Alpha Female - Softcover

April Christofferson is the highly acclaimed author of several novels set in the West. She is an attorney with a background in biology and veterinary medicine. She divides her time between Yellowstone and Missoula, Montana.

Chapter One Restoring our most precious asset: Wilderness! Annie Peacock’s grip on the steering wheel loosened reflexively as she passed the newly erected billboard that hovered over the entrance to the tiny town of Gardiner, Montana. Below the billboard’s motto (which Annie had heard no less than four times on the radio on her drive back from Livingston), a rotating globe featured bear and elk and moose, each safely perusing its own natural habitat. It radiated a warm and fuzzy feeling. The WERI— World Energy Resources, Inc.— logo proudly dominated the bottom right corner of the sign, which, by virtue of its size and grandeur, stuck out like a sore thumb next to the only other billboards in Gardiner: one for Holly’s Drive- Thru and the other for a white- water expedition company called The Flying Pig. Annie glanced across the Yellowstone River and the town, mostly sleeping now, and in the moonlight, saw the outline of the Roosevelt Arch stretching skyward, dusting the North Star. Almost home. Strange how after only one year, the sight of the stone structure that had been welcoming visitors to Yellowstone’s north entrance for over a hundred years— actually, the sight of the town in general— gave Annie a comfort that had eluded her after more than a decade in Seattle. Tonight it damn near brought tears to her eyes. She’d always hated driving the fifty- two miles between Livingston and Gardiner, especially after dark. Her headlights had caught too many deer, sometimes even elk or a moose, lying lifeless on the side of the road. Down the road, at the only body shop in town, she’d inevitably see the offending vehicle, its front grille smashed beyond recognition. But to night those fifty- two miles had felt like three times the distance. She’d had to pull over twice to let the dizziness pass. Each time, as she lay across the front seat of her Subaru, the doctor’s words came back to her, taunting her. "It can’t be the drug." To which she’d finally, eloquently, blurted out, "Bullshit." It hadn’t been a particularly inspired, or articulate, response, but in her raw state, it had been the only one that came to Annie’s mind. At first, Dr. Rosenbaum looked like he’d just been slapped across the face, then indignation overcame his patrician features and he waited for an apology or, at the very least, an explanation. But Annie felt too damn sick, too drained, to try to educate another "healer" brainwashed by the pharmaceutical industry. Besides, she’d developed a built- in radar for detecting arrogance and Rosenbaum had set her meter off the moment he breezed into the exam room, clearly out of sorts about having to stay late in order to accommodate Annie’s schedule—which he most likely would not have done had he not recently been designated a preferred MD for all of Yellowstone’s 3,500 employees, and had Annie not held the position within the park that she did. Trying to tell this one something he didn’t want to hear would be a total waste of time, she’d surmised almost instantly. So she’d simply stood and walked out of the room. Another doctor’s appointment that had begun with hope— albeit a rapidly fading hope— and ended up a waste of time. But she was almost home now. Only five more miles stretched between the arch and her house in Mammoth. Five miles of narrow, shoulderless, and winding road, with precipitous drop- offs to the Gardner River. Annie tightened her grasp on the wheel, proceeded under the arch and then, a quarter mile farther down, passed through the unmanned entry gates, ignoring the sign to stop before proceeding. Fifteen minutes later, close to elation, Annie pulled up to the stone house. She stepped out of the car, taking immediate comfort in the night’s warm embrace. Annie loved the night air in Yellowstone. It felt to her like worn velvet. A coyote yipped twice, from over Bunsen Peak’s way. She quickly scanned the area surrounding the house. The other thing Annie loved about nightfall was the sense of privacy it afforded her. How ironic that she’d moved to the West’s wide open spaces only to find herself living in a fishbowl. The sign posted in her driveway: private residence/no trespassing might as well have said, freak show, take a peek. She sometimes arrived home from work to find tourists sitting on her front porch, or pressing their noses to the window— a sure sign her mother was either sleeping upstairs or engrossed in playing the piano in the back; for if Eleanor Malone became aware of intruders, she never failed to shoo them away, cane waving wildly in the air, Archie barking at her side. In the year they’d all lived together in the stone house, Eleanor and Archie, Annie’s twelve- year- old Labrador retriever, had become quite a team. Both were hard of hearing (or, as Annie saw it, increasingly selective in their hearing), both getting a little crotchety with age, and both touchingly devoted to the great love of