“Oh, right. I heard he sold.” His thumb drags over his short, brown beard. I’d put him in his midthirties. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” I dare ask, unsure whether I want to hear his answer.
Suddenly, his face splits into a wide grin, one that softens his hard features and makes him look five years younger. “The four bear bells. You’re not from around here, are you?”
I can’t help but laugh, even as my chilled cheeks heat from embarrassment and my hand instinctively reaches to cover the bell secured to the opposite hand’s wrist. I also have one on each shoe and one attached to the bear spray chest holster. “I’m actually from Toronto. But I will have you know that a born-and-bred Alaska Native gave me these for Christmas and made me promise I’d never go running without them.”
“And you should definitely use at least one of them. Especially when the bears come out of hibernation next month.” He pulls himself off the counter—he’s barrel-chested and only a few inches taller than I am—and comes around the bar to offer a hand that’s rough, the nail cuticles stained dark. The hands of a mechanic. He’s clearly the one doing the engine repair promised on that sign out front. “I’m Toby McGivney.” His entire demeanor has shifted, much to my relief.
“Calla.” My focus drifts over the interior again, from the woodstove in the corner to the small tables, all covered in mismatched vinyl table cloths, to the kitschy signs and stuffed fish and countless photos of people and their fish secured to the walls with thumbtacks. If I had to guess, everything in here was salvaged from a basement or a garage sale or a thrift shop. Maybe even the dump.
There’s a bulletin board on the wall near the door. It’s littered with flyers and scraps of paper in every color, with phone numbers scrawled on the bottom, ready to be torn off and called. A good place to advertise a new charter plane company in town, perhaps. Tucked between a container of napkins and a bottle of ketchup is a small stack of laminated menus. I guess they serve food here, too. “So, do you own this place?”
He lifts his baseball cap to reveal unkempt sable-brown hair before resettling it on his head. “Yeah. Well, my family does. We live on the other side of this.” He points to the wall and, I assume, the other half of the log building. “How do you like it in Trapper’s Crossing so far?”
“It’s really …” I stall on my choice of words to describe the town. “So, what do you do around here for fun?”
“Leave?” he offers with a grin. “Nah, I’m kidding. There’s a ton to do around here for the right kind of person. Mainly outdoors stuff. A lot of fishing, hiking … The hunting’s not great, though.”
“That’s too bad.” I struggle to keep the sarcasm from my voice, and can’t help but note his choice of words—the right kind of person. Has Toby already figured out that I’m all wrong for Trapper’s Crossing?
He chuckles, an easy, warm sound. “Summer is busy as hell.” Reaching for a full pot of coffee, he asks, “Want one? On the house.”
“I’m good. Thanks, though.” Above the coffee machine is a gilt-framed picture of Toby and another guy in camo hunting jackets, standing side by side over a moose carcass. Identical smiles plaster their faces. Cousins or brothers is my guess.
“Something stronger?” Toby offers mildly as he tops up his own mug, jutting his chin toward the five beer taps jutting out of the counter.
I laugh. “No, and do me a favor, if I ever jog here so I can drink, it means Alaska has finally gotten to me. Please put me out of my misery. Rope a steak to my neck and tie me to a tree for the bears.”
His eyes widen with momentary surprise. “Uh … So, what brought you here?”
“An airstrip.” His heavy brow furrows and I laugh. “My boyfriend’s a pilot and he wanted his own airstrip. And I needed to be within easy-ish driving distance to Anchorage.” I shrug. “He fell in love with Phil’s place and suckered me into it. It’s been an adventure ever since.”
“Right.” Toby nods, adding quietly, “of course.”
“Sara called!” comes a loud male voice from somewhere unseen. “Did you hear Jax got trampled by a moose?” A moment later, a round man with a long, bushy white beard and wearing mustard-colored overalls pushes through a two-way swinging, saloon-style door. He stops abruptly when he sees me—and the horrified look that must be splayed across my face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya, dear. Jax is a sled dog.
