Endangered

Copyright © 2025 Jayme Whitfield

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical reviews or articles.

The air shimmered above the marsh, thick with heat and salt. Katie Lansfield tucked a copper curl behind her ear and lifted her camera, elbows tight to steady the lens. Through the viewfinder, a roseate tern touched down on the mudflat a few yards away, its feathers glowing in the late light.

She adjusted the focus until the bird came into perfect detail. It tilted its head, waited, then plunged its bill into the water and came up with a flickering fish. The quick success made her grin. Three days of waiting for this one sighting, and it was worth every mosquito bite.

She photographed it methodically, tracing each movement. The orange band on its bill glinted against gray feathers, confirmation she’d been right about the pair returning to this stretch of coast. For a moment she forgot the heat, the mud, and the fieldwork fatigue. There was only the quiet rhythm of her breathing and the living pulse of the marsh.

The bird stepped behind a scrub palm. Katie shifted her stance, the ground tugging at her boots in warning. She leaned for a clearer angle, trusting her balance. The marsh disagreed.

She went down hard, a splash breaking the stillness and sending the pink-and-white wings skyward.

The bird burst upward at the splash, startled into flight. Katie followed it with her eyes, noting the flash of creamy white along its belly and the soft blush of pink that marked breeding season. She stayed half-submerged, camera clutched to her chest, taking what shots she could as it climbed higher into the glare. A few more frames, maybe usable, then it was gone beyond the reach of her zoom.

Silence settled again, broken only by the slow drip of water from her sleeves. She hauled herself onto the bank, breathing hard. Her shorts were soaked, her boots heavy with mud, and a streak of green algae ran across her vest. Strands of hair clung to her face, gritty with sand.

She checked her pockets and pulled out the voice recorder. The screen still blinked. Relief loosened her shoulders. She tapped it dry against her palm, switched it on, and spoke into it, steady and professional despite the mess.

“April twelfth, eleven-oh-two a.m. Billings Ranch, Wetland Habitat Survey. Located adult male roseate tern on southern edge of marsh. Body length approximately thirty-five to forty centimeters, tail about twenty to twenty-five. Wing chord near twenty-three, wingspan roughly sixty. Culmen forty millimeters. Photographs taken and time-stamped. Breeding plumage confirmed with white underbelly and pink flush. Nest not yet located, likely on eastern ridge.”

She paused, played back the recording, and smiled when she heard her own voice, mud-soaked but steady. As she stopped the recording, a gunshot rang out. Katie flinched and almost dropped the recorder into the water. Scowling, she slipped the device back into her pocket, gathered her gear, and decided the morning was over. She checked her phone’s battery, took a long drink of water, and started back the way she had come.

With her luck, some trigger-happy local would mistake her for a wild hog. The thought barely finished before movement flickered ahead. A man stepped out from the saw palmetto, tall, broad, rifle in hand.

Katie stopped short, pulse quick but face steady. “Excuse me,” she said, trying to sidestep him.

He shifted with her, cutting her off.

“Who are you,” he asked, eyes narrow, “and what are you doing on my land?”

Just what she needed, another territorial man with a gun. Katie forced down the spike of irritation and tried for civility.

“I’m sorry,” she said, summoning a polite smile. “I was just on my way out.”

She stepped to pass him, but he didn’t move.

“I didn’t ask where you were going,” he said. “I asked who you are.”

His eyes narrowed, and Katie caught her breath as the color shifted in the light. Gray, then blue, then something almost green. It wasn’t imagination. She’d seen that kind of variation before in birds, where light bent across pigment and made the same feathers seem to change color.

He shifted his weight, patient but watchful, and she found herself studying him with the same attention she gave her field notes. Broad shoulders, sun-browned skin, the balanced stance of someone who worked outdoors and trusted his own strength. She meant only to observe, but her gaze lingered longer than it should have.

He noticed. The sound of his laugh was low and rough, not mocking but close enough to make her blush.

“Like what you see?” he asked.

The question hit her somewhere between embarrassment and annoyance. Her mouth moved before she could think.

“I was cataloguing,” she said. “Old habit.”

“I’m just… I mean, I…” Katie stopped, sighed, and gave up. “Oh, hell.” She planted her hands on her hips and met his stare.

He laughed, low and unhurried. “You don’t look much like the poachers I’m used to.” His gaze swept over her in a quick inventory: mud-smeared shorts, soaked vest, copper hair plastered to her neck, freckles standing out against flushed skin. Curiosity, not malice, but it made her pulse jump anyway.

Before she could stop herself, her mouth betrayed her. “Like what you see?”

The words hung there, sharp with sarcasm, but they landed wrong. His smile deepened, slow and certain.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “That was rhetorical,” she said, trying to regain her footing.

“Didn’t sound rhetorical.”

“Do you even know what it means?” she asked, brushing past him.

He caught her arm before she reached the trail. His grip was firm, not rough, the kind of hold that came from habit rather than intent.

“Not so fast,” he said. “You don’t leave my land until I know who you are and why you’re here.”

Katie pulled against his hand, irritation sparking through her embarrassment. “That desperate for company?”

His mouth curved, but his grip didn’t ease. “Just careful about strangers.”

The humor drained out of her voice. “Careful’s one thing. This is something else.” She tried again to pull free. “Let me go.”

“Not until I know who you are and why you’re on my land.” His voice was low, close to a growl.

“I’m not trespassing.” She glared up at him, continuing to twist against his grip. “You could start by listening before jumping to conclusions.”

“Like hell,” he said. “You’re on private land without permission, and you still won’t say who you are. Maybe the sheriff can sort it out.”

He dug a phone from his back pocket, still keeping hold of her while he fumbled to unlock it. His fingers were broad and nicked from work, not built for tiny buttons, and the sight was almost ridiculous.

Katie’s laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Need some help with that?”

The moment the words left her mouth, she knew she’d regret them. Her timing was always terrible.

He looked up, eyes cold, and took one step closer. She could feel the heat coming off him, the sharp mix of sweat and sun.

“Not funny,” he said.

“Didn’t say it was.”

“You’re a little pain in the ass, aren’t you?” His voice was low, half irritation, half reluctant amusement.

He shifted his grip and pulled her a step closer, turning her sideways to keep her still while he balanced the phone in his other hand. The movement was efficient, practiced, and completely infuriating.

Katie fought against him, twisting hard. Panic flickered at the edges of her control, and her temper surged with it.

“I’m Katie Lansfield,” she snapped. “Wetland Rehabilitation and Preservation. I have a permit and written permission to be here. Let me go.”

The words came out louder than she meant, a mix of anger and adrenaline. He froze for a second, then loosened his hold just enough for her to step back.

She was shouting now, voice sharp with fear and anger. The words stopped him cold. He hesitated, then let her go so suddenly she stumbled backward and landed hard in the sand.

Katie pushed herself up, glaring at him. A dozen insults crowded her tongue, but he spoke first.

“If you’re smart, you’ll head back to the main road,” he said. “I don’t take chances with strangers, and I already shot at a bobcat this morning.”

He turned and walked away without looking back, rifle over his shoulder.

“Asshole,” she muttered, brushing sand from her palms.

The insult steadied her, but only until the rest of his words sank in. A bobcat. He’d been firing at something not far from where she’d been working. The thought chilled her. She grabbed her gear and started for her truck, scanning the scrub for any hint of movement until she reached the safety of the cab.