by Tamar Sloan
Over the years he has practically worn a butt-shaped groove in it, sometimes using it when he wanted peace and quiet from raucous twin boys. Sometimes he would sit out there with Mom, his arm around her shoulders. Other times he would seek solitude after a tough shift. Like when Stash found the young skier, his cold body crumpled around a tree. Dad had sat there, solid and unmoving, well into the night.
I approach his still back, the massive shoulders bunched. Stash sits at his feet.
I haven’t come around him before he asks, “How did your presentation with Eden go?”
“Pretty good. She was really nervous.” Hands wringing, her white teeth worrying away her bottom lip so much that I felt sorry for it. So much that I wanted to reach across and pull it out, give its bruised surface a break.
I sit down beside him. “But then you could have knocked my hairy socks off when she contributed.” I’d taken a breath, looking back to my notes to see if I missed anything. And her clear voice had stepped in, adding a little garnish of her own. My eyes had flown to hers, astonished and impressed. Two more times it happened. My info dump, her accompaniment, our eyes meeting over a smile. By the end, we almost had a rhythm going.
“And in the end we got an A+.” She’d been so happy. She had skipped a little, moving toward me. Then contained herself. I hold my breath for those small moments when she lets herself go. Lets herself out.
“Well done, son. Sounds like the two of you make a good team.”
I put my hands on either side of my legs, pushing them into the timber beneath me, bracing my shoulders. “I’m taking Eden to the Glade tomorrow.”
His blue eyes turn to mine, and he has his serious face on. The muscles of his forehead, eyes, and mouth taut and still. “This is highly unusual, Noah.”
“I know.”
“We don’t always have rules for situations that we haven’t come across before.”
Which would be tough for a man who has lived by the law, upheld the law, enforced the law his whole life. Both human and Were. “I know.”
His eyes return to the towering pines that have surrounded our house for generations. He takes a deep breath, affording this decision the time it deserves.
“This feels right, Dad.” It feels more than right.
“As future Alpha, you’ll have to make these decisions for your pack.” His hand comes down to stroke Stash. “Decisions using not only your gut.”
As future Alpha. The title, its weight, seems odd. Like stepping back into a pair of shoes you haven’t worn for a while. Shoes that you put aside thinking they didn’t fit anymore. Thinking they were meant for someone else. Now they feel comfortable and familiar, but a little uncomfortable and unfamiliar too. You realize it’s probably going to take some time to get used to them again.
I think of Eden—the past weeks we’ve had together.
The girl that made this life possible. Her rapid adjustment to a new reality. To carrying the weight of a great secret. And I want to keep creating special memories.
The girl who has an amazing connection with animals. As inexplicable as the magic that turns man to wolf. That risks her own safety to care for them. And I want to be the one to protect her.
The girl that finds it so hard to touch, I suspect due to a mother that can’t bring herself to say her daughter’s name. And I want to be the guy that finally breaches those walls.
The girl who still looks surprised and delighted when I bring her lunch. Nothing more than leftovers from the barbeque, two veggie sausages resting on some potato salad and coleslaw, her astonishment at these little gestures squeezing my heart. And I know I want to take care of her.
For a very long time.
As I sit there—these images playing through my mind—I keep coming back to the same question.
How can this be wrong?
“This is unchartered territory, Dad. It’s never happened before. There aren’t any guidelines. So I have to go by instinct. And this feels right.”
Dad slaps his palms on his knees, pushing himself up. “Then for the moment, we go with that.”
And he heads in. Leaving me to do what you do on the thinking chair.
19
Eden
I climb out of my mother’s car, dragging my backpack from the passenger side. I lean against its white hood, looking at my watch. I’m not meant to meet Noah for over an hour. But my mother had me running out the door early.
Her behavior has been…unsettling. The ‘how’s school?’ inquiries getting more frequent, and occurring outside of their usual restaurant meal times. I know what she’s really asking is ‘How’s Noah?’, then her frowning eyes not liking the standard response, ‘Everything’s fine’. She used to welcome my silence. Suggesting I look into work at the local vet center, then ringing up herself to enquire. And the most perplexing, commenting on my clothes the days I wear my standard outfits. On the handful of days that I venture to the right side of my wardrobe, to her purchases, not saying a word.
