Chapter One


Simon Crestwater crouched in the brush, almost flat out on his stomach.  Behind him, he could hear the sound 
of water in a nearby stream.  One of the few areas in Arizona that wasn’t desert, the dense forests of the 
Colorado Plateau would provide excellent cover, as well as shielding him from the heat of the Arizona sun.  
With any luck, he could stay holed up in the woods, camouflaged beneath the greenery, as long as he wanted 
and not be spotted.  He had enough food and water with him that he figured he wouldn’t have to go looking 
for real shelter for at least three more days.
	Peering out from under the cluster of low growing brush where he had taken cover, he surveyed the 
landscape around him.  Just in front of him there was a small, natural clearing in the forest of aspen and 
ponderosa pine, just big enough to let a little sunlight in and give him a good vantage point to see any 
movement coming his way.  And he was prepared for anything.  He was used to this.  If anything moved 
anywhere near him, he would see it or hear it, and he would be ready.
	Simon, on the other hand, could live for days in the wilderness without being seen or heard.  He’d 
been known to walk out of the woods with no one having even known he was there, and rarely left evidence 
of his encampments behind.  Whether it be here in Arizona, in the jungles of the Amazon or on the slopes of 
the Swiss Alps, Simon Crestwater always seemed to know what he was doing.  He had the uncanny ability 
to acclimatize himself with his surroundings quickly. This natural talent, coupled with years of being on the 
move, and countless hours spent pouring over anything he could find written about vegetation and wildlife 
of any given part of the world, had served him well over the many years since he had taken up this 
nomadic lifestyle. 
	Raising his scope, he scanned the clearing carefully, not a leaf or a cluster of twigs left unscrutinied; 
checking every tree for the possibility of finding any living thing behind it. Simon was a patient man, and he 
was thorough.  If anything were alive in that clearing, he would find it. Eventually.
	Panning slowly along the farthest edge of the trees, he slowed, and moved his scope back in the 
opposite direction.  
	Nothing.
	Then just as he began to pan again, there it was. Movement. He stopped, slowly reaching to steady 
the scope.  He could see the white of an eye at two hundred feet with this thing, if it was there to see, 
and this time he was  certain.  He hunkered down closer to the ground and waited, and sure enough, 
seconds later the suspected figure slowly moved into clear view. 
	I’ve got you now!  he said to himself, and slithered his hand painstakingly slowly along the ground 
towards his pack. His finger tips felt the bag and moved inside, searching for the piece of equipment he needed.  
This should be an easy shot, as long as —
	“Simon!”
	His ears had picked up the sound of cracking twigs only seconds before the call of his name, and a 
split second before the object of his scrutiny had bolted into the trees.   His fingers curled into a fist and he 
hammered the ground, then lifted up and swung around to face the owner of the voice.
	“Dammit woman!  What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
	The girl knelt beside him now, just outside his cluster of underbrush, peering in at him as if she 
had no idea what she had just done.  Her hair, some nondescript shade of brown, was tied back into a ponytail 
which she had fed through the opening at the back of the faded baseball cap she wore, and her eyes, also 
brown although there seemed to be flecks of green and gold mixed in, peered out at him from behind a pair 
of oval shaped glasses with thick, dark frames.  She wore a loose T-shirt, that must have been a size too 
big for her because he noticed she had rolled the sleeves up, and a pair of long, baggy shorts with pockets all 
over them.  Both the shorts and the shirt were similar shades of tan, and over the shirt she wore a khaki 
coloured vest, with still more pockets.  At the end of her short legs — for if she was five-foot-three she was 
not a fraction of an inch more, he imagined — were the bunched up tops of wool socks protruding from a 
pair of old, scuffed, brown hiking boots.  
	Was brown the only colour she ever wore, he wondered, as he watched her kneeling a few feet away 
from him.  He couldn’t remember seeing her in any other colour since he’d had the misfortune of meeting her 
three days earlier, but then he had paid her as little attention as possible during that time. He didn’t need 
anyone tagging along, and he especially didn’t need a woman dragging him down!  
