Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “Not a chance.”

  I hit the bathroom light switch on my way out, fresh from a long bath to help ease my aching muscles after ten days of kneeling, lifting, and scrubbing. “Fine. Then we’re turning the little bedroom into another bathroom and taking some space to make this one an en-suite.”

  “That’d leave us with only two bedrooms.” Jonah’s back is against the bed frame, his attention glued to my laptop screen. The sleeves of his navy-blue T-shirt stretch over his muscular biceps, distracting me momentarily.

  “So? Seriously, Jonah, how many guests are we ever going to have at one time?”

  “I was thinking more about kids.”

  “Oh. Right.” I consider the bedroom that spans the back of the house as I settle onto my side of the bed. There’s a chill to the air, despite the forced heat pumping through the vents and the logs that Jonah shoved into the fireplace before coming up to bed. Replacing the windows might help, at least in part. “They can have bunk beds.”

  “That’d work for two of them. What about the other six?” he says with a solemn tone, his brow furrowed intently on the picture of him and my father on the About page I built for The Yeti website.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the animal you’re breeding with. Maybe she has a den somewhere that can fit them all in.”

  His deep chuckle fills our bedroom.

  “Any bookings yet?” I ask, teasing. The Yeti’s site has only been live for three days.

  “How would I know? You haven’t shown me how to see them.”

  I ease in closer to him, resting my chin on his shoulder. “That’s right, I haven’t. I have to make myself indispensable to you somehow.”

  Jonah’s blue eyes crawl over my face. “You are indispensable to me. Seriously, I couldn’t have pulled together anything half as good.”

  “Wait till you see the itinerary template I finished,” I say, dragging out the two words seductively. Agnes walked me through several examples of forms and gave her official seal of approval—an emailed response with a smiley face on it.

  The bed shakes with his laughter. He leans in to skate his lips along my jawline. “Thank you. For everything.”

  I inhale the scent of body wash on his skin from his shower. “This is only the beginning. By the time I’m done with my marketing plan, every Alaskan man, woman, and child will have heard of The Yeti,” I promise, repeating the seductive tone.

  “Would you stop saying it like that?”

  “Like what? The Yeti—ow!” I squeal, feeling his teeth playfully nip at my throat.

  With a soothing kiss over the spot and a smirk of satisfaction, Jonah shifts back to his previous position, his attention on my laptop screen again.

  “I called Chris today. He agreed to promote us at their front desk, front and center. I’ve already ordered the pamphlets.” I spent the weeks leading up to our move designing promotional material and now that we have an official address, there’s nothing stopping me from printing.

  “Please tell me there aren’t any half-naked pictures of me in them?”

  “No! Of course not. That would be totally unprofessional.” I pause. “Those are only for the calendar. I’ve sent one to Andrea. She said she has the perfect place to hang her copy at their front desk.”

  Jonah grits his teeth “You better be kidding.”

  “Guess you’ll have to find out.” I waggle my eyebrows at him. “Hey, when do you think Phil’s plane will be up and running? I want to take some pictures of it and add it to the fleet page.”

  He shakes his head. “Who knows? I couldn’t even get the engine to turn when I tried earlier. I’m not thinking about that right now, though, not when I’ve got two reliable planes to choose from. Well, semi-reliable. Veronica’s gas gauge is acting up.” When he sees the concerned look on my face, he quickly adds, “It’s no big deal. I have to pay closer attention. I’ll get it fixed as soon as I find a mechanic around here I trust to look at it.”

  I force away the fear of Jonah’s engine stalling midair because he’s run out of gas. “Speaking of mechanics, the blue snowmobile sounds like it wants to die.”

  Jonah sighs. “We’ll have to get that fixed, too.”

  I curl up against his side, craving his body heat. “I want to go into Wasilla tomorrow to do some shopping, so maybe we can ask around?”

  “More shopping? For what?”

  “Stuff.”

  His eyebrow arches. “Stuff?”

  “House stuff.” I shrug. “Maybe something to go with the couch? I’ll let you know when I find it.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be gone most of the day tomorrow. I’m gonna do a run to Unalakleet.”

