Alphas in the Wild

by Ann Gimpel

  Yes, I know.

  Tim clutched his iPhone so hard, the metal dug into his hand. “Did you just give me permission—?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What then?” Tim blew out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “You’re squeezing the life out of me, Liam. I don’t want to walk away from you, but I will if I have to. There’s a part of me that owes you loyalty and is willing to take on the burden of being Arch Druid. But a bigger part wants Moira and a normal life.”

  “I was afraid of that.” Another pause. The air in the room warmed. Tim sensed the Arch Druid’s presence. The next words sounded in his mind.

  “I have prayed and discussed this with our Council and the goddess, Gaia. I had planned to get hold of you. The sending hastened my time line.”

  “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  A chuckle. “If my astral self meets the definition of here.”

  Tim clicked the phone off and set it down. He didn’t need it anymore. “Tell me the outcome of those discussions.” He swallowed, girding himself for the worst. If he had to strip-mine something from his life, it would be Druidry, not Moira.

  “Mayhap if you had a wife, ’twould hurry you along getting back to your true calling.”

  Tim wasn’t certain he’d heard right. “I think you just gave me permission to break my celibacy and follow my heart.”

  “I did.”

  His eyes stung. He squeezed them shut. This was a time for joy, not tears. “How much can I tell Moira?”

  “Only enough so she’ll forgive you.”

  “What about my magic?”

  “You are considerably older now. ’Tis a gamble, but not so great a one as it would have been ten years ago. We shall hope for the best.”

  The warmth in the room surrounded Tim. It felt a lot like a hug. His face split in a broad grin. “Thank you, Liam. If you were truly here, I’d hug you back.”

  “What’s that American term?” The Arch Druid laughed, the sound rich and warm. “I’ll take a rain check on that, son.”

  “Sure thing. Uh, Liam, one last thing. I think my true calling is medicine.”

  Liam chuckled again. “You might be surprised. There is a reason the goddess sent me that vision. Take care of yourself.” The warmth of his sending winked out.

  Tim danced a jig around his living room, then raced to the bedroom, dragged out his backpack, and started tossing things into it.

  On his umpteenth trip to the closet, something caught his eye, and he closed his hand around a hand-hewn staff of rowan wood. Liam had told him it was carved out of downed branches from the One Tree. Before Tim went on hiatus from the order, he’d used the staff to call and focus his magic. It had been lying in the back of one closet or another for a very long time.

  The wood warmed instantly under his touch. “Okay.” Tim placed the staff on his bed next to his pack. “You’re in. We leave at first light. You can masquerade as a walking stick.”

  He could’ve sworn he heard the wood chortle deep in his mind.

  Chapter Three

  Moira moved briskly up the rocky trail. She’d slept—or tried to—in the back of her car at the trailhead and dreamed about both Tim and Ryan. Morning arrived far too soon. One advantage of getting going, though, was that the specter of Ryan’s infidelity retreated when she was on the move.

  Sleep’s overrated, she thought wryly, tugging at the waist belt of her regulation-issue backpack to tighten it. She sighed as some of the weight moved off her shoulders. Despite employing women rangers for better than fifty years, Park Service gear was still designed for men. Moira blessed her broad-shouldered, slim-hipped build. If she’d had a girlier figure, she’d have been out of luck—and miserable.

  She scanned the familiar Sierra backcountry in an effort to move beyond the muddle her mind had become. She was close to timberline, the few trees twisted and stunted by their fight to survive at altitude. Open, shale-covered terrain spread around her. She named off the surrounding peaks in her mind, all of which she’d climbed at one point or another.

  It was early November, and the wind at nearly ten thousand feet held a definite bite. She had cold weather gear in her pack, but she hoped it wouldn’t snow. Fresh snow would fill in the holes between good-sized talus blocks littering the mountains, making them impossible to see. A turned ankle was a reality she couldn’t afford right now with John breathing down her neck. It would be embarrassing—never mind a career-killer—to use her sat phone to call for rescue because of a stupid mistake. The Park Service rewarded self-sufficiency in its rangers.

