Hunting Ground

by Meghan Holloway

  EVELYN

  I slept uneasily, startling awake at the slightest noise. I roused again before daybreak and gave up on slumber. The clock on the bedside table blearily read 4:21, and I grimaced when I toggled the switch on the lamp and pale light pierced my eyes.

  The River Inn was situated on an oxbow of the Yellowstone. At first sight of the sprawling cabin of roughhewn timber and glass yesterday, I had almost turned away and found a cheap hotel chain off the main road through town. But on second glance, I could see the first teeth of dereliction beginning to gnaw at the edges of the inn. The place was beginning to look weathered and worn, the luster of its former glory rubbed thin in the shingles that needed replaced, the shutters and doors that needed a good sanding and refinishing, the listing bottom step leading up to the wraparound porch that needed reinforcement.

  When I knocked on the door, the woman who greeted me was younger than I expected, perhaps a couple years younger than my own thirty-six. She introduced herself as Faye, and the price she named for a room was so low my skepticism must have shown on my face.

  “This is the down season here,” she explained, voice soft. “You’re my only boarder at the moment, so you have your pick of rooms.”

  The interior was a stark contrast to the exterior. The hardwood floors and exposed beams of the ceiling were polished to gleaming. The windows and skylights flooded the interior with natural light. It was bright and welcoming.

  I picked the end room on the second floor with a small balcony that overlooked the river. The balcony did not look entirely trustworthy, and my impression was reiterated by Faye. “I’m sorry, but please don’t venture onto the balcony.” The wrinkle in her brow was rueful as she glanced through the arched glass in the top half of the Dutch door. “It’s a bit of a liability at this point.”

  The room was spacious with thick rugs thrown over the rolling wood floor, a queen-size bed, matching bedside tables, and a TV on an antique sideboard. An armoire stood in one corner, a chaise lounge in the opposite. The bathroom was en-suite, and I could not help but be impressed.

  I placed my philodendron on the sideboard. “This is beautiful.”

  Her face was bright with pleasure. “Thank you. This was the first room I remodeled, and it is still my favorite. If you need a mini-fridge, I can bring one up for you, but you’re welcome to put anything in the refrigerator in the kitchen. I usually serve breakfast every morning starting at seven thirty, but since you’re my only guest, if you’ll let me know a different time, I can accommodate you.”

  “Seven thirty is perfect.”

  Now, I had hours to spare before breakfast, and I dragged myself from bed to stumble into the bathroom. I stood under the shower’s spray with my head bent, letting the water sluice over me in a hot curtain. The heat cleared away my grogginess, and after long minutes I was roused enough to bathe. By the time I turned off the water, the bathroom was full of steam and the mirror was fogged over.

  Squeezing water from my hair, I reached across the vanity and palmed away a swath of condensation. A dark shape lingered behind me in my reflection.

  My heart jolted into my throat as I whirled, feet slipping on the slick tile. I caught myself before I fell, and though my heart and body were still perched for flight, my brain finally switched into gear.

  It was my robe, innocent and inanimate, hung there by my own hand yesterday afternoon. I felt foolish, but my laugh was unsteady.

  Last night had left me rattled. As I lingered in the gas station, watching the street from behind a display of stale snack cakes, no one had appeared around the corner. When the teen behind the counter had begun to glance at me askance, I forced myself to abandon the temporary sanctuary. My stride had been close to a jog as I hurried past darkened store fronts and across deserted side streets. My fingers were tight around the can of pepper spray, and my gaze darted over my shoulder every few steps.

  The sound of a steady, surreptitious tread behind me never came again. By the time I reached the inn, I slowed to a walk, lungs burning from the high, thin air. I did not leave the curtains open to admire the moon-drenched river, instead drawing them closed as soon as I entered my room. I checked the lock on my door whenever I woke up throughout the night.

