Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “We need a new truck,” I lament, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, my biceps tensing as I turn into the parking lot of Burger Shack. It’s empty of cars and riddled with potholes.

  “Nah. Just need to fix the power steering,” Jonah says from the passenger seat, his focus on the local newspaper in his grip. “We’ll have ’em look at it when they fix the taillight.”

  “It’s ancient.”

  “It’s got power windows.” Unlike the SUV Jonah drove in Bangor. But he had an excuse for driving it there. In a place where vehicles are brought in by boat, you hold on to whatever you can find until the engine takes its final breath. Anchorage has every dealership imaginable, albeit pricier.

  Still, there is no excuse for keeping this leaking, creaking, duct-tape-covered beast.

  I come to a stop in what might be a parking spot, if there were actual lines painted on the gravel. There’s no sign of these local runners Muriel set me up with, but we’re ten minutes early, to give myself a chance to warm up. “I was thinking something bigger, manlier.”

  Jonah pauses his reading to frown at me. “You’ve gone from wanting a Mini Cooper to something manlier?”

  I roll my eyes. “Not for me. For you.”

  He moves back to his paper. “I told you, this is good for me.”

  “Of course, it is.” I let my focus wander. A thin, older man jogs past, a black Labrador on a leash keeping pace next to him. Maybe that’s what I need—a dog to keep me company when I’m outside. “Fine. But I want something nicer to drive.”

  “Like what?” He drops the newspaper again. “And don’t say a fucking Mini Cooper or I swear to God, Calla, I’ll find more crash pics to send.” There’s no hint of amusement in his voice.

  “I was thinking a Jeep. A Wrangler. They’re supposed to be good in snow.”

  Jonah makes a grunting sound that could be approval, but also might not be. “Hardtop, right?”

  “I think soft, actually. They say it’s easier to take off—”

  “Bears can tear right through canvas.”

  “Hardtop, it is.”

  He smiles. “How much are they?”

  I press my lips together, deciding how I want to answer, given the fight we just had yesterday over my spending. “More than the hot tub.” Especially with the leather interior and all the bells and whistles the website let me choose.

  He studies me a long moment, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to start giving me a hard time. “Get your license first, and then maybe we can go check out the dealership. You should test drive one before you make any decisions.”

  “Yeah. That’s smart.” I leave the keys in the ignition and hop out of the driver’s seat, inhaling deeply. It’s overcast, but not raining. The morning air, though crisp, is clean. It’s a nice day to run.

  The passenger door slams shut behind me and Jonah’s boots drag across the gravel, sending stones skittering.

  “What are you going to do while I’m out running?” I ask, stretching my legs.

  “A few errands.”

  I glance over my shoulder to find him leaning against the hood of the truck, his thumbs hooked in his pockets, his steady gaze on my ass. I spin around to face him, ending his show. “Pervert.”

  “You don’t know the half of it …” He flashes a wicked smirk that makes my heart race and my cheeks flush and a thrill course through my core. We’ve been living together for almost five months, and he can still cause an instant reaction in my body with a single look. Enough that I’d be willing to skip this run with strangers and find a private spot to christen this old truck.

  I clear my throat. “Errands?”

  He grins, as if he can read my thoughts. “I figured I’d go and see about Muriel’s list of demands.”

  I groan. “How did I get myself into this?” Toby sent a text last night with an itemized list—manure, triple mix, and seeds for everything from carrots to squash to pumpkins—that Muriel wants me to have at the house by Monday. He also apologized if his mother seems a bit controlling. That choice of words made me laugh.

  “You did mention trying out gardening, didn’t you?” Jonah reminds me.

  I pivot into a leg lunge. “I was thinking more along the lines of a pot of basil on our windowsill.”

  “Well, you can have a jungle of it.” Jonah chuckles. “Look, she’s willin’ to help so let her help.”

  “She’s a dictator, and she made me feel dumb and clueless.”

  “Then prove her wrong,” he challenges.

  “But I am dumb and clueless when it comes to gardening.”

  He shakes his head firmly. “You’ll figure it out. And I don’t think she means anything bad by it. She set this run up for you. Maybe you’ll make some new friends around here.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I could definitely use one of those right now.”

