She turns to face him. “Mr. Hollister.”
“Nash,” he says, offering his hand. “Hope the flight wasn't too rough.”
“It was fine, thank you.” She shakes his hand briefly.
Nash heads for the coffee pot, clearly in a good mood. “Great. Been looking forward to this. Don't often get to support real research in the basin. Most of our winter clients are trophy hunters.”
The words hang in the air like a lit fuse.
Dr. Thorne goes still. “Trophy hunters?”
Nash pours coffee, missing the warning signs. “That's right. We run one of the best hunting guide services in the region. Moose, caribou, bear. We have high success rates and access to remote territory.” He turns back with professional pride. “We also do photography trips, research support, whatever people need to access the backcountry.”
“I see.” Her voice has gone flat. “The university booked me with a hunting operation.”
Now Nash picks up on the tension. His confidence wavers as he looks between Dr. Thorne's rigid posture and my neutral expression.
“Problem?” he asks.
Dr. Thorne sets her coffee down like she's handling explosives. “Mr. Hollister, I study wildlife conservation and human impact on caribou migration. The university told me you provided 'wilderness logistics.' They didn't mention your main business is killing the animals I'm trying to protect.”
Nash's jaw tightens. His easy manner disappears. “My business is legal and ethical, Doctor. We follow all regulations and fund conservation through license fees. We also provide the only winter access to places like Black Creek basin.”
“Access for what? Researchers or hunters looking for trophies?”
“Both,” Nash says coolly, leaning against the mantel. “Like it or not, hunting is part of wildlife management in Alaska. And my operation pays for the vehicles and equipment you need to get your research done.”
Mags squeezes my hand. She's enjoying this more than she should. I have to admit, watching Nash and this scientist square off is entertaining.
Dr. Thorne looks trapped but angry. Winter doesn't offer many options for remote research access, and she knows it.
“My research requires minimal ecosystem disturbance,” she says stiffly. “Your hunting activities won't interfere?”
“My activities follow legal seasons and permitted areas,” Nash replies. “They also pay for the vehicle sitting outside, ready to haul your equipment through ten miles of snow in subzero weather. Want to discuss payload capacity?”
Long pause. Dr. Thorne stares at Nash, clearly fighting with herself. Nash stares back, his reputationon the line.
Finally, she nods curtly. “Fine. Let's plan this expedition, Mr. Hollister. Daylight's limited.”
“Excellent,” Nash says, though his smile has an edge. “Let's talk logistics.”
They head back outside into the cold, already sounding more like they're negotiating a ceasefire than planning a research trip.
Mags picks up her pencil. “She seems friendly.”
I pull her closer, kissing her temple. “Friendly as a cornered wolverine with opinions about everything.”
Mags laughs. “Think Nash met his match?”
“Maybe.” I watch them through the window, examining Nash's equipment while clearly still arguing. “Nash told me something else. She's not after just any caribou. She's specifically tracking one bull the university calls 'Waldo.'”
Mags looks up. “Waldo?”
“Apparently, he's famous for giving researchers the slip. Been doing it for years, always in the worst possible terrain. Reid says Dr. Thorne's been trying to collar him for three years.”
Mags raises her eyebrows. “Three years?”
“Smart caribou. Makes a game of leading scientists on wild chases through impossible country, then vanishing when they think they've got him cornered.”