	“They’re looking for you back at camp,” she said, showing little evidence that his barked comment 
had set her at all off balance, which made him grumble to himself even more. If she was going to annoy him so 
much, he reasoned, she should have the decency to appear ruffled when he yelled at her! Not that he yelled 
at her often, of course.  He was normally an even tempered and easy going man who got along with everyone 
from the get go, but he hadn’t wanted her here, hadn’t needed her here, and dammit, she’d just cost him 
a shot he’d spent the past hour preparing for!
	An hour, he reminded himself.  One whole hour waiting in the shrubbery with his eyes and ears peeled, 
ready for the slightest flicker of even a butterfly’s wing to catch his attention.  And just when he’d had the 
shot of a lifetime in his sights, this feather of a woman had to crunch her way through the woods and call his 
name, scaring off anything for miles, he was sure.
	“I don’t care who’s looking for me, they know I’m not scheduled back til tomorrow or the next day,” 
he fumed, black eyes piercing upwards at her from where he still crouched, willing her to wilt under his gaze.  
But when she didn’t even flinch, he heaved a frustrated sigh, grabbed his pack, and unfolded himself from the 
underbrush.  It was no use.  He didn’t really want to frighten her anyway. He just wished she’d find someplace 
far away from him, and stay there. Was that too much to ask?  If she had to be on this expedition, surely 
she could go in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t have deal with her?
	“Dammit, McCoy, you really have to work on your timing,” he grunted, as he strode away from her 
down the trail where she had just appeared.  At six-foot two, his legs could cover a lot of ground in a single 
stride, and she had to scramble to her feet and practically run to catch up with him, but he didn’t even look 
to see if she were following as he continued to speak. She would be, he was sure of it. He’d been trying to 
shake her for three days and he’d had no luck at all, so he knew she’d still be there now! “I had a beauty of a 
buck in my sights.  All I had to do was pull out the camera and shoot!  Just thirty seconds, and I’d have had 
the shot of a lifetime!”  He shook his head.  “And then you showed up!”
	“I’m sorry, Simon, but they’re looking for you back at camp. I didn’t think that — “
	“Do that next time,” he cut her off, as he swung his pack over his shoulder.
	“Pardon me?”  By her voice, she seemed confused.  And out of breath, he noticed, from trying to 
keep up with him.  “Do what?”
	“Think,” he said flatly.
	
	Logan McCoy struggled to keep her footing as she speed-walked after the big Indian ahead of her, 
who made no attempt to ease up his pace for her.  Why did he have to walk so fast anyway, she asked herself.  
If he didn’t care that they were looking for him back at camp, why was he in such a hurry to get there?  
At this rate she’d be out of breath long before they reached the canyon.  Why did he have to be so difficult!
	Difficult.  Logan grunted under her breath.  Now that was an understatement!  She’d arrived 
at camp three days earlier, as a replacement for one of the other members of the group who had lost his 
footing in the canyon and broken an ankle in the process.  The minute she’d set foot within ten feet of Simon 
Crestwater, however, he had made it clear he didn’t want her there. Every time he spoke to her it was clear.  
She’d spent the last three days trying not to tremble every time he said something to her, not wanting 
anyone, especially him, to know how intimidated he made her feel.  But no matter how much she tried to 
prove she was good enough, and that she could handle anything he dished out to her, he still didn’t let up.
	She watched his back as he moved through the trees.  He was much taller than her, and his 
shoulders were broad and strong.  His black hair hung long, reaching just below his shoulders, with a hint of a 
wave in its strands, and at the moment he had a bandana tied around hisorehead. He always wore it while 
he was on a shoot, they had told her, to keep the sweat from getting in his eyes. Despite the Arizona heat 
he wore pants.  Green Khaki's to be exact, and a camo patterned T-shirt.  She was just wondering why he 
never wore shorts, when she tripped over a root running across their path and fell hard on one knee.
	“Ouch!” she cried out, before she had a chance to quiet herself. Quickly she glanced up at the 
giant she had been following, then groaned to herself when she saw him stop and turn to face her.
	“McCoy, what are you doing on the ground?”  he demanded, and strode back towards her.
