Chapter 3
Three
We all look at Nature too much, and live with her too little.
—Oscar Wilde, Irish poet
Tim Rivers leaned against his truck, squinting up at the cloudless sky as he listened to the chatter over the radio. On such a beautiful day like this one, tourists were starting to fill the park after a long, cold winter. Tim loved seeing their enthusiasm, but he also knew it meant summer was coming, and that meant traffic congestion, parking problems, overcrowded facilities, lost or injured hikers, and potentially dangerous wildlife encounters.
He heard his name crackle over the radio and reached inside the open jeep window to unclip the microphone. “Rivers, here.”
“Where are you?”
He smiled. Sally was looking for him. He wondered why she didn’t just text him. “I’m over by Jenny Lake Lodge, directing people to parking spots.”
“There’s a family in the visitor center who said you caused their children to cry.”
“What?” Oh, now he remembered. “They wanted to go wading in the Snake River but—”
“The parents said their kids had their heart set on it and you told them they might drown.”
“Yes, I did.” Because those two little girls didn’t know how to swim. And because the river level was supposed to rise all day as the Jackson Dam released water. Keeping people safe was a top priority for Tim. “Sally—”
Sally, clearly, wasn’t interested in an explanation. “Rivers, you know better. A ranger’s job is not to parent other people’s children.”
Tim looked at the microphone in his hand. Was she serious? And why “Rivers”? What happened to “Tim”?
“Find Coop and tell him to get over to Moose-Wilson Road to manage a bear jam.”
Another crackling voice interrupted them. “This is Coop. I’m at Moose-Wilson Road. Bear jam is covered.”
Good grief. Was everyone on the radio right now? Had they all heard Sally scold Tim?
“Which bear?” Sally said.
“793,” Coop said.
“That bear,” Sally said, “likes to hang near people. Cooper, do you have it covered or do you need help?”
“We’re here too,” another voice chimed in.
“Who’s we?” Sally said.
“Shepard and Teale.”
“All good,” Coop said. “The bear is moving beyond the tree line.”
“Fine,” Sally barked. “Over and out.”
Slowly, Tim clipped the microphone back onto the jeep’s radio system. Sally’s sharp tone stung.
Ever since she had returned from the Chief Ranger conference, held at nearby Yellowstone, something had changed between them, and Tim couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Up until then, things had been going so well. In fact, this winter had been a significant turning point in their relationship. They’d even talked a bit about a future together.
He shook off Sally’s brusqueness and focused on the task at hand. Cars had pulled over and people were standing along the road, watching a herd of elk, their cameras clicking away. Tim could see the elk had become aware of their audience. A few males were lifting their heads, which meant, to him, that people were too close for his comfort. When a wild animal was feeding peacefully, Tim wanted them to be left alone, not interfered with. He hurried over to the visitors, flashing his ranger badge, and politely asked them to give the animals some space. Most complied, but a few grumbled, muttering about their rights to get the perfect shot.
As the day wore on, Tim dealt with one wildlife-tourist conflict after another. A family had a close encounter with a moose because they ignored warning signs, and a group of hikers ventured off-trail, disturbing nesting birds. Another couple had brought their grandmother’s remains to scatter, without a permit, without any idea of where or how to release ashes. They were just about to shake out the container into the Snake River—where wildlife fed and watered—when Tim stopped them. He escorted them straight to the Jenny Lake Visitor Center and into a ranger-on-duty’s capable hands to fully instruct them about the dispersal process.
In between radio calls and park patrols, Tim couldn’t shake off that radio call with Sally. Had he done or said something to offend her? Had he forgotten a birthday? An anniversary? It seemed a little soon in their relationship for celebrating anniversaries, but what did he know about romance? His late wife, Mary, wasn’t the romantic type. She’d always said she’d rather have a year of being treated with kindness than a day of expensive gifts. So that’s what he did—showed her kindness every day.
Mary was easier for Tim to understand than Sally. It might’ve had something to do with the faith they had in common. Sally had faith, he knew she did, but she wasn’t a churchgoer. She said that she’d had too much church as a child, that it was crammed down her throat. Tim didn’t push the issue. He attended a church in Jackson each Sunday morning, but alone.
