Colden looked at him questioningly.
“I’ve represented people in situations like this,” he said, explaining the strength and clarity of his opinions. “You know. Pro bono. On the side.”
Colden nodded slowly. Volunteer work. Giving back. This was a good man. Better than she had given him credit for. She should do that. Volunteer work. She’d been meaning to do that. She was so fortunate. She should share some of what she had been given. Take some disadvantaged city kids on an adventure in the wilderness. Anything to get out of her own head for a bit.
The waiter arrived with two Italian flags and dessert in a glass.
“What’s this?”
“Tiramisu,” Drew said.
Colden didn’t know what tiramisu was. She’d never heard of it.
“But we didn’t order it,” she protested.
“It’s a gift, Colden,” Drew said. “A gift of deliciousness. All you need to do is say thank you and enjoy it.”
Such good advice, Colden thought. So difficult to take.
18.
Sometimes Brayden thought about leaving his lair in the woods. It was not so much of an idea or a plan that he would implement, but more of a “what if?” The way people think, “What if I won the lottery?” A fantasy. No, more of a necessity. Because a fantasy was something you wanted to have happen. Brayden didn’t want to leave; he just wasn’t sure he could stay.
He always felt something or someone would somehow compel him to walk free of the line of trees, with nothing more than whatever his backpack could carry, and then he’d have to go start a life. A real life. It was just that this life, his life beneath the trees, felt more real than anything he’d ever experienced.
He liked listening to the birds singing and the chipmunks rustling in the leaf litter. He liked watching the leaves moving in the breeze and the water trickling in the nearby rivulet. He enjoyed all his small tasks, from checking his fishing poles and gathering berries and mushrooms to cooking up a trout and boiling water on his campfire. He spent hours and hours listening, watching, observing—well, in fact, he didn’t know how much time he spent doing this or that because his watch had stopped working. And what difference did it make, anyway? It’s not like there was anywhere else he had to be. It’s not like there was anyplace else he wanted to be.
The only thing he wanted from that other world, that world beyond the trees, was to see his sister. He didn’t even need to see her. He just wanted to know if she was OK. If he saw her, well, that would bring it all back. For both of them. So maybe not seeing her was OK, too. As long as she was all right. As long as she wasn’t with their father and was somewhere better than where she had been. That’s all that really mattered.
19.
Colden finally wrote to Liam. She apologized for being a jerk, made some crack about hitting “Send” before thinking, told him she was sorry to hear about his wife, and said she hoped they’d work together sometime in the future. Originally, she wrote that she hoped to see him in the future, but she changed it. It seemed keeping him at a professional arm’s length was the most prudent approach.
She clarified that it wasn’t Jack who’d mentioned his wife, but Larry. She didn’t want Liam to be erroneously mad at Jack. She also wanted Liam to share what he knew about Larry, but she didn’t want to ask. She hoped that by calling him out as the gossip, she’d get some info.
For encouragement, she added, “Larry’s kind of a jerk—I shouldn’t have listened to him.”
She was surprised to get a reply the next day.
Colden,
Thanks and no worries. Totally understandable. And yeah, hope to be up in a ’copter with you this upcoming winter. As to Larry, he is a bit of an ass. I don’t normally gossip about people, but I’ll give tit for tat to that guy. Here’s a tip: his name isn’t really Larry Stevens. It’s Lawrence Steven Rivers.
All the best,
Liam
Colden read the “’copter” remark several times, wondering if there was any flirtation there. Maybe everything Liam said was a flirtation. Even though she had created the distance between them, that didn’t stop her from wishing he’d try to close it. Regardless, there was more important information in his reply. Larry’s full name. She popped Drew a quick note telling him that a friend had given her Larry’s supposedly “real” name—maybe he could find something out from that. She thought about doing a deep Google dive herself but didn’t want to go on the hunt for more dirt. She’d had enough of Larry for the moment. She’d see what Drew came up with.
Which reminded her that she had promised to help him. And that she had been avoiding Gene since she found out about the accidental shooting of his dog. It was time. She needed to check up on him and check in with him.
Summer was in a high, June mood, full of sun and birdsong, when Colden again drove over to Gene’s. She’d wanted to bring him something. A sort of peace offering. He waved off gifts as readily as he did assistance, but her father had just baked a blueberry pie. Gene loved pie.
He was sitting on the porch when she arrived, his eyes closed and his face turned toward the sun. He did not change his position until she was all the way to the front step.
“Your dad make this?” he asked as she handed him the pie and a plastic fork she’d brought.
“Of course,” Colden answered. “You know he’s the only one in our house who cooks.”
“He’s good at it.”
“He’s good at everything he does.”
“Pretty annoying, ain’t it?”
Colden nodded, smiled, and sat down. Gene ate in silence while she pet the dogs. When he was finished, he crumpled the foil in his hand and looked at her.
“Why you here, Colden?”
“Why are you asking?”
Colden was getting used to being called out by people on the feelings she thought she was skilled at obscuring.
“Something’s up.”
“I can’t just be making a social call?”
“You can. I enjoy your social calls. But something else is going on. I can tell.”