  I frown. That’s far in the west, if I remember correctly. “For what?”

  “A possible TB outbreak.”

  “TB?” My voice fills with alarm. “Isn’t that, like, highly contagious?” And, I thought, eradicated?

  “It can be. The doc doing rounds there called while you were in the bath to see if I can pick up an X-ray machine from Anchorage. Aro is backlogged and Nome doesn’t have one to spare. They’re telling him they can’t make the run for at least another week. He’s got two sick kids he’s worried about and a half dozen more people who aren’t doing too good.” Jonah doesn’t sound nearly rattled enough by this.

  “Can’t you call Howard and yell at him to make this a priority?” That’s what Jonah’s good at, according to my dad—shaking trees until the fruit falls.

  “I could, but the doc and I go way back, and it’s business for me. It’s supposed to be clear for another day before the snow starts again. Good time to go.”

  Not that that can’t change in an instant, from everything I’ve learned about Alaska. I push that worry aside. “I thought you were going to focus on this side of the state.”

  “Eventually. Right now, I need to take whatever I can get. Plus, these villagers know and trust me to help them out. I will, whenever I can.”

  “Why don’t I come with you, then?”

  He shakes his head. “I might have to fly those kids to the hospital.”

  “Right. Well … I guess I’ll wait to go shopping, then.” It’ll be the first day since we moved here that Jonah’s flying anywhere. An unexpected pang of longing for tomorrow night hits. I wish I could hit a button and fast-forward until then.

  I really need to book my road test soon.

  Jonah pushes the laptop closed and sets it on the nightstand. We’re using Phil and Colette’s old mismatched bedroom furniture, save for the mattress, until I can find a set I like to replace it.

  I let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “I guess I’ll just hang out here … all alone.”

  Jonah reaches back and pulls his T-shirt up over his head, revealing the web of muscle that fans his back, his broad, hard chest, and the ridges in his taut abs. He tosses the shirt haphazardly toward the corner, missing the hamper entirely. I know that before bed tonight, he’ll get out of bed to move it back. He’s a closeted neat freak. “You’re not alone. You’ve got Bandit and Zeke.”

  I pause in my admiring gawk of his upper body to shoot him a look. Jonah has been single-handedly dealing with our livestock problem. I have yet to even venture to the pen, let alone bond with my childhood nemesis.

  He pulls the tie on my robe and, with a casual flick of his wrist, throws both sides wide open. I feel his heated gaze drag over my naked flesh as if he were touching me with his fingertips. “There’s plenty to keep yourself busy with around here all day while I’m gone.”

  “Like what?” I shiver from the cold against my bare skin, even while my body begins to fire with the promise of what’s coming.

  He works our comforter out from beneath my body and back up, covering my lower half. “Oh, you know …” He slides over to press his body against mine, the feel of his hot skin against me pulling a soft moan from my lips. He’s wearing boxer briefs, a problem I hope to fix momentarily. “Make sure the house is clean and warm for me when I come
home …” He brushes his lips along my jawline. “Wash and fold my laundry …” His lips find my neck. “Cook me dinner …”

  I school my expression—Jonah knows the mere suggestion of catering to him like a 1950s housewife will get a reaction from me—and respond with, “Maybe I’ll order those tables. You know, the ones I showed you yesterday?”

  “Nope. Don’t remember,” he murmurs, but the flash of recognition on his face before his head dips down and his mouth closes over a peaked nipple says otherwise.

  I inhale sharply, his teasing tongue sparking heat between my legs. “From that store in Seattle. The live-edge ones that cost a grand each, and you said a person would have to be a moron or certifiable to consider paying that much for a hunk of wood?” I smile as I quote him, weaving my fingers through his ash-blond hair as he shifts his attention to my other breast. Even from this angle, I can see the grimace he’s trying to hide as I push his buttons. “I maxed my card out with that couch, so should I use your Mastercard or your Visa? Which one has more room—ah!”

