Chapter 3
Three
National parks are the best idea we ever had. Absolutely American, absolutely democratic, they reflect us at our best rather than our worst.
—Wallace Stegner, author
In the Jesup Memorial Library’s small meeting room, Scout did her best to stay focused while Ranger Rivers laid out the story, describing the sabotage, the shipwreck, and the elusive treasure as if he’d been the one to knock that brick loose in the whale oil house.
Frankie, bursting with his own theories, chimed in whenever he could, which was often.
Scout didn’t mind their “overtalking” one little bit.
She was struggling to keep her mind on the mystery and not on Wabanaki Dana.
He was seated across from her, calm as the ocean before a storm, his arms crossed, his eyes intent on whomever was speaking, which gave her the opportunity to study him unobserved because she wasn’t talking.
He had, without a doubt, the most interesting face she’d ever seen.
Those eyes. Dark as the bottom of Frenchman Bay and just as unreadable.
Once or twice, they flicked to her, lingering for a moment with a glint of what might’ve been amusement—like he’d caught her staring and found it quietly entertaining.
If that wasn’t enough, when he let the slightest smile tug at his mouth, deep dimples appeared, sharp enough to stop her heart mid-beat.
He was more than a little intimidating, yet completely comfortable in his own skin.
Scout found herself wondering what it would feel like to carry that kind of confidence.
To walk through life without worrying if you’d said the wrong thing or if someone had noticed the scuff on your boots.
So opposite of how she’d been raised. Scout could hear her mother’s voice in her head: “Posture, sweetheart. Smile.”
When Frankie and Tim finally exhausted themselves of details, Wabanaki Dana posed only one question. “What was the name of the ship?”
Tim and Frankie looked at each other, puzzled. Then they looked to Scout.
“The USS North Atlantic,” she said. It was clear as day in the headline of the newspaper clipping. How had they missed it?
Naki’s gaze shifted to her.
“1852.”
“October 12, to be exact,” Naki said.
And bless it, he sure was. Scout’s eyes went wide as Naki filled in the missing details about the ship.
He didn’t just know the basics; he knew everything about that ship, a head count of who died, and every bit of cargo that went down with it.
“Among other things, in its cargo was a payment of federal funds, in gold, to be delivered to the Penobscot Nation. But it was never recovered from the wreck.”
“Why?” Frankie said. “What was the gold for?”
“In 1818,” Naki said, his voice steady, measured, “the federal government made a treaty with the Penobscot Nation, a so-called reimbursement for lands they had acquired. The payments were not . . . consistent.” He stated it as fact—no bitterness, no resentment, just history laid bare.
Scout studied him, but his expression gave nothing away. What was he really thinking?
“I came to you, Naki,” Tim said, “because I knew you’d be able to help us untangle these clues.”
Naki’s eyebrows lifted. “And help you find the gold?”
Tim shrugged. “Honestly, I doubt there’s any to be found. This story is a very old one. First things first—let’s just start with the shipwreck and the lighthouse keeper.”
“Why gold?” Frankie asked. “Why wouldn’t they just use cash?”
Naki leaned back and crossed his arms against his chest. “Gold was a primary form of monetary transaction for significant payments, particularly in dealings between the federal government and Native nations. Paper currency wasn’t widely trusted or adopted until later in the century.
And, of course, gold had become more readily available. ”
Frankie scrunched up his face. “How’s that?”
Naki tipped his head slightly. “What did you learn in school about the 1800s?”
Scratching his forehead, Frankie thought for a moment. “Oh. Right! The Civil War.”
“Gold Rush,” Scout said softly.
Naki’s head turned toward her, as if he’d almost forgotten she was there.
Scout felt a tickle run down her spine. He might have forgotten her, but she sure hadn’t forgotten him.
She had been cataloging details to get a sense of this man—the watch with a worn leather band on his wrist, hiking boots that clashed with his scholarly tone.
No wedding ring. She couldn’t help wondering how old he was—hard to tell.
His face was unlined, his hair was jet black, but he had an air of seasoned wisdom.
She wondered what he did in his spare time. Did he like to camp? Sail? Kayak?
No, stop it, she scolded herself. This is park business.
Her friends would laugh if they knew her stray thoughts about this man.
They’d always teased her, calling her the “Suitor Sifter” because she was so picky.
Scout preferred to think of herself as discerning; her friends called it hard to please.