“Maybe. OK. Yeah. You busted me.”
“So, tell me.”
“You first, Gene. How are you?”
“Pickled, seasoned, hardened, and grumpy.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I miss my dog, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“It is.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. She’s gone, and I’m an idiot. It’s not the first stupid mistake I’ve made in my life, wrecking one thing while trying to fix some other thing. I’m certain it won’t be the last.”
“You’re hard on yourself, Gene.”
“Life is hard on me, too, Colden.”
She nodded. There was too little fairness in the world. It was something she’d had the luxury of not considering too closely for the bulk of her life.
“I’m so sorry, Gene.”
He cleared his throat.
“Tell me what else brought you out to this little patch of hell today, Colden.”
“OK,” Colden conceded. “So, I have this friend—”
“Boyfriend or friend friend?” Gene asked, interrupting her.
“Just a friend.”
“So far, just a friend, you mean.”
“Gene.”
“OK, tell your story.”
She did. About Drew and his employer, the vandalism, and his search for an under-the-radar solution.
“Your pa mentioned something about this a while ago. He wasn’t quite so direct about it, though.”
“Yeah, well, I asked for his help. Because I was too cowardly to ask around myself,” Colden confessed. It felt good to be honest about her failings.
“Is this friend of yours a good guy?” Gene asked.
Colden thought about that for a moment. Gene would do anything for her but was, with reason, suspicious of outsiders.
“Yes, Gene. Yes, he is a good guy. I really think he is.”
&n
bsp; Colden meant it.
“Is he a fair guy?”
Colden nodded. She believed that to be true of Drew, as well.
“Hmmmm,” Gene said.
“You got any ideas for me?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Might take more than a piece of pie to get it from me, though.”
“Like what kind of more?” she asked cautiously.
“Guarantees.”
“What sort of guarantees?”
“No prosecution.”
“Told you, we have that. What else?”
“You sure?”
“Yes, what else?”
Gene didn’t speak. Colden waited in the silence, petting Killer, who was lying peacefully at her feet. This was the kind of dog she wanted. A serene dog who would rest his chin on your thigh, not that hyperactive Daisy who wouldn’t even look at you unless you had a ball in your hand. Then again, Killer would never work for you the way Daisy would. He’d follow you through the woods right up until he became bored, and then he’d turn around and go home on his own. He didn’t have the drive that Daisy had. That Colden had.
“Here’s the thing, Colden,” Gene finally said. “The dude what’s done this feels sorely wronged. These guys come onto property that’s been in his family for generations and just took it and used it for themselves. They didn’t ask. They were not polite.”
Colden didn’t speak for a few minutes. She didn’t want to argue with Gene because she needed him to be on her side.
“I’m a little confused,” she said cautiously. “I was told that they sent letters and tried to get in touch, but they never got a response. They only had a blind post office box to send to, of course. Also, I thought that property boundary had been settled a long time ago.”
“Depends what you mean by settled,” Gene said.
“Well, moving a fence line doesn’t automatically reestablish a property line.”
“Well, it should. If the line wasn’t correct to begin with. The fence is just making a point that the deed should have. Some folks don’t have high-priced, fancy lawyers to make their points for them. Some folks have to find other ways to make themselves heard.”
“How much land are we talking about?” Colden asked.
“Eight feet.”
Colden looked at him incredulously.
“Eight feet?”
“Eight feet for about a mile.”
“That’s all?”
“May not be much to you, but it’s still his land. They’re using it to get to their lands.”
“And there’s no other way to get there,” Colden said.
“Not without either building a road through a swamp or blasting through a mountain of granite.”
“So, what’s your friend want?”
“Payment. Payment for the land or for an easement to use the land. And an apology.”
“I’ll look into it,” Colden said. “Tell your friend I’ll look into it.”
“K. And Colden?”
“Yes, Gene?”
“He ain’t my friend.”
“Sure, Gene.”
Colden stood to leave. Whoever this guy was, he seemed to be trying to make things difficult just for the sport of it. Lengthen your own line, her martial arts instructor had always said. Easy advice for a woman like Colden to follow, she reminded herself. Not so easy for those who didn’t have a line to start with, much less one to lengthen.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Gene said, brightening up. “Always nice chatting with you. And thanks for the bribery. I mean, the blueberry pie.”
“Anytime.”
“Hey, Colden.”
“What, Gene?”
“You oughta learn to bake. Bet you’d be even better than your dad.”
20.
Colden was determined to make her and Daisy’s next trip into the woods productive. She would be patient. She would work with Daisy at her level. She would not take her off lead. She would try to enjoy the process. She would remember to play, not just train.
The morning dawned cool and dry, the air free of the normal, oppressive summer humidity and swarms of biting bugs. Colden picked up two egg sandwiches, one for each of them, and a cup of coffee for herself. She had a waist belt and a ten-foot lead, which they had practiced with on shorter hikes. Daisy was finally sticking close by and had given up tugging Colden in different directions, following the scent of every critter she could find. They’d also been working on basic manners training, and Daisy was much more focused on Colden than she used to be. Working with the dog had allowed Colden to apply some of her knowledge of animal cognition. She was even starting to like Daisy, to look forward to seeing her wiggling body, damp nose, and ample tongue. These surges of primal affection made Colden feel vulnerable and raw, but she was starting to welcome the feelings.