  I squeal with laughter as Jonah moves fast, maneuvering his big body to fit between my thighs.

  “It’s a fucking piece of wood that someone slapped lacquer on and screwed four legs to.” He props himself up on his elbows, his brawny arms framing my face. “I’ll make you one for free.”

  I have no idea if he could or not, but seeing Jonah riled up is too much fun. “But we get a shipping discount if we order both end tables and the coffee table together. I think it was two hundred to ship all three? Of course, I’d choose express, so it’ll be more.”

  “Don’t you dare, Calla. Those are a huge rip-off,” he warns, his eyes flashing with grim amusement as he peers down at me.

  Part of me wants to stretch the verbal foreplay a little longer. There’s nothing but his cotton boxer briefs separating us, and I can feel how much he wants me pressed against the apex of my thighs. Also, these kinds of games always lead to fervent sex, which is exactly what I’m in the mood for.

  My hips shift of their own volition, enticing him to make the next move.

  With a knowing smirk, he obliges, shoving his underwear down with one hand and entering me without preamble, his lips crashing into mine.

  I cry out with abandon into the cold, dark night, again and again, my jagged nails dragging across his back with each powerful thrust, my fists tightening through his hair, my legs curling around his hips.

  Taking full advantage of the fact that there’s no one to hear us for miles.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The snow machine’s engine churns loud and ragged as I race along the driveway toward the plane, holding out hope that it doesn’t die on the way, and that Jonah spots me coming before he takes off.

  When the door pops open and Jonah hops out, I sigh with relief.

  I come to a stop on the edge of the strip and wait for him to reach me, his strides long and purposeful, his brow furrowed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I cut my engine. “You didn’t say goodbye.” He was gone before I stirred this morning, leaving nothing but the smell of brewed coffee in his wake and the faint memory of a kiss against my temple.

  “Yeah, I did. You were half-asleep.”

  “Then it doesn’t count.”

  He reaches out with both hands to tug the sides of my winter hat down over my ears. The temperature is above average by a few degrees for this time of year, according to the local radio station, but there’s still a wintry chill in the air. “I found your itinerary form. It’s filled out and sitting on the desk.”

  “Great. Thank you.” Agnes said to make sure Jonah never leaves without completing an itinerary. It has his destination and his flight plan. It’s the only way I know where to direct help, should he not arrive. “What time will you be home?”

  “Around five. It’s far, and it took me a while to get that stupid thing goin’ before I could clear the snow.” He juts a chin toward the tractor, the cherry-red plow attached to the front wearing several dents. Another engine in need of a mechanic. “I’ll call you on the satphone when I get to Unalakleet.”

  “Right when you get there?” I give him a threatening stare. Agnes warned me that one of Jonah’s few faults around piloting is his inability to promptly and reliably check in. It’s an odd and uncharacteristic difficulty for a guy like him, who prides himself on his communication skills.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He smirks, leaning in to steal a quick kiss, obviously in a rush to get off the ground.

  I grab hold of his neck before he has a chance to pull away and hold him there, prolonging the feel of his lips against mine.

  He’s frowning curiously when I release him. “Am I gonna get this kind of goodbye every time I fly off somewhere?”

  “Yes,” I say with more seriousness than I intended. “Don’t ever leave without saying goodbye to me. Please.”

  He studies my face a long moment. “I’m not gonna crash, Calla. I promise.” His voice is soft, lulling.

  “You can’t promise that.” Though I desperately want to believe him.

  He leans in to kiss me again, this time more deeply. “Fine. But I will always find my way back to you,” he whispers against my lips. “Love you. See you in a few hours.”

  “I love you, too.” My heart sings as I watch him head toward the plane, a buoyancy to his step that I’ve come to recognize as Jonah when he’s about to get in the sky—cheerful, energized, but also at ease, as if slipping into something comfortable. Today, he seems more charged than usual. Probably because he hasn’t flown since the day we arrived almost two weeks ago. The longest he’s ever gone without being in the air since he moved to Alaska, he noted last night, as we lay naked and out of breath, in postcoital bliss.

