Sweet Wild of Mine

by Laurel Kerr

  “June?” Nan’s voice was high…too high.

  “Yes, Nana?” June gave a reassuring smile.

  The woman blinked owlishly. First confusion and then fear slid over her petite features. She looked around wildly as if she could pull the answers from the air. “I—I don’t remember.”

  “That’s okay, Nan.” June stepped from behind the counter and led her grandmother to a nearby rocking chair. Thank goodness Owen Harris, Stanley’s grandson, had given her a good deal on the gliders he made and sold to tourists. With Nan’s flagging energy, June had installed one in the tea shop, the kitchen, and even in the upstairs apartment where June lived. She didn’t know how she would have afforded them if Stanley hadn’t told Owen that Nan was getting sore using the straight-backed chairs in the tea shop, and Owen had agreed to make the rockers in return for free breakfast for a year. And that is what June loved about small towns—neighbors being neighborly.

  June patted Nan’s hand before she returned to her station behind the counter. “You just sit there and let me know what your question is when you think of it.”

  Suddenly, like the sky after the rain clouds departed, her grandmother’s face brightened. Her hazel eyes sharpened, and her old aplomb returned. “Did I hear an Orcadian accent?”

  June felt her mouth twist into an uncharacteristic grimace. “Yes, Nan, you did.”

  Her grandmother’s eyes sparkled, the overhead fluorescent lights capturing glints of green and gold in her irises. “Was he the young man who wrote that lovely book about the Isles?”

  June nodded again. “Magnus Gray in the flesh.”

  “I’m sorry I missed him, dear. What was he like?”

  “Grumpy as the day is long. He’s got a temper worse than a wildcat with its tail in a knot.”

  Nan sighed as she pushed back on the rocker. “I remember his great-grandfather, Rognvald Gray, being a difficult man. He rarely came to the pub, not like the other crofters. His son, Magnus’s grandfather, was off fighting in the war, but folks said he was just the same as his da. Liked to keep to himself.”

  “Well, the apple certainly doesn’t fall far from the family tree. The grandson nearly bit off my head just for being friendly. Twice!”

  Nan shook her head as she reached for a knitting bag. June had placed one by each rocking chair. Her grandmother had always liked her projects, and June wanted to keep the woman’s mind active. Nan had been skipping stitches and messing up patterns lately, but at least it kept her busy. As long as her grandmother focused on one task, her thoughts seemed to stabilize instead of flitting madly about like a tipsy butterfly.

  “In his first books, Magnus Gray had the soul of a poet,” June’s grandmother continued as she pulled out a skein of yellow yarn. “Some were calling him the next Sir Walter Scott. Then he started writing about the London pub scene, and his prose turned to rubbish. It grew drearier than a hard winter on the Isles.”

  June chuckled at her nan’s description. The elderly British expat had been born and raised mostly in London, but her adolescence in Orkney had sewn a thread of romance into her otherwise staid English soul. June got most of her colorful speech from her southern mama, but she’d learned a thing or two from her gran as well.

  “He sure seemed cranky,” Buck said, interjecting himself into the conversation as he leaned back in his chair.

  Nan clicked her tongue off the roof of her mouth as she cast on stitches to make a scarf, her specialty these days. Soon June was going to have to set up a stand by the counter to sell them. If not, she and her grandmother wouldn’t be able to fit anything else into their closets.

  “I was hoping I could talk to him about the island,” Nan said wistfully as she began to knit in earnest. Although her hands didn’t fly as quickly as they had even a few months ago, the sureness in her movements brought a little peace to June’s soul. It was a reassuring sight, watching her nan work the needles with practiced competency. Her grandmother kept talking as a yellow scarf with twisted cables began to form. “I haven’t been back to Tammay since before my Oliver passed away fifteen years ago. He took me there for our thirtieth anniversary. We met on the island right after the war. He was a young American pilot and full of brash Yankee swagger.”

  “Western swagger,” June corrected with a fond smile, just as her grandpa used to.

