The almost widow, p.1
The Almost Widow, page 1
Dedication
For the writers I mentor.
You teach me every day.
Epigraph
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
—C.S. LEWIS, A GRIEF OBSERVED
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Friday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Saturday
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Sunday
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Monday
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Tuesday
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Wednesday
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Thursday
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Friday
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Spring
Chapter 40
Thanks
About the Author
Also by Gail Anderson-Dargatz
Copyright
About the Publisher
Friday
1
Someone was watching me. I could feel it. That tingle you get at the back of your neck, between the shoulder blades. I scanned the dim, misty forest behind me: the skunk cabbage along Hunter’s Creek; the western hemlock strewn with witch’s hair; the moss-covered and impossibly large trunks of the towering red cedars; the ferns sheltering the mossy forest floor at their roots. I saw no one, though the unsettling feeling persisted. Someone was watching me.
But then, there was always someone watching within this temperate rainforest, a chickadee, a crow, a cougar, a black bear—or a grizzly. I put a hand to the bear spray in the belt holster at my hip. A huge cinnamon-coloured grizzly, a sow, had stalked my husband, Ben, through this forest earlier in the fall, though on the far shore of the lake, likely the same bear that had mauled a young woman to death there the previous summer. Ben and Jackson had never been able to catch the animal. The cinnamon grizzly, with a taste for hunting humans, was still out there. I shook off the thought as I turned back to the giant stump I’d just discovered and snapped a few photos of it with my phone, to share on social media when I caught some bars. There was no cell reception out here.
This stump of an old-growth red cedar was inflicted with heart rot as so many of the elderly trees were. Aside from the mound of waste branches left behind, most of the wood of the felled tree had been bucked into rounds and split into blocks small enough to be hauled away. The tree had survived hundreds of years, storms and fires, and then a century more of logging within this rare inland rainforest. It had been a giant, an ancient, an old soul, alive in a way my puny human mind would never fully comprehend. And now, senselessly, it was dead, only so some homeowner could slap cedar shakes on their house or keep the weeds at bay in their garden with cedar mulch.
Shit.
I knelt in front of the stump and wrapped my arms around it as far as they would go. Which wasn’t far. The stump was massive. To anyone watching, I would have seemed like a child in comparison. The cut wood pressed against my cheek felt like the bristle of Ben’s freshly trimmed beard as I lay in his arms, prickly, comforting, familiar. Home.
But then I again felt eyes on me, as I had so many times in these woods. It might have been a deer or even that grizzly, but no, I knew it wasn’t. It was the bushman. I stood, scanning the shadows in the thick, lush understory beneath the hemlock and cedars. “Who’s there?” I yelled. “I know you’re there. I know you’ve been watching me.” Not just this day, but at other times too. “Show yourself!”
And then, only metres from me, a thread of mist swirled away, revealing a dark-green shadow of a man, before he backed up silently on the mossy forest floor, disappearing into the gloom. But I knew he was still watching me.
“What do you want?” I shouted after him. In response, there was only another stirring in the mist, the shift of branches and leaves, as the wind, rippling through the forest, brought with it the chill of snow, heralding the turn of the season into winter.
2
There was a crack, like a twig broken underfoot, and I turned to squint down the overgrown tree poacher’s trail that I had followed to find this stump. Overhead, clouds skittered too fast, nervously jittering around the mountain peaks that loomed over the valley. Someone, or something, was out there, blocking the way to the logging road, even as a man lurked in the forest behind me. I looked back and forth in each direction of the trail as I pulled the bear spray from my holster, removed the safety clip and took a step toward the road, my truck, safety, holding the canister in front of me, my gloved hand out to guard my face against the broad-leafed, spiny and aptly named devil’s club that stood on guard throughout the forest. Another, louder crack, and I stopped, held my breath.
And then Ben appeared, striding around the corner of the roughed-in trail. I let out my breath as I slid the safety clip back on the bear spray and tucked the canister back in the holster. My husband wore his uniform, black pants and jacket, projecting an official persona so different from the easy, relaxed man he was at home. Even so, his bearded face was, as always, kind and welcoming, an advantage in his role as public educator, as he informed the people he met in the bush about the many laws and regulations governing the wilderness and its resources. But that friendly face was also a disadvantage, I imagined, when trying to enforce the same laws on those determined to break them.
“Oh my god, Ben,” I said as he reached me. “You scared me. How long have you been here?” Did he see me hugging the stump?
“I only just arrived.” Seeing the fear on my face, I imagine, he squeezed my hand. “Hey, what’s going on?”
I lifted my chin in the opposite direction, to where I had seen the figure in the mist. “The Green Man was here.”
The Green Man. The bushman who had haunted this forest over the past year, stealing from summer cabins and homes around the lake. Ben’s buddy Jackson, who was a wilderness guide and had seen the bushman on occasion, had given him the name because he wore green camouflage and the green face paint soldiers use, to blend into the forest foliage, to hide.