It was enough for me to suggest the next study session at Tara’s. Kurt hadn’t been home, but his hunting trophies were. Dead eyes looking out from mummified heads, displayed high up on walls. I had to contain my shudder.
Noah’s hand had taken mine. “Kurt runs one of the most successful hunting businesses in the state. He sees hunting as a natural extension of our predatory nature.”
The Channon horde had also been there. Even Mr. Puddles had been hanging limply by a foot, drying after a romp in the washing machine, obviously still doubling as a hanky. We hadn’t stayed for dinner. An extra three mouths to feed may have broken fragile Lara. So the time spent with Noah had been loud, chaperoned by multiple red heads, and brief. Entirely unsatisfactory, but at least away from my mother’s censoring eyes.
Never before has my mother been this involved in my life. Definitely unsettling. And misplaced. Because it’s too late to build bridges. The distance is too wide, the other side unreachable.
I’ve certainly not mentioned the acceptance letter from Wyoming State I intercepted in the mail yesterday. Telling Noah has my heart skipping a happy little beat though. The white envelope tucked in my backpack representing a college full of promising possibilities.
So I left early, not knowing when she would pop by home. Not wanting to explain I’m heading out to see Noah. So here I am, with time on my hands. Time that will pass too slowly, anticipation drawing out the minutes.
My eyes fall across the parking lot to the trail mouth that lead me on that fated walk. It looks innocuous. Innocent. A trail like any other. Not somewhere I narrowly missed being attacked by three hunters. Not somewhere I was saved by a giant white wolf.
Not somewhere I learned a reality-shattering truth.
My mouth twitches, considering a smile. It’s a little like Alice falling down her rabbit hole. But the world she returned to was normal. Not irrevocably changed. Even more fantastical than before.
Where the mundane has elevated to extraordinary. A world where, each day, Noah drops me off to class and, often as not, is waiting for me by my classroom door at the end. Of Noah holding my hand. Where he brings me lunch. Where being with him feels more right, more possible with each passing moment.
Of that soft caress across my cheek each time we say good-bye. I frown, hands clenching on the hood of the car. I desperately want to touch him back. For fingertips to explore those angled cheekbones. To feel the heat of his chest beneath my palm. For hands to begin conveying the depth of these feelings.
But something holds me back. For the first time I’m standing outside of my defenses. And I’m not sure I’m prepared. What does one pack for this sort of journey? Like uncharted waters, there’s a bright horizon, a taste of what this place will be like. It feels exciting, full of nameless possibilities, so tempting. But there’s also no guarantee you’ll get there. And you can never be completely prepared for the risks and unknowns. Those risks and unknowns have deterred many a traveler.
I nibble my lower lip,
resting more weight on the car. But when will Noah get tired of waiting? Frustrated with my fumbling slowness?
I look at my watch again. I don’t want to spend an hour on this merry-go-round, so I decide to take a short walk. Turning my back on the trail-of-life-changing-moments, I head for an alternative route. One that has tourists milling about. A safe, populated stroll through the national park. A timbered sign is stamped with Elkhorn Flats 1 Hour Return. I can do that in forty five minutes.
Slinging my backpack on, I head over. The walk is easy, and I overtake numerous ambling families and a handful of snap-happy couples. Everyone is with someone. I smile, knowing soon that’ll be me.
The trail is mostly flat, meandering through open, green pastures. Small creeks split and divide through the meadows, supplying water like veins and capillaries for the lush vegetation and animals. The songs of willow flycatchers and yellow warblers color the air.
I round a bend to find an ample lady rushing toward me, towing her son like a flapping Mr. Puddles, her eyes wide beneath a large perm, her mouth open above her dimpled chin.
“Bear! There’s a bear just around the bend, where the trail ends.”