  Nan waved her knitting, but June detected a grin lurking under her gran’s feigned annoyance. She’d always done the same to Pop Pop.

  “Tell me about living in the Isles,” June said, even though she’d heard the stories countless times. Growing up all over creation as an airman’s daughter, she’d craved roots. She’d finally found them when she’d visited her nan and grandfather here in Pop Pop’s hometown of Sagebrush Flats. The Winters had helped settle the town, even though her branch always ended up joining the military and spending their middle years wandering the world. But a connection with the local history hadn’t been the only reason June had always felt at home when visiting her grandparents. It was the tales they would tell. June had loved hearing about her grandmother’s teen years in Orkney where she’d lived with a great-aunt to escape the German bombs raining down on London.

  This time, though, June had an ulterior motive for requesting Nan’s old stories. Similar to knitting, talking about the past seemed to center her grandmother. As her gran rocked back and forth, her gnarled fingers danced along with the knitting needles, and the words flowed from her lips. Customers came in and out of the store. Some of them listened, some of them didn’t. Stanley and Buck returned to their own conversation. June paid attention with half an ear as she handled the morning rush. As she passed Louisa Thompson a poppy-seed scone and Darjeeling tea mixed with milk and honey, June made a vow. She would get Magnus Gray to talk to her nan, even if she had to hunt the man down and truss him up like a prize heifer at the county rodeo.

  * * *

  Magnus arrived at the zoo in a sour mood. Instead of a hearty Scots’ breakfast at the Primrose, Magnolia & Thistle, he’d scarfed down weak tea and overly sweet French toast drowned in maple syrup. Unfortunately, he doubted the thin slices of cured pork that the Yanks called bacon would keep him full until dinner.

  At least one thing was going his way, though. Since it was the middle of the week in January, the zoo was deserted. Magnus felt his shoulder muscles unhunch as he wound his way through the animal enclosures. Finally, peace. Quiet. Solitude. This was why he’d chosen to volunteer during the winter. That, and he didn’t want to haul feed under the desert sun in August.

  Gravel crunched under his feet as he followed the directions the owner had given him to the main zoo building. At the sound, a pack of disgruntled llamas and two camels picked up their heads. Magnus paused, watching the odd-looking animals as they chewed their breakfast. He could write about their snaggletoothed grins studded with straw. There was something endearingly comedic about the two species. They reminded him of cows: same big, liquid eyes, same grinding eating motion, same food. The camelids were knobbier creatures, though, all legs and bumpy knees.

  He’d read about the female camel, Lulubelle, on the zoo’s website. The animal park claimed she’d been lovelorn until she’d met her mate, Hank. All shite, but the public loved it. According to her profile, Lulubelle was pregnant, but even knowing nothing about camels, Magnus would have noticed she was up the duff with her swollen belly and her lumbering, uneven gait. Glancing between her hind legs, Magnus saw her udder was swollen with milk. Her bairn would be along any time now.

  Magnus scratched Lulubelle’s woolly neck, and something inside him seemed to slide back into place like a latch on an old metal gate. He’d missed this, he realized. The simplicity of animal husbandry. He’d never felt nostalgic for his childhood. It had been rough, dreich, and devoid of comfort…and not just because of the drafty crofter’s cottage he’d called home. Yet something about the mix of hay, manure, and animal scent whisp
ered to him. Balanced him. Perhaps this wouldn’t be the hell he’d imagined.

  Lulubelle emitted a contented, low, rumbling bray that reminded him slightly of a horse’s. Magnus smiled. “You’re a fine lass, you are.” His stutter never troubled him when he spoke to the beasties. When his da was out on the trawler, Magnus used to blether on and on to the cows and the horses. Aye, they’d been his first audience. If it hadn’t been for them listening to his descriptions of his day, he might never have become a writer.

  Magnus pulled back to stare into the camel’s soulful eyes. They reminded him keenly of Sorcha’s, one of his da’s Highland cows. He hadn’t thought of her in years, but she’d been his favorite. She’d come running up to him whenever he passed the pasture, probably because he’d sneak her treats when his da couldn’t see. In trying to bury the terrible memories of his youth, he’d discarded the good ones too. Giving the camel one last pat goodbye, he made a promise to himself. When he returned to London, he was going to find himself a dog.

