Fossil Feud

Chapter 1

Eighty-Four Days Until the End of the Summer Excavation Season

The most important thing Ripley Adams learned during her useless four-fifths of a paleobiology PhD was that time really is everything.

If the history of planet Earth were a three-hundred-page book, Tyrannosaurus rex would appear three pages before the end. Humans, two pages after that. Modern civilization would arise at the very last word.

And yet a single second has the power to rearrange a whole life.

Nobody outwits time—not tyrannosaurs, not Ripley herself. But right now, working on the most important fossil she’s ever touched, she feels like she’s set one foot outside of its flow.

She focuses only on the claw-tipped wing bone under her hands, the rest of her fossil dig site fading to a soft blur.

The ring of chisels and probes, the whisking of brushes, and the metallic scrape of teaspoons against sandy, crumbly rock recede into a subliminal soundtrack.

Loose shale crunches underneath work boots as one of her crew members stalks around the site asking, “Has anyone seen my fucking tape measure?” The steady flow of chatter is punctuated by the occasional wave of laughter, probably at the senseless Mosasaurus pun (“Mo’s ass?

Yo’ ass!”) that’s already become this summer’s indispensable in-joke.

This moment is so incredibly, unbelievably unlikely.

To fossilize, these bones needed circumstances so specific they’re all but unimaginable.

The right climate, the perfect mineralized water, the wash of silt that laid down the beginnings of rock.

And then, on the other end of history, another thousand coincidences all lining up. Impossible odds.

For a beautiful, floating moment, there’s just Ripley, the bones, and the wide Montana sky. She can almost forget how quickly the excavation season passes when she’s—

A large boot stomps directly in her field of vision, dangerously close to the fragile bones. “Need you at my site, boss.”

Ripley’s hammer makes the bright, dangerous tink! sound that means she’s hit fossilized bone.

“Shit! Matteo!”

“Oops.” Matteo, the least capable of her summer interns, doesn’t sound particularly remorseful.

Ripley whisks through debris, her heart in her throat.

The delicate wing-tip bone looks okay, but it’s not until she’s run a whisper-light finger across its unchipped surface that she lets her body sag with relief.

If the phalanx had been damaged, she might not have been able to stomach Matteo’s studied indifference for the rest of the day, let alone until September.

For the past three weeks, she’s struggled to find what drives him.

Unlike the rest of her crew, he’s not a paleontology geek by nature.

His father—the owner of the Italian restaurant that does their catering—offered Ripley a substantial discount on the summer’s food bill to take Matteo on and “shape him up.” Perhaps unwisely, she made that decision with her wallet instead of her brain.

Cara Yellowtail, Ripley’s protégée and second-in-command, scrambles into view from around a curve in the shallow canyon, black-brown ponytail flying.

Her khaki pants and goldenrod Clever Girl Fossils T-shirt are generously decorated with dirt.

“Matteo! We don’t bother Rip while she’s working on this one. ”

His mouth turns mulish. “The boss said she’d check my specimen before we cap and turn.”

“That was this morning,” Ripley says, dismayed. She assigned him a disconnected triceratops thigh—worth maybe a few hundred bucks in the local fossil shops—that should’ve taken him weeks to excavate. No way it’s ready to be covered in a plaster cast and lifted from the crumbly stone matrix.

He shrugs. “I work fast.”

Cara rolls her eyes majestically. “I’ll check it, then I’m going to kick your ass for rushing. Kick it twice if you’ve made a mess of the bone. Paleontology takes patience, Matteo.”

It does. But that doesn’t mean a patient person never feels the hand of time shoving between her shoulder blades.

Ripley resumes hammering, the clink-clink-clink sounding like the seconds of summer ticking away as she works around the partially exposed wing of a dinosaur she’s certain has never been found in North America. Maybe not anywhere.

And on the last day of last season, she almost walked right past it. One second sooner or later, one step left or right, and she’d have missed it. She wasn’t even looking for new bones, just double-checking the fossils they’d capped in plaster for the winter, distracted by thoughts of her dad.

