Chapter One Finn
There’s a woman wearing a wedding dress standing at the top of the Gull Pond observation tower.
I don’t think this is what they mean by Bigfoot Finds a Bride.
It’s supposed to be a dating show with a bachelor Bigfoot shifter dating multiple women—human and shifter—falling in love, and proposing.
I should know—I was the star one season.
Biggest regret of my life. I didn’t find my bride on the show, so is fate now bringing me one? What other explanation can there be?
This is not something I want to deal with on a glorious September day.
I should be enjoying the warmth and solitude of the offseason at the southern New Jersey National Wildlife Refuge.
As a federal Fish and Wildlife Service officer, I’m used to dealing with rogue wildlife as well as rogue tourists, but a bride on the observation tower is a new one for me. I hope this doesn’t require paperwork.
Maybe by the time I finish crossing the marsh, she’ll be done with her wedding pictures or whatever and out of my hair.
I don’t see a photographer or a car though.
No drones. No groom. What the hell is going on?
It’s breezy at the top of the tower. The bride’s dark hair blows away from her face, flowing like a mane behind her.
I’m assuming it’s a wedding dress that she’s wearing.
It’s long and white. Has a wedding dress vibe.
As I get closer, I spot a bright blue Mustang parked along the road. That must be how she got here.
I’m halfway across the marsh when a black Hummer zooms down the dirt road, exceeding the fifteen-mile-per-hour speed limit posted in the wildlife refuge.
Hope they have good brakes because the road ends abruptly at the clearing the observation tower stands in.
If they go too quickly, they may very well end up in the marsh.
Idiot would deserve it. There’s no reason to rush here.
The purpose of the refuge is to take your time and observe the beauty of nature.
The Hummer fishtails to a halt, stirring up a cloud of dust, the ruckus setting the small flock of mallard ducks swimming in the nearby pond to flight.
I sigh. They were peaceful, no need to disturb them.
Some dude in a suit jumps out, leaving the engine running and his door open.
I hope a family of raccoons takes up residence in there.
Maybe a seagull or two. Nature can do crazy things.
Speaking of crazy things, the guy is standing at the base of the tower, shouting up.
“Shelby! What the hell? What are you doing? Get down here right now!”
He stamps his foot like a toddler. His blond hair is slicked back, giving him a salesman vibe. I don’t like him already. Way too flashy. Not impressed.
The bride, Shelby—her name causes my spine to tingle—looks down from her thirty-foot-height advantage and shakes her head.
“No. Konner, we are over. I’m not marrying you. I never want to see you again. Forget I exist, because I’m forgetting about you.”
“Baby, you don’t mean that. Come on down. Our guests are waiting for us. It’s cold feet. I forgive you.”
I pick up my pace. They haven’t noticed me yet.
It’s not like I blend in. Tough to do when you’re a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall Bigfoot wearing a Fish and Wildlife Services uniform with all your hair blowing in the breeze like you’re in a shampoo commercial.
But I guess when you’re completely absorbed in yourself, you don’t take in what’s around you.
Instinct tells me I’m going to have to defuse the situation.
Maybe just my presence will handle it. It’s amazing how intimidated people are by me, even though it’s ridiculous.
I’m the biggest marshmallow out there. But I’ll work with what I have.
“You forgive me? You forgive me? Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve done nothing wrong!
” She’s screeching while bending over and fiddling under her skirt.
When she straightens, I can see she’s holding something white in her hand.
She launches it down at the guy, catching him in the shoulder before it bounces off into the dust. I think it’s a shoe.
“Ow! Damn it, Shelby! You’re overreacting. It was the last hurrah. It’s what men do. Doesn’t mean anything.”
He doesn’t get out of the way of the second shoe, and it beans him in the noggin. They better not make me do paperwork.
“Hey!” I call out as I jog the last hundred yards along the path out of the marsh. Jogging in custom-made hip waders is a feat. It’s not like I can go to the sporting goods store and buy a set that will accommodate my feet and my height off the rack.
My voice is deep and husky. It’s that way naturally, but even more so when I’ve spent a day in the field without speaking.
Most people assume Bigfoots can’t speak.
We can. We just usually don’t feel like it.
Being big and hairy is startling enough.
