I stood up and turned, coming chest-to-chest with Ford. He’d been standing much closer to me than I’d expected. I took an instinctive step back, and my heel hit the stack of encyclopedias. Which, of course, sent me tripping back, arms windmilling wildly in an effort to not fall on my ass. Or into the bookshelf. Or, well, at all.
Ford’s strong hands clamped on to my upper arms, pulled me to his broad, coffee-scented chest, and kept me from crashing. It was the near miss that caused my spinning head and tripping heart, not the grip of those hands or the press of his chest. Sure.
“You smell like coffee.” I inhaled, ignoring the inappropriate intimacy and the embarrassment part of me knew I should have felt. Man, he really did smell like coffee. And that, coupled with the green tea scent of whatever he used to wash his hair, was the sexiest thing.
The weird force or pressure surrounding Ford I’d imagined earlier seemed to surge around him again. Fingers kneading my biceps, he sucked in a deep breath, and the phantom energy field, or whatever it was, receded. My imagination was getting away from me, that was for sure. While I’d been accused a time or two in the past of having a vivid imagination—usually by people who disapproved of my forays into cryptozoology—I’d never had the thought about myself before.
Ford pushed me away, though he waited to make sure I was steady on my feet before he released his hold on my arms. “I’m a barista at Buddy’s.”
It took a full thirty seconds for my unusually jumbled brain to make the connection between his comment and my previous statement. Right. Coffee smell. Barista. Logical connection.
“Speaking of,” he said when a chime sounded from his pocket. He pulled out his phone and checked the display. “I have to head out or I’m going to be late for work. Is it okay if we go through the schedule and your expectations for me as your teaching assistant on Monday?”
I scrubbed my hands along the thighs of my suit pants, grimacing at the rough texture. “Oh yeah, that’d be fine.” I took the single step forward necessary to bring me to my desk and sifted through a stack of notebooks and folders until I found my new planner. No matter how convenient a digital planner was, and no matter how many devices I could sync it to, I did best with paper-and-pencil calendars.
I scanned the list of appointments. “My first class isn’t until Tuesday, and I have two meetings in the afternoon on Monday, but nothing until then. Can you come by about nine or ten?”
“Nine works.” Ford nodded, tapping something into his phone. Our appointment, presumably. Then he hissed between his teeth and glared at his screen.
“Problem?”
“Battery died.” He shoved the phone back into his pocket.
I grinned. “One of the reasons I haven’t made the complete transition away from paper yet.” I indicated my planner. “My planner keeps me organized, but still need my phone for the alarms and reminders.”
He rubbed his right thumb across the tips of his other fingers like he was soothing a small sting or shock. He noticed me watching him and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well, I’d better go. I’ll see you on Monday, then, Dr. Coleman.”
“Simon,” I corrected, then bit my cheek. Ford and I weren’t supposed to be buddies; he was student, a subordinate. “No need to be formal before classes have even started.” It was lame, but hopefully he’d let it go. Maybe I’d luck out and he wouldn’t wonder about the dichotomy of my telling him this after I emphasized the Doctor with Tierney less than half an hour ago.
He shrugged—whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment, I didn’t know. On his way out, he paused in the doorway. “A little advice? Ditch the suit if you want to be taken seriously. That look,” he said, gesturing to the scratchy gray fabric I wore, “will only convince students that you’re trying too hard.”
When I was alone in my office, I glanced down at my clothes. Yep. The damned suit was going to the farthest reaches of my closet, only to be dragged out for important meetings with rich alumni. The shoes could stay, though. Maybe.
The lights in my office flickered, and I rolled my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I wasn’t welcome at Cody College. Not that it mattered. I’d put up with rusty bathroom fixtures and flickering lights if it got me one step closer to proving thunderbirds were more than mythology. I’d put up with a lot if it would help restore my family’s reputation, and we were running out of time. Grandpa was running out of time.