  Walking around the bend, he spotted a bear lounging on a fairly good facsimile of a rock. By the animal’s contented expression, he wondered if the structure was heated. He paused for a moment, leaning up against the rail to watch the blissful beastie. By its size, girth, and color, he guessed the animal was a grizzly, and he was partial to any bruin after raising two polar bear cubs.

  The massive creature shifted. It turned rheumy eyes in Magnus’s direction as it sniffed the air. Magnus grinned at the faint snuffling sounds. The elderly animal was having trouble spotting him, but there was no doubt he’d been scented.

  “Good morning,” Magnus said, and the bear snorted in response.

  “I’m sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

  A rumbling sound emerged from the grizzly as it tried to settle back down on its rock. It did not appear to be successful. After shifting for several minutes, the animal clamored to its feet with a beleaguered groan. Shaking its limbs, it began to pad around its enclosure.

  “I’ll bring you a treat if Bowie Wilson will let me,” Magnus promised.

  The bear did not appear to be impressed. It shot Magnus a rather accusing glance as it lumbered back to its rock. It sank down, this time finding a better spot. With a happy sigh, the grizzly rested its chin on its massive paws.

  Magnus smiled at the sight. He lingered a bit longer, enjoying the animal’s newfound happiness as he felt his own sense of peace creep through him. Aye, he’d spent too much time away from other living creatures.

  “You’re here early.” The male voice was friendly and vaguely familiar.

  Magnus turned to find Bowie Wilson walking up the path. He recognized the zookeeper from his online videos. Magnus had spotted him at the Prairie Dog last night, but he hadn’t wanted to bother with small talk. Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned on the blond menace.

  “Aye,” Magnus replied. He could always form that word without hesitation. Through the years, he’d accumulated a library of phrases that saw him through most short interactions. Since Magnus avoided longer conversations, it generally worked.

  “I see you’ve met Frida. She’s our grizzly and one of our oldest residents. You probably saw Lulubelle, our camel, too. Since everyone passes by her paddock first, she’s become our unofficial greeter. She’s also the friendliest animal here, although our capybara, Sylvia, is a sweetheart too.” The zookeeper had an easy smile, and his affection for the zoo residents flooded his voice. Magnus could respect that. Through the years, he’d learned that the way a man treated the beasties under his care was a reflection of his soul.

  Magnus grunted to fill the silence. He’d learned people generally liked to hear themselves talk. As long as he gave them some encouragement, they’d carry on and never notice he hadn’t actually uttered a word.

  “I thought we’d start with a tour,” Bowie said. “You can get to know the animals, and then we can go over what your volunteer duties will be. You said you don’t mind shoveling manure or lugging around feed.”

  “Aye.”

  Bowie flashed a broad smile, showing off the perfect teeth that all Americans seemed to have. He was a handsome bloke with black hair and gray eyes. If he wasn’t already married, he’d be an ideal match for the tea shop owner. They’d make fair bonny bairns, they would.

  “It’s great having a male volunteer,” Bowie continued, his tone perfectly pitched to be cheerful and welcoming. It was the voice of a man accustomed to dealing with the public. “I appreciate any help I can get, but most of my usual assistants are high-school girls who aren’t strong enough for the more physically demanding chores.”

  Magnus nodded, and Bowie kept talking. “Don’t worry, though. This job won’t just be about hauling stuff. This morning, I finally got the call from the Alliance for Polar Life.”

  Magnus jerked his head in Bowie’s direction. He’d worked with the Norwegian branch of the APL when he’d rescued polar bear cubs during his time as a roughneck. When his editor had suggested he volunteer at the Sagebrush Zoo, Magnus had been pleased to learn the animal park had received a grant to care for a cub that was not a candidate for rehabilitation.

  Magnus started to say bear, but he could sense he was going to block on the b. Quickly, he switched the word. “Cub?”

