Chapter 5
Adam
These dang turkey poachers. Selfish, thoughtless, trashy . . .
I mutter my angry thoughts as I snag a wadded purple Takis bag off the forest floor. I know this is theirs. It’s not the first empty Takis bag I’ve found. It’s basically their calling card.
A few weeks ago, I found a corn feeder in a remote part of the preserve, and instead of ripping it out or calling the game warden, I kept an eye on it. If I remove it, whoever did it will only get a new one and choose a different spot for it.
But I’m going to catch them. The law should deal with them.
This preserve is protected land and turkey season is over.
I’ve been working my tail off for four years to defend it from exactly this kind of crap.
So far, I’ve had no luck tracking down the poachers—just evidence that someone has been baiting turkeys with corn and eating Takis in the woods.
I’m generally a calm guy, but three things make me mad: One, Lupinus polyphyllus—invasive, Bigleaf lupines—the bane of my existence.
Two, people who hunt out of season. And three, purple Takis bags.
Nothing fills my gut with ire quite like seeing those things in the woods.
I’m almost more angry about the trash than I am about the illegal hunting.
Hopefully the trail cameras I set up this morning will end this fast.
I take a minute to breathe and look around. The fog is thick this morning, and when the sun peeks through the trees, it turns into golden ribbons that make the forest glow. I slide my phone out of my pocket and snap a quick picture. I love this job, even when I’m dealing with poacher trash.
Something shiny winks in the corner of my eye. I make my way over and discover that it’s not trash this time. It’s a cell phone.
This has to be Stevie’s. She threw it at me last night, right before she smacked her head on a rock and blacked out. I got distracted by her unconsciousness and didn’t think to grab it for her.
I crouch to pick it up, sweat already dripping from my forehead now that the sun is coming up.
Holding the phone aloft between my index finger and thumb, I examine it like it’s an alien object.
What business does it have being so feminine?
Its case is delicate and covered with tiny yellow flowers.
This is the girliest thing my hands have touched since .
. . Well, since last night. The little dress Stevie was wearing pops into my mind, and I shake my head.
I turn the phone in my hands, inspecting it and wondering: Does she have a picture on her lock screen? Is the battery dead? Would checking make me a terrible person?
Yes. Don’t even think about it, I warn myself.
I look around, like anyone else would be out here at 5:30 in the morning.
I’m alone. No one will ever know. I’ll look at the lock screen, put the phone in my pocket, and return it to its owner. No harm done.
Something drops from a red oak tree a few feet away, and an acorn tumbles next to my boot. I peer up into the leaves, and a squirrel is standing on its hind legs, judging me.
“I wasn’t going to look,” I mutter, sliding the phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
I’m not sure how to return it to its owner, though. Maybe I do need to get into the phone. I can get a hold of one of Stevie’s contacts. I think I need to.
Or, I can be honest with myself, peek at the lock screen one time, and return the phone to the diner in town.
I pull the phone back out of my pocket. I’m a man on a mission. I press the button to turn on the screen, and—
Holy Lupinus polyphyllus.
Aw, man. Disappointment sinks in my gut like a stone. She’s one of them.
Stevie’s one of those people who love the invasive purple flowers that cover the shoulder of every highway and meadow in June.
On her lock screen, Stevie and her two friends are smiling, their arms thrown around each other, and posing in a field of purple Bigleaf lupine.
This has to be a recent photo. That looks like this year’s superbloom.
There are just so many of them. They’re like a bunch of Swifties at a Chiefs game, crowding the land and choking out the native plant life. Freaking lupine.
But geez, Stevie’s pretty up close. I bite the inside of my cheek, guilty but unable to pull my eyes away. In the picture, her red hair is wild and loose around her shoulders. It suits her fiery personality. And those eyes. They’re wide and brown, like doe eyes, and they make my chest feel tight.
