Page 4 of Love for Thea

She wasn’t paranoid; she was a researcher who had just realized she was the subject of an unsanctioned study.

She set the laptop on the kitchen table, positioning herself where she could see both the front door and the rear pantry window. Her right hand fluttered to her left wrist, pressing against the pulse point as if to manually override the adrenaline spike. Then, she reached for the heavy canister of bear spray she kept by the door and set it on the table beside her laptop. Next, she pulled her “go bag” from the peg, a worn canvas rucksack she’d lived out of for years and checked the seal on her emergency satellite phone.

Only then did she open the laptop again.

The memory of the emails from the law firm representing Vanguard Energy crept back into her mind. They had been vague, filled with dense legal jargon about “proprietary land rights,” warning her to stay clear of Grid C5. She’d even replied to the last one with a link to her federal permit and a curt “See you in court.”

She hadn’t realized that for Vanguard, “court” wasn’t a building with a judge. It was the wilderness, and the rules of engagement had just changed.

She felt a renewed sense of urgency to record what she knew. If the connection held long enough, the data had to exist outside this cabin. She typed swiftly, capturing the GPS collar anomalies, the unusual avoidance of C5, and now, the presence of the surveillance team.

Before she could upload, the satellite connection icon on her screen blinked and flashed to an X. Zero bars.

A low, sub-audible hum vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up through her boots. A micro-tremor. It lasted only a second, but it was followed by a sharp crack in the distance.

She jerked her head up. That was not the scramble of a bear cub. This was heavier: the sound of a bipedal gait trying, and failing, to move silently through deadfall. Then the breeze shifted. Instead of pine and damp earth, it carried the acrid tang of chemical sulfur and diesel exhaust. Her stomach tightened. Diesel meant an engine. It meant an illegal intrusion.

Someone wasn’t just watching the elk. They were protecting whatever was happening under the ground.

Anxiety surged as she watched the satellite icon. Suddenly, it flashed again, rebooting with a single, fleeting bar of service.

Now.

She connected to her research database, her heart racing as the loading bar inched across the screen. This was her lifeline. As soon as the upload finished, she prepared a secure email to Carole. She needed to alert someone who understood the dire implications of what she was discovering.

She hit Send. The icon spun—once, twice—and then the connection dropped again, the screen blinking back to that familiar X.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips. The calm serenity she cherished was gone, replaced by the terrifying logic of the hunt. She stood, pulling her rucksack onto her shoulders and cinching the straps. If she was going to uncover the truth about C5, she couldn’t stay here like a bird in a cage.

As she looked toward the locked door, the mounting sense of urgency swelled in her chest. She wouldn’t wait for them to knock. Tomorrow, she would take action. Tomorrow, she would be ready.

TWO

GRIZZLY

The Wyoming wind, carrying the scent of pine and rich earth, hit Ben “Grizzly” Adams like a familiar embrace the moment he stepped out of the heavy-duty black SUV. Behind him, his SEAL teammates: Senior Chief “Picasso” Waverly, Michael “Falcon” Greene, Ryan “Reef” Carter, and Tristan “Hurricane” Wright, exchanged bewildered glances as they took in the vast expanse of the ranch land spread before them. They had known they were coming to Grizzly’s home, but the sheer scale of the sprawling two-thousand-acre property, with its rolling hills and views extending to the rugged foothills of the Rockies, was something they had not fully anticipated. The vehicle itself looked slightly out of place, its sleek, dark lines stark against the dusty, sun-baked landscape.

Today, the Adams family ranch was less a monument to industry and more a symphony of glorious pandemonium. A red pickup truck, caked in mud, was parked haphazardly near the barn, its radio blaring classic rock. From the main house, a patchwork of rough-hewn timber and stone, laughter and shouting spilled out, punctuated by the excited barks of several dogs. A large tent was being erected in the yard, balloons in various stages of inflation bobbing around, and the tantalizing smell of slow-roasted meat wafted from an outdoor grill. Tables were being set, chairs arranged, and a makeshift stage was being assembled by what looked like the combined efforts of half the extended family and a few bewildered neighbors.

“Welcome to the Adams Ranch,” Grizzly said, a broad, genuine smile splitting his usually stoic face. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air he’d missed, an air that tasted of home, family, and wild freedom.

Before the team could fully take in the scene, chaos converged. A golden retriever and a black-and-tan coonhound, clearly the ranch’s designated welcoming committee, alerted everyone to the new arrivals and bounded toward them, tails thumping like drumrolls. Their enthusiastic greetings were quickly followed by a flurry of human activity.

“Benji!” A high-pitched squeal preceded a whirlwind of red hair and denim. Carole, his younger sister and the oldest daughter in the family, a large-animal veterinarian whose clinic was located right on the ranch, launched herself at him, nearly knocking him off balance. “You’re finally here! Mom’s been pacing all morning!”

Before he could properly hug Carole back, a blur of movement from the house brought more family.

Ronald Adams emerged from the bustling house. He was a man cut from the same sturdy timber as the ranch itself, with a powerful, stocky build that Grizzly had inherited, though in a more towering form. Years of hard labor had etched his face and given his hands a formidable strength, as unyielding as his will. A wide grin, mirroring the rare, genuine smiles that transformed Grizzly’s usually stoic face, crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Ben! Good to see you, son,” Ronald boomed, pulling Grizzly into a firm embrace that would have crushed a smaller man. “Your mom’s been counting the minutes, pacing the floor for the last of her babies to finally show up.” He clapped Grizzly on the back before turning his gaze to the team, his grin widening. “And you brought company! Hope you boys are ready for a real family reunion. Kitchen’s already a madhouse, but don’t worry.” He winked. “If it gets too much, there’s always chores in the barn later. Plenty of fence needs mending for a break.” He gestured broadly towards the house. “Now, get inside, all of you. We have food!”

As the SEALs navigated the enthusiastic onslaught, they were introduced to a steady stream of Adams siblings. Mace and Logan, Grizzly’s identical twin brothers, emerged from behind the pickup, wiping grease from their hands.

“Thought you’d never make it, big brother,” Logan quipped, his eyes twinkling. “We almost had to send a search party.”

“Glad you made it safely, Ben,” Mace added, his gaze sweeping over the SEAL team with an almost professional assessment.

Next came Lila, an art student with paint smudges on her cheek, clutching a sketchpad filled with vibrant Yellowstone wildlife, her eyes constantly observing the unfolding chaos. She was followed by Sophie and Zara, the youngest siblings and nineteen-year-old twins, though absolutely nothing alike. Sophie was the family’s natural-born director, already orchestrating imaginary guests for the anniversary party with a confident, almost theatrical flair. Zara was a shy but watchful girl who offered a hesitant wave from the porch, half-hidden by a wooden beam. Each sibling carried a piece of the Adams spirit: fierce loyalty, boundless energy, and an undercurrent of good-natured rivalry.