“Your boundary markers are wrong,” Henry said, pointing toward the line of stakes. “They’ve been placed thirty yards into protected land.”
The men exchanged glances.
“We’re just following the layout the boss gave us,” said the younger worker, shrugging. “Mr. Vance was real specific about where everything should go. He came out a few days ago. Said there had been some last-minute adjustments approved by the county.”
“Those adjustments weren’t approved,” Henry said, his voice low but firm. “This is a protected wildlife corridor. Nothing is supposed to be built within fifty yards of this line.” He pointed to the true boundary on his map.
The middle-aged worker scoffed. “Look, we don’t make the decisions. We just do the work. Take it up with management if you’ve got an issue.”
Henry felt his temper flaring, his bear shifter instincts pushing him toward showing dominance. He stepped closer, using his considerable height advantage as he stared down at the man.
“These markers are placed incorrectly,” he repeated, each word deliberate and heavy with warning. “And someone has been damaging trees that should be protected.”
Something in his tone or perhaps the intensity of his gaze made the men step back. Even humans could sense a predator.
“Like I said,” the older worker offered, his tone more friendly, “we’re just following orders. If there’s an issue with the boundaries, you’ll need to take it up with Mr. Vance or Dr. Bright. She really calls most of the shots for this project.”
Henry took out a worn film camera from his pack and carefully photographed the incorrect markers, the damaged trees, and held his official map in frame for size comparison. The workers watched uncomfortably but made no move to stop him.
“I’ll be filing a report,” he told them.
He turned away without waiting for their response, needing to get away from the confrontation before his anger pushed his bear too close to the surface. Human-shifter relations in Fate Mountain were carefully managed, and a ranger losing control would create problems.
A report might sit for weeks while construction continued. By the time anyone took action, the damage would be permanent. The wildlife corridor would be compromised, forcing animals into dangerous areas, disrupting breeding patterns, and increasing vehicle collisions along the mountain roads.
Henry’s cabincame into view as he crested the final hill of his property. Unlike the sprawling ranch house where he’d grown up, his home was modest and deliberately isolated. Built by his own hands, the structure blended with its surroundings.
The exterior featured local stone and timber. A covered porch wrapped around two sides, furnished simply with a pair of handcrafted chairs and a small table. No fancy plantings disrupted the natural vegetation, though Henry had carefully managed the surrounding forest to reduce fire risk.
After the confrontation at the construction site, he craved the quiet that only his home could provide. Inside, the cabin was sparse but functional. The main room served as both living area and kitchen, with a stone fireplace as its focal point. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with wildlife guides, conservation textbooks, and the occasional classic novel. A comfortable butwell-worn armchair sat angled toward the fireplace, a side table stacked with field journals beside it.
Henry moved to the small kitchen area, filling a kettle and placing it on the stove. A handcrafted dining table with two chairs occupied one corner. Open shelving held basic dishes and cooking supplies. Along the opposite wall hung detailed maps of Fate Mountain. They tracked wildlife movements, seasonal changes, and environmental concerns far more fully than any official survey. This was the work that truly mattered to him.
A narrow hallway led to the bedroom and bathroom, the only other rooms in the cabin. Henry had deliberately chosen simplicity over the luxury his family could have provided. His needs were few. Clean water from his well. Electricity from solar panels. A reliable truck for work. Books and the forest for company.
Among his few personal items, a framed photograph stood on a corner shelf. It showed Henry standing beside Uncle Cyrus outside this very cabin when it was newly built. Both wore expressions that could barely be called smiles, but the pride in their eyes was clear.
The kettle whistled, and Henry prepared a mug of strong black tea. As he did, the phone mounted near the door began to ring. He ignored it, focusing on his tea preparation with deliberate movements. The phone fell silent, then started again almost immediately. Henry continued to ignore it, taking his mug to the table where he opened his field journal to record the morning’s observations.
The phone rang a third time. With a resigned growl, Henry finally answered it, recognizing his mother’s persistence.
“What?” he answered curtly.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Sylvia Kincaid replied, her voice warm despite her son’s greeting. “Nice to hear your voice after two months of silence.”
Henry sighed. “Been busy, Mom. What do you need?”
“Would it kill you to call occasionally? Your father and I wonder if you’ve been eaten by a mountain lion half the time.”
“I’m a bear shifter living in the woods, Mom. I think I can handle a mountain lion.”
“That’s not the point, Henry, and you know it.” His mother’s voice held the familiar mix of exasperation and affection that marked most of their talks. “I’m calling to remind you about Leland’s birthday dinner tomorrow night. Six o’clock. You can sleep over since the drive back up the mountain is so long.”
Henry grimaced, having completely forgotten about his father’s birthday celebration. Family gatherings ranked just above dental surgery on his list of preferred activities.
“Can’t make it,” he said. “Got ranger business to handle.”
“Try again,” Sylvia replied, unmoved. “Your father specifically asked for all his sons to be there. It’s his sixtieth birthday, Henry.”
