Chapter 2
Two
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
—Rudyard Kipling, author and poet
Chief Ranger Tim Rivers shut the door to his office and sank into his chair with a weary sigh.
Another day, another trail dispute—this time a standoff on the carriage roads, with bikers, hikers, and horseback riders each convinced the others were hogging the scenic trails.
And now e-bikes. Just another piece of the ever-growing puzzle.
Typical park drama, though it never failed to amaze him how tempers could flare so hot in a place so breathtakingly serene. Still, diffusing tension was part of the job. At least for now. Soon, it wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Leaning back, Tim let his eyes wander over the worn walls of his office.
This place was his home for the last chapter in his career, but in a way, every park had felt like home.
Nearing fifty-seven, his “mandatory retirement” clock was ticking.
Soon, he’d have to figure out a life without the green uniform.
The realization weighed on him, a strange kind of sorrow mixed with uncertainty.
He’d imagined life would look different by now. Hoped, even, that he’d have a partner—a hand to hold through this next chapter. After years of being a widower, he finally felt ready to meet someone new. But as he looked ahead, the road stretched wide and uncertain, a little lonely.
Lonely, perhaps. But never alone. His faith steadied him, a constant reminder that he didn’t need to have it all mapped out—only to take the next step.
Tim’s thoughtful reflection abruptly slipped away as Frankie Franklin burst through the door like a gust of wind.
He blinked, taking in the sight of the young man—lanky, awkward, with a head of wild hair that made him look like he’d just rolled down a hillside.
He’d gotten to know Frankie a couple years back during a summer in Grand Teton and considered him a teen with a chip on his shoulder so big it was a wonder he didn’t tip over.
That chip had smoothed out slightly, but the boyish impulsiveness remained.
Frankie jumped up to sit on the desk, but Tim pushed him off. “Sit.” He pointed to a chair.
Before Frankie could sit in a chair, he blurted out, “Chief, you’re not gonna believe what we found today. A shipwreck! Buried treasure! And we’ve got dibs on it.”
Tim squinted at him. “Where’s Ranger Johnson?”
Frankie waved a hand toward the open door. “She’s coming. Had to finish an email or something. Chief, you gotta hear—”
Tim lifted a hand in the air. “Hold your horses, son. Wait until Ranger Johnson gets here.” He didn’t believe half of what came out of Frankie’s mouth. Whatever it was that had Frankie so wound up, he’d rather have Scout present to interpret.
Tim had first met Scout last winter at Petrified Forest in Arizona and was impressed by how effortlessly she managed to captivate a whole range of visitors, from seniors to toddlers.
She had the “it” factor for interpretive rangers—that special blend of educating while entertaining.
Her eyes had lit up when he told her he was working at Acadia, and she told him that park was her dream assignment.
A few months later, when a spot opened up in the park for an interp because the current ranger wanted to be a fishing guide, he didn’t hesitate to push her résumé to the top with a solid recommendation.
Acadia could definitely use more rangers like Scout Johnson .
. . or maybe, in his final year with the NPS, he just wanted to help someone with real potential, like so many had done for him along the way.
It had been a good decision to bring her here.
She’d already redone the Baker Island handout, she’d proposed a list of campfire talks, and she had a plan to start fundraising for a museum at the park.
She continually impressed him, and, well, he’d grown fond of her.
The more Tim got to know her, the more he imagined that if he’d ever had a daughter of his own, he’d want her to be like Scout.
Frankie, never one for patience, stepped into the hallway, cupped his hands around his mouth like a makeshift megaphone, and bellowed Scout’s name.
Tim rolled his eyes. Subtle as ever. Still, it worked.
Scout appeared in the doorway a moment later, slipping into the office and shutting the door behind her.
As she sank into a chair, Tim caught the slightly pained look on her face—like she was fighting off a headache.
He knew that look well. He called it the Frankie Effect. Everyone got it eventually.
Scout was every bit the dedicated “parkie.” She was a curious blend of buttoned-up professionalism and Southern charm, like a crisply starched uniform wrapped around a warm summer breeze.
