Bear of a Honeymoon Read online

  We retraced the territory Nurse Resnick had just covered and worked up to a thorough physical exam, the conclusions of which were both reassuring and predictable. I would live. Bruises covered a significant proportion of my anatomy and I'd developed one heck of a cold. But with plenty of rest and fluids to match, I should be fit company by the time my wandering spouse returned to finish up the honeymoon. I thanked the good doctor and inquired after provisions. He provided assurances and left.

  To this day, I have no idea if food was ever ordered. Eons later, when Dan and Brooke arrived to take me away, lunch had yet to appear. I made this point with all the force my waning strength would allow and was grateful to hear that a restaurant was our first intended destination.

  "We need to drop by Kenny Legge's place anyway," Brooke informed me. "I've got the quarterly hospitality association data for him."

  "How does that tie in with lunch," I demanded. My one-track mind is legendary to those who know me well.

  "Kenny manages the Sun Valley Motor Inn. Their dining room has a very decent lunch buffet," my friend explained. "Though they may have to file for bankruptcy after feeding you." She twisted in her seat to favour me with a sarcastic grin. Even Dan laughed at that one, an encouraging sign. It was the first time since they'd collected me that he'd even acknowledged Brooke's presence.

  "They'll have to take their chances," I responded primly. "But it surprises me to hear the place is that good. Legge didn't impress me very much."

  "I know. He sure doesn't look the part. But he's very conscientious." There was such unnatural emphasis on the last two words that it would have taken a moron not to catch the implication. Dan's no moron. He snorted derisively and his black scowl was plainly visible in the rearview mirror.

  "Does something with the hospitality association as well?" I asked, not that I gave two hoots about the association or Kenny Legge, but somebody needed to fill the crackling silence.

  "President," Brooke confirmed, acidly.

  I didn't take offence at her tone. It wasn't intended for me.

  "And a thorough task master. He started this project for information pooling," she continued, holding up a USB flash drive, "and I think it'll be a real success. It took an enormous amount of time and organisation. He even came out to set up the program for us."

  It all sounded very commendable. But at the moment, the only thing I wanted to know about Kenny Legge was that he ran a good kitchen. My relief was overwhelming when we pulled into a crowded parking lot and started foraging for an empty space. It was late enough, after one-thirty. Surely the first wave of diners should be on the move. And hopefully they hadn't eaten too much. I spied a set of backup lights and pointed excitedly to Dan. He pulled into attack position and we waited to pounce on the spot.

  But when the rental Lincoln backed smoothly out of the space, we found ourselves nose-to-nose with the ever-popular Max Edelman. And he wasn't alone.

  "Rachel," Brooke hissed. "I swear I'm going to fire that little turncoat."

  "For what," Dan demanded, steering into the vacant spot.

  "Fraternising with the enemy."

  "Oh, get off it," her husband snapped. "Edelman's harmless."

  "Yeah, about as harmless as the rattler in Reno's stall."

  As much as my stomach protested, I would gladly have abandoned our lunch plans. Having a meal with these two was going to be like refereeing a round with two pit bulls. I didn't want the job. But as it turned out, they gave me a break and declared a temporary truce. You couldn't call the meal congenial, but no blood was drawn.

  I returned to Arbutus cabin with a pleasant sensation of gastronomic excess, immediately eclipsed by the thrill of finding my bag sitting on the table. Presumably Lyle had dropped it off when he returned with my car. I scrambled for my phone and saw the notification for a text from Matt, which sent me into a little happy dance—sort of. It's tough to dance with a pair of cats twining around your feet.

  "Merow," Dudley insisted, head-butting my leg.

  "Meep," chorused tiny Nell, jabbing me with her own wee forehead.

  "All right, all right," I said, bending to pet the upstretched heads with one hand while I thumb flipped my phone with the other.

  "Missing you already," Matt's text read. "Arrived at staging area. Don't worry if you don't hear from me. We may not have coverage in the wreck area. I'll text when I can. Love you sooooo much," followed by a whole string of huggy hearts. The message was date stamped just four hours after I'd watched his plane depart. Nothing since.

