by Erin Marsh
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Erin Laurel O’Brien
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Blake Morrow/Shannon Associates
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
Excerpt from A Cowboy State of Mind
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Back Cover
For my grandparents, who took me on family vacations to national parks and taught me to love our country’s ecological diversity.
Chapter 1
Sending gravel spraying in all directions, Lacey Montgomery swung her ancient Jeep Cherokee next to the massive pickup before putting her vehicle in Park. Yanking off her seat belt, she jumped out to glare at the giant decal stretching from the truck’s four-door cab to the end of its extended bed. No one—not even someone as myopic as a mole—could miss the advertisement for Valhalla Beef. Only a city slicker like Clay Stevens would be so tacky and self-absorbed as to emblazon the entire side of his F-350 with the name of his ranch.
When Lacey had decided to stop by the wolf den on her day off work as a ranger for Rocky Ridge National Park, she hadn’t expected to see the greenhorn’s vehicle at one of the backcountry trailheads. Although Clay owned one of the largest and oldest spreads in Sagebrush Flats, he had a reputation for enjoying creature comforts over riding his land. His ranch hands claimed he spent more time poring over spreadsheets in his air-conditioned office than checking fences. They always joked down at the Prairie Dog Café that you could take the boy out of New York but not the New York out of the boy.
Lacey agreed. Clay may have gotten a fancy degree in ranch management, but he had the heart of a Wall Street stockbroker…and, if he was anything like his daddy, a corrupt one. All he cared about was profit. He was so worried about taking a loss that he kept trying to organize the local ranchers against the national park’s wolf reintroduction program.
Unlike a lot of towns, Sagebrush Flats welcomed the return of the majestic animals. Lacey supposed she might have had a part in that. Her whole life, the sleek canine hunters had fascinated her. She’d never forget the time her father and she had backpacked overnight in Yellowstone and had spied a pack playing with their pups. Lacey had been twelve, and she’d stared through her dad’s binoculars for more than half an hour as she watched the little dark-brown fluffs roll and tussle. She’d quite simply fallen in love with the fascinating species.
Lacey had become an expert on wolves and would talk to anyone who would listen about the benefits of bringing the apex predator back. Since her mom owned and operated the town’s main restaurant, she’d had a pretty large audience. Slowly, she’d won over every last rancher—even the surliest, crankiest ones. Until Clay. Ever since he’d inherited his maternal grandfather’s land, he’d tried to stir up animosity, complaining at town hall meetings and at the local watering hole that the wolves were killing calves and pestering the cattle and that they had no business being allowed to run wild.
Although Clay had never shot or even tried to kill a wolf, she didn’t trust the son of the man who’d bilked most of Sagebrush’s residents out of their life savings with his pyramid scheme. It concerned her to see the New Yorker’s vehicle parked near the best path to the national park’s most popular den, especially since he didn’t seem like the type to take recreational hikes.
Grabbing her walkie-talkie from her glove compartment, Lacey set off at a brisk pace. She didn’t have the rest of her park ranger gear today, but she always carried the radio since cell phone reception could be spotty. Normally when she wasn’t officially working, she took her time moving through the scrub, letting her senses steep in the tangy smell of pinyon pine and the quiet rustle of life in the arid wilderness. Wolves might be her primary passion, but as an ecologist, she loved the land from the tiniest form of fungi to the impressive grizzly bear. She’d originally planned to take a leisurely walk, snapping photos for a ranger presentation she gave at the lodge before swinging by to check on the pack of Mexican wolves. For the past few years, the subspecies of gray wolves, which were also called lobos, had made an abandoned bear den their nursery. Since it was late April, Lacey kept checking the area for activity, and she couldn’t resist coming, even on her day off.
Turning from the main path, she headed deeper into the brush, trying to move as quietly as possible. Although the pack usually patrolled an occupied den, they typically fled at the sound of humans. Lacey was careful not to get too close and risk the lobos relocating their young.
As she approached the site, her body stilled as anger shot through her. In the distance, she heard the unmistakable sounds of teenage boys—drunk ones given their slurred, overly loud conversation. Park visitors shouldn’t be off-trail, especially in this area. Aside from the wolves’ presence, cryptobiotic soil crust grew here. Although the mixture of algae, bacteria, lichens, and fungi looked like black, dry dirt clumps, it formed an important part of the ecosystem, preventing erosion and improving water absorption. Once crushed under human feet, the delicate colony could take more than two centuries to grow back. Lacey knew how to avoid stepping on it, but most people would overlook the vegetation. Even if they did notice the dark patches, they wouldn’t understand their importance.