Chapter Two
THINGS were not all they seemed at Cody College. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what didn’t fit, but it took less than a week into the new semester before I reached that inescapable conclusion. Maybe it was the scraps of torn clothing I found next to a tree in the green space between the parking lot and the sciences building on Monday. Or the discarded jeans I found on Wednesday.
Or maybe it was the fox chilling on a boulder by the dining hall, casually watching people go in and out on Thursday. Students streamed past me, clearly oblivious to the wildlife hanging out on campus. The fox wasn’t very concerned about my attention. An ear twitched as it met my eyes. A couple of kids holding hands crossed the space between the wild animal and me, not taken aback in the least about the fox on a rock.
Was it tame? Maybe someone’s pet? A mascot? But, no, the college’s mascot was a buffalo. I inched closer, checking to see if there was a collar amid the orange fur.
The fox’s tongue lolled out in a canine grin. Okay, seriously? The fox was laughing at me?
A guy in a Cody College hoodie stopped and shook his head at the fox. Thank goodness I wasn’t the only one to see it. Hoodie guy laughed. “Dude, you’ve got balls, man. If Dean Thomas finds out, you’ll be screwed.”
I turned to demand an explanation since the comment was completely out of left field, but he wasn’t looking at me. Was he talking to the fox?
“I should probably call animal control,” I said, deciding to ignore the guy who spoke to foxes.
Hoodie Guy burst into laughter. The fox rolled its eyes—it rolled its fricking eyes—and hopped off his perch and sauntered—sauntered!—away from the dining hall.
I thought Hoodie Guy was going to hyperventilate, he laughed so hard.
Nope. Things were definitely a little odd at Cody College.
Added to the bizarre wildlife interactions and piles of clothing, I was getting a little tired of rooms falling silent as soon as I crossed the threshold.
The first time it happened, I chalked it up to the typical “teacher walks in to the classroom, students shut up” scenario. The second time it happened, it wasn’t a classroom and they weren’t students. It was the department’s conference room and half a dozen other professors. The third time it happened, it was a hallway full of students and staff chatting before classes started. Maybe I was paranoid, but I was beginning to think it was me.
This wasn’t the first time my presence brought silence down on a room, I thought as I returned to the biology building after my meeting at the chancellor’s office. I’d gotten mostly used to it as a preteen taking college classes. But about the time I reached eighteen, I no longer stood out on campus quite so much, and the immediate pause in conversation was rare. Until I started at Cody College.
My phone chirped, telling me I was late, so I ran the rest of the way to room 112. When I walked into the room this time, though, it wasn’t just silence that greeted me. It was a dozen startled stares, each falling somewhere along a spectrum of appalled, confused, and pissed. And Ford Whitney sat front and center of the group.
I glanced at the flyer in my hand. “This is the birding club, right?”
Crickets.
I scanned the room. “Am I in the wrong place? Isn’t this room one-twelve?”
Eleven of the twelve sets of eyes turned to Ford.
“Uh, yeah.” He scratched at his jaw. “Were you looking for someone?”
“I wanted to check the club out. Not every campus has a bird-watching group. I was excited to find out that Cody College was one th
at did.” I dropped into a desk chair, then dug through my shoulder bag for the embossed leather journal I used for most of my personal field observations. I set it in front of me and dug through my bag again, this time in search of the mechanical pencil I knew had to be there. I was pretty sure I’d tossed a couple in there yesterday morning before leaving my home.
When I finally had my crap together, I looked up, noticing that everyone had been watching me get situated. “Don’t mind me,” I told them. “I don’t plan to interfere. Just go about your meeting as normal.”
“Okaaay,” a guy sitting next to Ford said, grinning and drawing the word out. He smirked at Ford. “You heard him, boss.”
Ford narrowed his eyes at his neighbor, who ignored the fierce look. The neighbor was probably a few years younger than me, maybe nineteen, and built like a wrestler—broad and stocky. Longish ash-blond hair fell in front of a face I would have called plain or nondescript if it hadn’t been for his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes that color—a glowing golden amber—on a person before.
