by Tamar Sloan
All eyes turn to Eden. She looks a little cornered for a second, and I wonder if I should rescue her. But, as she always seems to do, she steps up to the challenge, calmly and quietly. “A chicken, so we finally know who came first.” That one is universal, and everyone joins in the chuckles and confirmation nods.
“Okay, now you get to be an animal for a week.” Mom manages to nicely sidestep providing an answer of her own. No one bothers to point it out. My mother’s saint status is undisputed.
“A grizzly bear.” Dad is looking wistfully at the ceiling. “A hibernating one.”
I stage whisper to Eden again. “Dad just came off night shift.” She passes him a sympathetic glance.
Mitch leans back, his hands behind his head, like a tycoon addressing his board of directors. He picks up a crispy-grey bean, holding it like a cigar. “I’d be a marmot.”
“A marmot?” Not what I was expecting.
“With my harem of gorgeous marmot babes.” Mitch has a cat-got-the-cream look. Until he bites into the bean.
I snort. “Like that would ever happen. If Tara wasn’t the marmot matron who scares all the others off, then she would be a fox feasting on every last one.”
Mitch’s shoulders droop. The mighty mogul has been defeated. “That’s true.”
“Well, seeing as we’ve got a reserve theme going, I would be a golden eagle,” my mother chimes in. “That razor-sharp sight, cruising around, never missing a thing.” Which is exactly what my mother does, in human form.
“I’d be a wolf.” Eden’s musical voice contributes this time with no prompting. All eyes turn to her.
My mother barely skips a blink. “That’s a good one. Why a wolf?”
Eden glances down at her meal, and I wonder if she will converse with her vegetables again. But her eyes return to us, and she smiles lightly, shrugging. “Well, the freedom of roaming the reserve, everyone knows their place in the pack, the protection of family.”
“We’ve all had those moments,” I say, trying to keep it light. Although neither of my parents crack a smile.
“Would you be an alpha?” This comes from Mitch. I’m tempted to kick him under the table.
Eden wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think so. I’d be happy to be one of the betas.”
Huh, Eden knows her wolves. Most people think the beta is the alpha’s mate, but the label actually relates to the other mature wolves in the pack that are subordinate to the alpha pair.
Mitch nods. “Not everyone wants to be an alpha.” I cross my legs so I don’t reach out a sneakered toe and connect with his shin. Hard.
Dad clears his throat. “So, Eden, your mother works at the Inn?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Lovely spot there. And your father?”
Eden’s fork pauses on its way to her mouth. “I’m not really sure what he does…” Eden is once again looking uncomfortable.
I open my mouth to jump in, but Mitch beats me to it. “Hey, Noah. Do you remember that time when we were five?”
Uh-oh.
Mitch is already chuckling before he tells the punch line. “And you called 911 to speak to Dad?”
Two can play at that game. “Wasn’t that about the same time you asked Mom if old Mrs. Harris was pregnant?”
Mitch’s smile fades a little now that he’s on the receiving end. “Well, she’s certainly…big-boned.”
“As we stood behind her at the supermarket.”
And Eden’s smile is back, crystallizing across her face like a rare and magnificent gem.
Mom sighs. “And all we can learn from those little stories is that it’s a miracle I haven’t gone grey before my time.” And it’s my mother’s turn for a sympathetic glance from Eden.
The conversation flows around the table as we crunch through dinner. Thankfully, Dad doesn’t put his foot in it again. And luckily Mom doesn’t notice that even Stash won’t eat the titbits that Mitch sneaks under the table. I certainly notice that Eden doesn’t stop smiling. And I don’t stop glancing at the captivating sight from the corner of my eye.
As we finish up, Eden offers to help with the cleanup, but Mom won’t hear of it. Eden thanks her again for the lovely meal. Without blinking once. My mother blushes a little, while my father beams. This girl entrances everyone. Even Mitch is looking relaxed. I suspect Eden will leave now that we’re finished, so I’m not surprised when she heads upstairs for her bag.