their life: Annie. If that devotion meant ensuring Annie’s privacy and the downtime she needed as she struggled with her health problems by chasing away trespassers, the two gamely— actually, Annie had observed, with some degree of glee—did so. Thankfully at night, however, the tourists dispersed to places unknown, leaving Annie moments like this. She took in the high- altitude air, breathed it deep into her lungs, and stood admiring the skyline, relishing more than ever the magical healing powers this new life—new world— had provided her. Bunsen Peak stood tall, backlit by a half moon, and to the west, waiting for its turn to be bathed in the delicate glow, Electric. It looked less daunting than it had half an hour earlier, as Annie approached Gardiner. She often wondered whether the peak’s name bore responsibility for the power it held over her every time she drove toward it, down Highway 89, returning from a trip to civilization— a force that pulled her back to a place, a life so unlike anything she’d ever expected. A force that, she knew, would never allow her to leave. Another coyote’s wail— this one sounded like it came from up near the Hoodoos— transitioned to short, sharp barks. It turned Annie’s thoughts to her devoted Lab. She hurried to the front door, eager to see Archie. The silence indicated he hadn’t heard her pull in. She put the key in the lock, turned it, and whistled for him as she opened the door. "Arch?" Annie slid inside. The house felt strangely still. Archie must have followed her mother up to bed. More and more, if Annie wasn’t home, he slept with Eleanor until she returned. Something did not feel right. If Annie was out late, Eleanor usually left a light on in the living room. Now the only illumination greeting Annie came from the kitchen. "Mom?" Hard of hearing or not, Archie should have bounded down the steps to greet Annie by now. Several long- legged strides bore Annie across the narrow, spartanly furnished living room. At the kitchen door, she stopped, dead in her tracks. "Oh my god." Shattered glass— jagged white pieces adorned with green shamrocks that looked cruelly, startlingly, out of place against the worn linoleum—crunched under Annie’s feet as she stepped inside. The antique hutch Eleanor had brought with her from Seattle, in which she stored the precious china she’d inherited from her Irish mother- in- law, lay on its back, its door open and ripped half off its hinges. "Mother?" Annie screamed. At first she did not notice the bottle of wine perched precariously on its side, the top hanging over the edge of the counter— her eyes had instead been drawn to the deep red puddles splattering the aging beige linoleum. Blood. Annie dropped to her knees. Dipping a finger in one dark splash, she lifted her hand— it shook violently— and brought it even with her face. As she did so, she spotted the bottle. Relief flooded her. It had apparently toppled over during what ever awful event had transpired earlier in the kitchen, leaving its contents to drip onto the floor. For the first time, Annie noticed the smell. Something burning. She looked up, at the stove. The stainless- steel pot Eleanor Malone used for her bedtime tea radiated waves of heat from its perch over a burner that glowed neon red. Annie reached for the pot, scalding her fingers on its stainless-steel surface. The water inside had long since evaporated. Turning to dash for the stairs to the second floor, which she’d passed upon entering the house, Annie froze mid-stride. A single piece of paper lay face up on the table where her mother took her tea, beneath the window that looked out on Liberty Cap. Even from half a room away, something about the manner in which the letters had been scrawled across its face told Annie her life would never be the same. She walked in measured steps toward it. Instinctively, she knew better than to touch it; knew not to risk smudging a fingerprint or other DNA; evidence left behind. For Annie Peacock knew— she had from the moment she first stared, jaw dropped, into the kitchen— that she was dealing with a crime scene. Still, she reached for the note, stopping just short of touching it. And then God made man, to rule over the world and all its creatures. One sentence. She gazed at it, trying to put out of mind thoughts of the scene that had to have unfolded— how long ago? minutes? hours?— in order for that sheet of paper to find its way there, in order for her kitchen to look as it did. Annie again screamed her mother’s name. She bolted for the phone on the wall, next to the back door, and punched a number on her speed dial. "Yellowstone Law Enforcement." A glint on the kitchen counter caught Annie’s eye. "Hello? Law enforcement," the voice repeated several times, its volume rising and falling with the swinging of the phone, which now dangled from its cord. It felt like she was moving in slow motion as Annie walked to the counter, one hand stretched forward, groping; the other covering her mouth. Her eyes were glued to the source of the reflection that had drawn them: her mother’s wedding ring. It had been pushed back, tucked between the cheesy set of canis...