Okay, that was my one quick peek. I put the phone in my pocket. Later today I’ll drop it off at the diner, which means I’ll have to talk to people. Luckily, I have a few hours to prepare. As I install my trail cameras, I mentally rehearse what I’ll say:
Hi. I found this in the woods. *drops phone on the counter and runs out the door*
I can do better than that.
Hi. Stevie left this in the forest last night when I scared her and she hit her head. *drops phone on the counter and runs out the door*
Stevie’s phone! *chucks phone overhand into the diner and runs away*
I need to envision an interaction where I don’t dart away at the end of it. Ruth would be proud of that. My sister would not, however, be proud of me snooping on a woman’s phone.
I feel the weight of it in my pocket as I finish installing the final camera and make my way toward my truck.
Hopefully these hunters aren’t seasoned enough that they’ll spot my cameras.
I’m guessing not, judging by their other hunting habits.
But with almost eight thousand acres of land to oversee, I can’t spend every day monitoring this one area.
The sun is fully above the trees now, and it’s getting warm. I really, really want to take off my T-shirt. I keep thinking about what Stevie called me last night, though. Shirtless Adam. I don’t love it, but it’s accurate.
I’ve always run hot, and I moved to New England for a reason.
I don’t handle the year-round heat of Florida as well as my family does.
I spent every day of my childhood hunting for iguanas sans shirt—I was shirtless, not the iguanas.
Technically, none of us were wearing a shirt.
It’s too hot to be fully clothed in Florida.
But then I landed my dream job in Maine. I love having four seasons and working alone in the woods. And yeah, I still take off my shirt. I didn’t think anyone noticed or cared.
Turns out they do.
Stevie’s suggestion that I put on a shirt reverberates in my head. But she’s not here, and I feel like I’m being sautéed in the heat of the late-morning sun. I can’t think straight, it’s so hot.
Screw it.
I drop my small toolbox on the ground and tug my shirt over my head, slinging it over my shoulder like I usually do.
I’ll wear a shirt when I’m in town or working close to the highway, but not today.
My mood instantly improves by a hundred percent as I grab my tools and head down the trail, almost skipping over the roots of the big hemlock and oak trees.
Something cracks in the woods behind me, and my skin prickles with the sense that I’m not alone.
I pause, assess my surroundings, then clear my throat.
I need to make noise. I don’t want to walk into a bear.
It’s best to give those guys a heads-up.
They appreciate that, and I’d prefer not to have my face clawed off.
I turn slowly, scanning the trees.
A few dozen feet away, long brown tail feathers fan out from behind some shrubs. So, not a black bear. It’s a turkey.
This is so much worse.
It’s a male turkey, and it’s not just any tom. I’d know this one anywhere.
This particular bird is the biggest jerk in all eight thousand acres of Biddeford Forest Preserve.
He’s huge—four feet tall, with a beak like a combat knife.
He’s easy to identify because his snood—the fleshy red thing that dangles over his beak—is especially long and, frankly, super gross.
I’ve fantasized about tackling him and pulling some underpants over that thing.
He’s also extremely territorial and infamous for chasing hikers.
I’ve fielded dozens of complaints about this guy.
Most recently, he chased an eleven-year-old girl.
He pecked a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich right out of her hand.
When her dad scared him away, the jerk turkey trampled her.
He left a trail of muddy, six-inch turkey tracks across the back of her church youth camp T-shirt. It was like a crime scene.
It goes without saying that this turkey is my nemesis. If I ever get my hands on him, he is literal dead meat. In season or out of season, he will end up in my oven. He made a little girl cry, so he’s the only exception to the hunting rules. Unfortunately, I don’t have a shotgun on me today.
And he’s mere feet away, with his menacing tail feathers and giant beak poking around in the bushes. I also notice that the blue, white, and red on his neck have brightened in color, reminding me that it’s mating season. Ugh. He’ll be particularly aggressive. I need to be careful.
Taking a hesitant step forward, I keep the turkey in the corner of my eye as I move silently down the trail. I’ve almost made it to the curve in the path that will take me out of his evil line of sight when the worst thing that could happen at this moment happens.
