CHAPTER 6
Tate
A storm changes what a campground is. On a sunny Saturday, it's forty-two little vacations. But with a front coming in, it's forty-two liabilities with guy-lines, and I've got three hours to walk every one of them.
Neely takes Loops A and B. She's got the clipboard, the site map, and a system inside of ten minutes.
She makes sure awnings are in, tents are re-staked, and anything that can fly is secured.
She reminds people that the campground bathrooms are fortified storm shelters and to go there if the weather gets too bad.
She also makes sure every single bear box is latched while she's standing there watching, “because we are not letting a little bit of rain keep us from following safety protocols, are we?”
We break apart, going in different directions to cover more ground.
"Sites one through nine, buttoned up," she reports on channel three.
"The Hendersons want you to know they've camped through worse and are happy to help calm down other campers if necessary.
They also have extra tarps if anyone needs one. "
"Copy. Tell the Hendersons they're deputized."
Neely laughs. "They're going to take that seriously, Tate."
Ollie meets me at the day-use area, where we lower the flag, haul the trash to the bear-resistant dumpster, and chain the gate on the spur trail I taped off last night.
The wind's already combing the crowns of the big ponderosas when I check the dead snag near site thirty. I swear under my breath. That tree has needed to come down for ages, but the district hasn’t approved the money for tree removal.
Now, it’s primed and ready to be a Widow Maker if anyone has the misfortune of being nearby when it inevitably falls.
I tape off the section of the woods around the tree.
Hopefully, it’ll be a good enough warning to folks to stay away.
And come Monday, I’m renewing my argument for its removal.
"Doug update," Ollie says, jogging up with his phone. He can see the trail camera on an app on his phone. "Creek crossing again, forty minutes ago. He's moving this way again.”
“Just perfect,” I mutter.
The next hour is check-ins and re-checks, propane off, kids counted, one guy who wants to argue about putting his cooler in the bear box.
I keep half an ear on channel three, where Neely is running her loops with a calm that keeps snagging my attention at inconvenient moments.
She talks people into preparedness like it was their idea.
Somewhere around site twenty, I hear her convince the cargo-shorts crowd to volunteer their truck to shuttle firewood under cover, and I nearly tell her through the radio how fucking awesome she is.
But that’s a conversation for later, in private.
I brush my fingers across my lips. I’d give my right arm for a little bit of private time with Neely Quinn…
The sun has set and the sky’s turned purple when I get the call from Neely.
"Tate." Her voice, flat and fast. "I saw the bear. He just crossed the host loop road, thirty yards behind my pad, and now he’s moving north along the brush line. He looks like he’s just out for an evening stroll, not a care in the world.”
"Anyone outside near him?"
"No. Loop's clear, everyone's battened down. But he’s in the campground, Tate.”
“Stay inside. I’ll find him and encourage him to go north.”
It doesn’t take long to find him. He's smaller than the campground's imagination has pegged him to be.
Two years old, probably, maybe a hundred and forty pounds, black coat going silver where my spotlight hits his wet fur.
He doesn't bolt when he sees me, which is exactly the wrong instinct. He stands there in the light with his nose working, getting the scent of me. He's not the least bit mean or aggressive. But a bear that doesn’t fear humans spells trouble. It’s only a matter of time before something happens.
"Wrong answer," I tell him, raising my gun to put a beanbag round into the dirt behind his back feet.
The loud bang and the spray of gravel do the job, scaring him straight up the slope, which is the correct direction and the correct attitude, and the last I see of him is his rump cresting through the huckleberry like a shamed dog.
Good. Every ugly encounter he has with a human in uniform is a deposit in the account that keeps him alive.
It's the friendlier humans who will spell his doom.
But not while Neely and I are on the job. We make a good team.
I head back to the campground and knock on her door. She opens it, an obvious look of trepidation on her face. “I heard a gunshot. Did you shoot him?”
"I shot near him. He needed to have a bad night. To learn that humans don’t exist to feed him or make his life easy.
" Rain's starting, fat scattered drops going dark on the gravel. I open my mouth, bracing for an argument, because I have a feeling she’s going to fight me on what I say next.
"Neely. You're not sleeping here tonight. "
Her chin comes up. Here we go.
"He's no longer only moving at night," I say.
"He's crossed the host loop twice, he's shown direct interest in this vehicle, and in an hour we'll have forty-mile gusts, zero visibility, and thunder covering any sound he makes.
If he pushes on that bay door again, you won't hear it and neither will I. Not to mention how dangerous it is to be in an RV during a storm.”
"I don’t need you to rescue me, Tate.”
"I know that. But listen, there's a ranger cabin a quarter mile up the service road. It’ll be much safer. I'm on-call all night anyway, so I was planning to use the cabin. Come with me, please.”
She looks past me at the RV, and I watch a dozen emotions flicker across her face. “Okay,” she says finally, “But I’m bringing my laptop. I need to do some writing tonight.
Writing? "No problem. There’s a desk.”
The cabin sits in a stand of old firs, and it is exactly what I said it was: a work cabin. Woodstove, desk, radio base station, gear lockers, a wall of topo maps, a kitchenette the size of a phone booth. And one bed.
I knew there was one bed. I spent the entire drive here trying not to think about it—and failing miserably.
I get the stove going while she looks around, and I watch her clock it all, the maps, the logbook, my spare jacket on the hook, the shelf with the coffee and the emergency chocolate, and the single, narrow bed. She sets her laptop on the desk and runs a finger over it.
“Feel free to work if you need to.”
She looks at me shyly. “I’m writing a novel. Or trying to, anyway.”
"That’s amazing,” I say, meaning it. “I love to read, but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to write a novel.”
As Neely types, the rain starts to fall. Before long, the warmth of the fire and the soothing sound of Neely’s fingers on the keyboard begin to lull me to sleep. I try to focus on the log book, double checking my most recent entries.
She stops typing. In the window glass, I can see her reflection watching mine.
"Tate."
"Neely."
"How long are you going to pretend to read that logbook?”
“I’m not pretend—”
“It’s upside down.”
I blink in surprise. “Is it?”
She smirks. “No.”
Busted. “How am I supposed to focus on anything with you in the room?”