  “Yeah.” Bowie nodded. “Oil exploration near dens up in Alaska scared off a lot of new moms. APL has too many bears to take care of right now. They’re going to send us a female cub who was born late in the season.”

  Magnus whistled. In the wild, polar bears gave birth between November and December. Since it was early January, the bairn must be very young. Magnus started to say just that, but he felt his throat muscles tighten as he tried to say must be, so instead he got out, “She a…wee cub, aye?”

  Bowie luckily didn’t notice Magnus’s hesitation or the slightly incorrect syntax. Instead, the man nodded. “She’s about a month old, and the APL is struggling to provide round-the-clock care for all the abandoned young.”

  Magnus jerked his chin again. The group focused on research and wasn’t staffed as a rescue center. Although they’d given him advice on how to care for the orphans he’d found, they hadn’t had the manpower to care for those cubs either. Plus, the oil rig had been too far north to easily extract the cubs. The other roughnecks had initially given Magnus a hard time about being a polar bear mum, but eventually they’d all helped. The bairns had become his crew’s mascots until they were able to be relocated to a zoo.

  “The cub’s eyes are open, but she’s still pretty young,” Bowie said, his voice softening as he spoke of the wee bear before returning to its crisper, more professional tone. “It’s going to be intense in the beginning.”

  Magnus responded with a shrug. He’d taken care of cubs in the middle of the Arctic while working fourteen days straight; he could handle caring for one while doing odd jobs around a small animal park. Hard work didn’t fash him. It would only improve his book.

  “We’re not too big a zoo, but we are growing,” Bowie said as he started walking again with the confident stride of a man who ran his own operation. Pride seeped from him as he kept talking. “In the last year, we’ve gotten some grants, and we’re starting to rebuild our reputation for providing care for abandoned young and unwanted exotic pets.”

  “Aye,” Magnus said. He’d done his research when his editor had ordered him to come here.

  “Part of it is because of this sweet girl.”

  Magnus looked inside the pen in front of him. A kidney-shaped creature lounged in a heated pool of water. She looked as content as Magnus felt tucked away in a corner of a pub enjoying a good whiskey.

  “That’s Sylvia, our capybara who I was just telling you about. She mothers all of our orphans.”

  Intrigued, Magnus stared at the odd-looking animal. He’d read her profile on the zoo’s website. The surreal picture of Sylvia as a flower girl at Bowie and his wife’s weddi
ng had drawn Magnus’s attention when he’d been clicking through the zoo’s web pages, but it was the animal’s habit of adopting motherless creatures that had truly intrigued him. Strange how a member of a wild species—and a rodent, no less—could have a greater natural affinity for nurturing than many a human.

  Neither of Magnus’s parents had shown any instinct for caring for him, their only offspring. His mum might have been the only one to physically abandon him, but his da had been more interested in keeping their livestock alive than he’d been in raising Magnus. His da’s way of parenting was to assign chores and give his son a smack or two if they weren’t done fast enough for his liking. And when Magnus had stuttered…

  Magnus pushed abruptly away from the fence. He started moving forward, hoping Bowie would understand that he wanted to press on. He didn’t feel like trying to form words. Luckily, Bowie understood the unspoken signal. They walked in silence until Magnus turned the bend.

  “Fuck me.”

  “Yep, that was pretty much my response when animal control brought them here.”

  Magnus stared in disbelief at the huge herd of goats milling about their pen. The blighted creatures had eaten every possible living thing in their enclosure, leaving only red dirt behind. Knowing goats, they’d probably tried eating that too. One of the dobbers caught sight of Magnus and stared him down with an evil glint in its unholy eyes. Although Magnus might have been feeling nostalgic for the farm animals on the croft, he’d never miss these cloven-footed devils. They had a scream like an enraged banshee and a foul temper to match. One of his da’s old billy goats used to stick his head through the wooden gate just to eat the same damn gorse that grew in his paddock. His horns would prevent him from pulling his head back through, and he’d bellow bloodcurdling cries until someone rescued him.