Her dad, who might never again be well enough to take her fossil hunting.

Relax your eyes, Pip, Steve Adams once said to a small Ripley who was crying after failing to spot any fossils the first time she’d gone on a weekend hunt with him. Don’t hurry. Don’t try to look everywhere at once. Let your eyes catch the things that look different.

But I’ll m-miss some, she’d hiccupped, scrubbing at her eyes and trying to be a big girl.

Yup. And you’ll see some. Feel the joy of it, Pip. Feel the fossils you’re going to find, not the ones you won’t.

Last year, at the bottom of a canyon that was once a primordial forest stream, grown-up Ripley had had to stop walking and breathe through the pain of all the fossils her dad wouldn’t find, plus the absence of the crucial specimen she’d failed to uncover in the past two years.

She’d been so sure she’d find bird fossils here.

Hands on hips, she’d turned her face to the deep blue September sky.

Fuck.

There was only one year left on her three-year fossil lease at Yellowtail Ranch. Her sponsor was restless, her funds were low, and her dad needed surgery and chemo. Barring a miracle, she was shit out of luck.

She walked on, her unfocused gaze drifting along the canyon wall. And there, right there, an orange-brown bone subtly popped against the yellowish-gray matrix. The birdlike shoulder blade practically winked at Ripley from the place where it had slumbered for a million human lifetimes.

A miracle.

She’d screamed for Cara, and after they finished laughing and crying, Ripley spat in her palm and held it out.

We tell no one. Rumors drew fossil-hunting competitors in the twenty-first century as surely as they had in the 1880s, when American paleontologists dynamited their own richest fossil beds rather than risk their discovery by rivals.

The younger woman spat in her own hand and shook, even though Ripley was the one who tended to blurt out things she didn’t mean to say and whose face always gave away a lie.

It killed Ripley to leave the bones in the earth, but the snow would be flying in a week or two. She covered the scapula with a ridiculously over-the-top amount of plaster and spent the winter dreaming of a sinuous, graceful, golden-feathered beast.

This April, the cap was still there. So was the name she’d written on it in black Sharpie: Beauty, after a classic fantasy series about time-traveling dragons.

An intact wing is a spectacular find anywhere on this continent, especially if it’s a holotype—the first of its kind.

It could fetch six figures, maybe even seven, from a museum or a minor billionaire looking for an eye-catching piece to spice up the foyer of their fourth home.

It would definitely earn Ripley recognition as an up-and-coming private fossil hunter.

But if the rest of the skeleton is hiding somewhere along the course of this shallow canyon near Montana’s Big Snowy Mountains, and if she can find it…

That’s life-changing money. A deinonychus—what Jurassic Park fans would call a velociraptor—went for twelve million a few summers ago, and Stan the T. rex sold for over thirty at Christie’s.

Half the cash will go to Geraldine Yellowtail, Cara’s grandmother and the owner of Yellowtail Ranch, but Ripley’s share will help launch her own fossil company when her lease at Clever Girl expires.

She’ll secure a few buyers on commission—people who have the money to buy priceless things and the na?veté to think that owning a piece of eternity will make them feel less empty.

She’ll finally be safe. And since the thesis of her now-trashed PhD dissertation on proto-avian habitats in North America will be proven correct, she’ll also have the satisfaction of flipping a hearty Fuck you very much to the men who pushed her out the highest window of the ivory tower.

And she’ll have time. This creature who waited uncountable years for Ripley to run her fingers over the indentations where its feathers were once attached—it will buy some time for her dad.

Maybe not more time, but good time. She can pay off his medical bills; work less and be with him more; get him out of the trailer park and into a house with decent air quality.

He’ll stop telling her she has to make the most of the precious years at the beginning of her career and let her take care of him the way he took care of her when he was a young single dad.

That’s if she can find a complete skeleton and get it out of the ground this year. If the weather cooperates, if the bones aren’t damaged by rain and wind, if her crew holds together, if, if, if.