	She was back on her feet before he reached her, and she was perfectly fine!  Fine, that was, except 
for the big scratch on her knee from the sharp twig she had landed on.  She winced as the skin started to 
burn, and reached into one of her many pockets for something to wipe off the blood. 
	“I'm fine,” she insisted, and resisted the urge to recoil from his touch as he reached out his large 
hand to inspect her wound.  Instead, she held perfectly still as he examined her knee, hoping he wouldn’t be 
able to feel her shaking inside.
	“You'll need to get that washed and bandaged as soon as you get back to camp,” he said, 
straightening to his full height again.  “Try not to get any more dirt in it on the rest of the walk back.”
	“I can do it here,” she said, and pulled a small pouch out of the pocket on the left leg of her shorts.  
Flipping it open she revealed an extremely compact first aid kit, and Simon raised his brow.  He'd wondered 
why she had all those pockets on her shorts.  What else did she have hidden in there? Could it be she was as 
well equipped as Mary Poppins, he wondered, and one side of his mouth crept upwards into just a touch of a 
wry grin as this thought occurred to him.  But she wasn't looking at him, and didn't see it. Quickly he shook 
his head and sighed. 
	“You'd better sit down somewhere before you fall all over again,” he said dryly, looking around 
for somewhere she could perch.  At last he pointed towards a fallen tree, and she made her way to sit on it, 
sticking her leg out straight in front of her so she could see the scratch better. 
	“You should have been watching where you were going,” he said, kneeling in front of her and reaching 
for the pouch.  “What all have you got in this thing?”
	“I was watching you so I didn't lose sight of you,” she reminded him. “You were going so fast I 
didn't have time to look down at the ground.  I can do this myself, I don't need your help!” she announced 
determinedly, but made no further objection as the pouch passed from her hand to his.  He pulled out a 
packaged alcohol swab and ripped it open.  She watched as his large fingers held the tiny square 
and gently rubbed it over the cut on her knee. 
	“It looks pretty clean.  You just need to cover it to keep the dirt out,” he said, looking through 
the pouch as he spoke.
	“Thank you, I can take care of it from here,” she announced, crossing her arms over her chest as he 
pulled a small gauze from the pouch, placed it over her cut and proceeded to tape it to her leg.
	“This will have to do until you get back to camp and get a proper bandage on it,” he said, as he 
flipped the pouch closed and handed it back to her, standing straight again. “Now can you try to keep
 up without hurting yourself this time?”
	“Oh!”  Logan gasped, shooting him a defiant glance.  “Well if you wouldn't race through the 
forest at mach speed, I might at least have a chance!”
	He stared down at her, and Logan felt herself starting to shake even more. Oh sure, she was really 
going to improve things between them by talking like that, she chided herself.  Ripping her gaze away from him 
she steeled her courage and stood up in one swift movement.  Standing, however, made her wince as a sharp 
pain caught her off guard and she swayed slightly.  Before she knew it, his large hand was holding her elbow, 
steadying her.
	“Are you sure it's just that scratch?” he asked, and she shifted her feet, perfecting her most defiant 
stance.  “Did you hit yourself hard enough to damage the bone?”
	“I'm fine. It still stings a bit, that’s all. I'll get used to it.” She shook out her legs slightly, then 
pressed her weight down on it again and stood up straight. “See, I'm fine.”
	“Fine then.”  He spun on his heels and headed off in the direction of their original path, and Logan 
let out a yelp of frustration and followed after him.
	“Simon!  Be reasonable! Slow down a bit, nobody could keep up with you at that pace!”

	Simon grumbled under his breath as he strode through the trees.   The woman annoyed him.  Just 
knowing she was there annoyed him!  What annoyed him even more was that she was right.  He was being 
unreasonable.  He was perfectly capable of strolling through the forest at a leisurely pace, and in fact 
he usually did.  He was at one with nature, and usually he was always on the lookout for any sign of 
life to point his camera at, and barring that, just enjoying what he saw.  That he was barreling through 
the trees at his current pace was totally out of character, especially given the fact that he didn't 
really want to go back to camp in the first place.
