Chapter 2
MOLLY
On my way out to the parking lot, I try not to think about how I’m carrying what’s left of my Mima’s last couple years on earth in a cardboard box.
I should’ve done this four months ago, when I actually laid her to rest. But what can I say?
Avoidance, denial. Those are my tools of choice when it comes to coping.
One might think choosing distraction would include leaving the home I lived in with her and Granddad so I wouldn’t have a daily reminder of their absence.
They had given the beautiful home resting on forty acres of forest and meadows the affectionate name, Clover Hill.
It was a beautiful piece of property to grow up on, and every square foot was full of laughter and love.
The one place I’ve truly felt safe. And despite the ache of them no longer being there with me, the idea of leaving it would be its own special kind of trauma.
Learning to care for it myself the last couple years has been an ongoing feat.
So much so that I’ve let myself believe it’s the reason I took so long to get Mima’s things from the nursing home.
The nicer one that I worked extra hours to afford because she was worth it.
She had, after all, brought me up in nurturing happiness since before I was four.
Footsteps approach as I secure the box of belongings in the truck’s extended cab, And I slam the door, turning in time to see a man in a suit come to a stop a few paces away from me.
He regards me with a friendly smile, and I regard him with a suspicious glare.
I don’t trust suits. In a place like this, their presence can only mean one thing.
“Ms. Butler?” He guesses at my identity.
“Depends on what you want,” I answer him. In this northwestern region of the U.S., you either live here and work the blue-collar life, or you’re a tourist. And he sure as hell doesn’t look like he’s about to hit any hiking trails.
He chuckles and looks at his fancy, pointy shoes a moment before smiling back up at me, a gesture I’m sure he thinks looks humble.
“My name is Damen Riley. We’ve?—”
“Bye,” I tell him, turning away to open my driver’s side door. I know who he is. Over the last few months, his name has been at the top of multiple emails requesting information on my grandparents’—my—property.
“Ms. Butler, all I want is a meeting. We can go wherever you like. Coffee, a bite to eat, it’s on me. I just want a few minutes of your time.”
I toss my handbag on the passenger seat. “I already told you I’m not interested, and that was not code for come out to my grandmother’s former place of residence and stalk me.”
“Yeah, I apologize for the ambush, but I’ve made some amendments to my original offer I thought you should know about.
” His eyes are bright, and he’s waving his hands like he’s trying to get me excited.
“I’m talking about some really profitable opportunities and benefits, and since you won’t respond by email, I thought I should?—”
“Do not follow me back to Ironvale Ridge.” I hop into the driver’s seat, slam my door shut, and lock it without giving him another look.
The lengthy drive back home will allow me to reflect on my morning and the exchange with Riley.
He’d love nothing more than to pounce on my priceless property and turn it into a spa or casino or whatever the hell endeavor he has planned.
He’s been hounding me since the minute I got Mima in the ground, but when I say Clover Hill is priceless, I mean it.
There is no price tag for what it is to me.
I spend the second half of the drive trying to shake off my annoyance, and when I pass a sign for an upcoming bait and tackle shop, I suddenly remember Granddad’s solution to a stressful day.
“The tough go fishing,” he always said, sometimes taking me down to the eddy with him. He was entirely right. The weather’s been warmer for over three weeks, and I haven’t been out on the river yet…
The old, rusty rowboat—perpetually unclaimed—still sits parked on the shore of the output, half on the bank, half drifting in the shallows.
I take advantage, laying down one of Mima’s blue tartan blankets over a bench and resting my sneakered feet on the bow.
No phone and no other visitors on this public but somewhat hidden gem of land on the outskirts of our property, a place Grandad used to call one of the best fishing holes around.
The sky over the water, the lapping of the lake, the gentle wind in the branches, and the occasional cricket make for a peaceful afternoon and bring me back to where it’s clear my problems aren’t as big as they’re trying to be.
What is big is the bounty of Chinook salmon I score, proving that my granddad’s navy-blue Cascade Crushers ball cap truly is lucky.
I don’t ever remember making out with such an abundance.
Abundance also comes in the form of the view as I’m leaving.
A tall drink of water approaches from the north trailhead.
He fills out a nice pair of relaxed jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
His forearms are tanned and lean, and though the bill of his ball cap is pulled low, he’s showing off a sharp jawline dusted with the right amount of dark scruff.
Too bad his Aviators cover up the color of his eyes. Either way, having them on me for a few minutes would not be the worst way to cap off this day.
“Good afternoon,” he greets, although his tone suggests a what’s-so-good- about-it quality.
“Hi?” I return cautiously. The last time a stranger approached me, things didn’t go so well.
“Nice haul.” He tips his chin at my bouquet of silvery, squirmy fish.
It’s hard to tell with his eyes hidden, but I’m thinking he’s not sincere about that statement either.
“Yeah,” is all I give him.