  Suddenly, he spins to face me, walking backward. “By the way, what is that stuff in the fridge? In the jars?”

  “Chia pudding. I made it for breakfast. Like it?”

  “No.” He screws up his face. “Not even a little bit.”

  I shrug. “It’s healthy for you.”

  He waves off my words, turning his back to me. “You should go for a run!” he hollers over his shoulder. “You must have cabin fever by now!”

  “Yeah! Log cabin fever, thanks to you!” A run isn’t a bad idea, though.

  He climbs back into the plane. Moments later, the engine purrs loud and then Veronica is taking off.

  I huddle in my parka with my Canon pointed, capturing stills of Jonah’s first official flight from our airstrip. Veronica’s wings tip and wobble left and right as she climbs into the sky, until the plane is nothing more than a speck and I’m all alone, surrounded by snow and trees and an eerily calm silence.

  The snow machine’s engine chugs and coughs a few times in protest before finally coming to life. I coast back to our empty home, the panoramic view of the mountain range against the crisp, blue sky following me the entire way.

  * * *

  I slow my pace to a walk, my hot breath producing a billow of misty cloud as it merges with the icy air. My body is suitably warm from the three layers I dressed in, but my lungs burn from the cold.

  Six kilometers.

  That’s the distance I had to run—past chained driveways and smokeless cabins—to spot signs of another living being.

  I pause to suck back a small gulp of my water from my insulated bottle while reading the tacky array of corrugated signs ahead. They’re nailed to a half-dead spruce tree on the right of the driveway leading into Trapper’s Crossing Resort, and they promise everything: fully equipped two- and four-person cabins and spacious camping spots for rent, excellent fishing and dogsled rides, free Wi-Fi, a hot breakfast, and small-engine repair.

  Phil boasted about the fishing in the network of rivers nearby. I imagine that’s a seasonal thing. Right now, the rustic little cabins with red-tin roofs sit idly among the thinned-out trees, their curtains drawn, the snow-covered ground around them free of tracks.

  Utterly lifeless.

 
The main building stretches off to the left—a simple, long and narrow log cabin capped with a red-tin roof to match the rest of the property’s structures. A string of old, multicolored Christmas lights like the ones I dug up in my father’s shed dangles across the front, from one end to the other. Above a solid forest-green door is a colorful decal of a fish and a sign that reads Ale House. In the window is a blinking neon Open sign. One lonely pickup truck sits in the lot, its burgundy color coated with dirt.

  The sign for small-engine repair, which points with an arrow to a metal garage off to the other side of the main building, is what sparks my interest and spurs me toward the Ale House’s green door. This might be a good place to service our snow machines, before we find ourselves stranded.

  I stomp my shoes—specialty winter runners my mom gave me for Christmas—on the thinned doormat that reads Dogs Welcome, Humans Tolerated, and push inside.

  Warmth and the smell of freshly brewed coffee envelop me as I allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only light in the room is a pot light shining over the bar where a burly man in a camo baseball cap and a heavy gray sweater is hunched over a spread newspaper, staring at me.

  “Hi,” I say through a slightly ragged voice, still catching my breath. I’m out of shape, having only run a dozen times since leaving Toronto last December.

  The man’s appraising gaze skitters over me, all the way down to my shoes, as an AM radio broadcaster’s voice chatters in the background, filling the otherwise empty, quiet room with news of this weekend’s weather forecast. “You need somethin’?” Unlike Roy, this guy sounds like he might be from here, his voice carrying that folksy lilt. Like Roy, though, he isn’t showing any hint of friendliness.

  My stomach quivers with unease at the possibility that Jonah and I have found ourselves surrounded by assholes. “Yeah. I was out for a run and I saw the sign for small-engine repair?” I throw a thumb in the air, pointing out to the road. “Anyway, I was wondering if you fix snowmobiles. Sorry, snow machines. Still getting used to saying that,” I mutter, more to myself. “We just moved in down the road and the ones that came with the place sound like they’re about to die.” When he frowns, I clarify, “Did you know Phil Gorman?”