Love,Scout
And with a decisive click, she sent the email to archives on her phone.
Two
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
—Rudyard Kipling, author and poet
Chief Ranger Tim Rivers shut the door to his office and sank into his chair with a weary sigh. Another day, another trail dispute—this time a standoff on the carriage roads, with bikers, hikers, and horseback riders each convinced the others were hogging the scenic trails. And now e-bikes. Just another piece of the ever-growing puzzle.
Typical park drama, though it never failed to amaze him how tempers could flare so hot in a place so breathtakingly serene. Still, diffusing tension was part of the job. At least for now. Soon, it wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
Leaning back, Tim let his eyes wander over the worn walls of his office. This place was his home for the last chapter in his career, but in a way, every park had felt like home. Nearing fifty-seven, his “mandatory retirement” clock was ticking. Soon, he’d have to figure out a life without the green uniform.
The realization weighed on him, a strange kind of sorrow mixed with uncertainty.
He’d imagined life would look different by now. Hoped, even,that he’d have a partner—a hand to hold through this next chapter. After years of being a widower, he finally felt ready to meet someone new. But as he looked ahead, the road stretched wide and uncertain, a little lonely.
Lonely, perhaps. But never alone. His faith steadied him, a constant reminder that he didn’t need to have it all mapped out—only to take the next step.
Tim’s thoughtful reflection abruptly slipped away as Frankie Franklin burst through the door like a gust of wind. He blinked, taking in the sight of the young man—lanky, awkward, with a head of wild hair that made him look like he’d just rolled down a hillside. He’d gotten to know Frankie a couple years back during a summer in Grand Teton and considered him a teen with a chip on his shoulder so big it was a wonder he didn’t tip over. That chip had smoothed out slightly, but the boyish impulsiveness remained.
Frankie jumped up to sit on the desk, but Tim pushed him off. “Sit.” He pointed to a chair.
Before Frankie could sit in a chair, he blurted out, “Chief, you’re not gonna believe what we found today. A shipwreck! Buried treasure! And we’ve got dibs on it.”
Tim squinted at him. “Where’s Ranger Johnson?”
Frankie waved a hand toward the open door. “She’s coming. Had to finish an email or something. Chief, you gotta hear—”
Tim lifted a hand in the air. “Hold your horses, son. Wait until Ranger Johnson gets here.” He didn’t believe half of what came out of Frankie’s mouth. Whatever it was that had Frankie so wound up, he’d rather have Scout present to interpret.
Tim had first met Scout last winter at Petrified Forest in Arizona and was impressed by how effortlessly she managed to captivate a whole range of visitors, from seniors to toddlers. She had the “it” factor for interpretive rangers—that special blend of educating while entertaining. Her eyes had lit up whenhe told her he was working at Acadia, and she told him that park was her dream assignment. A few months later, when a spot opened up in the park for an interp because the current ranger wanted to be a fishing guide, he didn’t hesitate to push her résumé to the top with a solid recommendation.
Acadia could definitely use more rangers like Scout Johnson ... or maybe, in his final year with the NPS, he just wanted to help someone with real potential, like so many had done for him along the way. It had been a good decision to bring her here. She’d already redone the Baker Island handout, she’d proposed a list of campfire talks, and she had a plan to start fundraising for a museum at the park. She continually impressed him, and, well, he’d grown fond of her. The more Tim got to know her, the more he imagined that if he’d ever had a daughter of his own, he’d want her to be like Scout.
Frankie, never one for patience, stepped into the hallway, cupped his hands around his mouth like a makeshift megaphone, and bellowed Scout’s name. Tim rolled his eyes. Subtle as ever. Still, it worked. Scout appeared in the doorway a moment later, slipping into the office and shutting the door behind her. As she sank into a chair, Tim caught the slightly pained look on her face—like she was fighting off a headache. He knew that look well. He called it the Frankie Effect. Everyone got it eventually.
Scout was every bit the dedicated “parkie.” She was a curious blend of buttoned-up professionalism and Southern charm, like a crisply starched uniform wrapped around a warm summer breeze. She took her job seriously. And then there was that ever-present pink ribbon in her long hair, a soft contradiction, a quiet reminder that beneath all that official authority, she was all girl. And Tim admired her for it.
He’d always believed that women could and should bring their full selves into any role, even those traditionally dominated by men. The National Park Service needed that balance—women’sperspectives, instincts, and ways of seeing the world, just as much as men’s.
And Scout Johnson, to Tim, embodied that ideal. She carried herself with the confidence of a seasoned ranger, her boots broken in from miles on the trail, yet there was no mistaking the softness beneath. She could be all business when the job called for it, but there was something innately warm about her too—the honey-smooth drawl in her voice, the way she smoothed a hand over a child’s hair during a junior ranger program, or how she could deliver a firm order with a smile that made people straighten up and follow directions.
He watched a prime example of Scout’s ability to manage annoyances: Frankie was in a chair now, but his legs were jiggling like he had ants in his pants. She reached over to place a silencing hand on his knee, shot him a quick look that all but shoutedContain yourself... and those legs stopped jiggling.
Tim looked past Frankie’s knees and raised an eyebrow at Scout. “Care to tell me what this is about?”
Scout offered a small smile. “Sir, I apologize for the intrusion. What Frankie is tryin’ to tell you is that, whileIwas closin’ up the whale oil house on Baker Island”—Tim caught the slight scowl she sent in Frankie’s direction and sensed something between the lines—“a brick came loose. Behind it was this ... envelope.” She reached into her jacket and pulled out an old, beat-up brown envelope, held together with twine or string.
Tim’s eyebrows lifted. “What’s in it?”
“A newspaper clippin’ about a shipwreck near Baker Island, and some papers.” Scout paused.
Frankie was thrumming with excitement. “Tellhim, Scout.”
“There seems to be a note of confession from the lighthouse keeper.”