I meet her at the door. Both of her hands grip the strap of her bag resting on her shoulder. I stand by the door, one arm leaning against its edge. As is the case around this breathtaking girl, I’m a little unsure of what to say. Mitch would think that’s hilarious. And unbelievable.
“So…we got the assignment done.” Which means I have no more excuses to spend time with her outside of school.
“Yeah. It looks really good.” Eden’s eyes are on me. It feels like, since the moment she fell on me, that sense of connection has gotten undeniably stronger. I wish I could reach out and touch her. I shove my free hand in the back pocket of my jeans.
“Thanks for being so good with my mother’s cooking.” I lean in a little so I can speak in hushed tones. I breathe in her untamed floral scent.
Eden grins at that one. An actual full-fledged grin. My breath vaporizes in my lungs. “She was very sweet to cook me eggplant.”
“I have to say, that was the best time I’ve ever had working on a presentation.” I rub my chin where her head collided. A gentle glow rises up Eden’s cheeks. Not quite a blush, but a definite slow spread of heat. It holds me transfixed.
Her eyes never leave mine. “Me too.”
Long seconds pass. She doesn’t move back. She doesn’t break eye contact.
“Seeya Eden!” A chorus chimes from my family in the kitchen.
She smiles, standing on tiptoe so she can call good-bye past my shoulder. When did she get that short? And with a whispered ‘Bye Noah’, she turns and leaves.
I shut the door, taking a quiet feeling of joy up the stairs to my room, my fingers doing an air guitar impersonation. Imagine Dragons I’m on Top of The World coming right up.
13
Eden
I don’t think I can do this.
I’ve spent all of Saturday cleaning my clean room, completing completed assignments, consuming too much of Tony’s white chocolate cheesecake. Now it’s Sunday, I’m sitting at my too tidy desk, a veterinary science textbook in front of me. My dried-out highlighter drops to the desk. None of it has stopped Noah dominating my every thought. And with each remembered scent, each enduring glance, each unforgettable touch, the fear continues to grow.
I don’t think I can do this.
I don’t even know what ‘this’ is, but I do know it’s too tempting. These merry-go-round thoughts wouldn’t have momentum if it wasn’t for the magnetic pull Noah presents. He’s kind, funny, and intelligent. And much too good-looking.
It’s too complicated. And I avoid complications. The one person to befriend me is practically his sister-in-law. And I need to focus on my studies; I can’t afford for my grades to drop. My saving grace has always been to leave for a college that is far, far away.
And it’s too scary. Risky. What do I have to offer Noah? When he finally realizes the truth, I’ll be a shell. Hollowed out, echoing with pathetic dreams of what was never going to be. This is already hard enough, let alone if I let my defenses down.
It feels like I’m standing at a threshold, looking out into an uncharted, unfamiliar unknown. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t see ahead. There’s no path. I don’t have a map. I don’t know where this goes.
And I know I can’t do this.
Because there will be no turning back. No safety net. All I can see is all the ways this doesn’t end well. I take a step back from the dangerous, seductive ledge.
Instead of relief, all I feel is sadness. Painful, heavy sadness. Like everything has given up the fight with gravity, and sunk. My mouth, my shoulders, my heart. This isn�
�t a sadness I’ve felt before. Kind of like I’ve lost something. Something very precious. I frown. Something I never had.
I push away from my desk. I need to go for a walk. A strenuous one. One that will leave me exhausted, body and mind.
I pull out my map, unfolding it on my desk. It flops open, its folds now well-worn and tired. I survey the topography, looking for the closely knit lines that will mean a hard climb. One walk, this one starting at the ranger’s station, parallels the park border and the neighboring hunting reserve. It’s just what I’m looking for. I quickly pack my trusty backpack, and head out the door. Caesar thumps a tired tail from his mat. Thanks to our early morning power walk, he’s had his exercise for the day. I pat him on the way out.
The drive is eclipsed by loud music, obliterating any sound, distraction, or thought. I start with Coldplay, then promptly change it to the local radio station when it reminds me of my first day. Plus I don’t need to hear about a girl escaping her sorry life, trying to find paradise.