  I immediately tapped his name in my phone list, but wasn't really surprised when the call jumped directly to voicemail. Matt wouldn't be answering if he were working and, as he'd pointed out, there might be service problems in the mountains. I settled for leaving a voice message, then added a text as well. Frustrating, but it was all I could do.

  "Merow!" Dudley cut in, his patience obviously at the breaking point. He fixed me with a green-eyed glare that made perfectly clear his position on continued failure to provide undivided attention. Hadn't he magnanimously forgone the standard cold-shoulder-treatment for callous abandonment? Hadn't he graciously forgiven the untimely provision of meals by mere staff? Really, enough was enough.

  "Meep," Nell agreed, sitting primly at his side.

  "You need a lot of work on that little kitty glare," I said, grinning at the hopelessly adorable upturned face. "But good try. And you, my tubby red boy—what can I say?"

  I scooped Nell into my palm and Dudley under my arm and carried them to the bed where I rubbed tummies and scratched ears to the accompaniment of symphonic purrs. Eventually the cats felt sufficiently loved to disengage and with typical feline perversity, set about removing all trace of human contact from their persons.

  Not a bad idea, I thought, eyeing their mutual ablutions. A long bath seemed just the thing. Preparations took only a minute: a glass of Shiraz from the bar, bubbles from the vanity, and my current mystery from the bedside table. In nothing flat I was immersed in soothing foam, soaking up the warmth of water and wine. Life would have been perfect with Matt along for the ride. But life rarely is. You have to take it as it comes. With considerable gratitude, I settled for what I had.

  An hour later, what I had amounted to prune toes and goosebumps. I never seem to get around to adding more hot water. Anyhow, I felt as close to great as I was likely to get, given the current condition of my body. I pulled on a pair of PJ bottoms and a long-sleeved T-shirt, poured another glass of wine and climbed into bed. Doctor Bower had ordered plenty of fluids and rest. The full-bodied wine was working its magic and my lids were near half-mast when the bedside phone jarred me awake.

  Grabbing up the receiver with the hope of hearing Matt, I was struck with a twinge of annoyance at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

  "Ms. Anderson?" it asked, evidently startled by my eager greeting. "Yes. Who is this?" I demanded in a non-too-friendly voice.

  "Roy Friesen, ma'am."

  "Oh. Hi Roy," I said, quickly thawing my tone. "I thought it might be my husband."

  "Ah. I understand. Look I'm sorry to be bothering you right now.

  How are you feeling?"

  "Much better, thanks. There's every likelihood I'll live."

  "Mighty glad to hear it," he laughed. "And I'm sure your husband will be, too."

  "Here's hoping," I agreed. "What can I do for you?"

  "Like I said, I'm really sorry to be bothering you, but it'd be a big help if I could ask you a few questions. I'm at the lodge now," he said, tentatively. "If you feel up to it, I'd be grateful for a few minutes of your time."

  Talking about that horrific experience was about the last thing I wanted to do right now—or ever, for that matter. But if talking to me would help Roy catch that vicious, cowardly, son-of-a—, then he could come right on over. I told him so.

  Minutes later, I answered his firm knock at the cabin door and ushered the young conservation officer into the living room. He declined my offer of a drink an
d we settled in the comfortable chairs flanking the stone hearth. Wrapping the spare blanket around me, I drew my feet up and tucked them into its folds.

  "Would you like me to light you a fire, Ms. Anderson?"

  "No. I'm fine. And please stop treating me like my mother-in-law.

  The name's Taylor, remember?"

  "Sure, I do," he said, flushing pink. "I just meant to be polite."

  "Courtesy noted. Now how can I help?"

  We got on easily after that. I recounted the chilling events and Roy jotted notes, occasionally interrupting with a question. The boyish face looked tired when he finally snapped his notebook shut—and something more. Roy Friesen looked sad.

  "This is getting you down, isn't it," I said.

