by Sharon Sala
“Shit,” he muttered, then wiped tears and snot off his face with the back of his sleeve before reaching for his cell phone. He had a sudden urge to take a long vacation somewhere warm, but first, he needed to end some obligations.
Major Bourdain was participating in a casual bout of sexual intercourse with a leggy hooker he’d tied to the brass headboard of his bed, when his phone began to ring.
The first ring made him flinch, but he kept on pumping, not wanting to lose the impending climax.
At the second ring, the hooker’s focus automatically shifted from his face to the phone. Distracted by her inattention to business, he was thrown out of sync. Within seconds, he lost his erection.
The third ring was a death knell for whatever sexual satisfaction he’d been expecting. With an angry curse, he rolled off the woman just as the phone rang a fourth time. His tone was choked and angry, as he answered.
“This better be good!”
Barrett flinched. Sounded like Bourdain wasn’t too happy. Tough shit, Barrett thought. He should have been in my shoes tonight, then he’d really have something to be pissed about.
“It’s Barrett. I quit.”
Bourdain rolled over to the side of the bed and sat up.
“No, you don’t quit on me. Nobody quits on me.”
“I just did,” Barrett said.
“But you said—”
“That was before your Indian stomped my tranq darts into pieces and sicced a cougar on me. Don’t call me again—ever. I don’t want anything to do with someone who’s more animal than man.”
The dial tone in Bourdain’s ear was silent proof of the seriousness of Barrett’s intent.
“Damn it all to hell,” Bourdain muttered, as he turned around and unlocked the handcuffs on the hooker. “Get out!”
Then he walked into the bathroom and shut the door. From inside, he could hear the hooker scrambling into her clothes, but his taste for sex was gone. He stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and then ran his fingers along the scars on his torso.
Ten years ago he’d been a dead man. The moment he’d seen the grizzly, the Alaskan hunting trip he’d been on had gone horribly wrong. The bear had come at him like a bat out of hell and, with one deadly swipe of its massive paw, taken out most of his belly.
Blessedly, he’d passed out from the pain. The next thing he remembered was looking up into the face of a young Indian man and feeling a heat unlike anything he’d ever known flowing through every vein and muscle in his body.
He had tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.
At that point, he’d seen his friend Dennis Henry move into his line of sight. He’d known Dennis for years and had hunted with him on safari in Africa, gone deep-sea fishing with him in the Gulf of Mexico, and the day before yesterday, had flown into Snow Valley, Alaska, to hunt caribou with him and a couple of his friends.
Dennis was staring at Major’s body with a look of such horror that Major knew it was over. The last thing he remembered thinking was: So this is what it feels like to die.
Instead, he’d woken up some time later in the helicopter that had flown them from Snow Valley into their camp two days earlier. Dennis and the other members of the hunting party were staring down at him as if they’d never seen him before.
“Dennis?”
“I’m here,” Dennis said.
“Are we dead?”
Dennis masked a shudder. “No. We’re on our way back to Seattle.”
“But the bear…?”
“The bear is gone,” Dennis said.
Major felt his face, tracing the familiar lines and angles, then moved to his belly, expecting, at the least, to feel massive bandages. Instead, there were faint ridges beneath his fingertips that he didn’t recognize.
“So…I’m not dead, after all…only…I don’t understand. What about the wounds? The blood? The pain? My God, I never felt so much pain in my life.”
Dennis looked at him oddly, then glanced away.
“What?” Major asked. “What the hell is it? Why isn’t anyone talking?”
Dennis ducked his head. A couple of the other men tried to make small talk, but Major wasn’t having any of it.
“Damn it! Somebody tell me what the hell is going on. The last thing I remember is being gutted. Is this hell and I just don’t get it?”
“Shut up, Major. You’re fine, okay? Just shut up,” Dennis said.
Major shoved the blanket off his body. What was left of his clothing was bloody and in shreds. But the wound was gone. Closed and scarred as if it had happened years ago.
“Oh. My. God.”
“No, it wasn’t God. It was that Indian. He came because the doctor couldn’t.”
“Who came? What happened?”
“You were dying. The doctor at the camp in Snow Valley was gone. The chopper pilot brought this other man back instead.” Dennis’s eyes lost focus, as if he were seeing it for the first time all over again.
“He got out of the chopper and didn’t say a thing. He just dropped to his knees beside you, put his hands in the wound and…and…” He shuddered, then swiped a hand over his face.
“And what?” Major asked.
“Hell, I don’t know. You both lit up like a disco ball. I watched, but I still don’t believe what I saw.”
“Damn it, Dennis! Get over the drama and just spit it out!”
Dennis’s pupils dilated as the tone of Major’s voice rose.
“He healed you, damn it! With his hands. No surgical instruments. No stitches. No blood transfusions. No friggin’ nothing! One minute your guts were strung all over your dick, and the next thing we knew, you’d quit bleeding.” He waved at Major’s scars. “That’s all you’ve got to show for it. Just be grateful and shut the hell up.”
Major didn’t know what to think, except the wounds and the pain were gone. Then he heard someone say they were landing.