The Green Man was a squatter and a thief, and very likely suffering from some kind of psychiatric disorder. He had escaped RCMP searches over the last year since cabin owners started reporting his thefts and, on rare occasions, saw him fleeing from their properties. Ben had seen him a couple of times through the screen on his smart controller while flying his drone on patrol. In the images the drone captured, the Green Man was bearded and shaggy-haired, and seen from above and at a distance, resembled a sasquatch, a Bigfoot, loping through the bush.
“Are you sure it was the bushman and not one of the tree poachers?” Ben asked.
“I’m sure.”
I tucked my gloves in my pocket and nodded sideways at the giant stump. The rusty red of the cedar was that much more vibrant in the rain. “But you see what Owen’s done now?”
I felt the sting of tears and turned to the steep hills shrouded in cloud, trying to hide my emotions, embarrassed at how keenly I felt the loss of this old-growth tree, even if Ben would never judge me for it. My father certainly would have, and though he’d died when I was in my teens, his voice still echoed in my head. Don’t be a flake.
Ben wrapped his arms around me from behind and kissed the top of my head in that way that always made me feel safe. He was so tall. Six foot four, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. He smelled of fresh air, this forest. “I’m so sorry, Piper, about the tree,” he said.
Rain fell harder still, thumping against our waterproof jackets, making a sound like drumming fingers. Rain was a frequent companion here, and when winter hit suddenly, as it almost always did, the clouds dumped piles and piles of wet snow. The snowline was already low on the steep mountain slopes, and we were due for that first winter snowfall in the valley. Overdue. It seemed winter arrived later and later every year. I felt a chill run through me and pulled away from Ben to zip up my jacket, adjusting the orange safety vest I wore to avoid being shot, by mistake, by those out here for the November deer hunt.
“You followed me again?” I asked.
“I found your note on the fridge.”
Always leave a travel plan, Ben had taught me. So that morning before I left the house, I had hastily scrawled my plans, to spend the day up here at Hunter’s Creek, on an oversized sticky note. The area was part of the swath around this end of the lake that we hoped to turn into a park, for recreation use and to preserve the giant trees.
“We discussed this,” Ben said. “It’s hunting season. You shouldn’t be out here alone. You shouldn’t be out here period. And you know hunters and poachers aren’t the only danger you’re facing in this forest.”
“I know, I know.” I sho ok both hands by my ears in mock fear. “Coyotes and cougars and bears, oh my!” Something I said when he warned me of the many hazards I could encounter in this wilderness. But he was right. There was no end to the dangers I might face out here. Bears had become more aggressive in recent years as humans encroached on their territory. The cinnamon grizzly had mauled and killed that young woman, Andrea Peterson, and had taken several swipes at her husband, Elijah, when they were honeymooning on the far shore, searching, Ben had told me, for Valentine’s legendary lost cave. (Valentine was a prospector who stumbled across a cave in the area that he described as “glorious,” but died of a heart attack before telling anyone where it was, spawning searches that continued to this day.)
“I carry bear spray and a bear banger,” I said. To scare bears away should they get too close.
“And then there’s the Green Man,” Ben added, his eyes scanning the dark maw of the forest where I had seen the ghostly figure.
Yeah, there’s that, I thought. The bushman had scared the crap out of me not just today, but a few other times. Still. “He’s been out here for more than a year now,” I said. “If he wanted to hurt me, he would have.”
“But now we know he’s armed.”
The Green Man had recently stolen a rifle from a truck belonging to one of the local loggers when the guy was out cutting up firewood, with a permit, on Crown land. Or at least the logger assumed it was the bushman. The lock on the guy’s truck box had been busted, and the rifle had disappeared, along with an emergency kit, a chainsaw and the guy’s lunch. Salami on rye, Ben had said.
I shook my head to dismiss my own fears as much as Ben’s. “The bushman likely took the gun to poach deer, to feed himself, to protect himself. I’m sure he has no intention of using it on me, or anyone else.”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything about him.”
“I’m sure he’s harmless,” I said. “Sometimes I even get the feeling he’s watching over me.” In a creepy sort of way.
Ben put his hands on his hips. “Yes, exactly. He watches. Ask yourself why he’s taking such an interest in you. A woman out here alone.” He pushed my wet bangs out of my eyes. “A beautiful woman.”
I felt my cheeks heat up. Hardly, I thought. Carrot top, Ben called me, both for the colour of my hair and how my cropped cut often stood straight up, as I’m sure it did now.
“I’m not going to hide in our house,” I said. “I moved here for this wilderness.”
Ben dropped his hand and grinned. “Thanks a lot.”
I smiled in return. “You know what I mean.” We both lived for the outdoors. When we weren’t working in it, we were in our kayaks, or bouldering—rock climbing—on the far shore, or hiking the wildlife trails, or, in winter, backcountry skiing with Jackson and others. This landscape, and all it offered, was one of the things that had brought Ben and me together, after Jackson introduced us.