Thankfully, he doesn’t waste any more time on small talk and instead reaches in his back pocket and produces a badge.
Fuck… Never mind. I’ll take the uncomfortable small talk.
He lets the little metal shield do his bidding to effortlessly launch into the business he has with me. “Can I see your license?"
“Which one?”
“Both fishing and drivers.”
Right. He needs to verify identity. I know better than to fish without a license, but it’s been eons—possibly ever—since I’ve been checked for it.
Trying not to expel my sigh of discontentment too loudly, I nod, reaching in the back pocket of my jeans.
I hand over the folded piece of cardstock I’d obtained earlier at the bait shop as well as my driver’s license.
The man takes a moment to look them over. “Thanks,” he nods, seemingly satisfied until he shifts both documents to one hand and holds his other out to me. “And your salmon permit?”
My head snaps up to regard him. “What?”
“Your salmon permit,” he repeats, his tone dripping with notes of duh. “Those are Chinooks.” He gestures at my catch.
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t hide my annoyance this time. “Since when do I need a permit for salmon?”
“Since the beginning of this season,” he answers with a tip of his head.
Never mind, he’s not hot; he’s arrogant. I try to mentally brush off his superiority and catalog when I last fished. Shit, this is definitely the first time this season. “So, wait a minute. I didn’t need one last season?—”
“That was last season.”
“What changed? No one told me I needed one this season.” Frank at the bait shop didn’t mention it.
“There was a lot of overfishing last year, putting the salmon population at risk. Both Tribal and county parks and wildlife had to reassess regulations.” He spouts off like some kind of wildlife officer bot.
“Look, I’m sorry, but no one told me.” The heart rate I’d spent the afternoon trying to quell ticks back up again. My nervous system does not need this kind of stress.
“I appreciate that, but it’s your job to do your research. Laws change frequently, but they’re always posted.”
Well, shit. I didn’t update myself on the current rules, but seriously?
He shakes his head as he reaches for his other back pocket, which likely holds his ticket book.
“Oh come on!” My protest bursts out unexpectedly, and a weight drops in my chest.
He looks up from what is most definitely a ticket book and cocks his head at me.
He places his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes, a posture that screams, ‘Are you seriously starting with me?’ He gestures to the fish in my hand.
“And…you’ve snatched up seven chinooks there on the hook.
You don’t have a permit, and you’re over the limit. ”
“There’s a new limit now too?”
He glares at me. “Were you planning to host a big fish fry tonight? Sorry to burst your bubble.”
“Like I would fry salmon,” I sneer. Heathen. “No, I plan to gorge myself like a raccoon on a pile of raw fish and come back tomorrow.”
“That attitude isn’t doing you any favors as far as a citation is concerned.” He shifts the bill of his hat, and I think I see his gaze behind his shades flit to my lips.
“What can I say? Being busted for stupid shit doesn’t put me in the best of moods.”
“Stupid shit? Excuse me?” He tips his chin upwards as his shoulders drop and I get the feeling he gets that a lot. Too bad.
“You’re supposed to serve and protect. But all I see is you swinging your dick around, acting like a wildlife Karen when I’m not doing any harm.”
His head dips back down at me. “Do I need to give you a lecture about how to preserve the ecosystems in this region? Because that’s also part of my job, and the amount of salmon you’re ripping out of this stream?—”
“Seriously, you do not need to talk to me about wildlife conservation. If you saw where I live and what I do for a living?—”
“Oh really? Enlighten me,” he fidgets with his ballcap again and takes half a step back like he’s surprised by his own comeback.
“I’m a vet tech,” I inform him.
“So you clean cages and walk dogs.”
“I’m a veterinary medicine student, and I do so much more than that, and one day it will be for more than just cats and dogs.”
Dr. Voss has been hanging back for the last two years, letting me do most of the challenging treatments and procedures. He still takes all the credit and the pay, of course, but I go with it. It’s good experience and will serve me well, be it in vet school or some other avenue.
“Well, let this be a lesson you learn along your journey.” He begins writing.
“Oh my god.” I shake my head in disbelief then smash my hands against my eyes, trying to gather what little scraps of patience and propriety I have left, hoping to make any feeble Hail Mary at turning this around.
“Look, I’m…really not having a good day.
I’m sorry for not staying up to date on the regulations. I swear I will from now on?—”
“Yes, you will.” His words fly from his mouth as briskly as he tears the ticket off the pad and hands it to me.
I snatch the ticket out of his hand. “Are you shitting me?”
“Not much of a shitter.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Have a nice day.”
“Oh, you’re a shitter.” I’m bitter and cynical. “In fact, you just shit on the already terrible day I told you I had. But you? Please go have the day you deserve!”
To that, the annoyingly attractive game warden offers a barely amused smirk. I whip away from him, grab my gear, and salute him with my middle finger over my shoulder as I walk away.