I am not supposed to be here.

Somewhere out in the wide world, there is a different version of me. A girl who left Wyoming and didn't come back. A girl who never dropped out of law school, and who wasn't drowning in her mother's medical debt... who doesn't spend corporate hours helping rich assholes get richer by bulldozing whatever stands in the way of their bottom line. But here I am, pouring over zoning maps for the hundredth time, pretending I didn't completely sell myself out.

I like to think that Rhea Dawson wasn't completely without moral fiber, but, damn, saving the trees just doesn't pay the bills.

"Dawson!"

My boss's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. He pokes his head into my office, frowning. Or at least attempting to frown. He'd never admit to it, but we all knew there is way too much Botox in the man's face to allow for actual human expression.

"Yes, Mr. Hughes?" I ask.

"Change of plans. I need you at the town hall."

I blink, pushing the map aside. "For Crestline? In Moran? I thought Cassie was handling that one."

For three months, I've been throwing myself into the Morningstar project, piling on every extra task and bit of scutwork to keep myself looking too busy to join other cases. Pushing for the development of another luxury ski resort for the ultra-rich in Jackson Hole is gross, but it feels slightly less soulless than what Crestline Developers is trying to accomplish. That is, trying to seize the state-owned land near the Teton Wilderness to build ultra-modern versions of ranch-flavored McMansions for the discerning California billionaires who had missed out on buying into Yellowstone. Yeah. Nothing like destroying the last of the country's wilderness so that some asshole with too much money could cosplay at being cowboy.

I'd been successful in avoiding the Crestline project so far, but I should have expected it. You can only run for so long.

Hughs rolls his eyes as he drops a thick stack of files on my desk. "Cassie's kids are sick again or have a school play or whatever. I need your ear on the ground over there. Apparently there's some group of hippies—"

"—environmentalists—"

"—and hillbillies—"

"—local residents—"

"—complaining about wildlife disruption, ecological impact, loss of local history, blah, blah, blah," he says, waving a dismissive hand as if these things aren't completely valid concerns. "I need you there to help smooth things over with Crestline's PR team. Get an idea of what we're up against."

Smooth things over. Right. Because nothing says environmental diplomacy like sending a curated corporate PR team and an underpaid paralegal to charm a room full of righteously angry activists and salt of the earth locals. Not to mention that, while Hughes will swear that he'd sent some sort of supervision, I will one hundred percent be on my own.

"Sure," I say, forcing a smile. "When do I leave?"

"Fifteen minutes ago."

Hughes doesn't wait for a response before disappearing down the hall, barking orders at the interns and terrorizing the other paralegals.

I slump back into my chair.

Fuck.

There was a version of me who thought she'd save the world. A happy me. A me who followed her moral compass with all the fury and justice of a girl who didn't yet understand how the world worked.

That Rhea Dawson had promised she wouldn't be like the Dawson women who'd come before her: she wouldn't live and die in a small town like her grandmother, she wouldn't drift through life without purpose like her mother.

She had clawed her way through junior college, then the University of Wyoming, then law school. She had studied between waitressing shifts and dog-walking gigs, turning down opportunities to intern for big name firms so that she wouldn't have to compromise on her beliefs. That Rhea Dawson was going to fight for the underdog, save the whales, and leave the world better than she found it.

I was stupid then.

I grab my bag and stuff it with the essentials—laptop, notepad, ibuprofen, and a protein bar from the office vending machine that probably expired months ago. It's not exactly a survival kit, but if I stay organized and avoid direct eye contact with the locals, maybe I'll make it out of Moran unscathed.

I check my watch. Fifteen minutes ago. Right. I don't even have time to change out of my pencil skirt and blazer, which scream "corporate bitch." Showing up to a town hall full of people who already hate you is one thing. Looking exactly like the villain in their internal monologue is another. I pull my long brown hair into a tight bun on the top of my head and add a fresh layer of color to my lips. I suppose if they're going to hate me, I might as well lean into it.

