4. Wren
WREN
Over the next three days, we set out from a different trailhead each morning and hike back out before dark. We cover a lot of miles, and they’re backcountry miles, which are harder and measured less by distance than by elevation and obstacles.
Rhett keeps us moving at a pace that challenges me but doesn’t push past my limits, Cade notices small things I might have missed, and Boone talks just enough to be friendly, but never so much that he disrupts my work.
All three of them disrupt my focus, but that’s not their fault.
“Did you grow up here?” I ask Boone when he points out a peak that isn’t labeled on my map and tells me locals have called it Widow Tooth for years.
“Further north. We moved to Moon Ridge after we left the Army.”
“Army?”
“Rangers,” he says easily, and it feels like an important piece of a puzzle.
Their movements are efficient. Their eyes are always scanning the environment, even more than many people might think necessary.
Knowing they’re former Army Rangers makes me feel safer and also more unsettled, because my body has an immediate, inconvenient reaction to the information. Apparently, I have a type, and that type is a man who’s both dangerous and competent.
It’s not the sort of data I was expecting to collect on this trip.
We’re approaching another trail camera, and, like most of the others, it sits near a corridor that no longer appears to be active. The camera is strapped to a pine at chest height, and as I put on gloves and prepare to inspect it, the Wilders spread out in a now-familiar pattern.
Rhett watches the approach and slope above us, Cade studies the ground in the distance, and Boone stays close enough to hand me equipment if I need it.
The camera’s housing is intact, the battery has a charge, the memory card is seated properly, and there’s no obvious damage from weather, wildlife, or human hands.
Still, something bothers me. I step back and study the angle, then move to the left and crouch. The camera covers the main game trail, but not the narrow gap between two boulder outcrops about thirty yards uphill.
Cade is already looking at the same gap when I ask, “Does that cut connect to anything?”
He glances toward the ridge. “Old access route above us. Not maintained. Most people wouldn’t find it unless they knew where to come off the pass.”
I capture images of the camera position, the junction, and the cut between the rocks, then record the coordinates and angles in my notebook, where they add to a growing pattern.
Maybe there are natural reasons why animals have stopped using these areas, or maybe something is pushing movement away from the obvious routes.
The question is why.
We break for lunch in a sheltered patch of sun below the junction, and like the previous days, the brothers eat like men accustomed to taking fuel where they can get it. No fuss, no time wasted.
Right after I finish the last bite of my sandwich, Boone hands me a packet of dried mango. “I brought too much.”
I don’t believe him, but I take it anyway. “Thank you.”
He studies me. “You sound like it pains you to accept it.”
“I don’t like taking other people’s supplies.”
“You’re not. I offered.” The way he smiles at me nearly makes me forget what we’re talking about.
“You might need it later.”
“I have more.”
From several feet away, Cade tosses another packet into Boone’s lap with perfect accuracy.
Boone holds it up. “See?”
Rhett opens a protein bar with his teeth and doesn’t say anything, but I swear the corners of his serious mouth twitch.
As I chew a piece of the mango, there’s a distant crack of something moving through the brush.
Cade pauses mid-bite, and Boone’s smile fades a fraction. All three men go still as we listen. Ready, not frozen.
A few seconds later, a black bear ambles out between the trees, maybe fifty yards downslope. Its head is low, the dark fur lit by the sun. It’s medium-sized, maybe a younger adult, and it’s not moving toward us.
Without speaking, the four of us watch it move across the slope. My hand shifts toward the bear spray, but only out of habit.
The bear lifts its head, pauses long enough for me to hear my pulse in my ears, then continues on its way until it’s out of sight.
Boone exhales quietly. “That’s one way to interrupt lunch.”
“He wasn’t interested in us,” I say.
“Can’t imagine why not. We’re delightful.”
It was good to see the bear. Wildlife isn’t entirely gone from the area, but it’s following different patterns, for reasons I have yet to discover.
After lunch, we climb.
From below, the ridgeline looks close, but it isn’t. The approach is steep, and by the time we arrive at the first overlook, the back of my shirt is damp with sweat, and my thighs are complaining loudly.
The view, however, is worth it.
The mountains roll out in hues of blue and green, their peaks still streaked with white. After enjoying the view for a minute, I pull out my binoculars and get to work.
It doesn’t take long to spot the first raptor nest, which is exactly where the survey said it would be. It’s in a prime location, tucked in a rocky outcrop with a commanding view over the slope below. It’s protected from most ground predators and has good visibility and a good hunting range.
