Clarkson turned her head but didn’t move.
Trent had nothing left that resembled patience.
Dolly had flattened herself on the ground. But that was only temporary.
Trent pointed at Dutton. "Get to the porch. Right now. You move anywhere else, and I promise you this gator is the least of your problems."
Dutton took Courtney’s hand and moved to the porch.
Trent turned back to his animals.
Clarkson wasn’t interested in Cullen and had Karl pinned against the SUV, mouth open, waiting. Jack had worked his way around the far side, arms out, moving slow. Cullen came in from the other angle.
“I don’t think she’ll charge if he doesn't move," Trent called. "Give me a second."
He got to Dolly first. She’d begun circling, agitated, tail still sweeping hard. He could see the wound now—high on the tail, entry and exit both visible, bleeding but not pumping.
His shoulders dropped about an inch.
"Hey." He crouched down to her level and put out his hand. "Hey, old girl. I see you. Let me look."
She turned her head toward him. One amber eye, ancient and furious.
"I know." He kept his hand out. "I know. You're okay."
She stilled. Not calm—still hot, still agitated—but she let him move closer.
Dove appeared beside him. She crouched the same way he did, held her hand out the same way, and spoke in the same low register. "Come on, Dolly. It's okay. You're okay."
Dolly's tail slowed.
Trent glanced at Dove. She was watching the gator the way he'd tried to teach her—patient, steady, no sudden movement, letting the animal decide on her own.
He looked back at Dolly.
The wound wasn't bad. Clean through the thick part of the tail, well clear of anything vital. She'd end up with a scar, and she'd be sore. She’d be in a mood for a good week, but she’d be fine.
"Back to the water," he said softly. "Come on. Go on home."
Dolly held for another moment. Then she turned and moved toward the moat, slow and dignified, like the whole thing had been her idea from the start.
He stayed crouched until she slid off the bank and into the water.
Behind him, he heard Cullen utilizing that same low and steady timbre that everyone who’d ever been raised with gators used. Jack echoed it, and the two of them worked Clarkson back toward the moat one patient step at a time until a splash told him she was back where she belonged.
Karl slid down the side of the SUV and sat in the gravel with his head in his hands.
Trent stood.
Buddy climbed down from the observation platform, rifle across his back, and Sterling came around from the far side of the house, and from the end of the drive, tires screamed on the pavement as Dawson's cruiser rolled in hot, another vehicle right behind it.
Dawson was out before the car stopped rocking. Chloe was right behind him. And from the passenger seat, Lach Ridge unfolded himself from the vehicle.
They didn't need much direction, though Buddy gave it to them anyway, even though his FBI days were long behind him.
Dutton sat on the porch steps with his hands up while Dawson cuffed him, reciting his rights in the flat, practiced tone of someone who'd done it enough times that the words were automatic. Chloe moved Courtney to the second vehicle, portfolio still somehow under her arm, mascara tracking down her face. Lach walked Karl to the patrol car without a word, and Karl went without argument, which told Trent everything about how much fight the man had left.
He almost felt sorry for Karl. Almost was the keyword.