	He’d taken an instant dislike to this woman the minute she’d shown up in camp.  He couldn’t put his 
finger on why, she hadn’t done anything particularly annoying to cause it, but the feeling had been there none 
the less.  He’d managed to live with the situation by staying clear of her as much as he could,but now she’d 
spoiled a perfectly good photo shot, one he had been anticipating with every fiber of his body, and dammit, 
he was angry! He didn’t like being angry, and the best way to cope right now was to put as much distance 
as possible between him and the botched shot, and anything remotely related to it.  And that included her.    
	With a muttered curse he pulled back and waited for her to catch up with him, both hands gripping 
the straps of his pack in an attempt to channel his energy into something other than speed.  When she arrived 
at his side, somewhat breathless, 
he focused his attention on his feet, consciously holding back on how fast one went in front of the other.  
	“Thank you,” she said, after they had walked a few yards in tandem.  He glanced down at her and 
watched the scruffy brown boots move with each step, powered by her short bare legs.   She didn’t seem to 
be limping at all. The rhythmic cycle of her leg motion was marred only by the steady flash of white from 
gauze and tape at one knee, which was in striking contrast to her tanned skin.
	Brown, he noted to himself, for the second time since she had shown up at his hiding place.  All 
shades of brown. Skin, clothes, boots, hair.  All brown.  Even her cap, which he supposed had once been 
black, was now an old, sun-faded shade of dingy brownish-grey.  Did the girl ever wear anything other 
than brown?  The white looked good against her skin, he decided, as he watched the taped leg stride 
forward once again. 
	“I’m sorry about the buck,” she said, after they had travelled some distance in silence. 
	He sighed.  Oh sure, this was really what he needed right now, her apology.  He didn’t like anger 
and when he was angry he didn’t like being angry around people.  He preferred to brood alone, until he 
finally got over it. Eventually he would have even gotten over this, but now she had to go and say she 
was sorry, and make him feel all guilty for yelling at her!
	“Don’t worry about it,” he said, staring off into the woods as they walked along side by side. 
	“But I messed up.  You said so yourself.  I didn’t think.  And because of me, you missed the shot 
of a lifetime.”  She sighed, and the sound made him groan somewhere deep inside.  He could handle many 
things.  He could sleep under the stars in a snow cavity at thirty below zero with just a sleeping bag, or 
climb a giant redwood in search of birds’ nests, but he could not handle a woman feeling sorry for herself.  
Especially not because of something he had said!
	“Damn, McCoy, they’re all the shot of a lifetime, every one of them,” he said, shoving his hands deep 
into his pockets.  “I said don’t worry about it.”
	“What do you mean?” She shot a questioning glance up at him, and he rolled his head, taking a deep 
breath. 
	“Look, my camera is like an extension of my soul; my pictures like children.  Every single shot is 
personal to me, and every one of them is special.  But they’re just pictures, McCoy.  Nobody’s going to die 
because I didn’t get that shot of that buck on this day. Forget about it.”  He ended his confession with a sigh, 
and neither of them said anything for a few seconds, then he spoke again. “What did they want me back at 
camp for anyway?  Why couldn’t it have waited ‘til I got there on my own?”
	“Oh, yeah.  That.”  She hesitated, and he sensed she was almost afraid to continue.  When he turned 
to look down at her, he found her looking at him with a worried expression on her face. 
	“What’s going on McCoy?” he demanded, and she tried not to let him see her flinch.  Obviously their 
brief truce was over, and they were back to their normal confrontational relationship, she thought.  
He was going to take this badly no matter who was the bearer of the bad news, so she figured there was no 
need to wait until they got back to camp for him to find out.  Bracing herself for a barrage of words, 
she took a deep breath.
	“They’re pulling the plug,” she said, then glanced quickly up at him trying to judge his reaction. When 
he stopped abruptly she found herself two steps in front of him before she managed to put on the breaks herself. 
	“They’re what?” he demanded.
	“Canceling the project.”
	“Damn!”  He swung around to stare up into the trees, his hands curling into tight fists, though still 
thrust deep into his pockets.   “Damn!” he repeated, spinning in another direction and kicking at a clump of 
earth that had the misfortune to be in his path. Then he turned his penetrating stare on her.  