  His troubled blue eyes lifted to mine, regarding me solemnly for a time. He finally nodded. "Today was the worst," he said, dismally. "I feel like I've lost a friend. We called him Duke."

  "You knew this animal?" I was stunned.

  Roy nodded unhappily. "He was friendly and crazy smart. We got to know him when we worked on the research project, the one Liam's following up. Old Duke'd been trapped often enough, the whole thing seemed to bore him." The young CO chucked at the memory.

  "He'd be dozing away in the trap and I'd have to shout at him to wake up. Duke felt so at home he didn't even rush out of the cage. He'd often wait ten minutes or more before he left. But every year it got harder to snare him. The big fella had such a great memory. He'd veer off a trail to avoid a spot where he'd been caught before."

  Roy paused, staring off into space, remembering.

  "How did he get his name?" I prodded gently.

  A slow smile transformed my companion's face and he reestablished eye contact. "Because of his size," he said. "Duke weighed in at three-hundred-and-sixty kilograms."

  I did a quick mental calculation. "That's almost eight hundred pounds."

  "He was a whopper," Roy agreed. "When we weighed him for the study, we used a tow truck to lift him—he bent the tow bar."

  "Whoa! I knew he was big, but that's amazing."

  "For a black bear it is, especially in this area. There are bigger ones over at Riding Mountain."

  "I sure wouldn't want to meet one."

  "Wouldn't be a problem if they were like Duke. He had no fear of

  humans and he didn't bother anybody. A real friendly guy."

  I thought of the terrified eyes turned on me in the pitiless spotlight and my stomach twisted. Roy said Duke was awfully smart. Had he been smart enough to understand betrayal? "I'm sorry," was all I could think to say. "You must feel really bad."

  "I do," he said. Then a spark lit his eyes. "And damn mad! I'm going to catch that pond scum."

  "Do you think it's the same poacher?"

  "Yep. This guy's on a spree. Duke was the fourth this spring. So, he's already bagged about two thousand dollars-worth of parts."

  "What kind of people are involved?" I asked, reaching for my own notebook and pen. "Is there a typical poacher?"

  "Not exactly," he hedged. "Some of them are just thrill seekers. They poach for kicks. They're impulsive, like risk, have no conscience." I scribbled furiously, despite the discomfort to my wounded hands.

  This would be great for my story. "Others are just acting out their own values and beliefs. In lots of families and communities, poaching is perfectly acceptable. Folks see government agents like me as bureaucrats who don't know what they're doing. It's a way to rebel, sort of a Robin Hood syndrome. Until penalties become unbearable, they keep right at it."

  "Could you identify any common characteristics?"

  Roy thought for a moment. "Yeah," he said slowly. "They're all excellent hunters." He paused again, then continued more quickly as though checking off points on a mental list. "Young, twenties or thirties. Poach close to home. And they're smart. Like you saw. They use up-to-date technology and they don't leave many clues."

  "Sounds like a big problem."

  "It is. Poaching's not like licensed hunting where we have control, not only over numbers, but also the age and sex of the kill. When you're only after parts, those things don't matter."

  As usual, what he had to say made sense. I was developing a strong respect for Roy Friesen. What he lacked in years, he seemed to make up for in knowledge and concern. And that was worth pursuing.

  "How big a threat is this poaching?" I asked, wondering if our bear population could possibly be facing the same fate as African rhinos.

  "Big enough," he allowed. "And it's certainly my priority concern at this moment. But if you really want to help wildlife with your story," he said, nodding at my notebook and flying pen, "you need to be careful what you write."

  "What do you mean?" I demanded, instantly defensive.

  "I mean, it won't do guys like me any good if you go printing sensational stories about all the money there is to be made by selling bear parts. As far as I'm concerned, the fewer people who know that, the better."

  "Then what should I write?"

  "Write about laws with no teeth and jurisdictional inconsistencies that make laundering a breeze. And how about officers spread so thin the very idea of enforcement's a joke. Or if you really want to do some good, write about the real problem."

  I stared open-mouthed, my pen suspended above the page. If all of that wasn't the real problem, I was dying to know what was.