I stood a little straighter. “I can handle myself out here. Besides, if I hadn’t searched this part of the forest for poaching today, I wouldn’t have found this tree.”
My husband pressed his lips together. Finally, he spit it out. “I don’t want you facing these tree poachers alone, should you come across them. When it comes to defending the environment, you sometimes get—”
I finished the sentence for him. “Confrontational. I know.” I pushed a hand through my damp hair, feeling the sting of the remark. It was something he had complained about before. But I never meant to raise a stink. Quite the opposite. I hated conflict. Still, I also felt compelled to speak out against an injustice. It wasn’t out of some moral or religious code, to do the honourable or decent thing. The drive was hard-wired into me, a compulsion. I couldn’t stop myself from protesting. Even my father’s fist hadn’t stopped me.
“Hey, hey,” Ben said, seeing the hurt in my face. “You know that’s one of the many things I love about you, right?”
“That I’m pissy?”
“That you’re passionate. You dare to stand up for what’s right when others don’t.” He took my hand. “At least promise me you won’t venture this far into the bush alone until hunting season is over, and not until the bushman has been caught, and emotions over this park proposal cool. Maybe limit your longer hikes to weekends when Noah or I can go with you.”
I let go of his hand. “I’m a grown woman, Ben. You know I love Noah. I’ll spend all the time I can with him. But he’s seventeen. Are you really saying you expect him to protect me?”
“He’s already six foot two. Whoever is making those threats toward you over the park proposal will think twice about approaching him.”
“But not me?” I grinned. We both knew I was anything but intimidating. I’m petite, only five foot two, and wiry from a lifetime of active living. With my pixie cut, I know I look boyish.
“My concern is not a reflection on you,” Ben said. He put a hand to his black vest. “When I come out here, I wear body armour, for good reason. I’m vulnerable, and I know it.” His official uniform included this soft body armour, but no gun, and not even a baton. “I start to sweat when I’m about to ticket somebody for fishing without a licence. Many of the guys I run into are carrying guns and knives, and a few of them are either drunk or battling demons.” Dealing with mental illness, he meant. “Piss off the wrong one and—” He had only his defensive and conflict-avoidance training to fall back on.
I laughed a little, to get him to stop. He was freaking me out. I already entertained these thoughts when he was on patrol. “Okay, okay. I’ll be more careful.” I took his big hand again, almost twice the size of my own. “I worry too, when you go out alone.”
He squeezed my hand in response. “I know.”
I didn’t just worry. Each time he went into the wilderness alone, the same thought entered my mind: This could be it. This might be the last time I see him alive. Such bleak, dark thoughts. The kind of anxieties that I had struggled to contain for most of my life. But then, if I had these fears about Ben as he went into the wild alone, could I really fault him for worrying about me too?
I directed his attention back to the giant stump, to change the subject. “What are we going to do about this?”
“I’m not sure there is anything I can do. The tree was cut down and bucked some time ago, maybe in the summer. The wood is long gone. And I have no witnesses. The poachers are likely felling, bucking and trucking the wood out at night. In any case, who is going to see them on these back roads even during the day?” He walked a circle around the stump, kicking the wet grass and ferns in search of broken saw blades or tools the poachers might have left behind. “It appears they were careful not to leave anything that might identify them. But I will do a thorough search.”
“So unless you literally catch the poacher in the act—”
“Then it’s very hard to identify the thief or make charges stick, yes.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “I know it’s frustrating, especially after all the work you and Jackson have done to make the park a reality, but tracking down tree poachers takes time and—”
“And in the meantime, we lose more of these old-growth trees. Ben, there are so few of them left.” I sank to the stump. “Dammit.”
Ben let his arms drop to his sides as if he too felt helpless. “I’m so sorry, Piper.”
I lay a hand on the fragrant wood beside me. So many rings, hundreds of them. The tree could be six hundred, seven hundred years old, maybe more, but, although ancient to humans, it was cut down in middle age. It might have lived to be two thousand years old, like some of the trees found in what was left of this once vast inland rainforest. The strong, spicy scent of cedar rose up from the stump, bringing to mind the aftershave my father used to wear in an attempt to cover the stink of whiskey.
“You know it was Owen,” I said.
“There are plenty of men and women in the region with the skills to do this. Everyone in town, in fact.” Most of them hard-drinking, hard-smoking, hard-working sorts—that is, until the small independent mill had closed, putting not just the mill workers but many of the local loggers out of work, Owen among them. “Two men with chainsaws and pickup trucks could have hauled this cedar away in no time.”
“Owen has the equipment and the crew,” I said. He would have roped his buddy Nelson into tree poaching, and likely his son, Tucker, too. Though I wouldn’t fault Tucker for going along with him. Owen bullied the kid, kept him pressed under his heavy thumb. Tucker would have little choice.