“What the hell for?”
	Logan frowned.  She wished she had the answer to that question.  She’d been wondering the same 
thing ever since she’d set out from camp to find him. Simon Crestwater was one of the most renowned 
wildlife photographers in all of North America.  His photographs had won international praise. Word was 
he’d agreed to this project at a fraction of his usual fee for this sort of work, though Logan had never 
been told the facts. 
	What she did know was that the Colorado Plateau Project, as it had become known to those 
involved, was an extensive endeavor to photograph as many of the naturally occurring wildlife species 
of the Plateau as possible. The project was a combined effort sponsored by the three Arizona universities, 
The University of Arizona in Tucson, Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff on the Plateau itself, and 
Arizona State University near Phoenix. The project had been in the works for many years, and had nearly 
been shelved for lack of funding until a benefactor of U.A. put up a sizable sum towards the project, 
and suggested that Simon Crestwater would likely offer his services at a discount.
	Logan didn’t know what the connection was, and she had never asked.  When she’d had the 
opportunity to join the project she’d been honoured to be able to work with a photographer whose work she 
admired as much as Simon’s.  
The fact that he’d ignored her as much as possible since her arrival, and that the whole thing was 
irrelevant now anyway since the project was being cancelled, seemed to make her think she was doomed from 
the beginning.
	“All I know is the Universities are pulling out,” she said.  “You’ll have to talk to Zimmerman 
to find out why.”

	The walk back to camp passed in painful silence.  Simon brooded the entire way, and Logan spent 
most of her time watching him, trying to anticipate his actions.  He walked at a steady pace, and Logan was 
able to keep up with him this time, though he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts and she knew better 
than to try to make conversation.  The only break in the silence was the occasional grunted “watch your 
step” and other such courteous comments that seemed to come out of him in a robotic fashion.  
	A few times, as they travelled through the aspen and ponderosa pine, a bird would sing, and Simon’s 
attention would be instantly drawn to the sound.  Logan would notice his hand instinctively reach for his 
pack, and his step falter as his eyes searched the trees, then there would be a grunt or a whispered curse, 
and he would continue on their trek without another word.  The more she watched him, the more she sensed 
how difficult it was for him not to stop and photograph the wildlife he was passing by.  She began to see him in 
a new light.  He was at home in the wild, with the animals, the birds, the mountains and the trees. He would 
be at home anywhere as long as he was with nature, she thought, and it occurred to her that perhaps 
his apparent dislike for her had very little to do with her, and more to do with the fact that she didn’t 
have feathers or fur.
	After hiking in silence for quite some time, they emerged at the top of the canyon wall, overlooking 
a meandering creek below.  Preparing to skirt the edge ‘til they reached the trail where Logan had climbed up 
the canyon wall about an hour earlier, they began to move slower, picking their way carefully along the 
rocky path. 
	Suddenly he stopped, and held his hand out to stop her as well.  He was listening intently, his eyes 
moving around the canyon rim, trying to locate the origin of the rhythmic kwa kwa kwa he had heard. Logan 
tried to see what he was seeing, but she could not.  She wanted to ask him what he was looking for, but she 
dared not.  She’d already done enough damage for one day.  Instead, she stood still as a statue and watched 
as he slowly crouched down, easing his pack off his shoulders.  With the dexterity of one who knew where 
everything was without looking, he extracted his equipment, piece by piece, from the pack without taking his 
eyes off the trees.  Slowly he assembled the camera and telephoto lens and lifted it to his eyes, carefully 
resting the lens’s single legged support on the ground.  Logan held her breath as he crouched stone still, hardly 
breathing, at one with the camera.
	After what seemed like hours but was only a minute or two, he waved her towards him, motioning for 
her to get down and move very slowly, pointing to the ground beside him.  She crept in close beside him, and 
was surprised when he moved his head away from the camera and whispered for her to take a look. His arm was 
steady, and when she looked through the viewfinder of his camera, the lens was expertly trained on the large, 
red-breasted bird perched in a sycamore tree on the canyon wall.  Mixed with the red, was a white breast 
band, flanked by grey wings.  The orange eye rings and bright yellow beak stood out against the darker head 
of the bird that flowed into the emerald green throat feathers. It was perched perfectly upright, it’s long, 
copper coloured tail hanging straight down, sitting completely motionless.  Logan was surprised that Simon 
had even found it.