And it’s empty. There’s no adult circling, nor any signs of recent use. The second site is the same, and so is the third.
When I lower my binoculars, the back of my neck feels tight.
“Bad?” Rhett asks.
I keep my eyes on the ridge. “Not good.”
After I enter my observations in my notebook, we drop from the ridgeline down to an old trail junction, and that’s where I find the stone.
It’s at the base of a ponderosa pine, flat-faced and pale against the darker soil. A faint discoloration across its surface is what catches my attention.
When I stop, Boone stops with me, then Rhett and Cade stop, too.
They watch as I take photos, make notes, and bring out my sample kit.
After putting gloves on, I collect residue from the stone and soil samples from the base of it, where runoff would collect, then label each container with the date, time, and GPS coordinates.
Rhett crouches several feet away. “Do you know what it is?”
“No.” It could be a dozen things, like illegal baiting, dumped fuel from unauthorized vehicle use, or something left by careless hikers or hunters who don’t abide by the “Leave No Trace” rule. Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong here.
“I’ll send these through my supervisor to the lab,” I say. “Field tests won’t tell me enough, and I don’t want to contaminate the report with guesses.”
“Smart.” Boone says it plainly, with no charm or teasing, and warmth spreads in my chest.
I focus on the sample bag before my reaction can show on my face. “It’s procedure.”
“It’s still smart.”
When I’m finished, Cade is looking down the corridor like he sees something.
“What is it?” I ask.
He’s quiet for so long I’m not sure he heard me, but then he says, “This line runs toward an old road.” He nods toward the trees. “It’s not used much anymore. Overgrown and washed out, but you can reach it from here if you know the ground.”
I look at the trail junction, then the slope, and the direction of the passes above us. My map is in my pack, but I don’t need to unfold it to picture the lines connecting.
The things I’ve observed so far seem too widespread for one amateur poacher, and too organized for casual recreation. Still, they’re not proof of anything I can say out loud. Not yet.
“I’d like to extend the guide contract for at least three more days,” I tell Rhett as I nestle the sample kit back in my bag. “Are you available?”
More silent communication probably passes between them, but I’m focused on my backpack and don’t see it.
“For as long as you need us.” Rhett’s tone tells me it’s all decided.
Later, at the trailhead, the sky has gone golden with the setting sun. My mind is still tangled in data, but when I see all three men bathed in the warm glow, every practical thought deserts me.
They suddenly seem even larger than before, and their triplet-ness comes into sharper focus. Same big hands, same posture, same dark eyes tracking me with an attention I can feel against my skin.
“It was a good day,” Boone says, stretching one of his arms overhead, his bulging bicep distracting me enough that I almost lose my footing. “You didn’t tell us to go to hell once, so I’m calling it a win.”
I huff out a laugh. “We’re not done yet.”
His grin turns wicked, and my attention drops to his mouth again before I can stop it.
Damn it.
“You should come to our cabin for dinner tonight,” Boone says.
I freeze, one hand on the strap of my pack. “Dinner?”
The smile that spreads across his face is somehow both easy and dangerous at the same time. “Nothing fancy. Just something better than whatever you’ve been surviving on at the motel.”
Cade doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching me with the same focus he directs at everything along the trail, and it makes it impossible for me to think straight.
Rhett steps closer. Close enough that I have to tip my head back slightly to meet his eyes. “Come to dinner, Wren.”
The air is still warm, but a shiver runs through me when he says my name in his low, rough voice.
I draw in a breath and fold my arms in front of me to try to regain my composure. “Do you invite all your clients to dinner?”
“All our clients who hire us for more than one day,” Rhett says smoothly.
Boone coughs into his fist, and Cade’s mouth twitches, but Rhett doesn’t even glance at them. He just keeps looking at me, calm, serious, and absolutely lying.
“We need to go over routes for the next few days,” he adds.
“Right.” I nod slowly. “Go over routes.”
I should say no, because the last thing I need is to be alone with all three Wilders in a space smaller than the wide open wilderness. But there are three pairs of eyes fixed on me, and I still must not be thinking straight, because I find myself saying, “Fine. For work reasons.”
Boone’s wicked grin reappears, and Cade looks down like he’s hiding something on his face. Rhett’s smile deepens just enough to make my stomach flip, and I suddenly feel like a rabbit who just agreed to have dinner with three wolves.