He didn’t pressure Sally to attend church because of his experience with his stepdaughter, Thea. The harder he pushed for her to find a church, the more she shut down on the topic. On everything. When had he last heard from her? He couldn’t remember. He’d never quite decided if silence from Thea was a good thing or not. Did it mean she was managing life well, with steady employment? Or it could mean that she was struggling, financially and personally, and felt too much shame to call him for help.
Thankfully, faith came easily for Maisie, Thea’s daughter. Tim had always had a special connection with his step-granddaughter. He didn’t even consider her a step. She was his. Unlike Thea, whom he’d first met when she was a boy-crazy thirteen-year-old, he’d known Maisie from her first day of life. How old was Maisie on her last birthday? Just ten or eleven, he was pretty sure.
But then a troubling thought occurred to him. Maybe they got along so well because she was still a little girl.
Maisie alternated between reading her guidebook about Grand Teton National Park and looking out the window at the stretch of highway guiding their journey from Denver to Jackson. Parts of it were familiar to her, and the prospect of spending the summer with Pops filled her with happiness. Well—as much of the summer as her mom would let her. As the car hummed along the road, Maisie had been reading aloud from the guidebook. “Fun fact. The name Jackson Hole means a valley. It was named after a trapper named Davey Jackson.”
Her mom murmured, “Interesting.”
“Mom, are you listening to me?”
“Of course. You said Jackson Hole was named after Davey Jackson.”
Good. She was listening. Sometimes it was hard to tell with Mom. “I can’t wait to see Pops! It’s been too long. I have so many things to tell him.”
Her mom smiled. “Remember, he does have a full-time job.”
“I won’t get in his way.” Maisie wiggled on her seat. “I hope he has Sundays off. He usually does, for church.”
Mom’s expression shifted slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Well, you know, you don’t have to go with him. I can have a chat with him.”
Maisie furrowed her brow, puzzled. “Why would I do that? I like going to church with Pops. It’s part of our thing.”
Her mother sighed. “It’s good to have traditions and rituals, I suppose. Just remember, church doesn’t have to be a building. It can be wherever you find meaning.”
Maisie tilted her head, considering her mother’s words. “You mean ... like nature?”
“Exactly. You can connect with the divine by appreciating the beauty all around you.”
Maisie wrinkled her nose. “Pops calls that pantheism.”
“It’s what ?”
“Pantheism is like, believing God is in everything, alive or not. Pops believes creation was made by God.”
Mom cast a glance at her, shrugging. “Same thing. God is everywhere.”
“Huge difference, Mom. Huge. Pops can explain it way better than I can.”
“Pops has his way of thinking about God, and I have mine.”
“Do you, Mom? Do you think much about God?”
Mom’s back stiffened. “Why are we on such a heavy topic, anyway?” She breathed out an uncomfortable huff. “We’re almost to the park. Let’s talk about something a little lighter.”
“Okay. What did Pops say when you told him I was coming?”
Her mother looked out the window at a passing motorcycle. “Well, you see, I thought we could surprise him.”
Maisie’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened in disbelief. “What? You didn’t tell Pops I’m coming? How could you? What if he has plans or something? What if he has a girlfriend?”
“Pops? A girlfriend?” Mom scoffed. “I highly doubt that.” She glanced at her. “Surprises are fun, Maisie. The super heavy tourist season hasn’t started yet. Besides, Pops is always thrilled to spend time with you.”
Maisie slumped back in her seat. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell him.”
Her mother waved that off. “Trust me, he will drop everything for you.”
On the left side of the road was a small airport. Maisie opened her mouth to spout off a fun fact—this was the only airport in a national park in the entire United States—but then she closed her mouth. She was too bothered with her mother for springing her on Pops without warning. It wasn’t fair.
And all because her mother wanted to go on a retreat to find herself. As far as Maisie could tell, her mom was on a permanent hunt.
After dinner, Kate returned to Oxbow Bend. The sun cast long shadows across the water as she adjusted the focus on her camera. She crouched behind a cluster of bushes, trying to capture the perfect shot of a moose grazing near the water’s edge. The symphony of the wild surrounded her—birdsong, rustling leaves, and the babble of the Snake River.
Click . Click . Click .