“Owen,” Ford growled under his breath.
The neighbor, who was called Owen, apparently, used his bright amber eyes to great effect, widening them guilelessly at Ford, the picture of innocence. “You’re the president, right?”
“Right,” Ford grit out through clenched teeth.
The rest of the group shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Maybe it was their first meeting?
Ford cleared his throat. “Our first order of business today,” he began, speaking slowly as if waiting on a defective teleprompter, “is to schedule our first… excursion.”
The others nodded like a bunch of those bobblehead toys. A couple of them even had their hands folded on the desks in front of them. What kind of meeting was this? I had to admit, I was a little disappointed in Ford. The couple of times I’d seen him since our meeting last week, he’d come across and capable and confident. Here he was all shifty eyes and throat clearing.
I couldn’t take it much longer. The uncomfortable silence was heading into downright painful. I clicked my pencil and hovered the tip over my journal. “When do you usually go out? Mornings or evenings?”
More blank stares.
“I suppose that does depend on which birds you’re chasing.” Maybe if I kept talking, someone would join the conversation.
“Chasing?” one timid-looking girl asked.
“Do you use the British terminology? Twitching?”
Owen sniggered.
“It’s chasing,” Ford said, shooting a glare at Owen, and the rest of the group for good measure. “But we usually just call it bird-watching.”
“I’m sure that’s less confusing,” I said. Maybe less confusing for them, but I was getting more confused by the second. “So, where are you meeting? And at what time? Which birds are you watching for?”
If anything, my taking charge of things ratcheted up the discomfort.
“Well,” Owen said after a pause long enough for entire civilizations to rise and fall, “we usually explore the Wapiti Valley area in February.”
Wapiti Valley was one of several scenic loops surrounding Cody, so it seemed like a good choice. I made a note in my journal. “Nice.” We were finally making progress. “What will we likely see along that route?”
“Bald eagles?” a girl at the back suggested, even as a gangly teen next to her blurted out, “Orioles.”
What kind of birding club was this? Bald eagles spent the winter along the West Coast, and orioles didn’t migrate through Wyoming until spring. I raised a brow and looked to Ford, who had slouched in his seat while scrubbing a hand over his face. “Actually, this weekend we’re looking for trumpeter swans or red-breasted nuthatches. If we’re lucky, we might catch sight of a rough-legged hawk.”
The two in the back nodded. “We’re new,” the girl said.
All righty, then.
“I’d like to join you on your chase… er, bird-watching excursion.” This birding club needed some serious guidance. Proper terminology was the least of their problems. Also, it would give me an excuse to question them, though probably not the two in the back. Maybe Ford and that Owen guy. If a thunderbird had been sighted in the area three months ago, hopefully one of these guys had caught sight of it a time or two. If thunderbirds followed a migratory path like many other birds of prey—and the anecdotal evidence I’d collected so far was inconclusive on that point—some of the more experienced birders might have seen something interesting at some point.
But I had to be smart about it. I couldn’t just up and ask about thunderbirds. That’d be a dead giveaway to Ford, who knew about Dr. Tierney’s orders. Of course, there was a good chance everyone here had read that stupid article about my quest for proof of thunderbirds, and they thought I was a delusional fool. Which might actually explain the weird looks and awkward silences when I walked into a room, come to think of it.
“Maybe we should do some introductions.” Sure, they all probably already knew each other, but since no one else was talking, and they were all staring at me like I’d fallen down from the moon, the least we could do was exchange names. “I’ll start. I’m Dr. Coleman. I teach in the biology department. This is my first semester at Cody College. I’m originally from Springfield, Illinois. How about you?” I looked at Owen.
He shifted in his seat for a moment, then scratched his head absently. “Uh, okay. I’m Owen Weyer.”
