Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Yes.”
He scans the ground without touching anything. “This trail was active last summer.”
I look over at him. “How active?”
“Daily.”
“By elk?”
“Elk, deer, sometimes bear. Coyotes at night.” He points toward the slope beyond us. “There’s water down there with cover on both sides.”
“Is this one of your camera points?” Rhett’s behind me, one hand hooked loosely around the strap of his backpack. I’m sure he’s not looming intentionally, but he seems to have a gift for making the wilderness feel like a smaller space.
“One of them. They were placed where we’d normally expect activity.”
Boone steps around a young spruce. “And you’re not getting activity?”
“We’re getting some.”
All three men look at me as I close my notebook, but I’m not ready to say more. I hired them for local expertise, and so far, their knowledge is better than advertised, but I’m only starting to gather data. Until I confirm a pattern, I don’t want to put weight on it, not even with myself.
Rhett holds my gaze for a long second, and I have the impression he knows I’ve just placed a wall at the edge of the conversation. He could get through it if he wanted to, but he doesn’t push.
“We’ll check the next one when you’re ready,” he says.
There’s no irritation in his tone. No wounded male ego at only being given part of an answer.
Instead, there’s support, offered matter-of-factly, and something in my chest loosens.
I’m used to being underestimated. Sometimes men think field competence belongs to them by default, and a woman couldn’t possibly know what they know. Sometimes people doubt my abilities because models with my body type aren’t pictured in outdoor clothing catalogs.
I’ve worked with people who turned every interaction into a test: Can she read a map? Can she keep up? Can she handle rough terrain, discomfort, and fatigue?
The Wilders haven’t asked any of those questions out loud, and more importantly, they haven’t acted like they’re asking them silently.
They saw my gear, bear spray, and sidearm before we left the trailhead, and none of them smirked or made a joke. They didn’t even give me a lecture about safety.
It’s unexpectedly disarming and very inconvenient.
CHAPTER 4
WREN
Over the next three days, we set out from a different trailhead each morning and hike back out before dark. We cover a lot of miles, and they’re backcountry miles, which are harder and measured less by distance than by elevation and obstacles.
Rhett keeps us moving at a pace that challenges me but doesn’t push past my limits, Cade notices small things I might have missed, and Boone talks just enough to be friendly, but never so much that he disrupts my work.
All three of them disrupt my focus, but that’s not their fault.
“Did you grow up here?” I ask Boone when he points out a peak that isn’t labeled on my map and tells me locals have called it Widow Tooth for years.
“Further north. We moved to Moon Ridge after we left the Army.”
“Army?”
“Rangers,” he says easily, and it feels like an important piece of a puzzle.
Their movements are efficient. Their eyes are always scanning the environment, even more than many people might think necessary.
Knowing they’re former Army Rangers makes me feel safer and also more unsettled, because my body has an immediate, inconvenient reaction to the information. Apparently, I have a type, and that type is a man who’s both dangerous and competent.
It’s not the sort of data I was expecting to collect on this trip.
We’re approaching another trail camera, and, like most of the others, it sits near a corridor that no longer appears to be active. The camera is strapped to a pine at chest height, and as I put on gloves and prepare to inspect it, the Wilders spread out in a now-familiar pattern.
Rhett watches the approach and slope above us, Cade studies the ground in the distance, and Boone stays close enough to hand me equipment if I need it.
The camera’s housing is intact, the battery has a charge, the memory card is seated properly, and there’s no obvious damage from weather, wildlife, or human hands.
Still, something bothers me. I step back and study the angle, then move to the left and crouch. The camera covers the main game trail, but not the narrow gap between two boulder outcrops about thirty yards uphill.
Cade is already looking at the same gap when I ask, “Does that cut connect to anything?”
He glances toward the ridge. “Old access route above us. Not maintained. Most people wouldn’t find it unless they knew where to come off the pass.”
I capture images of the camera position, the junction, and the cut between the rocks, then record the coordinates and angles in my notebook, where they add to a growing pattern.
Maybe there are natural reasons why animals have stopped using these areas, or maybe something is pushing movement away from the obvious routes.