Chapter 3
Three
Noah gripped the steering wheel of his Jeep as he navigated the winding dirt road toward the North Rim’s campground. The morning sun sliced through the ponderosa pines in sharp golden beams. The scent of pine sap hung thick in the warming air.
He’d barely slept all week.
The chaos of the campground. Lydia’s pointless death. And most of all, how he’d allowed himself to hold Meg in his Jeep seven days ago, even though he’d promised himself it wouldn’t—couldn’t—happen again.
Yet he’d held her tight as she sobbed against his chest.
He couldn’t not do it. It was like some primal instinct, as if he’d been created for that very thing—to shield her from the storms that raged inside her.
But a week later, that moment haunted him.
Haunted? More like consumed him. The memory of her weight in his lap, the dampness of her tears soaking through his shirt, the way she’d fit against him like she belonged there.
It took all his self-control not to drive his Jeep over to her clinic this very minute. But he couldn’t keep sending her mixed signals—couldn’t keep pulling her close only to push her away. As much as he longed for it, longed for her, it also sent a current of fear through his core.
If he let himself love her, he wouldn’t survive losing her.
Not this time.
He shook his head and forced his focus back to the road. To his current problem. The treasure hunters were multiplying like weeds after a rain. Lydia’s death hadn’t even slowed it down—if anything, the news coverage had brought more.
Gold fever had turned the North Rim into a powder keg, with idiots from all over flocking here with stars in their eyes, ignoring signs, trampling trails, and now clashing over campsites.
If the park didn’t shut down soon, someone else was going to die—and it might not be from a rockfall this time.
His phone buzzed on the dash. He snatched it up and hit Speaker. “Hey, Virgil, thanks for calling back.”
“Noah, I’ve got five minutes before my meeting with the regional director.
” Virgil’s voice crackled over the spotty phone signal.
“What’s this about closing the North Rim?
The cave incident was terrible, but you and I both know over three hundred people die in the national parks every year.
It’s awful, but we can’t shut a park every time tragedy—or stupidity—strikes.
I understand the gold has brought out the crazies, but the South Rim is handling it. Why can’t you?”
Noah swerved around a pothole, and the Jeep rattled.
“With all due respect, sir, we have a significantly smaller staff than the South Rim. A fact that the treasure hunters seem to have picked up on. More are pouring in every day, ignoring closures, starting fights over nothing. The SAR teams are stretched thin, and our law-enforcement rangers are outnumbered. We need to shut it down—at least temporarily—until we can get more support.”
Virgil sighed. “Look, I get it. The Roosevelt gold’s appearance is a nightmare.
But closing the park? That’s revenue suicide.
Tourism is up twenty percent because of this mess—people coming to gawk, spending money.
The higher-ups want us to manage it, not panic.
Increase patrols. Post more signs. Coordinate with the county sheriff. ”
“I am an outdoorsman, not a police officer.”
Virgil released a humorless laugh. “Well, you know the first national park rangers were hired more as a police force, keeping people from doing crazy things. Consider this getting back to the job’s roots.”
Noah wasn’t ready to concede yet, and his voice rose. “These aren’t tourists. They’re armed yahoos with shovels and delusions of striking it rich. We had a near-riot at the trailhead two days ago when we refused to let them take shovels and a pickax on the trail. If we don’t act—”
A shout cut through the air just ahead—sharp and angry.
Noah’s attention snapped to the campground loop as he crested the hill.
Two men were squared off near a cluster of weathered tents with their voices escalating.
One was a burly biker type in a leather vest, arms covered in faded tattoos, fists clenched.
The other looked like he’d crawled out of a survivalist catalog—cargo pants, tactical vest, wild beard.
A woman in a dusty SUV was trying to back out of a cramped campsite, her bumper scraping a wooden post. But the men blocked her path and were oblivious to her honking horn.
“Virgil, hold on. I’ve got a situation here.” Noah slammed the Jeep into park and hopped out with the phone still in hand. “I’m serious, we need to close this place before—”
The mountain man yanked something from his pocket—a knife, the blade glinting in the sunlight.
Noah’s pulse spiked. “Call you back.” He ended the call without waiting, shoved the phone into his pocket, and hurried forward with his ranger cap pulled low.
This was exactly what he’d been warning about—gold fever turning people feral.
“Let’s calm down.” Noah raised his hands as he positioned himself with one man on his right and the other on his left.
They barely glanced at him, their eyes locked in mutual fury.
The biker snarled something about “my spot,” while the mountain man waved the knife—a short whittling blade with a worn wooden handle.