“Oh.” I’m not sure if that makes me feel any better.
“Yeah. He crossed paths with a mama and her baby during the Iditarod. Turned nasty fast.”
“Dad, this is Calla. She moved into Phil’s place. Calla, this is my dad, Teddy.”
“Toby and Teddy. I think I can remember that.”
“He plays Santa at the town’s Christmas dinner every year. You’ll never guess why.”
Teddy gives Toby a playful slap upside the head before coming around to offer his hand. “Phil told me he was sellin’ to a nice young couple. You’re from Canada, right?”
I smile. “I am.”
“From what I’ve heard, your husband’s one heck of a pilot.”
I don’t correct him on the husband label as my chest surges with pride. I already knew Jonah was one of the best around—my father said as much. But to hear complete strangers say it feels somehow more authentic. “He is. He flew for Alaska Wild for ten years and now we’re starting a charter business here.” It still sounds surreal. Me, part owner of a charter plane company?
“Alaska Wild.” Teddy strokes his beard in thought. Beneath the mass of wiry white hair, his cheeks are a rosy red, with tiny capillary lines marring his skin. “That went under, didn’t it?”
“No.” I say more abruptly than I intend, but Wild—and Wren Fletcher—did not fail. “My father had terminal cancer. He decided to sell.”
Sympathy passes through Teddy’s blue eyes. “Well, we get all kinds of people coming through here. We’ll be sure to pass along your hubby’s name if they mention lookin’ for a ride somewhere.”
“That would be amazing.”
“Sure, sure. And Toby here also works on planes so if you’re ever in need of a mechanic, you’ve got one right down the road.”
“Really?” Running six kilometers has paid off. “Because we have Phil’s Beaver and it needs some work if we want to get it in the air again.” I suppress my goofy grin as I realize I’ve begun talking about planes by their model, as if it comes naturally to me. I remember a time when everyone around me did it, and it sounded weird.
“Well, good, then. Glad we can help each other out. That’s how it works around here.”
This is going so well, I decide to forge on. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d love to leave some pamphlets here when I get them. Or even just put one up on that bulletin board.”
“Sure, sure. You go on right ahead, dear. That’s what it’s there for.” Teddy waves a hand toward it, then turns his attention to Toby, patting the counter. “Hunter called. He’s bringin’ his machine in. His engine died on him, out on the middle of the lake. They had to drag him all the way home.”
“I guess I’ll go stoke the fire in the garage. Get it warmed up.” Toby studies his cracked hands. “You sure you don’t want a coffee, Calla?”
“No. I should get back.” Jonah will be calling soon.
“’Kay. Come by tomorrow and I’ll look at that engine for you. Probably just needs some regular maintenance. Phil was never good at keeping up with that.”
Teddy’s cheeks lift with his jovial smile. “You swing by whenever you want, dear. I know Muriel would love to meet you. She and Colette used to spend a lot of time together, mucking around in the garden. And bring that pilot of yours here on Friday night! It’d be good to meet him.” Teddy waggles his eyebrows. “It’s ladies’ night.”
“Ladies’ night,” I echo, eying the giant stuffed fish on the wall next to a sign that reads “I love a big rack,” before meeting Toby’s gaze.
“There’ll be exactly four old drunk
men here on Friday,” he confirms soberly. “No ladies.”
“One lady,” Teddy corrects him with an arched brow. “Your mother is always here.”
“Except she ain’t no lady,” Toby counters. “She’ll tell you that herself.”
“Yeah, fine. No ladies,” Teddy agrees with a chuckle. “Until May, that is, when this place wakes up. Anyway, you’re welcome any time. And here …” He grabs a scrap of paper and a pen and slaps it down in front of his son, stabbing the counter with his stubby index finger. “You should have our number, in case of anything. This is a tight-knit community. We rely on each other whenever there’s a need. Make sure you go out and meet your neighbors.”
“We’ve already met Roy.” I school my expression as best I can.
