Amarok licked her face, making Emma jump. She smiled sadly and wiped the saliva off with the back of her hand. “So, you do still like me. Don’t you?” She hugged his neck. “At least I still have you.”
The man stopped a few yards ahead. “Get moving!”
Emma stood, wiped the tears blurring her vision, and forced herself onward. Amarok stayed nearby, nipping at her hands and nudging her playfully when she grew tired. Up ahead, Emma heard the hypnotic rush of water. She licked her dry lips and swallowed hard as she hurried down the narrow trail. Amarok squeezed past her, loping ahead. Emma jogged after him, ducking under a series of low-hanging branches. They came to a rocky area where a rushing waterfall flowed into a mossy stream. For a moment Emma stood still, lulled by the roar of the water’s liquid blade cutting down the glacial mountainside. She leaned against the rocks and guzzled from the cool, clear brook, swallowing the refreshing liquid until her belly hurt. Emma doubted she’d ever tasted anything so cold and pure.
The man filled a large canteen and stuffed it into his pack. As Amarok drank from one of the smaller pools, Emma noticed something golden reflecting in the translucent water. She knelt near Amarok for a closer look and spotted a flash of red. A school of tiny fish drifted peacefully, occasionally flashing bits of white when they opened their mouths to feed on bits of moss. Hypnotized by the soothing sound of the flowing water and tranquil dance of minnows, she almost forgot how much she had grown to hate water. After her mother’s death, she hated all rivers, all lakes and streams. They stood as symbols of something taken from her. But now, gazing at the small fish, with the refreshing liquid energizing her body, she saw that water could also give life.
“Don’t just sit there gawking all day! Get a move on!” the man barked, interrupting the serene moment.
Emma turned to leave when she spotted something near Amarok’s paw. “Oh, my God!”
The man jerked to a stop. “What?”
Emma pointed to a huge footprint in the mud. “What kind of a track is that?”
The man peered at the print and grumbled underneath his breath. “Bear track. A big one.” He sneered at Emma. “Better keep up or it might get ya.”
Emma gawked at the track, eyes wide with fright. The indents from the giant claws were at least six inches long.
A vein throbbed in the man’s forehead and he ground his teeth together. He mashed the track into the mud with the tip of his boot, and then turned and stomped down the trail. “Get a move on!” he barked.
He seemed more agitated than usual, pressing them on at a faster pace. Emma’s nerves knotted at the thought of a bear attack. What had they taught her at school? Drop and play dead? Run downhill? A wave of fear coursed through her. She couldn’t remember! She glanced at Amarok, who’d seemed filled with vigor since his recent meal. He gazed at her and his large yellow eyes filled with affection. Emma’s nerves settled. Amarok would never let anything hurt her. She wasn’t sure how or why she felt this way. He was, after all, just a wolf, but he seemed to want to protect her. Even when she was sad, he somehow sensed it.
They continued northward down the flank of the mountain. Amarok trotted at Emma’s side, veering off every so often into the trees, only to return moments later. Every time he strayed it filled Emma with unease. An unfamiliar wave of vulnerability washed over her. She was strong, she was smart, and she had more guts than most people. Even so, Emma knew she couldn’t survive without the wolf’s protection.
12
By nightfall they crossed into a wide valley at the edge of the sea. Ice floes glittered in the pale moonlight, winking as if heaped with diamonds. Amarok paused, surveying the valley, uneasy to be in the open expanse. He much preferred the safety of the mountains, the shelter of trees. He knew the trail would lead them back to the safety of the timber, but he remained vigilant.
The girl stumbled several times on the trail and Amarok’s heart filled with concern. He knew she must be exhausted. She’d been through so much, yet she proved to have an iron will. A fighter. He admired her courage. Yet her fearlessness with death concerned him, as if she longed for it as a way to escape her sorrow. If only he could make her see she had so much to live for, but how could he ever do that?
