Free Prey by Linda Howard

of death … yeah, paper and pen were better.
    The calendar was a map of his success. At first glance, it was a mess of chicken scratching. Maybe his penmanship wasn’t great, but he could decipher it and that was all that mattered. Notes were scrawled in the margins of the notebook-sized organizing calendar, plans and names were scratched out here and there, and in some places other names were added in. He didn’t get many cancellations, but it happened. Sometimes there were other clients on standby, regulars waiting to take the place of the ones who’d backed out for one reason or another—regulars who would prefer to wait for him than to sign on with someone else. He was proud of that, that for some hunters it was Dare Callahan or no one.
    The calendar told him exactly what he’d known it would: He didn’t have anything scheduled for the next ten days. There was no one on standby, either; the end of the busy season was coming up fast. The last few months had been so busy, Dare wouldn’t mind taking a short break. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do. The camps could always use maintenance, and hewas always behind on his paperwork, witness the mound of receipts right in front of him now. He wasn’t exactly a nester, but he needed to take care of a pile of laundry before he ran out of clothes, and he needed to lay in some more firewood for winter, and stock up on supplies. He was careful not to let himself run low on anything, but it never hurt to be prepared to hunker down for a good long while during a Montana winter. For a few minutes Dare sat there, thinking of all the things he needed to get accomplished in the next ten days.
    He tapped the end of his pen against the tabletop. Flipped through the calendar with no particular purpose. Took a sip of water. Ground his teeth.
    He tossed the calendar to the table, sending a few receipts dancing and flying. One fell to the floor, but Dare ignored it. Damn Harlan to hell. Why couldn’t he have kept his fucking gut instincts to himself? He’d planted a seed of worry that Dare couldn’t shake.
    No way in hell was he going to tail Angie and her clients like some kind of unwanted bodyguard … or stalker. If nothing else, that was a good way to get shot. Antsy tourists with itchy trigger fingers might easily mistake him for game, from a distance. And if he wore an orange vest, as he should this time of year, it would be damn tough to remain out of sight.
    He didn’t think Angie would shoot him on purpose—maybe—if she caught him tailing her, but he wasn’t her favorite person, so she probably wouldn’t shed a tear over his body, either. Once again he tried to convince himself that this was
not his business
, but a little voice in the back of his head whispered that since he’d made an offer on her place, he’d made it his business. Well, shit.
    He drank some more water, then capped the bottle and pushed it aside. Water wasn’t doing it for him right now, and he was out of beer—another item on his list of things to get. The coffeepot still held a couple of inches of cold coffee. He eyed the coffee,thinking it would probably taste like shit, but what the hell. Shoving away from the table, he grabbed his morning coffee cup from the dishwasher—why mess up another one—and filled it, then put it in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes.
    While it heated, he scowled at the floor. Why was he even thinking what he was thinking? Angie had made it clear she thought it was his fault that she had to sell, and that she hated his guts because of it. She’d hate him even more now that he’d made the offer on her property, because she’d think he was taking advantage of her situation. The last thing she’d want was him tagging along on a job to make sure she was safe, even if he had the time or the inclination, which he didn’t. Mostly. That last word sneaked into his brain and made his scowl deeper.
    The microwave dinged. He opened the