Not frightened—just… subdued. The mountain lion wasn’t stalking them. She was keeping them, almost as if they were her own cubs.
Caleb’s voice was a low murmur. “This is… unexpected.”
Lisa turned toward him. “What’s going on?”
He kept his eyes fixed ahead, his expression unreadable. “She’s grieving. Probably lost her litter. And now… instinct, trauma, maybe even something like madness—it’s hard to say—has driven her to take these two.”
Lisa looked again. The lion wasn’t restraining the kittens or showing her teeth. She lay beside them, breathing slow and steady. When a bird cried nearby, her tail flicked in a way that felt protective.
“I think,” Caleb said after a pause, “she’s convinced they’re hers.”
Lisa crouched lower behind the tree, unable to look away. Nina blinked, ears twitching, and leaned gently against the lion’s massive side. The grey tabby—Kevin’s kitten—was already curled beneath the big cat’s jaw.
The lion didn’t tense. She didn’t growl. She simply scanned the clearing, lifting her head now and again like a watchful mother.
“This can’t be real,” Lisa whispered.
“It is,” Caleb said softly. “I’ve read about this sort of thing… in captivity. Almost never in the wild. When a mountain lion loses her cubs, sometimes she redirects that maternal drive. Finds something else—small, familiar, vulnerable—to protect.”
“Kittens?”
He nodded. “It’s grief, Lis. And confusion. But that doesn’t make her any less dangerous.”
Lisa pressed her forehead to the tree’s bark. “So… what now?”
Caleb scanned the surrounding terrain. “We wait for her to leave. If she’s treating them like her cubs, she’ll have to hunt eventually. When she does, we move in. Quiet. Fast.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we rethink. But charging in now is suicide.”
Lisa nodded, though her hands trembled. Every instinct screamed to act. But Nina was breathing. She was alive. That would have to be enough—for now.
They stayed hidden for over an hour. The lion never wandered far. Once, she stretched and padded slowly around the clearing, her movements deliberate, almost ceremonial, like a sentinel guarding something beyond value.
Then she stopped. Her head lifted—not idly, not scanning—but as if she had heard something specific.