Page 3 of Love for Thea

“The snowmelt is higher this year, Mr. Adams,” she said in measured tones. “But the water in the north bend is murky. Based on observations, the runoff from the old quarry could be altering the pH levels. It might be best to run a test rather than assume. They say frogs are good indicators, and since they’re not nesting where they usually do, something is definitely off.”

Ronald watched Thea quietly, his eyes softened with respect and gentle compassion. He knew she was different from his own children. As the only child of older parents, Thea had grown up surrounded more by books and ideas than the usual chaos of childhood friendships. Carole had been her only steady friend. Her words came carefully measured, shaped by a mind that sought certainty in data rather than small talk. He nodded slowly. “Thank you, Thea. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Benji, where does butter come from?” Zara asked, tugging his sleeve. She glanced down at the pale, creamy butter melting slowly on her biscuit, poking at it thoughtfully with her finger.

Wyatt sat next to Ben, shifting slightly as he tried to sound as grown-up as the twins but stumbled over his words. “Cows, but it doesn’t grow in them, Zara. It’s, um, like science…the ranch provides the milk, and then we—uh—enzymatic something with the fats to make butter.”

Mace scoffed. “Enzymatic something? What are you even talking about, Wyatt?”

Logan laughed. “Sounds like you swallowed a dictionary.”

Marjorie’s voice cut through sharply. “Enough. Mace, Logan.”

Thea spoke softly, surprising everyone. “He means the milk’s cream is churned to separate the fat and make butter. It’s a chemical process, but not really enzymatic.”

Wyatt gave a relieved smile. “Yeah, that.”

Lila scoffed. “It’s just butter, Wyatt. And the yellow would look great on a canvas.”

Ben chuckled and leaned down to Zara. “The cows give the milk, and Ma makes the butter. The ranch provides the food, Zara, just like Wyatt said. In a big way.”

Zara poked thoughtfully at the butter on her biscuit as Ronald’s voice cut through the bustle. “Alright, everyone,” he said, lowering his head slightly. “Let’s say grace.”

Twenty-two hands clasped, some fingers still pausing mid-air, others resting briefly on plates. A rare silence settled over the noisy kitchen. As soon as the murmured “Amen” faded, the clatter and chatter rose again.

“Hey, Benji,” Sophia piped up, her eyes bright. “Did you really save that bird?”

Ben smiled, catching Thea’s eye. She was no longer pressing her wrist; instead, she gave him a small, approving nod. “Yeah, Smarty-Pants. He’s safe.”

Ben watched his family, a familiar warmth spreading through him. He didn’t know then that the hardest battles wouldn’t be across the ocean. He didn’t know that fourteen years later, the quiet girl with the fierce eyes wouldn’t be counting frogs anymore. She’d be documenting a dying mountain, and she’d be the one he would have to save even as she saved them

ONE

THEA

The old forestry cabin smelled of damp earth, fresh pine needles, and the faint, sweet promise of budding wildflowers. For Dr. Thea Wynn, it was the scent of home. Not the home she’d grown up in as an only child, which was quiet, orderly, and meticulously maintained, but a different kind of home, one chosen with deliberate intention. Nestled just beyond the western boundary of Yellowstone National Park, the cabin was a gift, a rare permission granted by an understanding forest service ranger who saw the value in her work.

She sat on the small, creaking porch, her laptop balanced precariously on a weathered wooden crate that served as her makeshift desk. Beside it sat a battered tin mug of black coffee. The morning sun, already gaining strength, filtered through the towering lodgepole pines, painting bright patches on the forest floor, where tender green shoots pushed through the last vestiges of winter’s mulch. A gentle breeze rustled the new leaves, singing a low, consistent melody that was her preferred soundtrack. The air thrummed with renewed life, including the insistent chirping of returning migratory birds, the distant gurgle of a snowmelt-swollen creek, and the rhythmic tap of her fingers on the keyboard.

Thea typed, her gaze often lifting from the screen to sweep across the vista before her. Her notes flowed as a testament to months of dedicated observation, now focusing on the vibrant awakening of the season.

May 3rd. Day 134 in the field. Herd 4C tracking continues. Post-winter population assessments underway. First elk calves of the season observed in the lower meadows; strong and healthy. The willow and aspen stands are now displaying vigorous new growth after this year’s heavy freeze. Predator impact: Fresh tracks indicate Pack 7’s den site is active. Anomaly noted: Herd 4C is inexplicably avoiding the C5 grid. GPS collar data shows a hard perimeter.

She paused, a frown creasing her forehead as she studied the data. Area C5 had become a ghost zone for the elk. No apex predators were apparent in that sector, yet the herd would not venture near it. What could be causing this? She resolved to hike in tomorrow to test soil and water sources; something was very wrong.

Her thoughts were interrupted as goosebumps formed on her arms. A low, sub-audible hum vibrated through the floorboards of the porch, traveling up through her boots. A micro-tremor. It lasted only a second and could easily be dismissed as a heavy truck on a distant highway, except there were no highways for miles. The sensation unnerved her, pulling her from the rhythm of the wilderness.

As she resumed typing, Thea felt a surge of urgency. The anxious thoughts that had been swirling in her mind coalesced into a clear focus. Acoustic disturbances were increasing, water contamination was evident in local streams, and the vegetation was showing unprecedented stress. These factors indicated an ecological balance teetering on a knife’s edge. This research had to capture the interplay between species and environment before it was irrevocably altered.

She paused, staring at her screen. A flicker caught her attention in her peripheral vision, a glint of sunlight reflecting off something metallic deep in the treeline. She sat perfectly still, her heart hammering against her ribs as she scanned the area again, moving only her eyes while she kept her face trained toward her screen.

There. Another glint. And a third, partially obscured by a cluster of lodgepole pines.

Indeed, there were multiple signs she had missed before: hidden, high-end cameras planted among the trees, all angled toward her porch.

“They’re watching,” she whispered to herself.

The realization brought a cold, sharp clarity. She didn’t wait to see if a lens was zooming in. Thea stood, her movements controlled but swift, and retreated into the cabin. She slid the heavy deadbolt into place and moved to the windows, drawing the moth-eaten curtains until the porch was a memory and the cabin was plunged into a protective twilight.