	“What is it?” she whispered, breathlessly. 
	“It’s an Elegant Trogon,” he said, his own voice low and calm.  “They call them Arizona’s most 
famous bird.  That one’s a male, you can tell by the red.  Females have a softer pink breast and a brown 
body, and their eye ring is white instead of orange.”
	“How did you know it was there?” she asked, in awe.
	“I heard its call.  There must be a nest around somewhere.  They usually nest in dead or 
dying sycamores.”  His voice was calm as he explained this to her, and she realized just how much he 
enjoyed sharing his knowledge. 
	As she returned her attention to the bird, it spread its wings and took flight.  Taking her eyes 
away from the camera and looking out over the canyon she saw it, finally, flying along the canyon wall.  
While it had been still she would never have known it was there without the telephoto. 
	“You got pictures of it?” she asked, breathlessly, afraid she had wasted time he could have 
used for the shoot. 
	“Got them before I let you look,” he assured her, and replaced his equipment in his pack before 
he stood to his full height again.  “Let’s go, McCoy, before Zimmerman sends out a damned search party.”
	Logan sighed. With the flight of the bird the spell was broken.  It was back to the indifferent man 
trudging through the forest paying little or no attention to her.  For the little time it had lasted, the interlude 
with his camera had been the most pleasant exchange they had shared since her arrival three days earlier.  
It would probably be the only one, she thought.  Once they arrived back at camp and Jake Zimmerman let the 
axe fall, the group would disperse.  Then she’d likely never see Simon Crestwater again.  For a 
budding hotographer like herself, working with him had been a dream.  That her dream was going to end up 
comprising a whole four minutes looking at a Trogon through the lens of his camera was, to say the least, a little disappointing.
	“Where do the Universities fit into this equation anyway, Simon?” she asked, as they picked their 
way down the wall of the canyon.  Whether she was going to upset him by asking questions was pretty much 
irrelevant now.  She’d be out of his hair in a few hours anyway, so why not ask what she’d been wondering 
all along.
	“They provided the funding,” he said flatly.  “This was classified as a research project, but none 
of them had enough funds to set it in motion on their own.  Pooling their resources was the only answer.”
	“But I heard they stalled on the project for years before they finally gave it the OK.”
	He nodded, and gave her a glance over his shoulder. “That’s because they couldn’t afford a 
photographer,” he said, and she thought she saw a grin almost creep across his lips before it was gone 
again.  “They had their own research people for the field team.  Students working on their thesis 
and the like. You’re probably one of them.”  He made the statement without seeming concerned whether 
she answered his assumption or not, and went on. “But for a project of this magnitude they needed a 
professional photographer and they didn’t have enough money to hire one.”
	“But they hired you.”  Logan pointed out.
	“They hired me,” he agreed, flatly.  “On contract.  A contract that apparently is about to be 
broken, if what you told me is true.  A contract that was funded by the University of Arizona through a 
benefactor donation earmarked  specifically for my salary.”  Logan could not mistake the bitterness in his 
voice, and she decided not to ask any more questions.  They walked in silence for a while longer, until Logan 
heard him utter a curse under his breath and he stopped dead in his tracks.
	“I’ve half a mind not to go back,” he said, and by his tone, Logan wasn’t sure if he were really 
talking to her, or just talking to himself out loud.  He stood for a long time, scanning the canyon rim, then 
he sighed, and turned to look at her, as if he had just remembered she was there.  He gave her a quick glance 
from head to toe, almost as if he were looking at her for the first time, then turned away again.
	“If I didn’t have to look out for Hector Shellington’s money, I wouldn’t go back!”  he announced, 
staring up at the sky that was painted with lazy sprays of white. “But I don’t trust Jake Zimmerman as far 
as I can throw him.”  With that, he started walking again, in a stride that was now driven by a hidden purpose, 
and Logan quietly scrambled behind him.  He had no time for idle chit-chat right now.  He had to think.