“Oh boy.” Teddy gives me a knowing look. “Dealing with that guy is like flipping a coin and getting the wrong side nine out of ten times. Just remember, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“His bark’s pretty bad,” Toby says, scribbling his number down.
“Yeah, Muriel and him have gone at it a few times. They haven’t shot each other yet, but there’s still time for that. He’s not too keen on the tourism industry and …” Teddy waves aimlessly around him. “Here we are, survivin’ on it.”
No wonder we’ve already started off on Roy’s bad side. A good chunk of The Yeti’s business will come from catering to tourists. Phil must have mentioned our plans to Roy during their livestock trade discussions.
I accept the slip of paper that Toby passes over with a smile. “Thanks.”
“Uh-huh. Any issues, anything you guys need, you give us a call, dear.” Teddy sees my bear spray and my bells and nods to himself. “Can never be too prepared.”
“Right?” I’m beaming from this pleasant and advantageous introduction as I take one last long look around the Ale House, in all its mismatched glory. The place feels far less empty and uncomfortable now than it did when I walked in. These neighbors, though six kilometers away, more than make up for one curmudgeon.
“I’ll be by tomorrow morning with one of the snow machines,” I promise, heading for the door, my eyes grazing the antlers mounted to a plaque on the far wall. A thought strikes me. “Hey, you know what you guys could use in here?”
Teddy and Toby both frown and, while they look nothing alike, there is a definite family resemblance in that expression.
I grin. “Some animal heads for your walls.”
Chapter Fourteen
I freeze, my heart hammering in my chest as I survey the trees, searching for whatever just moved within them. It’s the second time in as many minutes that I caught motion from the corner of my eye. The first time, I dismissed it as my unease playing with my imagination. But when it happened again …
There’s something out there, in broad daylight, shifting among the shadows, and every hair along the back of my neck is standing on end.
Fumbling with the can of bear spray attached to the holster, I pull it out with shaky hands and grip it tightly. I march along the driveway toward home, the bells jingling with each step, blood pulsing in my ears, my head on a swivel as my eyes dart this way and that. I struggle not to run, in case whatever it is would prefer to give chase.
I’m so tense that when the satellite phone rings in my coat pocket, I yelp with surprise. “Jonah!” I yell into the phone.
“Hey. Landed in Unalakleet. What are you up to?” His voice is a bit distant and distorted. And I don’t know if I’ve ever been so happy to hear it.
“I think I’m being followed,” I say loudly, hoping the sound of my voice scares whatever it is away.
“What?” I can picture him, his brow furrowed, his hand on his hip.
“There’s something in the trees. I went for a run and …” I give him the thirty-second explanation, my words rushed as I keep walking toward the house.
“Okay. Relax, Calla.”
“I’m trying to!” But I’m out here in the middle of nowhere, alone, with any number of wild animals surrounding me.
“Where are you now?”
“Halfway between the hangar and the house.” I can make out the green of our roof up ahead. Jonah drove the truck down to the planes this morning. I wish I’d jumped in and driven it back.
“Okay, you’re not that far. Keep walking. I’ll stay on with you until you get home.”
“Thank you.” While he can’t reach through the phone to protect me, talking to him has a calming effect.
“It’s gotta be that fox. It must have a den around us.”
“No. The fur wasn’t orange. It was brown or gray, something like that.” A fleeting blur of dull color. “And big.”
“Probably the moose, then.”
“Oh, yeah. Great. Did you know mama moose like to trample things?”
“Tell me about your run. Where’d you go?” he asks, steering me clear of that thought. It’s a distraction tactic but I gladly accept it.
Jonah listens as I walk and talk, filling him in on the resort down the road, Toby and his father Teddy, my voice shaky as I keep a steady pace. By the time I reach the door to our basement walk-out, my fear has abated some. “Okay, I’m home.”
“You good?”
“Yeah.” And feeling slightly embarrassed, to be so frightened by something I didn’t actually see. “I know there was something out there, Jonah.”
“Maybe it was a yeti.”