When he didn’t say anything else, I asked, “What year are you? And what’s your major?”
Owen shot a glance at Ford, like he was waiting for Ford to step in and stop the interrogation. When Ford only continued to glare broodingly at me, Owen said, “I’m a junior, and, ah, I’m majoring in psychology.”
That surprised me. Most birders weren’t necessarily biologists, but I’d assumed college-aged bird-watchers would actually be students with an academic interest in the species.
I turned my attention to the kid next to Owen. This guy could have been the son of Dr. Tierney’s beak-nosed secretary. He had the same beak nose, same glossy black hair, same narrow face. He rubbed his nose and stared longingly at the door for a second. “Christopher Crowe. Um, freshman and undecided.”
I went through the other nine students, not including Ford, only because I’d started this introduction piece and it would be weird for me to stop. But, damn, did I want to stop. You’d think I was torturing them for information. Besides Ford, only one other student, a senior girl called Maggie, had a major that seemed to coincide with biology or animals in any way. Bald-eagle Girl in the back was a freshman majoring in education, and Oriole Boy, also a freshman, was going into business. Each time one of students introduced themselves, they looked to Ford. For approval? Or maybe permission? Either way, it was weird.
Another long lull in the conversation had me itching to leave. But I needed to create some kind of rapport with these guys if I was going to quiz them. At this rate I was beginning to doubt any of them would be useful in my quest in any way at all. But I had to try.
“Which field guide do you guys use?” I looked around the room. When no one jumped in to answer, I continued. “I love the old-fashioned Audubon ones, and the Sibley is good for a less-experienced group like this.” Less experienced was one way to put it. “But there’s no denying that some of the newer phone apps are convenient. As long as you’re in an area with adequate connectivity.”
Maggie, the girl with a science-related degree program, sat forward, clearly eager to contribute. “iBird is awesome.”
“I haven’t tried that one. I will sometimes use the Sibley eGuide. More often, though, I’ll get a guide that focuses on birds in a specific region or location.”
By this point I was getting the same blank stares I’d seen in some of my intro classes, where the students were only there because it was a prerequisite for something they actually wanted to learn. The stares that suggested the people doing the staring had somewhere—anywhere—else they’d rather be. It was absolutely time f
or me to make an exit.
“Okay, then,” I said, gathering my stuff. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your meeting. I’d love to stick around”—not at all—“but I’ve got an appointment soon. I’d like to join you when you go out into the field. Ford can let me know when and where you go.”
I don’t think it was my imagination that they all let out relieved breaths when I exited the room.
I’D lied, obviously, when I said I had a meeting. However, when I reached my office, someone was waiting for me. A man, a few years older than me but probably not yet thirty, leaned against the wall next to my door. He looked like a model posing for some western university fashion shoot. Book bag flung over one shoulder, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and leather-booted feet crossed at the ankle. Damn, the guy was gorgeous, with chocolate-brown hair that curled and fell over his forehead in a way that probably made complete strangers want to tuck the soft-looking curls away from that face, because, honestly, that face was meant to be admired without any distraction. Smooth skin, square jaw, sharp cheekbones. Dimples.
He straightened when he noticed me, a bright grin flashing across that perfect face. “Dr. Coleman?”
“That’s me.” Up close, I could see his eyes were the darkest blue I’d ever seen in real life. Almost navy blue.
Eyes wide, he scanned me from head to toes. “Wow. I thought you’d be older.”
I scowled, though I made sure I’d turned away to unlock my office door so he didn’t catch it. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“Oh, sorry!” He stepped back, abashed. “I didn’t mean—” He took a breath. “Can I start over?”
He looked so genuinely mortified, I wanted to put him at ease. Besides, he hadn’t sounded judgmental when he’d made the comment about my age. He’d been surprised. And who wouldn’t be? I was young and looked even younger. “It’s fine. Really. What can I do for you?”
Chasing Thunderbird Page 2