gun.” The sugar coating left his voice, a steely edge in its place.
Was that the true MacKay surfacing, a hint of dark center behind the Texas buttercream icing? “No guns in the park.” She finished patting him down.
“Y’ all really know how to show a guy a good time around here.”
“Jeez, I’m sorry our social director is off. You got stuck with me.” Wynne finished patting down his legs and decided not to search his crotch. He might like it too much. “You’re clean.”
“Do I get to search you now?”
“You can, if you want to be staked over a termite mound.” Wynne listened to him laugh loudly, an exaggerated roar from deep within his chest. She rested her fists on her hips and said, “Now, I suggest you go back to where you came from.”
“Can’t. My jeep broke down.” He gestured to the dirt road that led into camp.
“You said you were out walking?”
“I was. I knew the camp was here, so I walked here to find out if there was a phone.”
“A phone?” Out in a bush camp. Malarkey. And he’d snuck up on her in a perpendicular direction to the road. What was he up to? Was he the contact the poacher had spoken about?
“What were you doing driving here to begin with?”
“You’re mighty nosey.”
“Technically you’re trespassing on a Zambian national park and a game-managed area. I could bust you for having a gun. So
