Page 4 of A SEAL's Protection
While the coffee brews, I pull out the map and trace today’s path. I’ll follow the main trail until Wildflower Gully, then cut in to take a sample from the stream. My portable testing kit will give me immediate results and an indication of the minerals present in the water source.
I’m studying the map when the skin on the back of my neck prickles. I glance up to the tree line and pivot on my boulder to check out the ridge above.
Brush sways in the breeze, and a small animal scurries in the undergrowth.
I rub the back of my neck. I’ve had this prickly sensation since I started the hike yesterday, as if I’m being watched. But there’s nothing here but the trees and the animals.
There must be rabbits and squirrels and all sorts living in the woods, and then there are the birds and insects. They’re probably watching me, wondering what the hell I’m doing out here on my own.
Hell, I’m wondering that myself. I’ve got no business being out in the wilderness on my own. There could be bears or mountain lions or even worse, men who think a woman alone is an easy target.
I swallow down the fear and take a few deep breaths. If Cheryl Strayed could do it for ninety-four days, then I can do it for twenty-one. Besides, if my samples prove my hypothesis, then it will all be worth it. And I’ll show Professor Wainwright he was wrong about me.
The memory of the professor’s smug expression as he rejected my PhD thesis pops into my mind, and I grip the map so tight it tears in one corner.
“Damn.”
I fold the map and stuff it into the front of my pack, right next to my knife, the only protection I brought with me. As I go about breaking down camp, my mind strays to the professor.
I’m sitting on a stiff wooden chair before the grants board. The scent of his body odor and stale coffee hangs in the airless room.
His features curl in a smug expression as he throws my file, the one I spent hours compiling, onto the table.
“There are other projects with greater financial need.” He practically purrs the words as he looks at me down the end of his long nose. “We were obliged to take you this far, Miss Simpson, but we have to review each research request on its own merits. And we find yours…” he pauses as if it pains him to say the words while his eyes hold unmasked glee, “…lacking.”
I push my sleeping bag into a tight roll and shove it into its pouch.
The only thing my research proposal lacked was a different name. If I’d been anyone else but Allegra Simpson, daughter of Ralph Simpson, I’d have had the board approval, and my chance to prove my PhD thesis faster than you can say reverse nepotism.
I shake out the tent in one harsh movement and fold it back into its cover.
My father donated funds to the university when I joined, and I wish he hadn’t. From my first lecture Professor Wainwright looked as me as if I was only there because of Daddy’s money and not because of the straight A scores I got in high school, or the fact I won my high school science award in my junior andsenior years. However, I am starting to wonder if Dad bought those awards too.
I strap my sleeping bag to the outside of my pack and tug the cord so tight one of the bobbles keeping it in place pops off.
“Damn.”
I squint at the end of the tie. Without the bobble, the tie hangs loose. I tug at the sleeping bag, but the second tie has enough integrity to hold. I’m only hiking. It’s not like I’m throwing it around the place. I pocket the plastic bobble, annoyed at myself for letting Professor Wainwright get to me.
Whatever reasons Professor Wainwright had for refusing me, he was right about one thing. I don’t need the funds from the university to do my research.
If the university won’t support my PhD, I’ll do the research without them. I have the privilege of coming from money, so why not use it to my advantage?
I shoulder my backpack, bracing as the weight of it rests on my back. I’ve done plenty of day hikes before, but I’ve never ventured out with so much equipment. The pack weighs a ton, and I’m grateful I’ve got a strong frame to carry it.
As I head back to meet up with the main trail, my neck tingles, and I rub it absently. A twig snaps to the right, and my head jerks around at the sound. My heart leaps into my throat as I scan the area.
A minute passes, and then another as I wait for whatever’s in the undergrowth to show itself. But nothing stirs.
“It’s just the animals,” I mutter, trying to convince myself.
I turn to the trail and double-check my handheld GPS device, focusing on the day ahead. It’s two and a half miles to the next waypoint where I’ll take my first sample for today. It will be a good spot for lunch before a tougher hike this afternoon over rugged terrain. An easier route would be the trail to the east, but I need to stay close to the water source.
I tighten the straps of my pack and set off.
The sun is high in the sky when the path crosses a small stream. The sediment is thick here, and I pause to take a better look. I lean my pack against a boulder and crouch by the flowing water. Excitement bubbles inside me at the coppery-colored sediment. I glance up the stream where it emerges from between a stack of rocks streaked with orange. It could be from the natural minerals of this area. Or it could be decades of mining runoff leaking into the environment and causing the water to turn acidic.
I pull out my testing kit and my camcorder. With no university backing my research, I’ll need every tool I have to prove the work is authentic.