Around them, the campground buzzed with tension. Families peeked from RVs. A few treasure hunters smirked from their walk-in sites. Shovels and maps were scattered across picnic tables.
It wasn’t a vacation scene anymore. It was Gold Rush meets Mad Max.
Noah waved the SUV driver through. “Ma’am, go on—get clear.”
She nodded gratefully with wide eyes, then accelerated away.
“Put that away,” Noah’s ranger voice boomed. “Brandishing a weapon is grounds for eviction and charges. Stand down. Now.”
The biker’s eyes flicked to him—bloodshot and wild. “You ain’t no real ranger. Just another fool chasin’ gold, like him.”
Not a real ranger?
Maybe he needed to start wearing his starched uniform. He pulled out his badge. “I am a real ranger, and you need to put that down.”
When the biker’s gaze flicked to the badge, the mountain man saw the opening. He jabbed the knife toward the biker, who caught the movement and lunged aside.
When the mountain man lifted his arm again, time slowed.
Noah’s instincts kicked in—protect, de-escalate, intervene.
He thrust his arm out to block the jab. The knife sliced across his forearm in a burning line—white-hot pain followed by the warm rush of blood.
He ignored it, pushed through the shock, and shoved the mountain man back. The guy stumbled backward, his eyes widening at the blood welling up on Noah’s sleeve.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone had called it in.
Noah yanked off his long-sleeved shirt with his good hand and wrapped the shirt around the gash. The blood soaked through fast. But he kept his cool, set his jaw, and stared down the mountain man. “Drop it.”
The knife clattered to the ground just as two fellow law-enforcement rangers pulled up in their white SUV with the green stripe and flashing red and blue lights.
The rangers moved in swiftly. One cuffed the mountain man and loaded him into the back. The other grilled the biker and took statements from witnesses.
Noah stepped back. His adrenaline was crashing and his arm throbbed, each heartbeat sending a fresh pulse of pain.
An older woman approached from a nearby site carrying a first aid kit and a large purple sweatshirt. “I’m Joyce. Retired nurse. Let me see that.”
She unwound his makeshift bandage and tsked. “No arteries hit—lucky boy. Not too deep, but you’ll need stitches. At least eight, maybe ten.”
She cleaned the wound with alcohol wipes that stung worse than the cut itself and wrapped it efficiently. Then she thrust the sweatshirt at him and winked. “Better put this on before you make all the girls swoon.”
Noah eyed the garment. World’s Best Grandma was written in curly, sparkly letters across the chest. Not the professional ranger image he was going for.
He glanced at a group of women eyeing him from a neighboring site, one of them taking a not-so-subtle photo.
Then again, his shirtless state wasn’t either.
At least the sweatshirt was a double extra-large.
He slipped it over his head. The shoulders fit reasonably well, but the sleeves were short and tight, and it rode up to expose a strip of his midriff.
Great. Just what he needed.
District manager Joe Harod sauntered over with a grin splitting his weathered face. “Looking sharp, Wilde. Purple’s your color. Should wear it more often.”
Joyce finished taping the bandage. “It’s bleeding through already. Get to the clinic pronto, before you pass out and give me more work.”
“Thanks, Joyce. I’ll return the sweatshirt—washed.”
She waved him off and headed back to her campsite, where a small dog yapped.
Joe’s expression sobered. “This is the third fight this week. Gold rumors are turning this place into a zoo. I’m ready for fall, and we’re only a week into July.”
Noah ran a hand through his hair and winced. “Exactly why I was on the phone with Virgil. We need to close the rim, Joe. Temporarily—beef up patrols, wait for reinforcements. These hunters are everywhere, and we’re outgunned.”
Joe nodded grimly. “I hear you, but Virgil’s dragging his feet. Budgets, tourism…You know the drill. Politics and money always win.” He gestured to Noah’s arm. “Go get that arm fixed. Meg’s at the clinic today.”
Noah’s stomach twisted.
Meg.
The last thing he needed was to show up like this. But the blood was soaking through, and the clinic was his only option unless he wanted to drive an hour to the nearest hospital.
As Joe walked away, Noah climbed back into his Jeep and the engine rumbled to life.
His mind raced. Virgil’s resistance was an obstacle he hadn’t anticipated. But this fight proved his point better than any report could. The park was a tinderbox. If they didn’t shut it down, more blood would spill—maybe Meg’s next time—and he couldn’t let that happen.
But as he drove, a deeper unease gnawed at him.