The cat returned to him, walking slowly, each step looking like an effort. He stopped beside Mike and looked him in the eye. There was so much exhaustion and pain in that gaze that Mike felt a lump form in his throat.
— “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t help you, buddy. I’m sorry.”
The cougar lowered his head and gently nudged Mike’s cheek. It was a warm, damp touch, surprisingly tender. Then the cat pulled back and looked at the rope again. He let out a soft sound, a sort of chuffing sigh, as if trying to communicate.
Mike realized the animal couldn’t do it alone. He needed to help. He twisted his right hand as much as the rope allowed and pressed his wrist against the rough bark of the tree, rubbing it back and forth with everything he had. The bark was like coarse sandpaper, stripping his skin and leaving raw, bloody scrapes, but he didn’t stop.
He felt the nylon fibers begin to fray and weaken. The cougar watched him, amber eyes tracking every movement. Mike saw the moment the cat understood. He tilted his head, and Mike nodded toward the weakened section of the rope.
His neck was stiff, so he just stared intensely at the rope, then at the cat. Man and beast understood each other perfectly. The cougar stepped in, opened his jaws, and bared rows of white, razor-sharp teeth.
Mike saw those fangs—each as long as his finger—and for a second, his heart stopped. One wrong move and he’d bleed out in minutes. But he had no other choice. The cougar clamped his jaws onto the frayed rope, and Mike felt the cat’s hot breath against his skin.
A tooth grazed his skin just a hair’s breadth from his pulse point. Mike squeezed his eyes shut. There was a sharp *snap*, the rope gave way, and Mike’s arms jerked forward. He lost his balance and tumbled to the side, the wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground.
The world went dark for a second, but his senses came rushing back. He lay on his back, looking up at the gray autumn sky through the canopy, realizing one thing: he was free. He tried to stand, but his limbs were dead weight, his muscles refusing to wake up.
He managed to roll onto his stomach and push up to his hands and knees. Instinct made him crawl away from the predator, even though his mind knew the cat had saved him. His body reacted on its own, and he’d moved ten feet before he could finally stop.
Mike sat up, leaning his back against a young oak, and caught his breath. His hands were shaking, and his heart was hammering against his ribs. He looked back at the cougar. The big male was standing in the same spot, motionless. He just stood there, watching Mike with a quiet, steady dignity.
Mike knew these woods like the back of his hand. This was a crossroads for several territorial predators. The peace wouldn’t last. The cougar’s ears twitched at a distant sound; his hackles rose again as he turned toward the deep woods and let out a warning growl.
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