If we chat folks up, I think it would send them over the edge.
Most of us are introverted; that’s how we avoided detection for so long.
The Bigfoot sightings through the years?
That’s us being bored and messing with the humans.
Being a shifter makes it easy to shift to human form and play dumb.
Bigfoot? What Bigfoot? Maybe it was a bear?
It was a fun game to play when we went camping on summer vacations as kids.
The bride turns to look at me, and that tingle of recognition returns. The guy screeches at a pitch that makes me want to cover my ears.
“Who are you? Go away!” He backs away from the base of the observation tower with his hands held up in a pose halfway between aggression and protection.
I don’t reply. My stride remains steady as I enter the clearing around the tower.
When I reach the base of the tower opposite his position, he turns tail and jumps back in his Hummer, drives around the base of the tower, giving me a wide berth, and zooms down the dirt road toward the exit.
I pray no one is crossing the road and all the critters remain safe.
Stepping back from the tower and looking up, I have flashbacks of my one and only time on stage playing Romeo to Chrissie Stewart’s Juliet in a high school production. Resisting the urge to recite the famous dialogue, I decide on something much simpler.
“Hello,” I call up, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Are you okay?”
The bride leans over the railing, and I’m able to get a clearer view of her face. It can’t be.
“Is he gone?” she asks. Her dark hair is falling over her shoulder. If I remember correctly, her eyes are a moss green.
Nodding, I look down the road to be sure.
“He’s gone. Can you come down? Or can I come up there?
I’m an officer with the Fish and Wildlife Service.
I have an ID. I can give you my name and the number to refuge headquarters to confirm my identity.
” I can be intimidating in Bigfoot form.
Also, women unfortunately have reason to feel trepidation about encountering a strange man while they are alone.
I can’t make myself small, though. Even if I shift back to human form, I’ll still be over six-and-a-half feet tall and muscular.
“I’ll come down,” she says. “My ex is afraid of heights, and I didn’t want to deal with him. I don’t normally go all Rapunzel in the tower.”
“You’re more Belle than Rapunzel,” I say, immediately wishing I could take it back.
As she descends the tower, I find her shoes. I hate that she’s walking down the metal grid stairs on bare feet. There’s bird crap and who knows what else on them. Thankfully, I have antibacterial wipes in my field bag, so I meet her at the base of the stairs, holding out the wipes and her shoes.
“Here. If you want to clean your feet. The tower is kinda grody.”
Her laughter is sweeter than the songbirds that make the refuge their home.
“Grody? Are you from California?”
“Oregon,” I admit.
“You’re a long way from home.” She accepts the wipes. “Can I lean on you real quick?”
I turn and give her my shoulder. Her face scrunches up. I know I don’t smell that fresh, and I’ve been tromping through the marshes.
“I’m a mess, I’m sorry.” You can’t see it through my fur, but I feel myself blushing from embarrassment.
She lightly shoves my shoulder. “Hush, you. I’m figuring out logistics. Can you hold the wipes?”
I take them back and open them so she can pull out what she needs.
Her hand lands on my shoulder, and a spark zips through my body.
She wipes each foot and steps into her shoes.
Her wedding dress has a high slit, so her toned thigh peeks out.
I swallow hard and look over to the pond where the flock of mallards has resettled.
But I can’t keep my gaze from wandering back to her, up her legs and over her hips and belly.
“Oh, no. You got your dress dirty.” There’s a streak of dirt slashing across her abdomen.
She gives a careless shrug. “I don’t care. This dress is hideous. If it wasn’t because my sponsor is paying me, I wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Boho is not my style. You should see the hat they wanted me to wear.”
I was feeling guilty for thinking it was ugly, but now it’s like I have permission.
“The dress is...something. But you’re beautiful.” Shut up, Finnegan King. You’re being ridiculous. Now I remember why my kind doesn’t talk when we’re in our Bigfoot form. Stops us from saying stupid shit like this.
A pretty flush stains her cheeks.
“You’re sweet,” she says. “I know you don’t remember me, Finn, but I appreciate your kindness.”
“I remember you, Shelby.” Even with everything else that happened, sending Shelby Albright home was my biggest regret from my time on Bigfoot Finds a Bride.