  Moira grimaced, imagining the humiliation of trying to explain what should’ve been an avoidable injury.

  Stop it. Hasn’t happened. The last thing I need right now is to borrow trouble.

  She peered at lenticular clouds floating high above her head, at the mercy of the jet stream. They were always harbingers of bad weather.

  A particularly vicious gust of wind attacked her braid. Long, blonde hair plastered her face, and she stopped to shove the errant strands out of the way. Spying a house-sized boulder, she sheltered on the lee side, shucked her pack, and hunkered behind the rock to gather her hair together. Once she wasn’t moving, Ryan’s face rose to mock her. Unfortunately, so did the rest of him, all naked six foot four inches with his cock buried in some nameless redhead he’d shoved up against their living room wall.

  “Not my living room anymore,” she ground out between gritted teeth. Moira willed her mind to stop playing the fucking tape loop, goddammit, but it wouldn’t cooperate. Ryan’s chiseled Native American features, dark braids, and intense dark eyes stared at her. Shock etched into his face once he realized she’d come home early.

  And caught him red-handed. Or red-dicked as the case may be.

  Rage, a constant companion ever since the incident, tightened her guts into a painful knot. Bile rose, burning the back of her throat. Moira hoped her lawyer was taking care of all the particulars. She’d given him a list of everything she wanted, aside from the clothes and personal effects she’d grabbed after sending the redhead packing. She hadn’t been back to her house in the weeks since it had happened. And she didn’t intend to go there ever again. She’d moved into the barracks at Park Headquarters. It wasn’t bad, actually. She’d lived there before she started hanging around with Ryan.

  Nope, she just wanted her things and her more than half. Let the bastard refinance if he had to. Most of the down payment on their house had come from her.

  California’s a community property state, one of her internal mavens reminded her.

  Community property or not, there was no way she was sharing any of her federal retirement. She’d been quite clear with the attorney on that point. After all, she and Ryan had only been married for a few months. Hopefully the brief time they’d lived together before that wouldn’t work against her in court.

  Her mind drifted to Tim. Now he was a much more pleasant topic to contemplate...

  Whoa there, sweetie. Rein it in. I don’t know enough to toss my eggs into that basket. Not yet, anyway.

  Cold seeped into her back from the rock she rested against. Moira flexed her fingers. They were cold too. She shook her head, hard. “I know better,” she muttered as she shoved to her feet so she could get moving again. It was too cold to stay put for long, unless she layered up on clothing.

  The trail was deserted as she chugged toward Baxter Pass. Odd that she hadn’t seen any other backpackers. It was late in the season, but still...

  Her orders to oversee the trail crew had finally come through in an e-mail from John early that morning. She’d clicked all the appropriate boxes, added her electronic signature, and sent it back to him.

  She would’ve been on the move well before dawn since she was awake, but in light of his insistence about the doctor, she waited for official authorization. A ten-year veteran of the Park Service, she had enough seniority to stay in the backcountry if she chose—rather than being chained to a desk—bu
t not quite enough to pick her assignments. She didn’t want to sully her track record by being insubordinate.

  She thought about the roster tucked in her pack. She knew some of the crew, but about half of them were fresh recruits. Trail crews were always a mixed bag. Some were serious, Sierra Club types who were hard-core environmentalists. Some hated people, viewing the backcountry as a refuge, and then there were the ubiquitous druggies. They brought their own stash—never mind it was against Park Service regulations. She always worried one of the latter bunch would have a major meltdown on some hallucinogen and start killing people.

  Moira shivered. Reaching up, she zipped her buff-colored fuzzy jacket all the way to her chin.

  Something wet landed on her face. A snowflake. The sky looked threatening enough to really dump. For a minute, she considered stopping again to dig out her weatherproof parka and pants and then decided against it. Speed was her friend. She needed to crest the pass before the weather turned really rotten. At twelve thousand feet, Baxter Pass was a low point on a long, exposed ridge. Not a good place to be caught in the middle of a storm. Moira laid into her afterburners. Even uphill, carrying a fifty-pound pack, her long legs could churn out better than three miles an hour.