  "Habitat," he replied when I asked. "When the population increases, forests are cut down. Even though there's some reforestation, the new habitat's not suitable. People start farms and build houses, contact with humans increases, and bears are killed as pests. That's what happened to a whole lot of the Asian population and it's going to happen to ours." My pen was busy again. "And it's not just bears that suffer. Coyotes, cougars, deer... You should see what's happening to the deer. Thousands die on the roads every year. And the lower elevation land they need for winter feed range is disappearing into fancy new housing developments so fast it would make your head spin. The issue is carrying capacity."

  "What's that?" I asked, eager to learn all I could.

  "It's the amount of wildlife a given tract of land is capable of

  supporting," he explained. "Take the area along Westside Road, down by the big lake. You know where I mean?"

  I nodded. It was the main road into town after you got down into the valley.

  "In the winter, the deer come down out of the high country to avoid the deep snow and get to a ready food source. Let's say that area was capable of supporting two hundred animals. Now, even with all the new homes and disruption down there, there'll still be enough for a few animals to get a living. But it's reduced, say down to a hundred deer. Then over the next three or four years, the extra deer will die off and you'll have fewer deer surviving on that land. Then you'll go back up to Bear Lake in the summertime and wonder why you don't see as many deer.

  "Another possibility," Roy continued, clearly wound up on his subject, "is animals adapting to the new habitat. You'll hear lots of folks grumble about deer treating their gardens like a salad bowl. And where you've got deer, you've got predators. It's all about the food chain. People wonder why we're sighting more cougars in built-up areas? Well, there's one answer."

  My wrist was cramped from writing so fast, my shoulders tense and knotted. I was really starting to feel quite miserable and a worsening cold was certainly not the whole reason. My nice simple bear-poaching story appeared to be getting out of hand. There were complex issues here, and I would need a lot of research to present a balanced view. As usual, my poker face gave me away.

  Roy shot me an appraising glance. "You're looking all done in," he said, rising hastily from his chair. "Sorry the way I kept going on."

  "Please don't be," I pleaded. "You've given me an enormous amount of food for thought."

  "I didn't mean to get up on my soapbox that way," he said.

  "I'm glad you did, Roy. It's people standing on their individual soapboxes that give me the whole picture. You
've been an enormous help."

  "You, too," he smiled, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll keep you posted on the poaching case. And take care of that cold."

  When the door closed behind him, I went in search of a new supply of tissues and some Aspirin. My nose was running pretty much non-stop now, and I felt headachy and feverish. Unfortunately, my stomach was still fully functional. It informed me that the supper hour was fast approaching.

  I was debating whether or not I could scrape together enough energy to drag myself to the dining room, when a knock sounded at the door. Swinging it open, I burst into a grin. Right then, the only sight more welcome than my goddaughter's smiling face, was the loaded tray she bore in her arms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Claire's visit was a big boost. Along with the tray, she carried messages of concern from all and sundry, and a report that Reno was recovering nicely. Pottering around like a dotty granny, she fussed over adequate supplies of juice, tissues, and blankets. She administered my evening dose of antibiotics, refilled the cat dishes, scooped litter, plumped pillows, and admonished me to eat everything on my plate.

  As though that were a worry.

  But, in spite of her ministrations—or maybe because of them—I was starting to feel all in. A full stomach finished the job. When she puttered off with her debris-laden tray and assurances that breakfast would likewise be delivered, I snuggled into bed, feeling only marginally chagrined that my only companions were four-footed and furry. Then the lights went out.

  The bedside clock read seven-oh-oh when my eyes next opened. Daylight confirmed a.m. I'd been unconscious more than thirteen hours. A long, hot shower did wonders, though my head still felt like a cotton ball receptacle, and my forehead thermometer still registered fever. Padding out to the kitchenette, I foraged for OJ, which eased down my morning prescription and another round of Aspirin. I was headed back to bed when Dudley and Nell reminded me of further responsibilities. There's nothing more insistent than a hungry cat— unless it's two hungry cats.