I park at the ranger’s station, grabbing my backpack and jacket. Despite the bright midday sun, the breeze carries the coolness of autumn. There are a handful of tourists milling around. I head for the walking trail at the far right of the parking lot, gratefully noticing that no one appears to be joining me. A place called Break Back Ridge isn’t for the fainthearted.
As is always the case, the scenery is breathtaking and, for a short while, it’s all that consumes me. At this altitude, the pines dwindle out, leaving craggy rocks sprinkled with mat-like vegetation. I admire the plants’ ability to adapt to these harsh alpine conditions. Strong tap roots anchoring them to the rocky soil, small evergreen leaves harnessing every glean of sunshine they can get. They aren’t scared to face a little adversity. Actually, they thrive on it.
This area is different to my other walks. The terrain is wilder, the area more isolated. These walks are only for the fit and committed. Or those running from something.
The hiking trail begins a predictable pattern through the foothills: hike up, contour across, hike up, contour across. My muscles strain as I continue the steady climb, my breath coming in labored puffs. It’s not long before I’ve removed my jacket, the cool air now welcome on my heated body.
Within the isolation of the reserve, I once again find some peace. Not enough to allow me to sort through my jumbled emotions. But enough for the fear, the inexplicable sadness, the creeping uncertainty, to take a back seat.
As I reach a plateau, I take a moment to catch my breath. I take a few steps away from the trail, climbing onto a rocky outcropping. In the shade of a giant boulder, I take out my canteen for a thirsty gulp. My throat is a testament to the fact I’ve been hiking for two hours straight. Its parched surface revels in the cool water.
From my protected lookout I’m afforded an expansive view of the park and its adjoining reserve, the man-made boundary indistinguishable, completely disregarded by nature. A mosaic of coniferous greens, rocky greys, and autumn yellows make up the magnificent vista. In the distance the mountain range juts proudly into the sky, the snow on its white-capped ridges patiently waiting for cooler temperatures so it can start its steady climb down.
From the shaded granite perch, something catches my eye. To my right, something is moving. I pause, curious. In slow, deliberate movements, I put down my drink bottle and creep forward ever so slightly. On a fellow rocky outcropping, about twenty yards away, a mountain lion has dropped into a crouch. I exhale in a rush, delighted surprise contracting my lungs. A cougar! The elusive, secretive cat of the park. The tawny giant takes a few stealthy steps forward, then gracefully drops his sleek body. I follow his line of sight.
Farther down is a group of elk, grazing in a small clearing, unknowingly providing a moving smorgasbord for the cougar. With the cougar downwind, the elk are oblivious to his predatory intent. My eyes move from stalking predator to unsuspecting prey and back again.
It pauses, erect ears twitching. I freeze, not even my eyelids fluttering. The cougar slowly turns its feline eyes to me, his yellow gaze reaching across the distance. I don’t move a muscle as fascinated awe suddenly steps up to cautious fear. Amber eyes rimmed in black blink once. Twice. His broad head arches, his sensitive nose testing the air. The tip of his tail twitches from side to side. I stare back, my wide eyes getting sore with their need to blink.
His tawny head returns to its prey, unconcerned by my presence. Air flows back into my starving lungs; my eyelids blink rapidly over dry eyes. Every other muscle remains transfixed.
Once again focused on his lunch, the cougar takes three, four measured steps forward. This is nature at its most wild, most captivating. The whole world seems to freeze as it waits for this moment to unfold. The air is still—even Mother Nature seems to hold her breath.
The perfect ambush.
I’m so focused on the unfolding Attenborough moment, that it takes long seconds for a flash of light to register as odd. Sunlight just glanced off something shiny, somewhere on my left. I turn my head slowly, and my mouth slackens in shock. Lying commando-style behind low-lying sage brush are three men in triangular formation. Two are holding rifles. The stock against their cheeks, the butt against their shoulders. Their sights on the elk.
Oh no.
From my right I see the mountain lion take several more crouched steps forward, moving into the line of sight of the camouflaged hunters on my left. Their rifles drop as the men signal, a closed fist held up, then a short, sharp point. They’ve seen it. I look back at the cougar. It continues its trajectory, focused on the elk, unaware it’s sharing its prey.