Amarok stood still and sniffed the wind, letting the girl and man pass by him. A dark shadow sailed overhead. Amarok spotted an owl sailing across the milky sky, circling over his head before disappearing into the night. Something about it caused him to pause as he watched it disappear, leaving a single, silver feather spiraling to the ground. The object landed at his front paw and Amarok studied it carefully. He gently gathered the feather between his teeth and tucked it into a strap at his shoulder.
Hours later, they made camp at the base of Wolverine Range, with the night so cold Amarok feared the girl might freeze to death before Weasel Tail managed to build an adequate fire. She’d need to rest for the next day’s journey. He knew she must be hungry, if not starving, by this time. She fell asleep quickly, wrapped in a scrap of caribou hide Weasel Tail kept in his pack. Amarok watched over her as she slept, tucking himself around her for warmth, keeping guard until sleep pulled his eyes closed.
He thought about what the girl had told him, how much pain she carried over the death of her mother. He knew what it was like to lose someone he loved more than life. It seemed all he’d ever done was lose. First his father and mother and then his human life. It seemed so unfair. And yet he lived on and on by the same evil that had murdered everyone he loved. Even in wolf form, he was glad to be alive, his lifespan reaching far enough to have met this beautiful girl, to have experienced her gentle touch on his wretched hide.
Perhaps to feel love again.
13
Emma woke the next morning so cold and stiff she could hardly move. Weasel Tail had boiled water over the fire and made something that smelled like coffee, although she’d never drink any of it, not that he’d offered. Something brushed against her hand and she frowned. A single white feather caressed her skin. Emma picked it up. Where had it come from? Resting a few feet away, Emma saw Amarok watching her. There was a soft expression in his eyes—a mischievous glow. Could the wolf have given her the feather as a gift? She picked it up and twirled it by the stem. The wolf’s ears perked playfully. Emma smiled. So, maybe it had been the wolf, after all.
The man kicked dirt and snow over the fire and emptied his cup into the waning embers. Steam hissed into the air and Emma got to her feet, blowing warm air over her hands. She stepped back as the man rolled up the hides and shoved them into his pack. She wondered when it would ever end. She didn’t know how much longer she could handle the cold and the endless journey.
The wolf jogged to her and sat at her feet. Emma tucked the feather behind her ear, rubbed Amarok’s head, and surveyed the area. They’d camped at the base of a mountain range not far from the sea. Even if she managed to escape now, she’d have no idea which way was home, unless the wolf helped her, but he seemed to be under total control of the creep. Why didn’t he fight back more? Why did he return after hunting instead of just running away?
Emma wondered if the wolf missed his pack as much as she missed her mother. Maybe he’d never known his wolf pack. At least she’d gotten to have a mother until she was seventeen, almost grown. But it wasn’t long enough. She wanted more time and that just wasn’t possible.
14
They crunched along the frosty trail leading to the Wolverine Mountains. Prospectors had cursed this long trek to the remote mountain range as a backbreaker, full of devil’s-claw, icy fords, deadfalls, and avalanches. Amarok worried about the girl and how lightly dressed she was, even though it was still early fall. Amarok’s mind stretched back to a time when the mercury in the thermometer outside old man Ryan’s door had frozen solid at nearly forty-degrees below zero in late October. Now, the weather patterns were less extreme but still unpredictable. It could turn for the worse at any time, and the girl would be unprepared—perhaps even die from exposure. Fear craw
led over him. He could barely protect himself, let alone another creature, in the remote Alaskan wilds.
Wildlife tracks, rimmed with ice, littered the trail. Frost glistened along the bases of spruce trees and fallen birch leaves shivered under the steady beat of polar winds. Heavy rain clouds seethed overhead and soon unloaded their heavy burdens in a violent, chilly downpour. They took shelter under a natural lean-to made of brush and deadfall, waiting out the storm. Amarok was glad for the break—the girl needed it. She’d grown paler and wearier the longer she’d staggered up the trail. Still, she’d used what energy she’d had to run her fingers along his back, to stroke his head, or to see where he’d gone when he veered off the path. He’d never strayed very far, knowing the girl needed him. He much preferred her company to scouting the landscape.