Lacey’s anger only grew when she detected a whiff of smoke. Although this spring was relatively wet, the teens weren’t in a designated campground. And Lacey didn’t have a lot of faith that a group of drunk adolescents would build a proper fire ring, even if they ended up being locals. Reaching for her walkie-talkie, she radioed in to the main ranger station.
“You know you’re not scheduled to be in today.” Kylie Lambert’s voice came crackling through the speaker.
“I wanted to check o
n the wolf den,” Lacey said between huffs as she scrambled up a steep grade.
Kylie chuckled. “You know you’re allowed to take a day off.”
“Nature doesn’t,” Lacey quipped.
Kylie groaned in response. “I knew you’d say that.”
Lacey didn’t comment. It was, after all, her favorite expression, and she didn’t have time for small talk. “It’s a good thing I came. Somebody built a campfire off-trail near Coyote Rock. From the sounds of it, I think it’s drunk teenagers—maybe four or five.”
“Lacey, you’re not a commissioned law officer. You’re an ecologist. Let me send Paul to handle it. He’s out by Pinyon Pine Basin.”
Reaching the top of a ridge, Lacey half slid down the other side. She could see the smoke now, and it looked like it came from near the burrow. “That’s still half an hour away. It’s just kids fooling around, so I can handle it.”
Breathing hard, she reached another crest. Her heart squeezed in panic as she caught sight of the troublemakers. The four adolescents had built their illegal campsite right on top of the wolf den. The structure was old, having been dug and abandoned by a bear years ago. She didn’t know how stable the roof would be, especially in this arid climate. The whole area had been carved by an ancient, long-dried-up arroyo and was prone to collapse. The tallest of the teens stood near the edge of the old bank to capture a selfie. Like the other boys, he wore a hoodie, making it difficult to identify him, especially given the distance between Lacey and the trespassers. As the teenager snapped a picture, his left foot sent a cascade of rocks tumbling below. He moved to more stable ground, but the mini rockslide must have amused him. Experimentally, he tramped on the ground. Lacey cried out in warning, but the boys didn’t hear her over the noise they were making. The kid’s hiking boot struck, sending a chunk of dirt and rock thudding downward. His friends decided to join him, and all four began stomping.
Not wanting the teenagers to cause more damage, Lacey raced toward them, shouting for them to stop. Finally noticing her, the kids scattered. Unfortunately, the rapid movement caused more debris to fall. From her vantage point on the ridge, Lacey spotted the mama lobo dart from the burrow, a baby in her mouth.
“Walk carefully!” Lacey yelled. “There’s a wolf den below you with pups inside. You need to cautiously back away from the edge. Don’t trigger a bigger landslide!”
The shortest of the boys listened, but the rest bounded away like mountain goats, causing more dirt to break off and hurtle downward.
“Shit!” the remaining boy cried out. “Are there really baby wolves down there?”
Lacey ignored him as she scanned the landscape for the mama lobo. The canines were shier creatures than many humans realized, and she only hoped that the combination of the shouting and landslides hadn’t driven the mother away.
“What should I do?” the teenager asked.
“Just slowly retreat.” Lacey forced her voice to remain calm as she scanned for the female lobo. She had no way of knowing how long the wolf would stay away or how many pups were in the den.
Making her decision, she climbed into the ancient creek bed. Glancing around, she saw no movement other than the slip and slide of more rocks. Resolutely, she pulled out her flashlight and placed it between her teeth. If any pups were inside, she needed to get them out now. They weren’t just any gray wolves but the more critically endangered subspecies.
“Hey,” the boy called, his voice high and a little wobbly from panic. “Are you crazy? Crawling in there would be fucking insane. You could get hurt, like seriously hurt!”
Lacey didn’t think it was appropriate for a ranger to respond with “No shit, Sherlock,” so she simply shrugged off her backpack. “The pups can’t stay in there.”
Cautiously, she entered the narrow passage. As she moved deeper into the old bear-dug den, she tried not to brush against the sides. They were already crumbling, and she didn’t want to bring the roof down. Her light shone on four babies. Tucking two under her jacket, she scuttled back down the tunnel.
To her surprise, she found the teenager waiting outside. Catching her first good glimpse of his face, she felt recognition slam into her. The presence of Clay Stevens’s truck suddenly made sense. The adolescent was his uncle’s mini-me with golden-blond hair and blue-green eyes. He’d arrived in Sagebrush sometime last summer and had a reputation for being as mean as a rattler and just as dangerous. But that description didn’t match the worried boy standing before her. He could’ve run like the others, but he’d stayed to help.
“Here. Take these two.” Lacey thrust the two pups into the boy’s arms.
“You trust me to do that?”