She took her job seriously. And then there was that ever-present pink ribbon in her long hair, a soft contradiction, a quiet reminder that beneath all that official authority, she was all girl. And Tim admired her for it.
He’d always believed that women could and should bring their full selves into any role, even those traditionally dominated by men. The National Park Service needed that balance—women’s perspectives, instincts, and ways of seeing the world, just as much as men’s.
And Scout Johnson, to Tim, embodied that ideal.
She carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned ranger, her boots broken in from miles on the trail, yet there was no mistaking the softness beneath.
She could be all business when the job called for it, but there was something innately warm about her too—the honey-smooth drawl in her voice, the way she smoothed a hand over a child’s hair during a junior ranger program, or how she could deliver a firm order with a smile that made people straighten up and follow directions.
He watched a prime example of Scout’s ability to manage annoyances: Frankie was in a chair now, but his legs were jiggling like he had ants in his pants.
She reached over to place a silencing hand on his knee, shot him a quick look that all but shouted Contain yourself . . . and those legs stopped jiggling.
Tim looked past Frankie’s knees and raised an eyebrow at Scout. “Care to tell me what this is about?”
Scout offered a small smile. “Sir, I apologize for the intrusion. What Frankie is tryin’ to tell you is that, while I was closin’ up the whale oil house on Baker Island”—Tim caught the slight scowl she sent in Frankie’s direction and sensed something between the lines—“a brick came loose. Behind it was this . . . envelope.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out an old, beat-up brown envelope, held together with twine or string.
Tim’s eyebrows lifted. “What’s in it?”
“A newspaper clippin’ about a shipwreck near Baker Island, and some papers.” Scout paused.
Frankie was thrumming with excitement. “Tell him, Scout.”
“There seems to be a note of confession from the lighthouse keeper.”
Now she had Tim’s full attention. “What exactly is he confessing?”
“You won’t believe it,” Frankie said. “The keeper turned off the light in a storm so the ship would crash.”
“We don’t know that,” Scout said.
“We do! The newspaper article said the ship crashed because the light was out. And then the guy wrote that he did it. He said so.”
Skeptical, Tim glanced at Scout, who was frowning at Frankie.
“We really don’t know anything for sure, sir.”
“We do!” Frankie said.
“We don’t,” Scout said. “For example, how would a lighthouse keeper even know which ship was approachin’? Radios weren’t brought into lighthouses till the early 1900s.”
“But they did use Morse code,” Tim said, then instantly regretted it. Frankie’s face lit up like a switch had been flipped. Tim had unwittingly lobbed him a softball, and the boy was already winding up to knock it out of the park.
“See?! Even the chief believes me! I told you, Scout. My theory makes total sense.”
Tim leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “So what’s your theory?”
“Follow the money. It’s always about the bucks. That newspaper clipping said there was gold on the ship.” Frankie’s grin widened. “And the story gets better.” He was practically vibrating. “The lighthouse keeper hid the gold all over the park.”
Scout nodded solemnly, adding a final detail. “Accordin’ to those papers that were included with the newspaper clippin’, he left clues.”
Tim sat straight up. “Why would he do that?”
“I’ve given this a ton of thought,” Frankie said.
Scout dropped her chin to her chest.
“I think he was trying to hide it away for later, y’know,” Frankie said, “to buy himself some time so it wouldn’t be so obvious that he sabotaged the ship.
And he left hard-to-understand clues to provide just enough information so he’d remember where he left his stashes.
Y’know, so when he came back to collect it all, he could find it again. ”
Tim glanced at Scout. She scrunched up her face as if to say, He’s probably right.
“Does anyone else know about this?”
Frankie and Scout shook their heads.
“Good. Keep it that way.” He looked right at Frankie as he said it. His mind had already started to race. If this story proved to be true, there could be serious implications for the park.
Tim’s last summer as a ranger, he sensed with a hum, a stirring, a feeling, was not going to be quite as full of routine as he’d thought.