After the rain stopped, they traveled for hours until exhaustion forced them to stop for the night. They set up camp in a tree line, near the frigid banks of an oxbow lake. The wind rushed over the small encampment, threatening to stifle the waning flames of the campfire. Amarok curled up next to the girl, and she wrapped her arm around his weary hide. She lay so still beside him, her breath feathering his ruff, appearing to sleep the deep, dreamless slumber of total exhaustion. Amarok, however, didn’t sleep. His gaze continuously swept across the storm-blasted expanse. What his eyes couldn’t see, his other senses would tell him. He tasted the wind and, although it gave him no clue, he knew Suka lurked somewhere in the darkness. Hungry. Hunting. Hating.
Amarok longed to rise and scout the outskirts of the camp, but the girl needed his warmth. When he’d tried, she’d stirred and clasped onto him tighter. He didn’t want to disturb her sleep. She’d need all the energy she had in order to survive. Amarok spied Weasel Tail, also awake, with his arm around his rifle. He’d moved to the other side of the fire. Amarok had sensed the man’s fear from the moment he spotted Suka’s track in the shallow pool. If the bear attacked, Amarok would keep his focus on protecting the girl and let the man fend for himself.
He thought of the misery the girl endured. She was like a sparrow with broken wings, kicked out of the comfort of the nest. He understood the razor-sharp pain that cut into her soul, the guilt and utter despair. How could she believe she was to blame? The girl was a kind-hearted person with a nurturing soul. If only he could tell her she wasn’t the cause of any of it. Amarok laid his head on his paws, overcome with emotions as rugged and raw as the glacier-ridden mountains before him.
At dawn Amarok got to his feet, careful not to disturb the girl, and worked his way to a high perch on a steep hillside. He peered down upon the earth, into the ice-choked canyons and across to the barren tundra valley. So many winters had passed before his eyes, and as the seasons changed, his life remained much the same. Throughout his long servitude, he’d missed the companionship of another human being. Cruel Abe Ryan could hardly be called a companion and his grandson, Weasel Tail, was a man to be hated. But Suka, with his bloodlust, was a breed of crazy that Amarok feared more than anything else.
When Amarok was young, he never knew such people existed; he’d only read stories of villains in Wild West tales. His legs trembled as he remembered the dreadful look in his father’s eyes when they’d crossed paths with Suka on the way to check their trap lines. Suka stood at the edge of the trail, partially concealed in the bushes, his flannel shirt stained with sweat and blood. He clutched a doll in one hand and a knife in the other. Coins glistened in sun, protruding from a jagged slash in the doll’s back.
The wild, piercing look in Suka’s eyes made Amarok’s neck stiffen. Suka held the knife in front of him, waving it at them as they passed at a healthy distance. Later, word came that Suka had murdered a woman and her four children for gold—slashing their throats. No wonder his shirt had been soaked in blood.
Amarok closed his eyes, blocking out the haunting image.
A voice sang out his name, carried softly on an arctic breeze. Amarok stood still and listened, hearing the girl’s call. He wheeled and ran to the campsite. She greeted him with a smile, patting her leg, beckoning him to her side. Amarok loped to her, sinking to his haunches as she hugged his neck.
15
Emma’s kidnapper had jumped when she yelled for the wolf. He seemed more anxious than ever before, narrowing his eyes, glaring at her as she stroked Amarok’s fur. The man stood completely still. His gaze slid away, darting over the landscape, endlessly scanning. Minutes slipped past, and Emma wondered if he’d ever move again. A few minutes later, he turned his back and stomped into the brush. Emma thought about making a break for it, but he quickly returned, zipping up his pants. He shoved the caribou hides they’d slept on into his pack and kicked snow over what remained of the fire.
Overhead, an owl soared across the early morning sky, its white winter plumage a pale discoloration against the gloomy clouds. It swooped low, sailing several times over Amarok’s head as if following him, watching him, and then disappeared into the gray horizon. Emma ran her fingers over the silky feather, safely tucking it behind her ear.
