Chapter Eleven
Jayce
“This is such bullshit,” someone said. “Still oppressed by the great father, still expected to do all the grunt work, and still expected to cede our traditional hunting grounds to the white man.”
Tradesmen by day, David McAllister and a group of his Salish-Kootenai friends from a nearby reservation were providing the expertise for the bank’s renovations.
During client adventures they moonlighted as marauding natives, and during one memorable raid, they’d burned a barn to the ground.
Benny followed up by requesting no more flaming arrows for all future invasions, to the town’s relief and secret disappointment.
Jayce was on his knees, spreading mortar for the new marble flooring, carefully following Dave’s instructions, while trying to ignore the complaints flying around him.
Blaming everything on the white man seemed harsh.
Dave was the one who insisted his friends couldn’t hunt while the researcher roamed the area.
Hunting with rifles might attract unwanted attention, and they weren’t as good with bows and arrows as their ancestors were, meaning no one knew who or what they might hit.
Besides, their current discontent centered more around the traditional costumes Benny insisted they wear while they were working onsite.
They complained that nineteenth century breechclouts without professional twenty-first century knee pads made installing the floor hard on their knees.
The renovation itself was shaping up nicely.
Wild West banks were designed to project an image of wealth and instill confidence in investors in an era that gave birth to Ponzi schemes and bank notes were often worth less than the paper on which they were printed.
Since Burning Scrub needed to impress a client who was spending a million dollars on a one-week adventure, they were going all out.
The bank’s exterior was plain, with a false wooden front that opened onto the boardwalk.
The inside was different. Small but luxurious, with a teak countertop and gold railings instead of the more traditional brass, Dave’s friends were in the process of laying white marble floors and installing a wagon wheel crystal chandelier with a wrought iron base.
The casino on the reservation had agreed to print the notes for the safe Adam said was on order.
“We get paid,” Dave reminded his hard-done-by companions.
“We can go hunting this winter, after the bears hibernate and the researcher returns to his university. Besides, you don’t hear me whining, and I’ve got more to complain about than you guys.
I’m the one dressed up as Sitting Bull and wearing this stupid eagle feather headdress. ”
Sitting Bull was a Hunkpapa Sioux spiritual leader who Benny greatly admired. Dave admired him too, but cultural appropriation was a sore subject, and Dave’s buddies were already on the brink of rebellion.
“It’s too cold to hunt up here in the winter,” another man grumbled. “No one likes wading through hip-deep snow. Even the horses hate it.”
Jayce’s dad walked in, his hands balled into fists, and a thundercloud on his face.
Just what the day needed.
“Hey, Dad,” Jayce said, glancing up from his task. “I wasn’t expecting to see you back here so soon.”
“Your mother has been serving afternoon tea to conservationists on the patio every day. It was either go for a ride in the mountains, or I start taking potshots at ferrets.”
His dad was a born rancher, and he didn’t always understand the academic world his mom came from. Jayce had spent enough vacations with his maternal grandparents to appreciate their desire to protect Montana’s indigenous species.
“No need to take it out on the ferrets,” Jayce said.
“No need to take what out on the ferrets?” Mavis asked. She entered carrying a jug of freshly pressed serviceberry juice and several tin cups. She looked tired.
Jayce stood up, stretched, and began working the kinks out of his knees.
“Mom’s getting a little too friendly with the conservationists. I’ll head down and spend the night with her, so we can talk.”
Mavis brightened. “If you’re making a trip to the ranch, you should take Malika with you. She’s a nice girl, but she gets very … enthusiastic about the little things we take for granted, and she likes to keep busy. A long trail ride would do her some good.”
Which was Mavis’s way of saying that she found Malika exhausting and she needed a break.
Jayce felt a wee bit of guilt for spending so much time on bank renovations, where his help wasn’t needed, to avoid spending time with Malika. Dave and his buddies had everything under control, and he was supposed to be keeping watch over Malika, not Mavis.
But Malika hadn’t been her usual self since the night of the hayride, either.
She hadn’t sought him out just to make his life hell, and a sick, twisted part of him missed it.
