"You lead," he said.
She blinked. "You sure?"
"You’re the vet."
Natalie adjusted the strap over her shoulder and stepped into the trees. The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of moss and decaying leaves. Dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy, and the sound of trickling water grew louder as they moved downhill. Birds called above them, and somewhere nearby, the sharp, territorial cry of a jay rang through the branches.
They moved quickly but cautiously. Mason's steps were soundless, his presence nearly absorbed by the forest. He was like a shadow beside her, more creature than man in the woods.
They reached the gulley after twenty minutes of weavingthrough brush and ducking under low branches. The scent of blood hit Natalie first, faint but distinct, coppery and raw. A trail of crimson drops led them downhill into a narrow depression where the terrain dipped into a shallow ravine. The wolf lay there, half-concealed beneath a tangle of fallen logs and dry brush. Its fur was a mottled grey with streaks of silver, dusted with dirt and pine needles. Its left hind leg was twisted at a brutal angle, the fur matted with dried blood and gore. The trap had lacerated deeply into the flesh, exposing raw muscle and torn sinew.
The wolf was young, maybe two or three years old, but already large. He raised his head slightly, panting, teeth bared. His eyes glowed a wild yellow in the filtered light, sharp and wary even through the pain.
"Trap wound," Natalie murmured. "Old, maybe a day or two. Infection’s starting."
Mason nodded, crouching low at a distance to observe the animal's breathing. "He’s holding on. Barely."
"Vitals look okay. You got a sedative?"
She pulled a syringe from the med kit and began preparing a dose with practiced hands.
"Use Telazol," she said. "Quicker onset."
Mason didn’t move. "I usually use Medetomidine and Ketamine. Less respiratory risk."
"Not with that much blood loss. He needs to be under fast, or we’ll lose him when we move."
His jaw tightened. "I’ve worked with wolves longer."
"I’ve worked in trauma longer," she replied.
The standoff stretched between them like a drawn wire.
Mason finally stepped back, just slightly. "Your call."
She administered the dose with steady hands. The wolf flinched as the needle went in, gave one last defiant growl, and then slumped slowly, his breath slowing as the drug took hold.They moved in together. Natalie steadied the animal's head while Mason inspected the leg. Blood seeped slowly from the torn skin. The trap had fractured the tibia clean through.
"We’ll need x-rays," she said. "But this can be saved."
Mason carefully lifted the limb, his hands large but gentle. "We splint it here, or it won’t survive transport."
He reached for the bandages. Natalie watched his movements, sure, practiced, but rough around the edges. He worked by feel. Intuition.
"Not like that," she said. "You’re binding it too tight. You’ll cut off circulation."
"This isn’t a clinic," he snapped.
"No," she snapped back, "but he’s still a patient."
Their voices clashed in the stillness, sharper than the birdsong and louder than the wind.
They locked eyes. The trees stood silent around them. Finally, Mason let out a breath, long and low, and loosened the bandage. They worked in silence, tension thrumming in every movement. Sweat beaded on Natalie’s brow. Her throat was dry. But her hands didn’t shake. Not once. When the wolf was finally secured in the crate, his body stabilized, Natalie sank to a crouch beside the metal frame, her fingers brushing the animal’s thick fur one last time.
"You always take command like that?" Mason asked, his voice quieter now.
She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. "Only when it I have to, when it matters."
He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable.