I stop in my tracks. “Are you okay?”
She flutters a plump hand in front of her flushed face. “I think so. It’s just such a shock to see such a big animal, you know?”
“I imagine it was.”
“She had a cub. I’m going to head back, warn anyone else coming up.” She tugs on her son and waddles off, a vigilante on a mission.
A bear, with a cub. Bears are known for the protectiveness of their young. And for their unpredictability. A dangerous situation that should clearly be avoided. I turn, because although I’d love to see one, I’d prefer to keep my limbs.
I’ve taken two steps down the path, following the wobbling crusader, when I pause. I don’t know why. But I do. I have a feeling I’m heading the wrong way. Which doesn’t make sense. Away from the bear and her cub is most definitely the right way.
A pained, high-pitched groan filters through the air, from the direction of the bears, making me frown, prompting me to turn around again. The next step, I start walking toward it. Heart beating painfully, mouth dry, I follow the anguished sound.
I round the bend and stop. Because a mother bear and her cub are indeed sitting in the balloon-shaped clearing that marks the turnaround point of the trail. The hunched back, silvery coat, and massive size tell me it’s a grizzly bear. The biggest of the bears in the park. Even across the clearing, her massive size is overwhelming.
They both turn at my arrival. There, with the focus of four black eyes, my heart stops. Stutters, and struggles to start again. When it does find its rhythm, the thundering pace echoes in my ears.
What am I doing here?
The cub shakes his head, pawing at his muzzle. The mother bends down, nuzzling him. She does it again, and I realize she’s nudging him. To do what? The cub groans again, then gets up. He takes a few steps away from his mother and looks back. She growls, head nodding. The cub faces me and starts walking forward.
She’s sending him to me?
I take a step back. My heart thumps furiously, making my chest hurt. You don’t mess with a grizzly bear’s cub. Ever. And one is walking toward me.
The cub approaches cautiously; he’s an older cub, his gangly body filled out for his first hibernation. Another step backwards and I’m not far from the bend. I’m ready to run, and there’s certainly enough adrenalin pumping through my muscles to facilitate a frenzied escape.
Then I see the cut on the baby bear’s face. A jagged gash runs down his snout, reaching from just below his eye down to his nose. And the closer he gets, the more infected it looks.
The cub stops a few feet in front of me. He stands, like he can’t really believe his mother sent him to me either. He looks back at his mother. I look back at his mother. She stands on all fours, head up, sniffing the air. Not making a move toward him, not calling him back.
The cub and I stare at each other. He paws his muzzle again.
And I know what I need to do.
With careful, slow movements I remove my backpack. From the front pocket, I remove my first aid kit. Both bears watch me silently.
Hoping I’ve reached the right conclusion, I step forward, first aid kit in hand. Unconsciously, I start to hum. The bear cub sits back, and I step up beside him. His dark eyes watch me, his body tensing beneath shaggy fur.
I step to the side, just a couple of feet away, still humming. Mother bear remains still, her panting breaths moving her massive chest in and out. I take a closer look at the cut. Ragged skin has split open to show red, angry flesh below. The edges are raised and raw, slightly puckering the skin at the edge of his eye. A small amount of opaque liquid oozes from the bottom, running down to his lip.
“That looks sore, little man.”
The bear cub lets out another high-pitched moan. “Can I try and fix it?” I glance at the mother, and she sits. I hope that means yes.
From my first aid kit, I remove the saline and some cotton gauze. The humming song becomes a little raspy, scratching past my dry throat. Very carefully, I start to dab at the cut. Thankfully, the not-so-little cub holds still throughout my ministrations, because I know I don’t have much time. Slowly the dirt, crusted blood, and oozing infection washes away. My heartbeat begins slowing, becoming less thunderous in my ears.
In the clearing the mother bear begins to sway from side to side, and my pulse leaps in alarm, once again sounding out a frantic tempo. I’ve read countless pamphlets and books and warnings about bears. But my frazzled mind can’t access one piece of information as to what the swaying means. Is she enjoying the tune? Or is she a testy mother at the end of her tether, doubting the reliability of the medical help?
