“Your knowledge of this remote area. The terrain and trails in Yosemite are ideal for hiding such operations, especially with the cartel’s network extending into California. You have access to restricted zones off-limits to the public, making it easier to smuggle on routes without raising suspicion. I need someone who can avoid detection, help my men operate and transport through the area.”
I scoff, nearly laughing. I’d never. Could never. “This must be your idea of a joke, Brent. You know I’d never get involved in illegal activity.”
Brent averts his gaze down to his side-stepping feet.
The man next to him smiles. “From what I hear you already are. What would your co-workers, or better yet, your supervisor say if they knew you were helping an addict acquire fentanyl?”
The sinking pit in my stomach from the moment he walked out of the car comes plowing into me as a gut punch.
I shake my head, words evading me.
“I’ll let you think on it. Right now, I’m about to meet your sheriff at the diner in town. I hear it’s delicious.” He licks his lips and winks at me in a sickening way.
It’s not the words that are threatening, it’s the tone.
“We’ll be in touch.” He slaps me on the shoulder once, the corner of his mouth curling downward.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I say, intent on doing more research on this guy. I’d go to Paul, but the fact he’s meeting him at the diner, coupled with Lily’s hunch about him. Can I trust him?
The man doesn’t answer me, though. Instead, he runs a hand through his raven-black hair, and says, “Did you know if a lily rises despite the darkness, it’s proof that even the innocent can bloom in shadow.”
Then he turns to leave.
I end up driving to the cabin with zero intention of leaving again. I don’t have it in me to drive to my mom’s house, not after that.
Damn it, Brent. I don’t want to be dragged into this.
Did you know if a lily rises despite the darkness, it’s proof that even the innocent can bloom in shadow?
I’m not sure what it is about what he said as he walked away from me. The oddity of his word choice, or maybe it’s the fact Lily has been on my mind and something about it resonated with me.
When I pull into my cabin, the soft flicker of the lamp by the kitchen window is the only light aglow, and Max’s shadow looms back and forth, like he’s pacing the floor. Right now, it’s his shadow that’s a comfort.
I grab my phone and send a quick text to my mom, letting her know I won’t be there for dinner. I should text Lily, especially how we left things, but I don’t feel worthy right now. The stench of the ambush is still wrapped around me, squeezing tight.
I groan. Did Brent really think I’d help move drugs? Use private national park roads and routes to facilitate his operations. I don’t care if he’s in charge or who in the cartel he reports to. I could never. Could I? Would I?
I stumble out of the truck, the dark of night fully blanketing the tiny cabin I call home. It’s been nice living in one of the ranger outposts—I’m close to work, immersed in nature, and there’s plenty of room for Max to run and train. Being nearby is helpful, but the lingering guilt never truly goes away. I know my mom would never in a million years allow me to come back home, but still. What kind of son am I?
I’ve never been more grateful for Lily, though somehow, she’s the reason I can’t show my face tonight. I’ll stay here, pack up Max’s stuff, then head over early in the morning to get a jump on the turkey and pies.
I let out a disbelieving chuckle. What a contradiction. Being approached by a drug lord yet worrying about cooking a turkey, insanity.
The fresh scent of twilight and pine is nearly euphoric as I approach the door to the rustic cabin nestled in the heart of Yosemite Valley. Several of the rangers in my unit live in the older cabins or shared housing. They’re designed to blend into the natural surroundings, built with weathered logs that no longer hold the expected earthy brown, but rather a concrete gray. It’s hard to see at night, but poking up through the sloped shingled cedar roof, illuminated by the half-moon, is an original stone chimney, functional and used in the colder months, though closely monitored and the use regulated.
Max barks from inside the cabin, my footsteps thrashing through the foliage strewn in front of the attached porch. My personal-use hiking boots sit outside, caked with mud from a hike earlier in the week. I went up to Tenaya Canyon, notorious for its difficult navigation and slippery off-route trails.
I wonder if Lily’s been.
Max barks again, bitter I opted to leave him home. Entering the cabin, he bounds over to me, sniffing my shoes and whining when he looks behind me. I bet he smells my mom’s house, or better yet, Lily. I scratch him on the head, burying my cold-tipped fingers into his toasty fur.
After I shrug off my coat, tossing it on the hook beside the door, I turn toward the ashy wood-burning stove, while Max continues to paw at my discarded shoes over the doormat which reads Beware: The Dog is the Boss Around Here!
There isn’t much to this place. It’s a one bedroom, though it has a set of bunk beds in the living room, set up for when off-park rangers need to crash or seasonal rangers get into town early. Because of this, I don’t have a couch, just a wide chair tucked into the corner by the woodstove. To the right, when you walk in, is the kitchen, and back past the living area is the single bedroom and adjoining bathroom.
I crouch in front of the cast-iron door, shuffling the stack of newspaper over to crumple a pile and stuff it in the woodstove. Then, on top of that, I carefully place dry kindling, arranged in a crisscross pattern, and finish with the larger logs sitting near the stove, split.
Quickly, I strike the match, leaning in to allow the flame to blacken and then catch the corner of the newspaper. They curl, hungrily stretching toward the kindling, which releases a piney aroma as it catches. A soft roar crescendos when I nudge the air intake open, feeding the flames.