Before he knew it, they were on the ground in Seattle. His legs were a little shaky, so he’d walked slowly to where he’d left his car, then waited while the others began gathering up the hunting gear and transporting it to their waiting vehicles. Before he thought to question the chopper pilot about the man who’d supposedly healed him, the pilot had refueled and disappeared.
Bourdain felt like he’d been dropped into the twilight zone. His hands were shaking as he continued to feel his belly, running his fingertips along the ridges of scarring.
This wasn’t possible. Any time now, he would wake up and realize this was nothing but a dream, but as he glanced at his watch, he flinched. They’d left Seattle on a Thursday. According to his watch, it was Saturday. He’d never had a three-day dream before.
Think. Think. We were hunting elk. Yes. I remember, because I’d just jacked a shell into the chamber. Something rustled in the bushes behind me.
He shuddered.
The bear. That had been real. He couldn’t have dreamed anything that painful. He touched his belly. The scars felt real, too.
He swallowed nervously. If this wasn’t a dream, then how did he explain away what had happened? He turned around, looking for his friend.
“Hey, Dennis.”
Dennis was busy shoving his gear into his SUV. He wasn’t religious in any way. Didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t see with his own eyes. But he’d seen something today that he couldn’t explain. He’d seen it, and he’d been so frightened by it that he wanted to forget that he’d ever set foot in Alaska—to forget what he’d seen with his own eyes. To forget he’d ever known a man named Major Bourdain.
“What?” Dennis said at last.
“The man…the one you said healed me.”
“What about him?”
“Did anyone say his name?”
“The pilot called him Jonah.”
“What else?”
Dennis shrugged. “All I can tell you is that he was young…early twenties…long black hair and tan skin. I figured him for Native American.�
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After that, Dennis had refused to say anything more.
Major shuddered, then backed away from the bathroom mirror and reached for a clean washcloth. He’d killed a man trying to catch the man he now knew as Jonah Gray Wolf. He’d even had him in his grasp once—long ago. But the animals had interfered, and Jonah had gotten away. There had to be a way to get him back. Gray Wolf had to have a weakness—somewhere. Whatever it took, Major would find it. He would do anything it took to get the healer under his power, because with him, Major Bourdain figured he could live forever.
Two days had passed since Jonah and Chock Barrett parted company in the woods. Jonah had stayed on alert for the past forty-eight hours to assure himself that, at least for the time being, he was once again alone. After that, he’d started moving. He was almost out of food and money. Despite his reluctance to stay in one place for too long, he was going to have to chance it to find himself a job. If he was lucky, he might find a place in which to winter. Being on the road in cold weather was brutal. He’d done it before, but if he had a choice, he would much rather have a soft bed, a warm fire and a roof over his head when snow began to fall.
It was with that attitude that he walked into a small mountain town called Little Top, West Virginia, population: 2,497.
It was an insignificant, out-of-the-way place that should be safe enough. Now, if he could just find himself a job and a room, he would consider himself lucky.
Shug Marten was filling Ida Mae Coley’s 1986 Ford pickup with gas when he saw the stranger coming down the road. Having his gas station at the far edge of town, he had seen plenty of strangers come and go during the past twenty-nine years, but this one seemed different. He studied the man for a bit, watching the set of his shoulders and the length of his stride. The man’s clothes were of little consequence—well-worn denim and leather. His boots were covered in dust, as were the lower edges of his jeans. Despite the chill of the day, the man was bare-headed.
Shug eyed the man’s brown skin and the length of his straight black hair, and wished he had a little of that hair on the crown of his own head. He’d been bald there for years.
The pump kicked off, and he turned to hang up the nozzle. Ida Mae was inside, waiting to pay. As he started into the station, Mark Ahern, the local mail carrier, honked, then waved at Shug as he came down from the mountain where he’d been delivering the rural mail. It was just after four o’clock. A little late for Mark to be finishing the route; he must have had a heavy load to deliver today, which would have slowed him down.
Shug waved back at Mark, then headed into the station to take Ida Mae’s money. Once she’d paid, he walked her back out to her truck. She was lame in one leg and couldn’t see so good anymore. If she lived anywhere else but in Little Top, she wouldn’t still be driving. But here, everyone knew to get to the side of the road when they met her, and to wait at the stop signs, even if it was their turn to go, because Ida Mae had a tendency to sail on through the intersections.
“You drive safe now, Ida Mae,” he said, as he helped her into the truck.
“I drive just fine, thank you,” Ida Mae muttered, then fired up the engine and drove away from the pumps without looking to see if the road was clear. Fortunately, it was, and she headed toward Main Street, passing the man who was walking into town.
Jonah barely noted the truck as it passed him. His focus was on the small gas station and the man standing beside the pumps. Either this would be a friendly place or it would not. He hoped it was the former, because this far up the mountains, the towns were few and far between, and he was road-weary to the core.
Shug Marten nodded to the stranger as he approached.
“How you doin’?”
“A little cold,” Jonah said, as he paused within a couple of yards of where Shug Marten was standing.
Shug pointed toward the station. “Hot coffee inside,” he said.
“I’m a bit short on cash,” Jonah said.