Stevie steps around the corner.
I shake my head, eyes wide, moving toward her.
“Adam?” Her smile widens. “Have you seen my—”
She freezes when she finally catches my expression. Her gaze darts over my shoulder, and she mutters a word that would make me chuckle if there wasn’t a demon turkey nearby.
She hisses without moving her mouth, “I hate that freaking turkey.”
Her words are barely out when the bird makes his move. He crashes through the bushes like a tiger, his beady eyes zeroed in on Stevie.
“Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run,” I spit out in a panic. It’s the worst thing she could do. Turkeys love to chase, and this one has made a sport of chasing humans.
But before the words leave my mouth, Stevie raises both arms, hitches her knee high à la The Karate Kid, and screams, “Get out of here, Butterballsy! Go on, git!” She waves her arms, kicking her Karate Kid leg over and over while she hollers.
Red hair flying around her, she charges the turkey, shouting threats the whole way. “That’s right, keep it moving, pal!”
Honestly, between this and what she did to me last night, I’m more than a little intimidated by Stevie right now.
And so is the turkey. He changes course, trotting back through the trees to hide deep in the woods, far away from Stevie and her Ralph Macchio moves.
We’re both panting as we watch the rustling bushes go still behind the bird.
“He’s gone,” Stevie says with a long exhale. She drops onto a granite boulder, clutching her hands to her head with a moan.
I crouch in front of her. “Are you okay?”
I only ask because of how she’s grabbing her temples. This woman can clearly take care of herself. I’ve never seen anyone deal with a tom turkey quite like that. I can’t wait to download this footage off of my trail camera. I'm fighting laughter at the mental image.
She whimpers. “I have a concussion,” she says lightly, like the effort of speech is too much.
I wince. That’s right. She hit her head last night. I almost put a hand on her shoulder but stop myself. “What can I do?” I ask instead.
She shrugs. “Nothing,” she whispers, her eyes closed. “I just need a second to sit in the quiet.”
That I can do. Sitting in the quiet is my forte, especially out here. I keep my ears tuned to the woods and lower myself to sit on the rock beside her, setting my toolbox on the ground.
“You don’t have to stay.” She pivots toward me, peeping an eye open while she massages her head. “I’m sure you have work to do.”
“Keeping people safe in these woods is part of my job,” I say lamely. I’m not staying because this is my job. Not even close.
For a few minutes, Stevie is quiet while I listen to the leaves rustle overhead.
I’m trying not to think about the woman sitting next to me, who smells like apples and would probably punch a turkey in the face.
She did everything right in that situation, actually.
I’m impressed by how efficiently she scared him off.
“What are you smiling about?” she asks softly.
Am I smiling? I shake my head. “Nothing.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “Come on. What?”
The corner of my mouth hitches. I don’t want to embarrass her, but I have to know. “What did you call that turkey?”
“Huh?”
“A minute ago, when you were”—I briefly mimic her turkey attack with my hands—”you know. What did you call him?” I think I know, but I want to hear her say it again.
“Oh.” She blushes under the sprinkling of freckles on her nose. “Um . . . Butterballsy. That’s what I—that’s what I call him. Butterballsy,” she says again with a shy laugh. “I regret to admit that this wasn’t our first . . . tête-à-tête.”
“I got that impression,” I say. I want to laugh because the nickname is a portmanteau sent directly from heaven, but I also have a renewed need for vengeance against that dang bird.
I’m determined to find him. But that name?
Butterballsy. I chuckle, thinking about it combined with his angry face and his long, indecent snood. It’s perfect. Stevie is funny.
She juts her delicate chin. “Don’t laugh. I did exactly what someone is supposed to do when a turkey charges.”
I’m trying to form a response when something chirps loudly in my front pocket. Stevie’s eyes tighten, and she cringes at my jeans. The distinctive chirping ringtone only grows louder.
Oh, crap. That’s her phone—in my pocket.