  Jonah lifts off the truck, closing the distance to seize my shoulders and pull me against him. “I’m sorry about Diana,” he offers, his voice conciliatory.

  “I’m so disappointed.” I press my cheek against his chest, the feel of his soft cotton shirt and the smell of his woodsy body wash a comfort. “I was really hoping she’d come this year.” Diana called me last night to break the news that, with Aaron’s sister’s wedding and needing to take time off around exams, she won’t have enough vacation days left to visit me. I can’t begrudge her situation—I’m competing against a wedding and law school. Still, I’m disheartened.

  “So, she’ll make it here next year.”

  “Yeah. We’ll see.” It’s been five months since I saw my family and my best friend. It’ll be a year by the time Mom and Simon come for Christmas. A year and a half, at least, for Diana. While I could fly to Toronto to see them at any time, the selfish part of me wishes they’d have made coming here to see me in my new world a priority.

  “My mom said that was one of the hardest things about living in Alaska—how little she saw of her friends and family. They all say they’re gonna come but they don’t. ’Course, most of them were in Oslo, which is way farther than Toronto.” Jonah smooths a comforting hand over my back. “Don’t worry, though. They’ll make it here.”

  A hollow ache stirs in my chest. “Muriel said eight, right?” I check my watch. It’s five after eight. “What if they don’t come?” I can’t even remember their names.

  “They’ll come.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For the same reason that I’m driving halfway to Wasilla for manure and why you’re planting a garden.”

  I peer up at Jonah’s handsome face. “Because we’re all terrified of Muriel?”

  He chuckles. “I’d call it more of a healthy respect. Look, that’s got to be them there.” He juts his chin toward the road behind me.

  I peer over my shoulder to see two female runners jogging side by side at a slow pace turn into the parking lot. They’re wearing matching head-to-toe neon running gear—one yellow, one magenta—and I have to wonder if any part of that is for fashion or if it’s all for visibility.

  “You good? Or do you want me to stick around until you’re sure you’re doin’ this?” Jonah asks.

  “I’m fine. It’s just a run.” And it’s much needed. I’ve been feeling sluggish lately. “This is only going to take a half hour, tops.”

  He leans down to kiss me, lingering a long moment, his beard tickling my face. “I’ll meet you at the grocery store after.”

  “Fine. Don’t take too long, Jeeves. Ow!” I let out a yelp—of surprise, not pain—at Jonah’s swift parting slap across my backside before he climbs into the truck.

  “Calla?” the older, wiry woman in yellow—in her late forties or maybe even early fifties—calls out.

  I smile, even as my cheeks flush. There’s no way they missed that. “Yeah. Hi.”

  She slows to a walk to close the last ten feet. “I’m Jodi.” She gestures to the softer-bodied, raven-haired woman next to her who is closer to my age. “This is my daughter, Emily
.”

  My glance flips back and forth between the two, looking for the resemblance, finding it in the slender bridge of their noses and their closely set eyes.

  Emily offers a lukewarm smile in return.

  So far, this feels as awkward as walking into a stranger’s house for lunch uninvited.

  “You all warmed up?” Jodi’s gaze flickers over the can of bear spray in my holster and the bell on my wrist. I limited myself to one today.

  “I am.”

  “Great. The bike path is over there.” She points to a narrow opening in the trees, beyond the lot, and begins leading us in that direction. “Have you been on it yet?”

  I shake my head in answer.

  “It goes all the way down to Wasilla. We obviously won’t be going that far.”

  I fall into step beside them as uncomfortable silence lingers. I wonder if they find this as awkward as I do.

  “Thanks, for letting me come with you.”

  “Safety in numbers, right?” Emily offers, her voice wispy and timid.

  I match their pace as we close the distance to the trail ahead. “So, have you lived here long?”

  They both nod but offer no opportunity for more conversation, and so I give up, keeping my attention ahead to where the cautionary yellow signs appear, warning of bicycles and runners.

  And moose.

  And bears.

  My anxiety spikes.

  “We’ve been running this trail for years and we’ve never run into a bear on it,” Jodi says, seeing where my eyes have landed. Muriel must have told them about my paranoia. I can only imagine her version: that girl from Canada who’s afraid of her own shadow.