  I snatched the offending robe from the hook and tied it about me, struggling to slow the pell-mell pace of my heart. I took a deep breath through my nose, held it, and let it out in a long breath through my mouth. I kept up the breathing routine as I got ready for the day.

  When I donned my glasses and left the bathroom, I glanced at the clock. It was still early, so I heaved my oversized suitcase onto the end of the bed and unpacked. The contents of my life had been pared away to the bare essentials, and there was a dual tug on my emotions: bitterness at the failed system that had rendered this a necessity and a sense of relief at being so unencumbered.

  The latter pierced me, especially when I carefully placed the two frames on one of the bedside tables. One photograph was over half a century old, and the portrait showed a poised young couple, she in a light blue dress with her pale hair artfully coiffed and her smile reserved, he in his Air Force uniform with a wide grin and glint of mischief in his eyes. The other was a less formal photograph taken on an old home camera decades later. A different couple stood together, unposed and caught in the moment at what appeared to be an outdoor summer party beside a lake. The woman in this photo stood in front of the man, leaning against him with her head tilted back as she laughed. His head was bent, and I could just make out the crease in his cheek that told me he smiled down at her. Their hands were interlaced and rested on her burgeoning stomach.

  Memories were all I had left of one couple now; the photograph was all that remained of the other. A gamut of emotion attempted to slip through the cracks in the wall I had painstakingly constructed to keep the sorrow, loneliness, and pain at bay. I had learned that it was not sadness that could crush you after a final loss. Instead, it was the oppressive sense of aloneness that was the heaviest burden to bear, so heavy that some mornings it was a challenge to drag myself from bed. The weight of it would crush me if I allowed it.

  For months, I had given it free rein. I had allowed it to perch heavily on my chest, stuttering my breath and making each heart beat a struggle. I had allowed it to fester like a wound left to rot until all I could smell was the stench of it and all I could taste was the bitter bile of it. I allowed it to fester until I forced myself from my sour bed and found two weeks had passed without me even realizing it.

  I had realized something else then. There was a reason gangrenous limbs were amputated. Left unchecked, the dead rot spread. It infiltrated your blood and poisoned your heart and head and everything else along the way. Severance was the only means of survival.

  In the end, the amputation of the rest of all that was familiar and dear was forced upon me. Bitterness was even more dangerous than sorrow.

  I wiped the smudges from the glass of the frames, arranged them carefully, and pushed aside the insidious, suffocating weight that I had fought against for long months. I rubbed my fingers along my left collar bone. The tattoo had long since healed. The artist had copied my grandparents’ handwriting from an old birthday card. Love always, Nana & Papa was imprinted into my skin. I could no longer feel the raised wound of the tattoo. But I knew the words were there, and they provided some comfort.

  I would get a dog, I decided as I changed into a pair of jeans and a soft cable knit sweater. Once I was settled into the new job at the museum and had a steady income again and a place of my own, I would go to the animal shelter and adopt a dog. I thought of Frank, the dog I had met yesterday. Perhaps I could find a poodle.

  I pushed aside the curtains. It was still dark and the river sighed in slumber, but I could see the pale precursor of dawn in the east. I had glimpsed a coffee bar yesterday in the great room when Faye had given me a tour.

  My room was at the end of the hall. There was a door on either side before t
he hallway opened onto a lofted balcony over the great room. The night was beginning to lighten with the predawn, and the interior of the inn was a grid of gray and shadow as the darkness waned and retreated from the windows and skylights. I kept a hand on the railing as I descended the stairs, my footsteps hesitant in the darkness.

  A massive stone fireplace dominated the center of the great room. A low banked fire glowed in the coals of the double hearth. The tour yesterday had given me the layout of the room, even though I could not distinguish anything but dim shapes now. On the opposite side of the fireplace, across the dining room, faint light bloomed through a doorway.

  I followed the light and entered what would be a glorious sunroom in daylight. The doorway at the opposite end of the sunroom opened into a warmly lit kitchen. I hovered in the threshold and watched Faye where she stood beside the deep farmhouse sink slicing bread on a cutting board. A boy stood beside her, chin perched on the countertop.

