Page 13 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
I can't take the risk. I have to keep my eye on her throughout her stay, make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. Actually, thinking about it, climbing a twenty-meter-high walkway in the middle of a particularly vicious thunderstormisstupid. So let me rephrase myself and say I'll make sure she doesn’t do anythingelsestupid. Meantime, I want to check out the bag too.
I take the backpack back to my chainsaw shed, shut the door, throw the bolt, and drop it on the bench. Time to have a look inside.
I drop the bag on the bench and unzip it.
Side pockets first. I pull out a crumpled flyer:Kill Climate Change — Stand Against Logging Now. Big block letters, dramatic photos of tree clearance, and a website URL splashed across the bottom. Classic propaganda, staged for maximum outrage. Well, that confirms her intentions if it wasn’t already obvious from the banner I found wrapped around her yesterday.
Next comes a cell phone. It powers on, but it’s locked, and the battery’s nearly dead. Not that it matters—there’s no signal with the towers down.
A dirty, crumpled receipt from a hotel in Portland turns up next. SleepEZ, it says. I’ve never heard of it, but judging from the cheap room rate, I doubt it’s much. The date’s about a week ago. That lines up with those wire cutters, based on the rust, but not with our guest. Did she come out here once already, leave, and then come back again?
Digging deeper, I find a second invoice for the same hotel. This one’s clean and fresh, dated the night before last. Okay… that at least explains her most recent movements. But then whatwas the deal with that earlier stay? Two trips, two receipts, two timelines that don’t quite fit. Doesn’t sit right with me.
Time for the main compartment. Inside: a phone charger, a cotton hoodie, a couple of changes of underwear, tampons, a half-finished twenty-eight-day–day pack of Apri birth control pills, a half-eaten bag of trail mix, a nearly empty water bottle, and a travel pack of tissues. Pretty standard for a young woman on the move.
Then I notice a small hidden zipper pocket sewn into the lining, the kind meant to keep pickpockets out. That’s where people stash the things they don’t want found.
Inside is a slim canvas wallet. Finally, something useful.
There’s cash: a few tens and twenties, even a crisp fifty. Several high-end credit cards, too—an Amex Platinum and a Chase Sapphire Reserve. Not the kind of plastic ordinary folks carry. These are the cards rich people use, people who don’t need to check their balance before swiping.
The name on them: Laura Wilder.
The driver’s license tucked behind them says the same. Date of birth 02/03/2001. That makes her twenty-four.
But what really catches my eye is the little gold-colored metal tag riveted inside the wallet:
Property of Luna Wildchild. $100 Reward for Finding.
It even lists a phone number.
I smirk, doubting she’ll be in much of a hurry to hand me a hundred bucks for returning her own stuff.
Then there are those wire cutters I'd found separately on the ground nearby. I take them out of my pocket and examine them once more. Just a normal pair of heavy-duty wire cutters that look the same as any other. They also look like they've hardly been used since purchase, with no damage on them at all or signs of any wear and tear aside from a small and recent appearance of rust. Nothing that might have come either fromconstant handling, or from lying around in a man's drawer or a toolbag. I'll keep the wire cutters for now and not mention them. See what happens.
Right now, what I know is this: she’s not just some pink-haired tree-hugger. She’s Laura Wilder. And Laura Wilder doesn’t sound like someone who grew up scraping by. She sounds like someone with money, means, and connections.
Which begs the real question—what the hell is shereallydoing here? And why does it feel like she didn’t just stumble onto our land, but was sent here to make trouble?
Yes, I'll hang on to those wire cutters for now. No need to mention them… yet.
CHAPTER 6
Luna
Oh sweet Jesus… what have I got myself into?
I can’t walk because of my ankle, and I can barely hold anything because of my wrist. My backpack is gone—which means my wallet and phone are gone too—and I’m miles from civilization, stuck in some goddamned dormitory with a bunch of chainsaw-wielding Neanderthals and their oversized pet mammoth.
Even the mammoth seems to hate me. It’s sprawled across the bed—my bed—right now, its huge yellow eyes fixed on me like it’s plotting my demise. I tried shooing it away earlier, and I swear the fucking thing laughed at me. Rolled its eyes, too. Well… maybe it was a yawn, but it sounded like a laugh. Either way, it didn’t move, so I guess I’m stuck with it.
It takes me thirty minutes to get dressed, and I only screamed twice. Well, fine—yelped. But I wanted to scream. The pain’s no joke. I tried to keep quiet, though, in case my Adonis came back. What was his name again? Oh, right, Toby. Nice name. Wonderful muscles. That grin. And those eyes… a girl could get lost in eyes that blue. Maybe just one tiny scream, loud enough to bring him running back?
No, Luna! You’re here to screw with their logging business, not to screw them.
…But couldn’t I do both?
What’s the harm, really? It’s not like I’m marrying the guy. He seems genuinely nice—charming, considerate, and, Jesus, ridiculously sexy. At this rate, I’m going to need another shower; my panties are practically soaked again, and I only just put them on. Damn it.
