When we pull into the trailer turnaround at Lost River Basin’s trailhead, the only other vehicles here are a Subaru and one of those fancy vans kitted out for recreation. There’s not enough snow at this lower elevation for cross country skiers or snowmobilers, but maybe these two groups came for some early season hiking or mountain biking. Or they’re harassing the Lost River herd in order to pick up a set or two of antlers.
I exhale a full breath, forcing my frustration with it. This time of year, wildlife are at their most vulnerable. Their fat stores are nearly gone. Conserving their energy can mean the difference between life and death. It’s illegal to get within 200 yards of a herd outside of hunting season and it’s illegal to spook them for this exact reason. It’s also why unleashed dogs are a problem. A fun chase for a pup is a deadly waste of resources for a wild creature.
Getting Jasper unloaded and saddled gives my amped-up brain something familiar to focus on. Steps I’ve taken hundreds of times that help me tune into the job at hand. I’d like to say it keeps me from thinking about kissing my boss’s daughter, but no.
Next to me, Rowdy’s all brisk efficiency and silence. I’m grateful he’s not the kind of boss that yells or hovers, but the silence feels oppressive. Drunk CJ would be diving for the bottle right about now.Maybe Rowdy’s got a stash in his truck. It would only take a few seconds to look…
I shake my head. Nope.
When I was a drunk, I had stashes of Jim Beam hidden in just about every possible location. It happened over time, but after I got sober, I was shocked by how many flasks I owned, how many bottles I’d stashed, some I’d even forgot about. I had made it so easy to reach for booze in times of even the mildest discomfort.
So instead I breathe in the cold air and the scent of leather andJasper’s musk. Engage in the now and accept what is, and try to let go of the rest.
I’ve for sure overprepared for this day. Extra coffee in a thermos. Extra jerky and bagel sandwiches in my saddlebag. Water purifying tablets, a first aid kit, extra layers. I stopped myself from strapping on a thin bedroll should we end up stuck overnight, but I did add an extra pair of wool socks. After cinching on my chaps and double checking everything one last time, I slide my Winchester into the scabbard and rock into the saddle. Jasper’s ears twitch and he shifts his weight. Sensing my anticipation, no doubt.
Rowdy’s horse, a big sorrel, turns toward us, trying to get a look at Jasper.
I bring us level, and their noses touch. The sorrel huffs and pulls away.
We cross the parking area to the double track leading into the forest, the squeak of leather matching the steady clop of horse hooves on the gravel.
“Did you know platypus mothers have no nipples to feed their babies?” I ask Rowdy.
He tilts his head, his intense blue eyes just visible beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Nope.”
“Instead, the milk oozes from their skin, like sweat.” Jasper’s head bobs as we climb a short rise.
Rowdy grunts.
Just one drink and you’d feel better.“Most Greenland sharks are completely blind because of a parasite that eats their corneas. But it’s a benefit because these sharks are so slow and the parasites wave like lures, creating an angler-fish effect. Imagine something eating your eyeballs and it being anupgrade.”
Rowdy’s gaze has turned wary.
Shit. I hold my tongue, even though I’m ready with the final fascinating fact about Greenland sharks having the longest lifespan of any vertebrate, which means they must be doingsomethingright. Orthe one about octopuses having three stomachs. Or how female sloths are too lazy to find a mate, so they just start screaming until an interested male can mosey on over.
When I’m quiet, Rowdy turns back to the trail ahead. The pale dirt is mostly frozen, with ice puddles someone has crunched through, leaving bits of muddy tread from shoes and several sets of mountain bike tire tracks behind. We ride in silence in and out of the trees, the muffled clop of hooves on the hard ground and the squeak of our saddles blending with intermittent birdsong.
“We got an ID on the woman we pulled from Cascade Lake,” Rowdy says, startling me. “She was a labor and delivery nurse who went missing from Miller’s Ferry two years ago.”
“Oh.” She’s been visiting my dreams, and not in a good way. Maybe they’ll stop now that I know the drowned woman isn’t my sister.
Rowdy squints at the horizon. “The team up there is coming down Wednesday to get our statements.”
“Will we be part of the investigation?”
“Our role is mostly done. Except to testify.”
The only reason he’d say this is… “She was murdered?”
He side-eyes me, his gaze sharp. “Possibly in connection with a cult called Sons of Eden. Samantha Bowen had developed strong suspicions of the abuse going on inside the cult thanks to her position. Too many underaged mothers coming in, all from the same address.”
“So these cult people killed her to keep it quiet?” I shake my head in disbelief.
His expression turns cautious. “There’s zero evidence to support such a thing, but…the timing fits, and we think it fits with their MO, which is to silence anyone who tries to cross them.”
I stroke Jasper’s neck, but the sensory reward of his silky coat and his warmth doesn’t soften the ache in my chest. “Have you dealt with this cult before?”
Rowdy heaves a slow sigh, his eyes dark and serious. “Unfortunately, yes. They’ve consistently violated conservation laws. Squatting, illegal logging, poaching.”