“Not funny.”
“Whatever it was, it’s probably already a mile away.”
“I hope so.”
His heavy sigh carries through the phone. “But you’ve gotta get used to this, Calla. You’re living in rural Alaska. You’re gonna see animals, especially if you’re out running. But as long as you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.”
“I know. I just … I know.” Living at my father’s wasn’t anything like this. The threat of dangerous animals roaming around his house was low. You had to go up the river to find black bear and moose.
“’Kay. Gotta go. See ya in a few hours.”
I slide the satellite phone into my coat pocket, looking forward to getting inside. I’ve pushed the key in the lock when I catch the sound of crunching snow behind me. The hairs stand on the back of my neck as I whip around, a scream curdling in my throat.
Zeke is standing ten feet away.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, sinking against the door as relief bowls me over. “How did you get out?” I demand to know, my voice thick with accusation.
He answers with a loud bleat, marching toward me, his hooves leaving little round tracks in the snow.
“No. What are you … Shoo!”
He ignores my wild waving hand, moving in to nip at the bell on my right wrist. I wrench it away and step back. He follows, making another attempt, flashing his gnarly brown teeth, the smell of his fur making my nose curl.
As much as I’d love to go inside and leave him out here until Jonah comes home to deal with him, there’s a chance he’ll wander off and get himself eaten. A vision of Jonah flying home to find a goat carcass lying on the runway hits me, and I know what I must do. “Ugh … come on.” I follow Jonah’s boot prints from earlier around to the back of the house, checking over my shoulder several times to confirm that Zeke is following. The snow is deep, and by the time I reach the unlatched door to the pen—set some distance from our house—my ankles are chilled with snow and the hairs on the back of my neck have risen again with that eerie sense I’m being watched. I give a furtive scan around the trees but see no movement.
“Relax, Calla,” I say out loud as I pull open the gate—the only part of the enclosure that isn’t electrified—hoping my voice carries. Little good it does for my nerves.
Raccoon chatter answers a moment before Bandit’s tiny black-and-gray triangular face pokes out from the door leading into the chicken coop. He’s taken to his new home and companion more readily than we expected, though it’ll be interesting to see if he’s as willing to be penned up come the warmer
weather.
“You let him out, didn’t you?” I accuse Bandit, luring Zeke back in, avoiding the piles of goat poop littering the trodden snow. I push the gate shut behind him, taking a few minutes to figure out how to fasten the latch. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t believe that Bandit could have managed it.
With the goat safe within his cage, I pause, taking a moment to study the two faces staring back at me. I shake my head. “Is this my life now? Spending my days talking to a raccoon and a goat?”
Zeke bleats and kicks at the fence, rattling the entire structure.
I hurry inside, my gaze on the surrounding forest the entire way.
* * *
Jonah plows through the door, bringing a wave of blustering cold with him. Temperatures have dropped with the impending storm. “Hey, babe.”
My eyes dart to the clock, though I already know the exact time, down to the minute. 7:04 p.m. Two hours from when he was supposed to arrive. Just one hour before sunset.
“Hi,” I push through gritted teeth. When I heard the plane coming in thirty minutes ago, relief coursed through every fiber of my body. Now, I’ve also had a half hour to stew in my anger.
He tosses his coat onto the hook and kicks off his boots. “Somethin’ smells good.”
“Soup.”
“Is that the mix you bought the other day?”
I hesitate, weighing civility over my irritation. I’ve learned that Jonah despises canned soup, so when I saw the packaged mix—spices and dry ingredients, with instructions to add meat and vegetables, as if from scratch—I threw three into the cart. “Yes,” I answer crisply.
“Nice. I was thinkin’ about that. Sounds like we’re gonna get snowed in starting late tonight. I’ve gotta bring in a bunch of wood for us.” He empties his pockets onto the desk—a wad of cash that I assume is from the run today, a fuel receipt, the satellite phone, and his iPhone. He leans in to kiss me.
Wild At Heart: A Novel Page 12