  An hour passed. Then part of another.

  Only two more sets of switchbacks, and I’ll have it.

  Her breath came fast in her throat. Thin, cold air burned her lungs, but she was used to it. A side benefit of pushing herself hard was it thrust Ryan and his betrayal out of her mind. Of course, he had lots of excuses. She was never home, and he had needs. She snorted derisively. Well, she had needs too, but you didn’t find her spread-eagled across her desk for anything with a dick between his legs.

  She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d fallen out of love with Ryan, but it hadn’t been all that long after the wedding. She winced as the truth struck home. Sex was always great, but in every other respect he was a self-centered boor who blamed everyone in the world for his own shortcomings—like his inability to hold a job, for one.

  Her mind strayed to his incredible body. Broad shoulders, well-defined muscles, dazzling abs, and a high, tight ass. Mildly disgusted with herself, she realized she’d put up with a lot to maintain her connection to his sculpted body and knowing fingers, mouth, and cock. They’d had sex almost every day—sometimes twice, if she wasn’t working—and she missed the feel of a man’s body stretched against her. Her nipples pebbled into hard points, rubbing against her sports bra. When she realized her pace had slowed, Moira forced herself to think about something else.

  Ryan was bad for her. She’d known it for a long time, and getting away from him was the best thing that could’ve happened to her. In retrospect that nameless redhead had done her an enormous favor.

  Yeah, well if I ever run into her again, I’ll be sure to let her know. Moira laughed wryly.

  A fine mist, swirling with snowflakes, had all but obscured the last thousand vertical feet of trail, and she couldn’t see much of anything. No point in getting careless—and maybe walking off the trail’s steep edge—just because she was distracted by man problems. Moira shoved the last vestiges of Ryan out of her mind, hoping he’d stay gone this time.

  She was grateful she’d been over this pass before. It could be confusing near the top where the trail angled right, just before curving down to the alpine basin holding Baxter Lakes. She raised her hands to her face and blew on her fingers. Gloves would’ve been nice, but she was only about an hour from her destination; she didn’t want to take the time to dig through her pack for them. As long as she kept moving, there was no danger of frostbite or freezing to death.

  Whooshing, even louder than the incessant howl of the wind, dragged her gaze upward. A flock of ravens flew overhead, stark against the white mist. She tried to remember what she knew about avian migration patterns. Usually, by this time, most birds had left the high country since they needed trees to survive the cold months.

  Wonder what they’re doing here?

  She pushed a vague sense of unease aside and plunged down the trail, grateful to have the pass behind her. A thin coating of snow crunched under her heavy boots. After about half a mile, the fog thinned. It was barely snowing anymore, and what had fallen was melting. Her stomach growled. She glanced at her watch. Nearly eight hours had passed since she’d eaten.

  Uh-oh. Not good.

  She glanced at the lakes below and thought she could see the trail crew’s camp, but wasn’t certain. It could just as easily be a group of large white boulders.

  Her stomach rumbled again, complaining about its empty status, particularly since she’d just covered over twelve miles and climbed six thousand feet.

  Okay, okay, I’ll stop, she reassured it, grateful it was sending hunger signals again.

  She pulled her parka out of her pack and arranged it on a flat rock to shield her pants from moisture. Balancing the pack against her legs, she sat and dredged through it for the clear plastic canister with her food. As she ate salami, cheese sticks, and crackers washed down with Gatorade, she smiled to herself. Mountaineering food was a long way from haute cuisine, but it did the job.

  A squawk from behind startled her. Moira whipped her head around to look, and her mouth fell open. At least a dozen ravens stood on the trail, paired off in some sort of weird formation. She thought about the bunch she’d seen in the sky and wondered if these could possibly be the same ones. Her heart sped up, hammering against her chest. Mouth suddenly dry, she dropped her half-eaten lunch back into the canister and spun the lid shut.

  One of them—the leader?—cawed at her.

