I wasn’t trying to endanger anyone.

I was trying to educate them.

Back inside the cabin, I moved through each room, locked windows, turned off unnecessary power, set the thermostat to minimal heat—protecting my investment while setting my trap.

I paused at the door, took one last look at the space I’d inhabited for less than three days, and left without hesitation.

The drive back to Denver took about five hours, dropping me from high country back into suburban sprawl, fast-food chains, and endless lanes of traffic. I arrived at my old house just before midnight. I still owned it—I hadn’t sold it yet—so it sat partially furnished, but hollow.

I unloaded my truck, set up my laptop in the living room, propped my phone where I could watch the camera feeds. Then I waited.

Friday morning at 10:00, a sedan appeared on my phone screen, rolling up my Wyoming driveway in crisp morning light. Leonard and Grace stepped out, dressed for what they must have thought was rustic inconvenience, not real wilderness.

They looked around with expressions I recognized even on the small display—displeasure, judgment, a quiet calculation of how much they’d have to tolerate.

The camera microphone picked up their voices.

“This is where he’s living now?” Grace wrinkled her nose. “It smells like pine and dirt.”

“At least it’s free,” Leonard said, walking toward the cabin. “We’ll stay a few months. Let Cornelius figure out the next step. I don’t see why we had to come all the way out—”

Grace stopped. Froze.

“Leonard,” she whispered. “Wolves.”

Three shapes emerged from the northwest tree line. Gray and brown bodies moved with cautious purpose toward the meat piles. Not aggressive, not interested in humans—just hungry.

Leonard saw them and turned white.

“Get in the car. Get in the car now.”

They ran. Grace stumbled, recovered. Car doors slammed. The engine started, and gravel sprayed as they reversed wildly, then accelerated down the driveway, back toward the highway and their neat front-yard lawns somewhere far away from Wyoming.

The wolves, unbothered, continued toward the meat.

I closed the laptop and picked up my coffee. Took a slow sip.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.

“What did you do?” Cornelius’s voice had lost its businesslike edge. Now it was just fury. “My parents nearly got attacked.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said calmly. “I warned you this property is in the wilderness. You set this up.”

“You baited those animals.”

“Cornelius, I live in wolf country. Wolves live here. This is their home. Maybe you should have asked before assuming you could use mine as a retirement home for your parents.”

“You’re insane. I’m going to—”

“You’re going to what?” I asked quietly. “Sue me because wildlife exists on my property? Good luck with that.”

“This isn’t over,” he snapped.

“No,” I said, “it’s just beginning.”

I pressed “End Call,” set the phone down deliberately, reopened the laptop, and watched the wolves finish the meat and disappear back into the forest.

Outside my Denver window, the mountains rose in the distance, blue and distant. Somewhere up there, my cabin waited. I’d been planning defense—but sitting there, watching the recording one more time, I realized something had shifted.

This wasn’t about defense anymore.

Two weeks passed before Cornelius made his next move. I spent those days settling into the routine I’d imagined—splitting my time between Denver and Wyoming while I tied up loose ends. Coffee on the cabin porch at dawn, watching elk drift through the clearing. Reading books I’d postponed for decades.

But the peace felt conditional now, like standing on ice that might crack. I checked my phone more than I wanted to, kept the camera feeds open on my laptop, listened for vehicles on the dirt road.

Mid-April brought warmer afternoons and the first serious wildflowers along the shoulders of the Wyoming highways, purple and yellow against the brown. I was splitting firewood beside the cabin when my phone rang.

“Dad, please.” Bula’s voice broke on the second word. She was crying. “Cornelius showed me the footage of the wolves. That could have been so much worse.”

I set down the axe and walked to the porch, looking out over the clearing that had nearly hosted my uninvited guests.

“Bula, honey, wolves live in these mountains. I didn’t create that situation. I warned Cornelius this wasn’t appropriate housing for his parents.”

“But you knew they were coming. You could have done something to make it safer.”

The script was obvious. Every phrase sounded rehearsed, coached. My daughter turned into his messenger.

“I bought this property for solitude,” I said, keeping my voice level. “No one asked if I was willing to host guests. But I’m willing to meet with Leonard and Grace to discuss options.”

“You are?” Hope flooded her tone. “Really?”

“I’ll meet them in town,” I said. “Neutral ground. We’ll talk.”

After we hung up, I stood watching clouds move across the mountains. She genuinely believed she was helping. That made it worse.

Two days later, I drove to Cody for the meeting. I’d spent both evenings preparing, researching comparable rental prices for rural Wyoming properties, printing three copies of a standard short-term rental agreement, reviewing property law basics on my laptop. I practiced my presentation in the truck mirror that morning, testing different phrasings until I found the right balance—firm but not hostile, clear but not cold.

The Grizzly Peak Café sat on Main Street, small and local—wooden tables, landscape photographs of Yellowstone and the Tetons on the walls, big windows facing passing pickups and tourists in rental SUVs.