Chapter 3 Cassidy
CASSIDY
Dawn breaks cold and gray, the kind of light that turns the forest into silhouettes and shadows. I cross the boundary stakes at six-forty-seven, GPS logging every step, camera ready.
The tracks start twenty feet past the iron markers.
Fresh. Deep enough that moisture still beads in the lowest impressions. I crouch beside the clearest print and pull out my measuring tape, stretching it across the width.
Six and a half inches.
I move to the next print, ten feet ahead. Seven inches. Then another—six and a half. The sizes don't match. Different animals, all moving through here within the last twelve hours, all significantly larger than documented gray wolf populations.
I pull out my phone and open the voice recorder app, thumbing it to record while I work.
"Day four. Six-fifty a.m. Crossed Blackmoore boundary at first light. Multiple tracks confirmed—at least four distinct animals based on paw size variation. Largest print measures seven inches width, the smallest six and a half. All exceed regional gray wolf averages by significant margins."
I follow the trail northeast, documenting as I go. The prints don't scatter the way normal wolf packs do during a hunt. They stay parallel, evenly spaced, moving in formation.
I stop and replay that thought.
"Stride pattern suggests coordinated movement. Not typical predatory behavior—wolves during active hunts show erratic spacing, directional changes following prey scent. These tracks maintain consistent intervals. Almost..." I pause, searching for the right word. "Military."
The forest is too quiet. No birdsong. No chatter of squirrels. Just wind moving through pine needles and the distant rush of water from a creek I can't see yet.
I move deeper, following the tracks as they curve around a granite outcrop. The soil here is softer, darker. Rich with decomposed organic matter. Perfect for impressions.
And there are dozens.
Layered prints, some crossing others, some perfectly preserved alongside older tracks that have started to erode along the exterior of the impression. I kneel and count—eight distinct trails, maybe more. All heading in the same direction.
"Multiple animals converging on a central point. Behavior inconsistent with territorial patrol or hunting pattern. This suggests..." I stop recording and sit back on my heels.
Organized movement. Deliberate coordination. Predators don't operate like this unless they're protecting something. Or preparing for something.
I stand and scan the tree line ahead. The tracks lead deeper into Blackmoore land, toward a ridge thick enough with pine that I can't see what's on the other side.
The prickle starts at the base of my skull.
Not sound. Not movement. Just the sudden, visceral awareness that I'm not alone.
I turn slowly, keeping my hands visible, non-threatening. My bear spray is clipped to my belt, but reaching for it feels like the wrong move.
The tree line is empty. Just shadows and undergrowth and the slow sway of branches in the breeze.
But the feeling doesn't fade. If anything, it sharpens—a weight pressing against my spine, heavy and deliberate.
"Day four, seven-oh-three," I say into the recorder, keeping my voice steady. "Experiencing heightened environmental awareness. Possible predator presence nearby. No visual confirmation yet."
I take three steps forward, eyes locked on the shadows between the trees.
Nothing moves.
I exhale slowly and turn back to the tracks—
And he's there. Ten feet away. Standing in the center of the trail like he materialized out of smoke.
I didn't hear him. Didn't see him approach. One second the path was empty, the next he's blocking it, arms loose at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed.
He's tall—six-three, maybe taller—with dark hair that's too long and falls across his forehead in a way that suggests he doesn't care.
His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes are the kind of gray that shifts between steel and storm depending on the light.
Right now, they're fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
He's wearing a faded thermal shirt and jeans that have seen better days, boots caked in mud. No jacket, despite the cold. No gear. Just him and the forest and the deliberate way he's standing between me and the trail ahead.
"Turn around." His voice is low, controlled. The kind of tone that expects obedience without negotiation.
I straighten, keeping my hands visible. "Excuse me?"
"You're trespassing on private land. Turn around and leave."
"Private land." I pull the topo map from my jacket pocket, unfold it, and point to the easement zones marked in green. "According to county records, this section falls under public forest easement. I have legal access."
His jaw tightens. "Maps don't matter. This is mountain territory. You don't belong here."
"Mountain territory." I tilt my head, studying him. "You say that like it's sovereign land. Last I checked, Montana still follows federal easement law."
He doesn't answer. Just takes a step closer, and the air between us shifts—heavier, charged with something I can't name.
His eyes don't leave mine, and there's something unsettling about the way he's looking at me.
Not threatening, exactly. More like he's cataloging every detail, every breath, and filing it away for later.
"There are predators here you can't handle," he says quietly.
"I handle apex predators for a living." I fold the map and tuck it back into my pocket. "It's literally my job."
"Not like this."
"Then explain it to me." I cross my arms. "Because right now, all I see is someone trying to intimidate me off public land without cause."
His nostrils flare slightly. His hands curl into fists at his sides, then release. Like he's fighting to stay still.
"This is your warning," he says. "Turn back now, or you'll regret it."
"Noted."
I step around him, shoulder brushing his as I pass, and continue down the trail.
It takes all my willpower not to look back, to make sure he's not following. But I don't. Just keep walking, boots crunching on pine needles, recorder still running in my hand.
Behind me, silence.
No footsteps. No movement.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He's still right in the middle of the trail, watching me. His posture hasn't changed, but something in his expression has—something raw and unguarded that vanishes the second our eyes meet.
Then he turns and disappears into the tree line without a sound.
I stop, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Day four, seven-twelve," I say into the recorder, voice steadier than I feel.
"Encountered property owner. Male, approximately six-three, late twenties to early thirties.
Attempted to intimidate the subject off trail using vague predator warnings and territorial language.
Subject declined to comply and continued investigation. "
I lower the phone and stare at the spot where he vanished.
Property owner. That's what he must be. Blackmoore land, Blackmoore family. The sheriff mentioned them—old family, keep to themselves, don't cause trouble.
Except he just threatened me.
Sort of.
I replay the encounter in my head. His voice. The way he moved. The intensity in his eyes when he looked at me, like he was seeing something I couldn't.
And the way he stepped closer, nostrils flaring, like he was—
Scenting me.
I shake my head and turn back to the tracks.
Professional. Stay professional.