Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Maryanne’s text arrives just as I’m pulling into one of the two slots reserved for STAFF BIOLOGIST, which is an odd perk considering this parking lot isn’t crowded.
Maybe it’s a status thing, which is even more odd.
The only creatures who’ve earned extra prestige are the wild animals forced to tolerate our presence.
MARYANNE:
How about bowling?
I stare at the snowy landscape broken by the tall pines clustered on either side of the building. Now I wish I hadn’t skipped my coffee stop at Love Buzz. But with the new snow overnight, I needed the extra time.
ME:
You don’t really need me for this
Though I haven’t seen CJ since Monday morning, I haven’t stopped thinking about our hungry kisses in the back of the Sweetwater and how the bristle of his mustache just made me want his mouth everywhere.
About how good he looked in my driveway dressed for the field, with his friendly horse loaded up and eager to say hello.
About the way he reached for my hand and brushed across my knuckles with his thumb.
But I’m more than the version I was at the Sweetwater. Or maybe it’s that I’m less. Less confident. Less spontaneous. Less fun.
And it’s just a matter of time before CJ figures that out.
Inside the building, I stomp my feet and give Betsy, the part-time receptionist who I’ve somehow already offended, a nod good morning, then turn right and head for my office.
There are parts of being a wildlife biologist that I love, and parts I don’t.
Being in the field, observing and documenting, assessing the natural world, feeling like I’m a part of it is for sure where I feel most comfortable.
Being stuck in an office isn’t my favorite, but I don’t mind organizing data into pretty spreadsheets and graphs or writing reports.
Especially when they lead to the results that benefit our wild animals and ecosystems.
It’s people I struggle with. People like Betsy, who think that because I’m a girl, I’m automatically interested in office gossip.
People like senior biologist Keith Carmine, who hasn’t left me alone all week.
It started on my first morning when he came to my tiny office at the end of the hall to “say hello” then stayed for two hours.
I’ve met him once or twice because he’s worked with Dad for years, but we’ve never had a lengthy conversation.
Not that our interactions could be counted as conversations.
He talks, and I listen. Or I try to. He sits on the edge of my desk that I rearranged so it faces the window—even though it’s only a view of the highway—and talks too loud.
Telling me all the things he’s accomplished in his eighteen years like he alone made them happen when I know that’s not true.
On my second day, he felt the need to walk me through the permitting system I’m now in charge of when I already know how it works because of my first internship, something he’d know if he bothered to read my résumé.
Then yesterday he insisted we go out for a test drive to make sure “a little gal like you feels comfortable driving such a powerful vehicle.”
Firstly, nothing about me is little. I’m five foot eight and after months of winter fieldwork I could probably leg press a moose. And I’ve been driving powerful vehicles since learning on Dad’s big Ford when I was fifteen.
If I was a dude, no way would Keith be acting like this.
I’ve stopped eating lunch in the breakroom because he’s always there and I’m the only staff who doesn’t seem charmed by his stories.
He gave me a ribbing about it yesterday, but underneath his teasing I got the sense he’d taken it personally.
Not a great way to kick off a relationship with a superior I’m going to need to work with for, well… probably a long time.
I’m gathering my things for the afternoon meeting we’re having to discuss our winter emergency feeding program when Keith stops by.
“Need you to monitor the duty line until we’re back,” he says, chewing on a toothpick.
I stiffen in my chair. “What about the meeting?”
He uses his tongue to move the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You can catch the next one.”
My mouth opens, but my protest gets swallowed by what he says next. “Just cuz you’re Rowdy’s kid doesn’t mean you get special treatment around here.”
I blink in confusion. Special treatment? “I’ve done extensive research on this.”
He scoffs. “You’ve been on the job for one week, and you think you know what’s best?”
“We need to stop using hay for the elk and deer. Pellets are a closer match to their natural diet.”
“Tell that to the hay farmers who rely on us to sustain them through the winter.”
“So instead of doing what’s best for the wildlife, we support farms that have destroyed over half of our wetland habitats?
” The steady buzzing in my chest is a warning to take a breath and back down.
Continuing to push this will not help me fit in here.
But if I don’t stand up for what’s right, who will?
He grins. “This is a win-win. The elk get fed, and the farmers can feed their families.”
“What about CWD?”
“Why do you think we’ve added more emergency feeding areas?”
Chronic Wasting Disease spreads more rapidly where animals come into contact with each other. And if the prions get into the soil, they stay there, making that feeding area toxic forever.
“That won’t work.” I inhale through my nose, my eyes fixed on his.
My end goal is to eliminate the winter emergency feeding program altogether in favor of rigorous habitat rehabilitation for reasons I outlined in an academic paper I wrote during my master’s program, but even the boldest version of me knows I can’t say that out loud. At least not yet.
Keith takes a step closer, that patronizing flicker of amusement gone from his expression.
“You think you’re the first tadpole to wriggle through these doors with big ideas that have zero sensibility when it comes to creating real solutions?
” He grunts, looking me up and down, then sets a cell phone housed in a battered black case next to me on my desk.
“Man the phone. If you can manage to not screw that up, maybe I’ll let you help me with an ecology survey next week. ”
I think this is a warning, but I’m so flustered and bottled up after a week of his bullshit that I can’t be sure. “All right.” I say it mostly so he’ll leave.
He narrows his eyes, like he’s expecting more. When he doesn’t get it, he breaks away and slips into the hallway.
Instead of stewing, I pull up the construction permit application program I took over this week. Because my position has been open for a few months, there’s a backlog, and I’m not even halfway caught up.
There’s a nugget of truth to what Keith said.