Her counselor Elizabeth had a different take—she saw it as a carefully constructed defense mechanism, a way to sidestep feelings before they had the chance to take root.
Her mother’s voice popped into her head. “And look where that attitude got you! All those girls are married now, and babies are starting to roll in.”
Scout squeezed her eyes shut, imagining her mother’s shock if she knew her daughter was pondering the life of a Penobscot policymaker. Her mother had narrow notions about people.
“Scout?” Tim’s voice brought her back to reality. He was looking at her expectantly. “Does this sound good to you? You’re the one who found the envelope, after all.”
Uh-oh. What was he asking? Before she could scramble for an answer, Frankie chimed in. “Hey, what about me? If Scout and Naki are teaming up to hunt treasure, I’m coming too. She’s supposed to be my supervisor, after all.”
Wait—she and Naki, together on a mission? Her heart skipped a beat.
At that moment, the meeting room door banged open, and a little boy ran in, launching himself onto Naki’s lap.
He couldn’t have been more than five or six, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright with excitement.
Naki’s expression softened as he caught the boy and ruffled his dark hair, murmuring to him in a gentle, rolling language Scout didn’t understand.
He handed the boy a few dollars, and the child ran off as quickly as he’d come.
“Ice cream truck,” Naki said.
So this was his son. Of course. Of course he would have a son.
A wife. She felt a pang of disappointment, then caught herself.
Girl, pull it together. There’s NPS work to do.
Actually, that little boy’s interruption had done her a favor.
She could stop pondering Naki’s marital status and focus on her work.
She straightened in her chair, refocusing.
“Frankie can come,” she said, “as long as he doesn’t get in the way. ”
Frankie, offended, clasped a hand against his chest, but she paid him no mind. His presence would help tamp down her silly captivation with Wabanaki Dana.
“I’m giving a talk at the library tonight, but when I get back to my office, I’ll start digging up what I can find on the lighthouse keeper.” Naki looked at Scout. “Do you recall his name from the newspaper clipping?”
“Arthur Lipp,” she said. “There were a handful of keepers after the Gilleys. None of them lasted long, not like the Gilleys.”
Naki held her gaze. “Isolation makes for a lonely job.”
Why was he looking at her like that? Did he think she seemed lonely? She wasn’t! Well, maybe sometimes. But she wasn’t isolated. Scout looked away, not trusting herself to meet his eyes.
“I’ll come to the park tomorrow.”
She gave a nod, keeping her eyes lowered. “We don’t return from the Baker Island tour till midafternoon.”
After saying goodbye to Naki, Frankie was practically buzzing on the walk to the car. “That dude is banging. Seriously, have you ever known someone like him? Crazy cool. Insane—like, genius-level cool.”
Ranger Rivers glanced at him, unimpressed. “And one who speaks intelligently.”
“Aww, come on. You’re hanging around too many old folks. This is how we talk.”
The ranger smirked. “We, as in, people with limited vocabulary?”
But Scout barely registered their banter, her thoughts drifting back to the unsettling pull she felt toward Naki.
She could hear her mother’s voice repeat a phrase she’d said dozens of times, as clearly as if she was right beside her: “Things go better, dear, when everyone sticks to what they know.”
An hour or so later, Ranger Tim Rivers strode into his office, only to realize he’d left his phone on his desk.
Picking it up, he saw a string of notifications from his granddaughter Maisie—and let out a loud gasp.
He’d completely forgotten she was arriving this afternoon.
He dashed back out, jumped into his jeep, and sped toward the bus stop.
And there she was, sitting on the bench, looking downright miserable.
He pulled up in front of her and rolled down the window. “Oh, Maisie, honey, I am so sorry.”
She glared at him. “You forgot me.”
Guilty. He didn’t blame her for the look she gave him. “I did. Something came up at the last second, and I didn’t have my phone with me. I am really sorry.”
“I’ve been waiting over two hours.”
“Honey, I’ll make it up to you,” he said, wincing at the thought of her sitting alone that long.
Maisie folded her arms, her glare fierce. “Mom always forgets me too.”
And there was the rub, there was the real sting. Tim’s stepdaughter, Thea, had been making some progress in her life, but . . . well, Thea was still Thea. She treated Maisie like more of a friend than a daughter, sometimes to a frustrating degree. “I’m truly sorry, Maisie. It won’t happen again.”
Maisie softened—just slightly. “Okay. So . . . how are you making it up to me?”
“How about if I take you out for a lobster dinner tonight?”