VERMONT FISH AND WILDLIFE Game Warden Troy Warner hated national holidays. Holidays brought the most uninformed and inexperienced nature lovers to the southern Green Mountains. If the term nature lovers could really be applied to city people whose idea of a hike was stumbling inebriated through the woods high on hot dogs and beer in the hope of finding a moose or a bear to pose with them for a quick selfie before cannonballing naked into Stratton Pond.
The long Fourth of July weekend brought out the most determined of these amateurs, along with the smattering of seasoned hikers and birders willing to fight the hordes of tourists and deerflies to climb to the top of the fire tower on Stratton Mountain, where they could gaze east out on the lovely Green Mountains that gave Vermont its name—and the White Mountains to the northeast, the Berkshires to the south, and the Adirondacks to the west.
So when the dispatcher Delphine Dupree called him about an abandoned baby, Troy was intrigued as well as concerned. He expected the lost hikers (usually found), the snakebites (usually nonlethal), the poachers (usually long gone), but a baby … well, that was a first.
“The hiker who called it in says the child seems okay,” she said. “But who leaves a baby alone in the wilderness?”
“Sounds like a story out of the Old Testament,” said Troy.
“Moses or Abraham?” Delphine was a good French Catholic who sang in the choir at Our Lady of the Lake in Northshire at the ten o’clock Mass every Sunday.
“Either way it worries me. We can’t get a helicopter or a truck in there,” said Troy.
“The hiker found her off-trail,” Delphine told him. “So she’s carrying her down to the trail to meet you. Just as well. There’s a big pileup on Route 313 down by Arlington, overturned semi, lots of folks injured. Most everyone who’s available has gone down there. That plus all the holiday nonsense means you’re on your own.”
“I’m on it.”
“The sooner we get her to a hospital, the better.”
“Roger that.” Troy signed off and jogged back some fifty feet along the shoreline of Branch Pond, where an enthusiastic troupe of ten-year-old Boy Scouts hankering for a fishing badge waited for him. He’d been lecturing them on the brightly colored brook trout that made the lake their home.
But the dozen ten-year-olds were so busy playing with Susie Bear that they barely registered his return. The big black shaggy dog was leaping in and out of the lake, splashing the Scouts. She was a Newfoundland retriever mix he’d adopted a couple of years ago, and named for the character in John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire.
One hundred pounds of muscle and shiny obsidian fur punctuated by a thick pink mottled tongue that hung out of the side of her mouth like the holster on a cowboy’s thigh. Everybody loved her. Which was good for Troy, who relied on his sidekick for comic relief as well as search and rescue. An important part of his job—the most important part, Captain Thrasher always said—was communication, and Troy was not a big talker. When he struggled to find the right words, Susie Bear stepped in and won over the crowd every time.
“Sorry, guys.” He whistled for the dog. “We’ve got to go.”
The Newfie mutt did her canine version of the twist, and the water flew from her fur, spraying the laughing boys. She bounded over and slid to a stop right at Troy’s side, big wet paws slopping the tips of his boots. Together they hustled back along the trail to the government-issued dark green Ford F-150 truck, which served as his mobile office as well as his transportation. The front seat held his radio system and citation book; the backseat was loaded with food, water, and energy drinks, a 12-gauge shotgun, a semiautomatic patrol rifle, a Smith & Wesson M&P40 semiautomatic pistol, pepper spray, handcuffs, dart weapons, hunter orange, night-vision goggles, extra batteries, towels, and all kinds of paperwork, from extra licenses and lifetime-license applications to field-interview forms and hunting regulations. All in containers or neatly secured in order to leave enough room for Susie Bear, who commanded most of the space.
He jerked the door open for her. There was nothing she liked more than a ride in a truck, except maybe a dip in a lake. And she’d already had that this morning. The big lady hurtled her thick body into the backseat, damp fur soaking the thick Orvis seat cover that supposedly protected the interior of the truck.
Nothing like the smell of wet dog, thought Troy as they bumped along on the rough logging road that ran through the national forest, bordering the Lye Brook Wilderness. There were no roads inside the wilderness, so he parked at the trailhead. They got out, and he added the deluxe first-aid kit and an extra blanket to his pack and pulled it onto his back, then stocked Susie Bear’s pack with more water and slipped it onto the dog.
Troy locked the truck and shouldered his rifle. “Let’s go get that baby.”