I’ve finished cleaning the cut, meaning it’s time for antiseptic, and they have yet to invent one that doesn’t sting. But it’s the best I can do considering he really needs antibiotics. If the infection were to reach his eye, it could leave him blind. And I doubt the longevity of a half-blind bear is high. I take out the ointment, squeezing some onto more gauze. Gently, gently I dab it onto the exposed flesh.
A mewling grizzle comes from the cub, and he pulls away, his paw coming up to swipe at his muzzle. I flinch as a sharp claw catches my skin, slicing a thin track down my forearm. A bright bead of blood springs along the line. Mother bear’s head comes up, and she pushes up to stand on her hind legs. My wide eyes try to take in the size of this carnivore. She rumbles a question to her cub, nose sniffing the air. Can she smell my blood? I look to the cub, knowing he has the power to sign my death sentence.
The cub sits, offering up his nose. Relief washes through muscles that had been ready to run. Mama bear sits on her back haunches again, but alert eyes watch me carefully. This time the cub knows what’s coming, and although he flinches, he doesn’t make a sound. I gently and quickly disinfect the wound.
A final swipe and I’m done. I pick up the supplies and step back. “There you go, little man.”
The cub remains where he is, his dark eyes staring at me. I take two more steps back. “Okay, you really need to go now, or your mama is going to get in an argument with a very big wolf.”
Because there’s no doubt in my mind that Noah is coming. I know that my pounding pulse, the fear flashing across my nerves work like a homing beacon. Bringing my wolf savior to my side.
And I don’t want him to meet this fellow predator.
The mother grizzly stands on all fours, bellowing. She turns her shaggy body, heading toward the trees. The bear cub stands, and takes a few steps toward her. He turns back, letting out a sort of growling woof.
I hold my hand up in a wave. “Anytime, little guy.”
He trots after his mother, their rhythmic sure-footed movements taking them toward the forest edge. Neither looks back as their stubby tailed rears disappear into the undergrowth.
I sit down on a rock to tend to my cut, legs a li
ttle wobbly, not wanting an infection myself. I haven’t had a chance to wipe up the congealed blood when an intimidating white wolf pounds into the clearing on my left.
Just like before, he’s massive, breathtaking, and angry. His broad head pivots from side to side, scanning the clearing. When he sees me sitting on the rock, wild blue eyes instantly register the cut on my arm. A roar accompanies two more arcing steps into the clearing. Eyes scan the flat, clear ground, the solitary bushes, the unbroken tree line. And register there is no foe.
It’s then that I stand, one hand covering the scratch on my arm, and start to walk over.
“They’re gone.”
He turns to me, chest expanding on panting breaths, ears angled toward me. “I wasn’t in danger.” Well, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t.
A few more steps and I’m almost in front of him. Blue eyes watch me.
“I was just a bit shocked by the bear.” I don’t elaborate on the grizzly part. “And the cub had a cut on his face.”
Those wolf eyes widen. “Yes, I know. But it was infected, and really close to his eye.”
The wolf sits, his back haunches hitting the ground with a thud. His head drops down between his shoulders, shaking from side to side. Relieved? Or exasperated.
I bring myself face to face with him. He raises his head, and we’re eye to eye. Intense blue eyes, so familiar, stare from a white-furred face. Rimmed in black, they’re mesmerizing. His snowy white fur, fine and soft around his muzzle, fans out as it frames his square head. Just like his eyes, two furry ears are trained directly ahead, on me. I wonder if all that fur is coarse, or as soft as it looks. And just like any other times I am near him, I want to touch.
Of its own volition, my hand comes up. I scan his face, asking permission. Not a muscle moves in that massive body. I cup my hand across his cheek, the heel of my palm resting beneath his jaw. Ridged bone beneath solid muscle rests in my hand. I feel the wolf’s throat work as he swallows. My other hand comes up to join it, resting in mirror image on the other side.