I do, however, take ten minutes to read Cassie's notes on the project. If I'm going to walk into a battlefield, I'm not showing up empty-handed. Cassie doesn't keep quite as meticulous of notes, but I get the gist. Crestline hired Hutchinson and Hughes to weasel their way in to building on state-protected land and squash the land rights of the people living on the borders by twisting eminent domain laws into pretzels. Lovely.

The drive from Jackson to Moran is as Wyoming as it gets. Wide-open skies stretch endlessly across the horizon, dotted by clouds that seem to hover just out of reach of the jagged, snow-dusted mountains. Pine trees line the highways like sentinels, their shadows growing long as the sun dips towards the mountains. The land feels ancient, untouched, in a way that almost tricks me into believing it could stay that way. Almost.

As the mountains loom closer, the Top 40 hit playing buzzes faintly with static. My phone has already lost signal. For a heartbeat, it feels like stepping into another world. A world where the problems of city life—corporate deadlines and urgent emails and endless meetings that could have been urgent emails—cease to exist. There's only air and sunlight. The still and wild beauty only sharpens the ache in my chest.

I can't help but think of my mom. She loved drives like this one—drives where it was just us packed into a car and an empty road in front of us. She would've rolled down all the windows and let the sharp, clean air rush through the car. She'd have pointed out every bird she saw, narrating their lives like we were watching some sort of deranged nature documentary. "See that raven up there? He's watching us. No—don't make eye contact! Ravens never forget a face... That's a kestrel, baby, she'll be hunting to feed her chicks. Never cross a momma on a mission." We stopped to watch moose cross the road, paused at every scenic overlook...

Her voice feels so close, that for a moment, I catch myself looking at the empty passenger seat, half-expecting to see her there. But of course, it's just me, the quiet purr of the hybrid's engine, and the Wyoming wilderness.

When I was little, Terra Dawson seemed invincible. A free spirit. She never stayed in one place for too long, but she had this magical ability that could make a home out of anything. A borrowed tent pitched under the stars, a beat-up RV with duct tape on the windows, or a cramped motel room in the middle of nowhere. I'd sit beside her as she stuck glow in the dark stairs on the ceiling or burned sage in the corners, and it always felt like we were right where we were supposed to be.

As I got older, I noticed the cracks. The tightness of her smile as the bills piled up. Her fingers would tap frantic beat against her coffee cup. The cigarettes she'd sneak when she thought I'd fallen asleep. And then I'd wake up with our bags packed and a new adventure circled on her battered Thomas Guide.

Sometimes we'd stay in a place for a few weeks, sometimes for a year or so, but she was always in motion. Always chasing something better, or escaping something worse. She never told me. And now, she never will.

The ache in my chest tightens as I think about what she'd say if she could see me now. Driving to Moran. Not chasing an adventure, but helping some soulless corporation carve up the land she loved. My mom, who believed in preserving every inch of wild beauty, who taught me the names of trees and birds and stars.

Fuck. Sometimes I really hate the person I've had to become.

The highways curves, pulling me out of the self-loathing as the Tetons rise into view. Their peaks glow amber in the dying light. For a second, I feel the weight of guilt lift from my shoulders. How could anyone look at something so vast and ancient and breathtaking and not feel small? It makes all the compromises I've made feel like dust. The mountains don't give a shit about me. They'll be here long after I'm gone.

But there's a certain tragedy to that. The mountains would survive, but the Crestline development would change everything around them. Paved roads will replace game trails. Overpriced homes will litter the hillsides. The sound of engines and construction will drown out the quiet wind song. The stretch of untouched wilderness will become something safe and curated and controlled.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel. I wish I could slam on the brakes. I fantasize about calling Hughes and telling him to go fuck himself. But the world doesn't work like that. Not for me. Not anymore.