* * *
HALF AN HOUR of huffing up the mountain later, Troy sighted a huddle of living creatures up the trail. He pulled out his binoculars for a closer look, and zeroed in on an attractive young woman, a sleeping baby, and a good-looking Belgian shepherd.
“Heel,” he said to Susie Bear, and jogged up to them, stopping about ten feet away on account of the dog.
The woman had seen him coming, and put the baby in a carrier and slung it onto her back. She was about five feet eight inches, but she seemed taller, thanks to a lean build and an erect carriage that spelled military in his book. Her chin-length hair was as red as a burning bush in October, framing a freckled, finely boned face that looked upon him with a mixture of relief and reserve. She did not smile.
“Stay,” she said to the Malinois at her side, and walked over to Troy.
“Mercy Carr. I’ve got ID in my Jeep down by the trailhead.” She held out a long-fingered hand, and he shook it. A firm and forceful handshake. Definitely military.
“Troy Warner, state game warden,” he said. “This is Susie Bear.” The dog wagged her tail in welcome, and the woman smiled. Troy got the feeling that she liked dogs far more than people.
She stared at him.
“‘We need a good, smart bear,’” she quoted from the John Irving novel, so softly he almost didn’t hear her. But loud enough so that he’d know she got the reference.
Troy smiled. She was a genuine New Englander. Who looked vaguely familiar to him, although he could not place her at the moment. But it would come to him.
“That’s Elvis.” She tossed her head over her shoulder in the direction of her dog. “And this is Baby Doe. She’s taking a nap.” Her voice held the warning of all females poised to protect sleeping children.
Mercy Carr turned her broad-shouldered back to him so he could see the baby for himself. He lifted the blanket and peeked at the dozing child, who looked content enough despite the fact that she’d been abandoned in the woods like some cursed child in a fairy tale.
“She’s got some deerfly bites that need attending to, and she’s probably dehydrated. I did give her a bottle and changed her diaper.”
“Let me get her to the hospital,” said Troy.
“You’re alone?” She looked at him with blue eyes bright with disapproval.
“I was nearest to the scene,” he said evenly. What he didn’t say was that he covered three hundred square miles of Vermont woods on his own as a matter of course. Not to mention that most of Vermont’s law enforcement was down in Bennington this holiday week. The Senator was in town with his family, and would be the guest of honor at the Fourth of July extravaganza at the Bennington Battle Monument on Sunday. Security was even tighter than usual. Add in that multivehicle collision Delphine had told him about, and they’d be lucky to get any help with babies or anything else until the holiday weekend had come and gone.
“We’re coming with you.”
“That won’t be necessary, Ms. Carr.”
“Call me Mercy.”
“Troy.”
Her blue eyes softened. “We found her, Troy, and we’ll see it through.”
Troy wondered if she were speaking in the royal we, and then realized she was talking about herself and her dog. He nearly grinned, as he was often guilty of the same thing. It drove Captain Thrasher crazy.
“Besides,” she said, “you’ll need to take my statement and come back to check out the scene. We can show you where we found her.”
Military police, he thought. “It may take a while.”
“Understood.”
He didn’t see as he had much choice. The first priority was the baby. Finding whoever left her alone was secondary. But Troy would find them.
“Is Elvis okay with other dogs?”
“Is Susie Bear?”
She was a prickly one, as his mother would say—and had said more than once about his estranged wife.
“My truck’s down at the trailhead, too.” He waved her ahead with his arm. “After you.”
“Come,” she said to Elvis.
Troy stood there with the Newfie mutt at his side and watched the comely trio of woman, baby, and dog waltz by them single file down the narrow trail.
Good-looking shepherd, Troy thought again, as he and Susie Bear took up the rear.
* * *
THEY MADE GOOD time. Mercy Carr was tough and fast and used to a quick march. Troy was impressed. She reminded him of Sarah Thibodeau, a resourceful and resilient game warden assigned to the northern district known for her dogged pursuit of poachers. Only Mercy was cuter, in a girl-next-door kind of way.
When the trail widened enough to allow him to step up beside her, he quickened his gait and then matched hers, stride for stride. She turned and smiled at him for the first time—and her pretty pale face brightened into a fine beauty.
Again he was struck by the feeling that he knew her, and again he could not place her. His confusion must have registered on his face, because she laughed.
“You don’t remember me,” she said.