  She jumped when she spotted me in the doorway, and I lifted a hand apologetically. She recovered quickly, set the knife aside, and wiped her hands on the skirt of her apron.

  “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

  “The room is incredibly comfortable,” I offered, since my restless night had nothing to do with the accommodations. “Is this your son?”

  She rested a hand on his head, ruffling his dark hair. “This is Sam.” He was small and pale, his eyes too large for his face and too unblinking. I smiled at him, but he did not return the gesture. “I haven’t started preparing breakfast yet, but it won’t take me long to get everything ready.”

  A table with two chairs was tucked off to the side of the kitchen under a window. Sam scrambled into one of the chairs and snagged a piece of cheese toast from his plate, devouring half of it in one bite.

  “No, no. I don’t want to interrupt your breakfast. I just came down to make some coffee.”

  She reached into the cupboard and grabbed a mug. “You’re in luck. I just finished brewing a pot. Cream? Sugar?”

  “Just black.” I accepted the extended mug and breathed in the fragrant steam that curled over the dark liquid.

  “You’re…” Faye hesitated and fixed her gaze on the countertop. “You’re welcome to join us for breakfast. It’s just toast.”

  The invitation was offered hesitantly, and I realized behind the friendly attentive guise of being an innkeeper, she might be shy. “That sounds wonderful, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “You wouldn’t be.” She cut off two more thick slices of bread from the loaf and dropped them into the toaster. “I can put cheese on it if you like. Or I have some homemade huckleberry jam.”

  “The jam, please.” I retreated to the dining room and grabbed a chair.

  The bread was homemade as well, soft and light and so delicious I had to bite back a moan. The coffee was hot and tasted of hazelnuts, and the simple pleasure of enjoying a companionable breakfast made my throat tight. My grandparents had risen like clockwork at four in the morning every day for much of my early life. Every morning, I had wandered sleepily into the kitchen to find them reading the paper at the breakfast table, a plate of still hot biscuits in the center of the table and a saucer of butter and honey waiting for me. Even before they were gone, it had been years since we had observed that unspoken ritual.

  “What’s brought you to Raven’s Gap, especially this time of year?”

  I blinked away memories and spread a layer of jam on a second slice of toast. “A job, actually. I’m the Park County Museum’s new assistant collections manager.”

  “What does that job entail?” Genuine curiosity tinged her voice.

  “They hired me to manage their Native American collections and make certain everything is in accordance with the NAGPRA guidelines. The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. It’s a grant position right now, but it has the possibility of turning into a permanent position.”

  “Graves Protections and Repatriation? So you would be making certain artifacts were returned to tribes?”

  “It’s mainly human remains and funerary objects, but yes. The museum apparently has a pretty sizable collection in its archives that has not been properly appraised. They’ve brought me in to catalogue the objects and work with the affiliated tribes to determine the disposition.”

  “That sounds fascinating.”

  “It is,” I admitted. Ever since I had read about the project and applied, I had wanted to see the collection for myself. It was quiet, rewarding work, often dusty, always poignant. From past experience, I knew it would either be a treasure trove that the affiliated tribe would want to reclaim possession of, or it would be mere shards of a past culture now relegated to the status of historical junk. I handled both with equal care. “I did similar work at a museum in Atlanta, but I was looking for a change of scenery.”

  Faye chuckled, blew a cooling breath over the rim of her coffee mug, and nodded at the window. “You’ve certainly got that here.”

  Dawn had crept over the horizon and revealed what I had not seen in the darkness. A fresh, thick layer of snow had fallen overnight. I pressed a hand to the frosted window pane. “It’s stunning. I’ve been thinking I would try cross-country skiing.”

  “I keep some outdoor gear on hand for guests. No skis, I’m afraid, but I do have snowshoes if you’re interested.”

