Page 80 of Grown-Up Second Chance

My breath ran out. I twirled around.

The elk stopped, seemingly confused by my stance.

Then he lowered his head, the spines of his rack pointed directly at me.

I backed away.

There was a motion to my right, and then Joe was by my side.

The elk pawed the ground.

“Stop!” Joe yelled.

The elk looked up.

“We’re people!” he yelled.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Once the elk, seemingly baffled by Joe’s assertion, had turned his back on us and trotted away, we had to deal with the ranger.

The small family stood in a cluster, heads slightly bowed, as the ranger handed them a ticket and pointed to the administration building. Then the ranger, bristling with authority, marched in our direction.

“You do know the rules,” he said. “And yet you disobeyed them. I’m giving you a ticket.”

“Wait a minute,” Joe said. “Shouldn’t she get a warning first?”

The ranger drew himself up to his five foot eight stance and squared his shoulders. “We’re getting tough with people like you. You come here, disturb the animals while they’re eating, and try to cook chickens—chickens!—in the hot springs. We can’t allow it. Not in the least.” He whipped back the cover of the black book he carried. “Name.”

“I was trying to get those people to stay back,” I explained. “That was the only reason I was that close …” I peered at the name badge on his chest. “… Duane.” I deliberately used his first name. This pompous young ass didn’t need my respect.

“Your reason is irrelevant,” Duane replied. He pointed his pen at my chest and punctuated each word with it. “You. Were. Too. Close.” He poised the pen over the pad. “Name.”

“You’re out of line,” Joe said. “People do this all the time. You warn them. Move them. Sometimes animals take things into their own … uh … hooves. But I’ve never seen anyone get a ticket. Unless they do something like pick up a calf or something like that.”

Duane yanked a brochure from his back pocket. Tapping the last line with his pen he said, “New policy. ‘Offenders may be ticketed.’ There in black and white.”

“Actually, that’s blue,” I said helpfully.

Duane glared and thrust the brochure at Joe who took it.

“Name,” Duane repeated.

The small family came up to us.

“Thank you so much,” the father said. “My children, my wife, could have been hurt very bad. We are so happy you have helped.”

The wife nodded. “So happy.” She pushed her children forward. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” the two small children chorused, and my anger melted. They’d made a mistake, one that almost cost them their lives. And unlike the man who’d been determined to get to the bison in Lamar Valley, they were contrite.

“You need to go over there to pay your fine,” Duane said, again pointing to the administration building. “I have to finish with this lady.”

“You are writing her a ticket?” the father said.

“Yes. She was too close. Just like you,” Duane admonished the man with his pen.

I was going to yank that pen from his hand and stick it in his ear pretty soon.

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