As she lowered her camera to look at the tilt screen—an incredible feature of the Sony Alpha because it allowed her to shoot from different angles—she realized a clump of photographers were watching her. When she looked up, she saw them exchange amused glances. She gave them a half-hearted smile. “I’ve never seen a moose before.”
“Don’t they have moose in zoos?”
The snarky comment came from a lanky man with a telephoto lens slung over his shoulder. Kate recognized him from earlier this morning. He had commented on her expensive camera, and she had let him look at it. But she hadn’t mentioned anything about her zoo experience. The only one she’d told was that handsome ranger. Apparently, he had told this photographer.
A woman with pigtails full of grizzled hair said, “Getting some good animal portraits?”
Rude! Kate raised an eyebrow, feeling the need to defend herself. “You can learn a lot about animals in a zoo.”
At that, the other photographers started smirking, jabbing each other with elbows. “Like what?” one said.
“Like timing, patience, and how to read subjects. How they look through a variety of lenses. Different poses. Especially in a variety of lighting. It’s not that different from being here.”
They burst into laughter. “Not that different, she says!”
The pigtailed woman chuckled. “Now, now, guys. Don’t make fun. There’s nothing wrong with a photographer who’s content with caged critters.”
Critters?! “Hardly that,” Kate said. “The zoo has all kinds of wild animals in their natural habitat. Lots of exotic species.”
The woman smirked. “The wild doesn’t have feeding times and scheduled performances. It’s unpredictable. We spend weeks in the field, tracking animals, facing dangers.”
“Zoos offer their own challenges.”
“Like Photoshopping out the chain-link fence.” She burst out with a laugh and looked back at the clump of photographers. “Hey, guys, what do we call Zoo Girl’s profession?”
“Cheating!” a lanky man shouted out. “Better watch out, Zoo Girl. The BBC got in some hot water for not admitting that they’d used zoo footage in wildlife documentaries.”
Kate’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not cheating! I have never claimed that my pictures were taken in the wild.”
“Here’s an idea,” the lanky man said. “Let’s call it domesticated photography.”
“Animals in a zoo are not domesticated,” Kate said, frowning. “They’re not pets. A wild animal is still wild, whether its roaming free or held captive.”
“That’s debatable,” the pigtailed woman said. “They’re captive. They’re living in a man-made environment. It’s not wildlife photography when you take a shot of an animal in a cage.”
“You make it sound like a prison. Zoos are doing so much to enrich animals’ experience. Like, keepers hide food so an animal needs to seek it.”
The woman sneered. “But it’s still delivered to them.”
“If food and water are available,” Kate said, “I doubt any animal in the wild would travel the distances they do.”
“That’s exactly my point. It’s not available. They have to seek out nourishment. Animals lose those natural instincts in a zoo.”
Kate glanced away, trying very hard to brush off the digs. “Okay. I get it. None of you like zoos.”
“Look, don’t get me wrong,” the pigtailed woman said. “I’m not against zoos. Good ones, that is. Their breeding programs are great. People get to see a lot of rare species that they normally couldn’t. But wildlife photography is a completely different thing. A zoo can’t compete with wilderness. Out here, it’s a different game.” She returned to her tripod, and the other photographers went back to their stakeout positions.
As Kate changed the zoom lens on her camera, she tried not to let herself go down that awful rabbit hole of feeling minimized. It was a recurring theme in her life. She knew she didn’t look the part of the career she was pursuing—she was a young woman, small and light framed. She once overheard someone describe her as on the meek side of meek. A portrayal she hated but couldn’t deny that it fit her. No one would ever describe her as brave or bold. Definitely not fearless.
As she clicked the zoom lens into place, she gave herself a pep talk. I have every right to be here. Why should I let strangers make me feel foolish and insecure? Like I should run home with my tail between my legs? I’ve worked hard to be prepared for this experience. I’ve learned valuable skills, and I’m ready.
She had the zoo to thank for her proficiency as a photographer. Each animal had its own behavior. She had spent hours getting to know her subjects. Lots and lots of pictures had to be taken in hopes of that perfect shot. She’d been able to further her skill set. She’d learned how and when to increase her camera’s shutter speed. And patience. Photographing animals took some serious patience.