They traveled in the same direction as the bird, heading north at a hard pace. Rain drizzled from the sky again, which made the trek even worse. Wet and cold were a harsh mix in the arctic. Emma could never get warm enough with the polar winds and the constant dampness. Her hair stuck to her skull like a helmet. She would’ve given anything for a hot shower. She hated smelling like smoke, hated the grime on her face and hands, but most of all, she hated smelling like him—the man who’d taken away her last shimmer of hope. No matter what, she would make him pay. She’d make things hard for him; she’d never be a willing participant in his sick plan. Mule-stubborn, she’d dig her heels in, like she’d done with Stan. And just like Stan, this man would never make her do what he wanted. He could never break her will—she’d gladly die first.
The rain disappeared around noon, when they entered an area clogged with deadfall and thick clumps of underbrush. Emma crossed a fallen log, and a sheer pain jabbed into her foot. “Ouch!” She hopped on one leg. “Can we stop for a second? There’s something wrong with my heel.”
The man stopped, swiveled around slowly and narrowed his eyes to slits. “You got two minutes. Better make it quick.” He leaned against a boulder, arms folded, leering at her.
Emma balanced against the trunk of a spruce tree, slipped off her boot, pulled her sock down, and winced. Angry blisters, red and raw, swelled across her ankle. She eased the sock back over her blisters when she noticed a tree branch wave in the distance, then another. Something was headed their way. Something big. Amarok laid back his ears and growled, baring his teeth. His body stiffened, and his tail hung parallel to the ground. A deer bounded from the trees and skittered away.
Emma breathed a sigh of relief and slipped her boot on, but Amarok still growled, his fur bristling higher. She patted his broad head. “It’s okay, boy, it was just a deer.”
Amarok stalked forward, snarling louder, ignoring her touch. What was wrong with him?
A sudden, violent thrashing from the brush brought Weasel Tail to his feet. He pulled a long rifle from the side of his pack.
Emma stepped back, staring into the brush, every nerve in her body on fire.
“What was that?”
“Hush!” the man hissed. He shouldered the rifle and peered through the sights into the timber.
Minutes passed. She held her breath. A booming crash sounded. Then another, closer this time. He shoved her to the ground and onto her belly. “Stay there!” The man crept ahead, surveying the area. With her nose close to the ground, Emma’s nostrils filled with the musty smell of wet leaves and rotting plants, wilted with frost. The man turned and waved her up. Emma rose from the ground, her damp clothes clinging to the front of her body, sending a deep chill into her bones.
He placed a finger to his lips and pulled her to him. He pressed his mouth to her ear. “Listen,” he whispered. “A grizzly’s favorite trick is to roar, then circle around back while the prey’s loo
kin’ ahead.” His eyes drifted over the terrain and then to Amarok. “The wolf will let us know where the bear’s at.”
Terror washed over Emma in a freezing wave, and she glanced at Amarok. He stood protectively in front of her, ears erect, his gaze fixed into the brush behind her. His lips drew back, and a rumbling growl emanated from his throat. The man swung around and raised the rifle to his shoulder. A massive grizzly tore through the brush, galloping at them, its head held close to the ground, its mouth hanging open. Bands of foaming saliva flew out behind it.
Emma stood frozen. Unflinching, her captor fired a quick shot and missed. The deafening boom echoed through the woods. Emma covered her ears to stop the painful ringing searing into her eardrums. The bear kept coming and the man fired again. This time, the bullet sank deep into the creature’s shoulder. The grizzly stumbled, almost collapsed, and continued its charge, even more enraged. The man fired another booming shot; a wad of flesh flew off the bear’s mammoth hump with a splash of dark liquid. The beast lurched to a halt, wheeled and retreated into the forest.
Over the ringing in her ears, Emma heard the sounds of the grizzly disappearing deeper into the thick underbrush. Shaken, she dropped to her knees in the snow, trembling as she fought to gain control over the sudden rush of terror. Relief turned her bones into jelly, making it hard to stand.
Her captor spat on the ground. “Get up.”
Amarok Page 5