I turn back, and my eyes widen until they hurt. One of the hunters, the dark-haired man forming the apex of the triangle, has his rifle back up. And this time the barrel is pointing at the cougar. My heart screams an objection.
Nooo!
The cougar stands up, alarmed. Its eyes fly to mine.
Run!
Although the words never gain voice the cougar turns in one fluid leap and sprints toward me. My heart jacknifes into my throat, and I scramble, crablike, until my back painfully hits rough rock. The cougar covers the distance in long fluid strides, its sleek muscles contracting and extending in rapid rhythm. The cat’s powerful haunches bunch, and with graceful precision, it leaps high onto the boulder towering behind me. In a split second it’s gone; a handful of pebbles skipping down the boulder to rain on my head, the only testament of its flight.
A breeze caresses my cheeks.
I smile slightly. Mother Nature’s sigh of relief.
I see the hunters point again, this time in repeated, sharp movements. Angry voices carry on the breeze. And I realize I’m far from safe. The men shoulder their rifles and start to head up the mountain. Toward the boulder. Toward me.
I grab my backpack and streak behind the rock. I lean against its cool surface, knowing it no longer provides sufficient protection. I need to get to the trees. Leaving the trail that would lead straight into their angry, armed company, I head over the low rise. My heart thumps wildly as I stumble and skid down the opposite side. I plot a course for a wide arc, heading for the protection of the forest. I’ll parallel the walking trail and hightail it back to the car.
I turn, glancing up at the rocky outcropping. The hunters are nowhere to be seen.
But I don’t slow my pace. I set up a jogging rate back in the direction I came. I don’t use the trail, and shelter in stands of trees wherever possible. Open areas are unavoidable, and I pick up my momentum when exposed and vulnerable.
Once in the protection of dense trees, I pause again, chest heaving. Fed by my fear and the jogging run, adrenalin is pumping through my veins. I struggle to listen over my panting breaths. In the dim silence I don’t hear tell-tale boots, heavy breaths, or low voices.
After what feels like hours, I slow down. The strenuous hike up and frantic run down has taken its toll. Sweat has pooled beneath my backpack, sticking my shirt to my skin. Tense muscles have formed intricate kn
ots I’m not sure will ever undo. My trembling lungs beg for a break.
I haven’t seen or heard the hunters. And according to my calculations, it’s only another twenty minutes or so to the parking lot. Less if I hurry. Feeling a little safer, I step back onto the trail. My shoes crunch along the narrow track as I stride away from the park, toward the security of my car.
I come to a stand of quaking aspens, who with the sweep of autumn, are starting to lose their golden glow. I know these trees open out around the bend, heralding the last few minutes before the parking lot. Their autumn leaves shiver in the breeze, a handful raining down on me like tears. In their dim coolness I pause once again. All I can hear is their gentle whispers.
I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks. The three men are lounging on a low lying rock. Waiting. The dark-haired hunter elbows another when they see me. He juts his chin toward me. All three of them smile. My shoulders drop. They knew I would return this way. Taking the scenic route merely gave them more time to head down. And wait.
The perfect ambush.
The fear that had receded is back, with the force of a tidal wave. It amplifies with each step the men take. They fan out, forming a trident as they come toward me. Their thick boots crush the pebbles beneath them as they stalk forward. The guy directly in front has dark hair contrasting against pale skin, dark brows framing dark eyes. His smooth face smiles, showing pale, even teeth. He’d probably be considered good-looking. His bloodless features remind me of a snake.
The three men all wear matching camouflage gear. Knives hang from their woven belts; two of their rifles lean against the abandoned rock. The guy on the right has a skinny angular face that lacks a chin. The third, the brawn of the group, is short and stocky. Built like a fridge.
I take a half-step back. But there’s nowhere to go. We’re too far from the parking lot for screams of help to be heard. And my exhausted muscles would never outrun these three.
“Hey, pretty lady. We were hoping you would come this way,” says Snake, his smile getting bigger. His two comrades snigger. Chinless steps farther out to the side, while Fridge holds back a little, his rifle tapping his palm.