When I pull into the parking lot, it's packed. Admittedly, it's not that big of a lot, but every space is taken by trucks with muddy tires and Subaru's plastered with stickers that say "coexist" and "protect our wildlife." It's the type of crowd that wears flannel and denim shirts unironically, and the kind of wholesome, corn-fed energy that makes me immediately regret not taking the extra twenty minutes to stop at my apartment and change out of my heels and skirt.

I have to pull onto the unpaved shoulder to park next to an ancient Ford with a gun rack in the back window. It leans slightly to the left, like the years have taken their toll on the suspension but it's just too damn stubborn to stop running.

Sliding out of my hybrid, I wobble slightly as my heels sink into the loose gravel. Perfect. I can already feel a blister threatening my left heel. It's a miracle that I don't roll an ankle as I make my way toward the building, trying to project a confidence that I absolutely do not feel. Inside, I'm bracing for a fight. Outside, I'm all cool corporate composure and tailored lines.

The rumble of angry voices hits me like a wall as I step through the doors. Moran's town hall is a repurposed elementary school auditorium that's packed past what I imagine is allowed by the fire code. It's humming with frustration. Locals stand shoulder to shoulder, grim faced. Environmentalists wearing Patagonia jackets wield homemade signs with slogans like, "Keep Wyoming Wild" and "Crestline Destroys Communities." Some even have props: stuffed bison and moose with cartoonishly sad faces and a giant, hand-painted banner that someone is struggling to to keep from peeling off the wall.

Crestline's PR team is sitting on the stage with perfectly pleasant smiles. It's a little unsettling how unaffected they seem by the building current of anger. Their practiced posture and neatly tailored suits make it clear they've done this a hundred times before. This is just any other Tuesday. Another small town standing in the way of a paycheck.

I slip into the back row, hoping to blend into the chaos. I'm tall enough that blending is usually a struggle, but tonight, I'm practically dwarfed by the flannel-wearing behemoths around me. The locals are built like the land they're defending—sturdy, rugged, and capable of withstanding a couple of bulldozers and corporate bribes. I reach for my phone to start taking some discreet notes about the dissenters.

The energy in the room shifts as the meeting transitions from the routine town hall agenda to the main event. A woman with steel-gray hair steps to the microphone. When it gives a screech of feedback, she sighs and steps out from behind the peeling veneer of the podium to speak without it. "Let's get this over with, folks," she shouts, quieting the crowd.

The noise dips to strained whispers as Crestline's head of PR stands and introduces herself. Despite the auditorium's limited AV budget, Crestline's brought their own equipment to power through a set of curated slides that feature smiling families with perfect white teeth living in their perfect houses with perfect white fences.

And then, I feel it.

Someone is staring at me.

Not a passing glance. Not the kind of look you give to a stranger in a crowded room. Not even the type of once over you sneak at someone you imagine stripping naked. This is sharper. Heavier. It feels like there's a weight against my chest, like whoever it is can see past the blazer and lipstick, past the forced confidence, right down to the parts of me I'd rather keep hidden.

I force myself to look, scanning the crowd until I find him.

He's standing near the stage, arms crossed over a broad chest. His work shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, and I can't help but think they're the type of shoulders that are used to long days of manual labor. Despite the tension in his upper body, his stance otherwise seems perfectly relaxed. Like he doesn't need announce his presence or strength, because it's obvious.

But it's his face that makes my heart stutter.

Dark golden stubble sharpens the lines of his jaw. His skin glows faintly under the fluorescent lights, like the sun kissed him and wasn't ready to let go. There's a loving sort of asymmetry to his crooked nose, the slant of his mouth. His eyes—God, his eyes—are like a thunderstorm. A dark, churning gray that is on the edge of cracking into lightening.

And they're not watching Crestline's sales pitch about maintaining the local wildlife within private properties. He's not watching the crowd. He's watching me.

He's staring directly at me.

Like he's waiting for something. Like he knows something I don't.

My heart jumps into my throat.

I'm not supposed to be here.

And yet, something about the way that man is watching me makes me think maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

AN: Something a little different from my usual <3