Shug didn’t hesitate. “It’s on me.”
Jonah followed the old man into the station, his nose wrinkling slightly at the intermingled odors of gas, grease and old coffee. Still, he wasn’t in a position to be choosy.
“Name’s Shug Marten,” the old man said, as he handed Jonah a disposable cup of hot black coffee.
Jonah took the coffee gratefully. “Jonah,” he said softly, then lifted the cup to his lips. The coffee was thick and bitter, and it warmed him all the way down.
Shug reached behind the counter, picked up a packet of cupcakes and handed it to Jonah, as well.
“Can’t have coffee without somethin’ sweet,” he said.
Jonah took the cupcakes gratefully and ate them without fanfare. When he was done, he tossed the wrapper into a trash can, then wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans.
“I’m looking for work,” he said. “Know of anything around here?”
Shug frowned. “No, I don’t, son. It’s hard times all around, you know.”
Jonah nodded, but before he could answer, the door to the station flew open. He caught a glimpse of a small female wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans as she ran past. Breathless, she grabbed Shug Marten by his arms and began tugging him toward the door.
“Shug! Shug! You’ve got to help me. Hobo got caught in a trap, and I can’t get it off.”
Jonah watched the old man pale.
“Damn it, Luce, I’m real sorry, but there ain’t no way that monster of yours would let me close enough to help, and you know it.”
The woman was frantic. Jonah had heard it in her voice.
“I’ll help,” he said.
Lucia Maria Andahar jumped. She’d been so desperate to get help that she hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room. She turned abruptly, eyeing the tall, dark-haired man with the gold eyes and brown skin.
“I don’t know you,” she snapped.
“I don’t know you, either,” he said. “Do you want me to help or not?”
“What’s your name?” Luce asked.
“Jonah.”
She slapped the outside of her pants’ pocket.
“So…Jonah…I’ve got a switchblade.”
Jonah stifled a smile. “I consider myself forewarned.”
Luce frowned. “You mess with me and you’re dead.”
Jonah felt her turmoil. Fear was warring with the extent of her need. He shook his head. “I will not harm you. I promise.”
There was something in the tone of his voice. She hesitated, wanting to believe him. And then there was Hobo. She didn’t have a choice. She had to take the chance.
“Follow me,” she said, and bolted out the door.
Jonah shifted his backpack to a more comfortable position and ran out behind her.
She circled the station, and headed straight up the mountain and into the trees. Jonah followed easily, keeping his gaze on the small woman with the long black braid. She wasn’t very big, but if her heart was as strong as her backbone, she had to be amazing.
Three
L uce was so afraid for Hobo that she wouldn’t let herself think about the stranger behind her. She’d asked for help. He’d volunteered. All she wanted now was to get back to her dog before he bled to death.
Jonah knew the dog was in danger of dying. The raven flying just above the treetops ahead of them had already told him, but the underbrush through which they were moving made it difficult to run. Still, the young woman ahead of him didn’t seem to have any trouble with the slope. They were going straight up the side of a mountain, and she had yet to slow down.
Luce ran with one hand out in front of her, like a running back with the football, stiff-arming the competition, only her opponent was the mountain itself.
Branches slapped at her face as she ducked under and ran past. Brambles caught in her clothing, then tore through the fabric as she pushed them aside. As cool as the day was, she was sweating, and the stitch in her side was so painful that it hurt to breathe, but resting wasn’t an option. She’d been list
ening for the sound of Hobo’s cries; the silence frightened her.
It felt like she’d been running forever, but after passing the hollowed-out stump where the summer blackberries grew, she knew they were almost there.
“Hurry!” she shouted.
Jonah felt her panic and increased his stride. Within moments, he was on her heels, then running past her.
Startled that the stranger had chosen to pass her, Luce almost stumbled. What was he doing? He didn’t know where to go. But despite her misgivings, she realized he was going in the right direction and moving out of sight.
Before she had time to process that, she began hearing Hobo’s anguished cries. That explained his behavior. He must have heard Hobo before she had. That was why he’d raced ahead. The knot of panic in her belly pulled tighter as she struggled to keep up.
But for Jonah, time had no meaning. He felt nothing but the injured animal’s pain. The cold was no longer an issue. His hunger and exhaustion were, for the moment, gone. The closer he got to the dog, the more he realized how serious this situation was. He could hear the sound of running water from the nearby creek, and then the high-pitched yips and howls of an animal in mortal distress.
Seconds later, he pushed through a thicket of buck brush and came upon the dog, lying on its side near the creek bank. The area all around the dog was torn up and bloody where it had struggled to get free. When it saw Jonah, it leaped up, then jerked backward, trying to get away.
Then Jonah spoke. “Easy, boy,” he said softly.
Almost immediately, the dog stilled. When he did, Jonah let the pack slide off his back, then dropped to his knees beside him. Blood was everywhere, and he could see signs that the animal had tried to chew off its own leg to get free.
For one brief moment their gazes met. The dog’s whine was heartbreaking. Jonah felt his pain.
“I know,” Jonah said softly, and without thought, cupped the dog’s head with both hands. “I know.”