The utter shock in the kid’s voice surprised Lacey. She honestly didn’t have much of a choice other than to let the adolescent help, but she didn’t point that out.
“Yes.”
He carefully accepted the two bundles. “They’re so small.”
“Yes,” Lacey said curtly. “They’re only a day or two old.”
“They look like sausages.” Despite the less-than-flattering observation, Lacey could hear the awe in the boy’s voice. Evidently, he didn’t share his uncle’s distaste for the species. “Will they be all right?”
“Yes. Hopefully, we’ll be able to quickly reunite them with their mother,” Lacey said.
He bent over the pups, his guilt apparent. “Hey, little guys, sorry about accidentally destroying your home.”
“Watch over them,” Lacey instructed as she started to turn toward the den’s entrance.
“Where are you going?”
“Back for their siblings,” Lacey said. “Keep them warm until I get back.”
“I will.” The boy still kept his focus on the pups. He spoke his next words so softly Lacey almost didn’t catch them. “It’s no fun being cold when you’re little.”
At the hint of sadness in the teenager’s voice, she swiveled abruptly and headed back to the den. As an interpretive ranger, she loved interacting with children, especially the younger ones. She enjoyed their enthusiasm and wonder. Their questions never bothered her, no matter how repetitive or simplistic.
But she didn’t like to become emotionally close with the young locals. Because when she did, they reminded her of her little brother. And although this particular boy had blue eyes and golden locks instead of Jesse’s fawn-brown gaze and chestnut hair, he radiated the same masked pain. It was so faint Lacey doubted most people would even detect it. But she did. And the similarity to her sibling’s hidden hurt pierced through all the walls Lacey had constructed around her heart.
Forcibly burying her memories of Jesse, Lacey focused on navigating the narrow passage. She’d just grabbed the last two squirming wolves when she heard the ominous whoosh of falling dirt. Using her body, she shielded the baby lobos the best she could. She’d just started to hand them to the teenager when more debris slammed into her back. Then a rock cracked against her skull. The world flashed a brilliant white…and then nothing.
* * *
Clay was going to kill Zach.
His fourteen-year-old nephew had stolen his truck. Clay hadn’t discovered it missing until he’d gone to make a trip into town. It hadn’t taken Clay long to track Zach’s location, or at least the location of Zach’s phone using the app he’d downloaded. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time the kid had decided to go joyriding. Clay now kept his keys locked up, but evidently Zach must have learned how to hotwire. The kid couldn’t bother with doing homework, but when it came to troublemaking, he had no difficulty researching a new “skill.”
One of the ranch hands had dropped Clay off at the Rocky Ridge trailhead closest to where the map had shown Zach’s position. Sure enough, Clay’s F-350 had been parked in the gravel lot. Clay had debated about just climbing inside, driving off, and leaving Zach stranded. His grandfather—the old hard-ass—would’ve done i
t. But Clay couldn’t bring himself to abandon his nephew. Zach had put up with adults doing stuff like that his whole life…and not because any of them meant to teach him a lesson. No, they’d just been too fucked up on drugs to remember they had a son.
When Clay had agreed to take Zach last summer, he’d promised to give the teen a stable home. He could tell by the kid’s expression that he hadn’t believed Clay, and he didn’t blame his nephew. When he had been in the boy’s position, he hadn’t trusted his grandfather either…although the old man had phrased it less politely. His exact words were: This summer, you’ll answer directly to me. Not a maid. Not a shrink. Not a school director. Not anyone else your parents hire to do their own damn job in rearing you. I won’t put up with your crap, and I won’t be soft on you.
Although Clay had borrowed a few of his grandfather’s tough love lessons this past year, he knew the old man would still accuse him of coddling the boy. Maybe it was because Zach would look at him with those blue-green eyes of his, and Clay would see a flash of the older brother he’d idolized before drugs had claimed him.
And there was another reason Clay went easier on Zach. A decade later and Clay was still trying to win his grandfather’s approval, even though the old man had been in the ground for more than three years. It didn’t help that Clay’s foreman kept telling him how much his grandfather would’ve hated Clay’s use of technology. Seeking affirmation from a dead man was a hell of a way to live, and Clay didn’t want Zach thinking he always had to prove himself.
Which was why Clay found himself trudging through a barren wasteland, searching for his nephew. He’d used the GPS on the kid’s phone to locate him. The idiot had gone off-trail, and Clay had a good idea why. The Stevens family always attracted the wrong sort of company, and Zach was no exception. He’d immediately fallen in with Sagebrush Flats’s brand of hoodlums. They drank, took joyrides, went cow tipping, and caused all sorts of headaches for the locals. But they knew this country, this land. Zach didn’t. He wouldn’t last a minute drunk in the arid backcountry.