Feeling a little boost of self-assurance, she turned her focus back to the river. Several otters floated on their backs, letting the current take them down the river. Kate grinned. Her mood lightened.
Her phone rang, and she scrambled to answer quickly and stop the ringing. Argh! She should have remembered to silence it. She didn’t dare look up; she could practically feel the disdain from the clump of nearby photographers.
“Hey, Katie-Kat,” Oliver’s voice echoed in the quiet.
Scowling, the pigtailed woman made a sweeping motion, as if to say, Go elsewhere to talk! We’re doing serious stuff here.
Kate walked up the bank to the road. “It’s not really a good time to talk, Oliver,” she said, her voice hushed.
He passed right over that. “Has your bear made its appearance yet?”
“No. Not that I’ve heard.”
“Really? No one’s seen it yet?”
“No one has seen her yet.”
“So ... think you’ll be home by Memorial Day weekend? I thought we’d head to the beach.”
She just got here! She hadn’t even unpacked her suitcase. “Too soon to say.”
“I thought that Nat Geo editor said she had a deadline for the picture. You said that was why you chose this time of year.”
“She did. And yes, that’s why I chose this week. But what can I do? The bear’s calling the shots.” Literally.
“Do the rangers think the bear could be dead?”
“There’s been some talk of that. Mostly, they talk about how cold a winter it’s been and how late spring has been in coming. Everyone hopes she’s just taking her time to emerge.”
“Katie-Kat, you can’t stay there indefinitely.”
She hated that nickname. “I know, I know.” She frowned. “Hopefully, she’ll come out by week’s end and I’ll get my Nat Geo shot of her.”
“Kate, sweetheart, be realistic. Do you really think you’re that kind of a photographer?”
Silence. “What kind is that?” The kind that makes it into Nat Geo ?
“You know what I meant. Even if you did get that perfect shot and even if it did get into Nat Geo ... what then? You’re only as good as your last photograph. You’ll be spending your life chasing the end of the rainbow.”
Kate sighed. Sadly, there was some truth to what he said.
“So I’ve been giving your career some serious thought,” Oliver said. “How about combining your interest in animals and picture taking with something more profitable? Baby pictures with puppies and kittens. People eat that stuff up. There’s good money to be made.”
“That’s not what I want to do with my photography. I want to capture the raw beauty of wildlife.” How many times had she told him that very thing?
“Raw beauty doesn’t pay the bills, Katie-Kat.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. It was always about the money. Kate sighed, frustration bubbling within her. “Look, I need to get back to work.” That lanky photographer was coming up the bank and heading right toward her. “I gotta go,” she told Oliver and hung up before he could object.
“Hey, Zoo Girl,” the lanky man said. “Here’s something else you can’t learn in a zoo. When you’re out in the field, you reduce disturbance. And you increase situational awareness.”
“What do you mean?”
“Put away that blasted phone.”
Oh.
Wade Schmidt leaned over his workbench, meticulously arranging his prized possession—his bow and arrow—in a sturdy case. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship; each curve and notch served a purpose to ensure a successful kill. He handled it with care, almost reverently, as if it were a delicate piece of art.
He never, ever traveled with his weapons; too risky, too much of a liability. Instead, he relied on his tried-and-true method: sending them ahead via express mail to a nameless PO box.
Feldmann had been instructed to set up the PO box specifically for this purpose. The anonymity provided an extra layer of security, ensuring his weapons stayed under the radar of law enforcement. Hidden in plain sight. It was a winning formula that had always served him well ... unlike another bowhunter. This guy had made the foolish mistake of trying to conceal a gun with his bow in carry-on luggage. Needless to say, he made the news.
Wade smirked as he sealed up the package and affixed the typed address label on top. He didn’t have much sympathy for that bowhunter. The guy had landed himself in a mess of his own creation. As for Wade, avoiding detection was everything. One close call, a hair’s breadth from disaster, haunted him. Ever since, his attention to detail became obsessively meticulous, each movement calculated, every step a precise act of survival. With practiced ease, he peeled off his rubber gloves.
Tracking the prey was half the thrill of these hunts, but the other half came from outsmarting the law. And Wade Schmidt was a master at playing this game.