Ripley sets down her hammer. Her focus isn’t where it needs to be. Instead of seeing the curves and angles of a forelimb that’s well on its way to evolving into a wing, she’s feeling that old, sharp longing in her chest.

Once upon a time, these bones would have put her at the center of an explosion of joy in the scientific world. Papers in Science and Nature, gushing articles in National Geographic and Outside. Five-minute spots on daytime talk shows. Job offers from Berkeley and Oxford.

Ripley Adams, the first in her family to finish college, might have had the dinosaur she discovered name-checked in a Jurassic Park movie, like Dreadnoughtus was. Hell, in that imaginary timeline, having a character based on her in a Jurassic Park movie wouldn’t have been out of the question.

But private fossil collectors aren’t the good guys in adventure movies, no matter what their backstories are. In this timeline, she’s not the one who gets to growl, “It belongs in a museum.”

Ripley won’t be giving her finds to a museum, not after the way she left academia. But a museum could buy them from her—if the billionaire who’s funding her dig doesn’t buy them first.

Maury definitely wants this one. He’ll hang the mounted skeleton from the ceiling of his great hall.

The species will be called Neopteryx mauri or some damn thing.

Maury will pretend to be surprised by the honor, as if he hadn’t planned all along to get his name carved into this specific slice of immortality.

Maybe she lost the career she and her dad dreamed she’d have, but by this time next year, Ripley might have more money than she’s ever seen in her life.

And the first thing she’s going to buy for herself, and him, is some time.

She pulls her long, sun-streaked blond braid off her damp spine, tucks it under her hat, and reties the one shoelace that always wants to come undone. Then she picks through her tools for just the right brush.

She needs to make the most of every minute between now and summer’s end.

“Yo! Ripley!”

Their cook, Renzo, stands at the edge of the canyon in a tomato-smeared apron, his floppy black hair falling over his eyes exactly the way his brother Matteo’s does.

She isn’t sure how he manages knives with so little vision, but the hair gives him a smoldering air of mystery in his actor’s headshots, so she supposes he thinks it’s worth the risk.

Every summer since she and Cara launched Clever Girl, the younger members of Renzo’s Italian restaurateur family have taken turns cooking vats of aromatic sauce, racks of spicy and tender meat, and cauldrons of perfectly al dente pasta on a huge grill.

Maury complained about the cost, but Ripley’s first rule of fossil hunting is that a crew excavates on its stomach.

You can’t spend all day shoveling, crouching, and painstakingly brushing priceless fossils on a diet of lukewarm weenies and beans.

Ripley sits back on her heels and pulls down the bandanna she wears across her face to keep out the dust and chaff from the neighboring rancher’s combine. “Can it wait until dinner?” she calls.

Renzo glances over his shoulder. “No.”

Something in his voice makes her reach for the desert-colored tarp she uses to protect exposed fossils from the elements. And from view. You never know who’s got a drone these days.

“What is it?”

“Someone’s coming. A dude,” he says—meaning a city person—“on a white horse.”

Ripley shakes her head. There’s no way someone found her dig. “He’s probably lost.”

“He doesn’t look lost,” Renzo says doubtfully. “He looks like…” His posture straightens into a perfect prep-school line, and with two picky fingers, he adjusts an imaginary collar that’s buttoned all the way to the top. He pushes his hair to the side, pursing his mouth with restrained distaste.

Renzo really should be working as an actor. His impression is…very British. Wealthy. Aristocratic. Some might say fussy.

It reminds Ripley of a certain paleontologist she used to know. Well, she didn’t exactly know him. She met him once. Still…

She shakes out the tarp with a brisk snap and floats it gently over her excavation, then gives a piercing whistle, rotating her forefinger in the air: Wrap it up. Half a dozen bodies scramble to obey.

She can’t know for sure who’s charmed his way past Geraldine’s shotgun and onto one of her famous white horses.

But if it is indeed the man who hammered the last nail into the coffin of Ripley’s academic career, she’ll be sure to give him exactly what he gave her back then.

Nothing.