I’m brand new here. And while I may have data-supported reasons driving my big goals, I can’t make them work without getting to know my field areas and their communities first. Education is a powerful tool, one I plan to flex, but Keith’s right.
I can’t go barging in and tell people what they’ve been doing for twenty years is wrong.
He didn’t have to be such a dick about it though.
By missing the meeting, I’ll also miss a chance to see CJ since I’m pretty sure he’ll be there too. It’s the reason I took extra time getting ready today, just in case, then second guessed my outfit choice during my drive here.
What do I say to Maryanne? Should I go on the double date?
I relive the moment CJ reached for my hand Monday morning, his silver eyes earnest and kind. My belly warms just thinking about it.
I press my palms to my cheeks and groan. Meet Linnea, walking disaster and overthinker of literally everything.
When the cell phone rings, it’s so startling in the quiet office that I jump in my chair. I scramble for a pen and my notebook, which is in my pack near my feet, then swipe to answer the call.
“Idaho Fish and Wildlife, how can I help you?”
“A deer jumped outta nowhere. I wasn’t even speeding, I swear,” a guy answers in a shaky tone. A car whooshes by in the background.
IDFW gets all kinds of calls related to wildlife, including reports like this one. “Are you injured? Do you need medical assistance?”
“I’m not hurt. Thank god I have that brush guard or my front end would be wrecked.”
“Is your vehicle off the road?”
“I’m pulled over on the shoulder.”
I put him on speaker and start scribbling details. Time, date. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Jason Marks,” he replies. I ask for his location and his phone number. He’s about ten miles from the office, on the east side of Gibbs.
“Is the animal nearby, Jason?” I ask him.
“That’s why I called. She, uh, she’s here. She’s not getting up but…she’s breathing. If I had my gun, I’d—”
The knot of dread that’s been slowly building inside me hardens. “I need you to stay there until I can find you.”
“Now that you know where she is, can’t I go?” He’s sounding less panicked now. Maybe the shock of the situation is wearing off, or maybe it’s the realization that his evening plans could be compromised.
“I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
He huffs a giant sigh. “Okay.”
I hang up and take a few seconds to gather my thoughts, blocking out Keith’s threat. From my training and watching Dad in his role as a conservation officer, I know the steps. Find the animal. Document. Assess the animal’s chances of survival. Then decide.
Did Jason also call the sheriff? Sometimes people call us directly—hunters, usually. But sometimes calls like this get diverted from central dispatch.
I wince because I should have asked Jason. My need for action to help a suffering animal is to blame. I force a steadying breath. In time, this kind of thing will get easier.
But do I want it to?
After gathering my things, I check out a work truck on the sheet and head for the parking area at the back of our building.
Once I’m driving, I resist the urge to use the lights and sirens, and call Dad, but not just for moral support.
He’s often called to dispatch an injured animal in situations like this.
I don’t have that capacity. Both because I’m not law enforcement, and because if euthanizing wild animals had been in the job description, I would never have applied.
I’m not cut out for that. It’s the reason I only lasted two months volunteering at the wildlife shelter.
Many of the animals people drop off are too sick or too injured to be healed, and a quick death is the humane choice.
When Dad doesn’t pick up, I call my sheriff’s deputy brother-in-law, Zach.
“Hey, Linn!” he says over the whoosh of cars in the background. “How’s the new job so far?”
“Good,” I say with forced pep. “I’m actually calling about a possible roadkill situation?” I hate the quavery up tone in my voice. I sound uncertain. Nervous.
“They’ve got you manning the tip line already huh?” he asks with a good-natured chuckle.
“Yes. Did your office get notified too?” I cringe at how unprofessional this sounds. Thank god it’s Zach. “It’s on South Fork Road, near a place called Hilltop Farm.”
“Let me call you back.”
He hangs up, and I try not to speed through the tired but quaint downtown of Gibbs, then merge onto South Fork Road, which heads northeast, towards the socked-in Bitterroots.
When Zach calls, I put him on speaker. “We didn’t get a call, but it might have gone to Clearwater County.”
Heat flushes up my cheeks. Gibbs is near the county line, something I should have remembered. “Good point.”
“I can head your way, but I’m down south dealing with an overturned semi so it’d be a while. Have you tried your dad?”
“He’s in a meeting. My whole staff is there.”
“Okay. I’ll get there as soon as I can. You know what to do?”
I calm the hackles jumping to life with a slow exhale. Zach’s just trying to be helpful. “Yes.”
“Hang tight.”
Ten minutes of tense driving on snowy roads later, I come to a long, forested straightaway with a red Chevy Tahoe, its hazard lights flashing, pulled to the side.
When I step out of the truck, my stupid shoes slip on the plowed, slick shoulder, forcing me to take dainty steps.
A guy steps out of his SUV, dressed in a Filson jacket, jeans, and boots. He’s probably early forties, with neatly trimmed black hair and small dark eyes.
He offers his hand, and we shake.
“She’s across the road.” He points to the ditch.
I force in a calming breath, check both ways for traffic, then make my way across.
One glance at the doe, and I have my answer, so I force myself to turn around and head back to the Tahoe. Animals die all the time. From natural causes. From hunters. From accidents like this.
The best thing I can do right now is end her suffering. Quickly.
Back at the Tahoe, Jason’s rubbing the back of his neck. “I hear there’s a crew who will come pick it up and donate the meat, like, to the hungry?”
“There is. I’ll notify them.” But first, I need someone in law enforcement to get here, and fast. Zach’s probably an hour away. Dad won’t answer thanks to the meeting.
If you can manage to not screw this up…
I walk to my truck and rifle through my backpack for my wallet. With shaking fingers, I dial the number on the napkin.