  This can’t be happening.

  Oh yes it can, another inner voice sneered. Weren’t ravens Ryan’s totem animal?

  It felt as if someone jammed a knife into her guts and twisted it. Cold flooded her, followed by prickles of unnatural heat. Ravens were Ryan’s totem. Just like they’d been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. She’d seen Singing Bear playing a Native flute and leading flocks of ravens, like some sort of Pied Piper of Hamelin.

  Christ, had Ryan pulled some Native American shaman trick and sent the birds to harass her for leaving him?

  She worked on modulating her breathing. Animals could smell fear. She wasn’t certain if that applied to birds, but it was best to be on the safe side. Taking care to move slowly so they didn’t mob her and try to peck out her eyes or something, she got to her feet and stuffed everything into her pack.

  As soon as Ryan’s possible link to the birds hit home, she’d started to shiver uncontrollably. Even her teeth were chattering. She fished gloves and a hat out of her pack and put them on.

  The birds didn’t move. For a moment, she decided she had to be wrong about Ryan. It seemed way too far-fetched. She wondered if the ravens might have some type of bird flu or, God forbid, rabies.

  Do birds even get rabies?

  She racked her mind, willing a return of rational thought. There had to be a logical explanation for the weirdest avian behavior she’d even seen. It was like they were part of a hive mind, acting as a unit. Birds didn’t do that. Insects did. Setting her jaw in a firm line, Moira swung her pack onto her back. Almost as if they knew what she was up to, the ravens half hopped and half flew around her, blocking the trail below. Another mournful caw split the still air.

  She heard something else: the sound of boots coming down from the pass. At least two people—maybe more. Aw shit! Was it Ryan?

  Can’t be. He hates the backcountry. My imagination truly is working overtime.

  She watched the birds. Their beady eyes weren’t looking at her anymore, but above her. It made sense. They could hear the footsteps too. In a whoosh of black feathers, they took to the air and surrounded her. Wings scraped against her face. Something sharp dug into her cheek. Another beak pecked just above one eye.

  Always sensitive to animals and their right to the wilderness, Moira tried to restrain herself, but couldn’t. She batted at the ravens with both hands,
intent on protecting her head and face.

  “Go away. Leave me alone,” she screamed.

  Twirling away from the mass of feathers, she pulled her gun from its holster and fired blindly into the air, hoping to intimidate them.

  The footsteps she’d heard broke into a run. “Moira. Is that you?” a man shouted. “Are you all right?”

  Tim.

  The person heading right for her was Tim.

  The ravens cartwheeled away from her, formed a pattern, and headed for the valley. Moira sucked air like a bellows. Adrenaline made her feel sick and light-headed. She swiped at her face, not surprised when her fingers came away bloody.

  “Moira?” Tim’s cries had taken on a frantic quality, almost as if he were expecting to burst around a switchback and fall over her dead body—or get shot.

  “Fine,” she called shakily. “I’m fine.” She squared her shoulders and settled her gun on her hip. It wasn’t entirely comfortable with the pack’s waistband buckled over the upper part of its holster.

  Ambivalence roiled through her. She wanted to see Tim. But she was angry he hadn’t paid any attention when she said not to follow her.

  She stared after the flock of birds. They’d all but disappeared in clouds floating above Baxter Lakes. “I’d feel better if they flew the other way,” she muttered, turning to face the sound of rock fall as Tim dislodged chunks of granite in his haste.

  “No need to break your neck,” she called, cupping her hands around her mouth. “I really am okay.”

  “But you were screaming. I heard you. And a gunshot!” He pelted around a switchback, still running hard right at her. White-blond hair streamed behind him, and his blue eyes were filled with concern—and worry.

  She took in his khaki pants, blue-and-green patterned fuzzy jacket, and lightweight leather boots popular with fast packers. Groaning inwardly at how inadequate his clothing was, she glanced at his backpack. It was one of those barely there things that didn’t hold much. They worked fine so long as the weather didn’t turn. If it did, the lack of more substantial equipment and warm clothing could be deadly.