  I was interested, and within a couple hours it was fully light out and I made my way over the cleared and salted sidewalks toward the far end of town with the snowshoes in hand. Faye had told me there were trails branching out into the wilderness of Yellowstone from the campground at the edge of Raven’s Gap.

  Sunday morning was quiet in town. Wreaths and garland still festooned lampposts and doorways, the holiday decorations carried over into the new year. The only traffic—foot or vehicle—centered around a coffee shop on the corner. I stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for a vehicle to pass along the plowed, slushy street.

  The light tap of a horn brought my gaze to the vehicle and I recognized the Land Rover as it slowed to a halt. The window buzzed down, and Jeff Roosevelt called a greeting to me.

  I approached his vehicle and returned his greeting. “Good morning.”

  His gaze took in the snowshoes I carried before returning to my face. “Taking advantage of the fresh powder?” “Hopefully,” I said, hoping he would not invite himself along. I wanted peace and quiet, not the task of carrying on a conversation.

  “The campground has some great trails.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” A spit of snow landed on my glasses and slid across the lens. With an ease born of long habit, I plucked them off and polished the dampness away before shoving them back on my nose. Once Jeff’s face came into crisp view again, I found that laser focus directed on me.

  “Perhaps I will see you on the trails later,” he said.

  It may have been the intensity of his gaze or the taut tone of his voice, but a shiver of unease slipped up my spine. “Perhaps.”

  He nodded. “See you soon, Evelyn.”

  I stepped back onto the sidewalk and waited until he passed before crossing the street. My gaze followed his Land Rover until it turned down a side road and disappeared. See you soon. There was a promise implied in the words, and I wondered if he was someone I needed to be leery of.

  I detoured from my trek to the campground and veered into the busy coffee shop. The place was small and local but bustling with people and conversation. I stood in line, glancing over my shoulder, peering past the people who soon fell into the queue behind me.

  My breathing began to quicken, and I closed my eyes, focusing on a slow breath in through my nose to a count of four. I held it, counting to seven, and then let it out in a long sigh as I counted to eight. I concentrated on the counting, on the feel of the warm interior air of the shop, fragrant with the aroma of coffee, as I inhaled, on the movement of my chest and the ghost of air over my lips as I exhaled. Silent
ly, I hummed the tune of Greensleeves.

  It was a challenge to resist jumping to conclusions about people’s—men’s—motives any longer. Even years later, my stomach shriveled into a tight, hard knot at the memories. The solicitous smile, the prolonged stare, the convenient run-ins.

  I flinched when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “You’re next,” the woman behind me said, and when I opened my eyes, I realized the young man behind the counter had tried to get my attention by calling “Next” several times.

  “Sorry,” I murmured, and stepped out of line. I ignored any curious stares directed my way and drifted to the wall of windows. I peered both ways down the street. There was no Land Rover in sight.

  I’m sorry, miss, but he hasn’t done anything we can charge him with. The words had been said to me numerous times. At first patiently, but eventually with a note of exasperation and disbelief accompanied by nearly rolled eyes and snide tones.

  I pressed a hand against the window, and the frigid temperatures leeched through the glass and seeped into my palm, helping cut through the rising panic. This was another time and place. I was aware and on guard. I slipped my hand into my pocket and grasped the canister of pepper spray. And armed.

  That knowledge bolstered me, and I stepped back into line and ordered a peppermint hot chocolate. When my name was called out minutes later, I took one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner of the shop and enjoyed my beverage. I people watched and eavesdropped, soaking in the small town atmosphere in which everyone knew one another. An hour later, I tossed my empty cup in the recycling bin and exited the coffee shop.

  Raven’s Gap was draped in white, the timber and brick town perched on the hillside looking like something out of a wintry fairytale. The air was so pure and clean it felt sharp in my lungs. The deep gray sky of yesterday had been replaced with a blue so pale the sun shone white, and a frail froth of scattered clouds reached like fingers over the mountains. The river was dark and lively where it was not frozen and skirted with snow.