They hiked for hours in the soft air beneath the trees. Colden asked little of Daisy, just rewarded her attention and enjoyed her company. They got to the farthest camera trap at midmorning and a second site a little after midday. Colden collected the data cards and decided to take a break for lunch. She found a spot to sit and offload her pack. Her waist belt and the bright yellow lead that tethered her to Daisy became entangled. She squatted and fumbled with the webbing and the nylon. Then, in the slow-motion way that disasters unfold, Colden watched the leash handle pull away from where it was woven into the leash itself. With nothing to resist, the lead slipped through Colden’s hand, and as if Daisy been waiting for this very moment, as if she’d made it happen herself, she was off, after a scent. Colden looked dumbly into the space the dog had just occupied a moment before. She was gone, completely disappeared among the ombré shadows made by the latticework of tree branches overhead.
Colden stared, stunned into silence and immobility. It was not possible that one moment the dog was at her side, sniffing around, and a second later, she was a flash of black amidst the undergrowth.
“Daisy?” Colden called tentatively.
She was greeted with mocking silence.
“Daisy! Daisy!”
A few crows flapped away.
“Daisy? Here, Daisy. Daisy, come! Come on, girl. Daisy?”
Colden trotted to and fro, a few steps here, a few there, like a frightened rabbit. Everything around her settled into stillness.
Think, she told herself. Stop and think. Make a plan. Execute the plan. Just follow the dog. She can’t have gone far. It’s only been a few moments.
Colden reshouldered her pack and set out in the direction Daisy had bolted. After a few minutes of angry strides, she realized her plan was useless. Completely ineffective. The dog could be anywhere. She could have turned and doubled back dozens of times. She was fast and agile in an environment where Colden was slow and plodding. In the little time since the leash had unraveled in her hands, the day had heated up, bringing on waves of humidity and bugs. Colden found herself standing in the middle of nowhere with several black and red smears on her arms and face from slapping at blood-filled mosquitoes and blackflies. All her formerly soft and liquid fondness for Daisy had been replaced with a hard knot of anger at herself and the dog.
“Dammit.”
Colden sat down, pulled out her map and compass, and got her bearings. She took some rope from the pack and hoisted it into a tree, where it would be safe from bears. This way, she could leave it behind and move more quickly. Unburdened by weight and gear, energized by frustration, she walked briskly in one direction for a set amount of time, calling to the dog, forcing her voice into a falsely upbeat and welcoming tone, then came back to the center and set out in a different direction, creating an invisible pattern of spokes radiating from where her pack sat in the crotch of a tree. By the fourth return, an hour and a half had passed.
This wasn’t the first time that Daisy had gotten free of Colden and her confining leashes. But in the past, she always found her way back to Colden within forty-five minutes. Colden’s hot anger was steadily being supplanted by cold fear. Her head hurt. She’d ne
ver had lunch. She’d been hiking for more than six hours without a break. She retrieved her pack, drank some water, and ate some granola mix. She wondered if she should go back to the truck—maybe Daisy had gone there. Dogs did that. It would take her hours to hike out. Daisy would have covered that distance in much less time. If that’s where she went at all. And if she wasn’t there, then what?
Colden wanted her father. Not just for his calm counsel and assistance but in the visceral, vulnerable way of a child. She sent a text, even though there was no signal. Maybe it would find its way out of the woods on some passing bit of electronic ether. Her face fell into her hands, and tears dripped through her fingers. She let them flow because she could not stop them. She’d cried more in the past month than in years.
After a few minutes, she told herself to get a grip—there was work to be done. She lifted her head, wiped her nose with her sleeve, checked her phone, stashed it away, and tried to think. Daisy would be better at finding her than she was at finding Daisy. Maybe she should just sit here a bit. Maybe Daisy would return to her. Colden wished she had a nose just a fraction as sensitive as her dog’s. The things she could find. The work she could accomplish. She took several slow, deep breaths, steadying herself. She listened to the chickadees peeping around her. She watched a nuthatch on its head-down, hopping descent of a large pine tree. In the distance, she heard a woodpecker’s methodical hammering against a dead tree on its assault after bugs.
Then there was another sound. Colden held her breath and heard only her own blood pumping through her veins. There it was again. Erratic and insistent. Angry and frustrated. Just like she felt. A dog barking. Colden jumped to her feet, grabbed her pack, and started scurrying in the direction of the yips. She ran a bit, twigs and branches slapping her in the face, scratching at her bare arms; then she paused to listen and adjust course. The barks were becoming less frequent, but more frantic. They were also not moving.
“Shit.”
Colden ran, as best she could, through the thick understory of ferns, viburnums, and birch and maple saplings. Her breath came ragged into her lungs, filled with pollen-laced, moisture-rich air. A bramble tore a gash in her pants. She stumbled over a rock. She fell to her hands, gouging her palm and scraping an elbow.
Beneath the Trees Page 17