Four hours alone on the trail with her, then an entire evening on the ranch watching television with his mother, who went to bed by eight thirty…
It would give him a chance to find out what was up.
“I’d be happy to take her along,” he said.
And the funny thing was, he really meant it.
*
Malika was waiting at the stable for him the next morning.
He was impressed. She’d brought their horses in from the pasture and had Saber almost saddled.
The normally docile buckskin, knowing he was going out for a ride, danced like a toddler at dawn on Christmas morning.
He nipped at her braided hair, earning a swat on the neck, then a long, loving stroke of her palm.
“Who’s a good boy?” she murmured, pressing her cheek to his glossy black mane in a way that had Jayce’s throat tightening up.
Since they were leaving Burning Scrub for the next twenty-four hours, there was no need for her to remain in costume. She wore tight blue jeans a few inches too short, and an oversized man’s sweatshirt with a theater logo on it that hit her mid-thigh, meaning she’d gotten her clothing from Pearl.
Jayce wore his everyday clothes in Burning Scrub. He didn’t need a costume as long as nothing had zippers, and watching the way she stroked Saber made the button-up fly on his jeans fit too snug.
She saw him and smiled. It was polite and withdrawn and held none of the temptation that normally sizzled from her to rattle his brain, and he missed it.
“Morning,” he said.
He handed her a can and a nylon holster. She looked at the label on the can, and her eyes held a question.
“Bear spray. You should carry it and know how to use it. Strictly precautionary,” he hastened to add, because she was a city girl, and there was no need to scare her. “As a rule, bears tend to avoid people.”
“That’s an excellent rule,” she said.
“Agreed.”
He showed her how to flick the safety off the can with her thumb, then aim the nozzle.
“Don’t pull the trigger,” he said. “You’ll blind the horses.
You only pull the trigger if a bear is charging at you, because you’ll likely get sprayed too.
Wait until it’s about fifty feet away. Aim slightly down, not at it, and fan the spray like this, in a sweeping motion, so the bear has to pass through the spray to get at you.
If that doesn’t stop it, only then do you spray a bear in the face.
” Spraying it in the face wasn’t going to do anything unless it got a good snoutful, because a bear relied more on its sense of smell than its eyesight.
He didn’t explain because he didn’t intend for her to use the spray. It was a precaution because his dad had seen bear markings midway down the trail.
They also had to do a wellness check on the research scientist, who’d set up a new camp about a mile from the trail, according to Cliff Peterson, the fish and game warden.
“That little guy’s going to get himself eaten,” Cliff had said, shaking his head. “He thinks because he’s read a few books that he can predict animal behavior, but bears can be as batshit crazy as people. Just because he’s not on the daily menu doesn’t mean they won’t give him a try.”
Jayce saddled Side-eye and they were soon on their way. It had rained during the night, and droplets of water dripped from the leaves as they passed through the trees.
They rode for an hour before Jayce spotted the bear markings his dad had told him about and saw the trail of carnage the scientist left behind him, because he’d been here too.
Jayce shook his head. No following animal paths to minimize his forest footprint for this scientist. He took the direct route.
“We’re going to take a short detour and check on that scientist we ran into when we rode up here,” Jayce said to Malika.
“The little out-of-stater?”
Jayce rested his chin on a bent forefinger and tapped his lip with his thumb and willed himself not to laugh. “That’s the one.”
They found the scientist about a mile in, right where his dad had guessed he’d likely be, because it was close to the creek.
“Hey, there,” the guy called out cheerfully when they drew near.
He lounged in a camp chair next to the Mercedes of tents, a can of craft beer in his hand.
A notebook and pen rested on a small folding table.
He’d set up a portable bear fence around his encampment, which made Jayce feel better about his odds for survival.
There were two bear bins inside the fence—one for food, one for waste. No more backpacking for this guy.
Someone must have helped him move everything in.
The good news was that he wouldn’t be wandering any farther than he could easily walk in a few hours.
He looked quite comfortable right where he was.
Best guess was that his research grant had come through, and he planned to spend the summer writing in a low stress environment away from the office.
“Quite the nice little setup you’ve got here,” Jayce said, looking around.
“Thanks. Can I offer you a cold drink? I’ve got cans in the creek.”