  “How far are we going?”

  “We do ten miles on Saturdays. Muriel said you’d be up for that?” They both watch me expectantly.

  Did she, now … That’s sixteen kilometers. I could barely handle six kilometers back in March and I haven’t run since.

  I do a quick glance to confirm that Jonah is already gone. Too late to turn back.

  I’m the stranger here, crashing mother-and-daughter time, I remind myself. I force a smile. “Sure, should be fine.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I hear the distant buzz of Muriel’s ATV long before I spot her through the window, coasting up the driveway.

  Toby texted me twenty minutes ago, warning me his mother has decided today’s the perfect day for us to prep the garden, with the soil warm and dry enough.

  With a groan, I hit Save on a draft of my latest Calla & Dee blog post, entitled “The Reluctant Gardener.” The original title, “The Hostile Gardener,” sounded too … hostile.

  I wince as I stand, my thighs still sore from Saturday’s run. Grabbing my gardening cheat sheet—a compilation of basic tips from my mother and notes I gathered from an Alaska Gardening 101 blog—I step into my rubber boots and drag myself outside to face my determined neighbor.

  * * *

  “You almost done there?” Muriel bellows from the far end of the garden, wiping the back of her gloved hand across her brow.

  “I think so!” My back and shoulders throb as I drag the rake one last time. We’ve been working tirelessly for hours, churning the old dirt with the mounds of fresh, black soil and manure that Jonah dumped in here the other day, until the mixture is loose and level. My stomach is growling, my body is coated with sweat, and I can feel the dirty streaks that paint my cheeks.

  Muriel treks between the long, tidy rows of soil she built using a hoe, her boot prints remaining behind. “You need some water. Here.” She reaches down into her cooler and pulls out a bottle. “Drink up. Come on now.”

  I accept the bottle, downing nearly half of it in under twenty seconds, no longer fazed by the way she herds and cajoles and demands.

  “Better?”

  “Uh-huh,” I manage through a pant.

  “You’re all out of breath.” She snorts. “I thought you were a runner!”

  “This is different … from running.” Though I sounded about the same by the time I reached the end of my ten-mile run with Jodi and Emily—two quiet-mannered women who I learned speak little and smile even less. I’ve already politely declined their invitation to join them next weekend.

  Preparing this soil is backbreaking work. And this woman, who has three or four decades on me, is out here by choice, her breathing even. The only sign she’s exerted herself is the damp gray curls stuck to her forehead.

  She leans against the garden gate, settling a biceps over the top that would give most guys I’ve dated a run for their money in an arm-wrestling match. Beyond, Zeke grazes on a patch of newly sprouted weeds. Muriel insisted that he should be allowed to wander while we’re working out here. Meanwhile, Bandit took off into the woods, to climb a tree. “You’ve got yourself a good first garden, Calla,” she says with a satisfied nod. “We can start planting tomorrow.”

  “The porch guy’s coming to install the screens tomorrow.” Thank God. The bugs haven’t risen from their winter nests, but I know they’re coming, each day growing a bit longer and warmer.

  “And are you helpin’ him build?” Her wrinkled lips twist with a doubtful smirk.

  “Well, no, but—”

  “So, I’ll bring the seedlings in the morning. We should be able to get everything in by noon.”

  There’s no point trying to explain that I don’t want to be all the way back here when a stranger is working on my house. What if he has questions? What if he needs my opinion? I’m sure she’d have an answer for that, too. Right now, though, I want her to leave so I can shower, eat, and rest my throbbing body until Jonah comes home.

  “Have you seen the rest of your property yet?” Muriel asks suddenly.

  “Uh, no. There’s, like, almost a hundred acres.” I haven’t ventured beyond the driveway and the pen. My guess is I’ll never see all of it.

  She lifts her chin in that way she has sometimes when she talks. Like she’s about to tell me a secret, something she knows I don’t know—which is undoubtedly a lot. “I’ll bet Phil didn’t tell ya about the old cabin.”

  I pick through my memory and come up blank. “What cabin?”

  The broad smile that fills her face makes me instantly regret asking. “Come on. You and me are goin’ for a little ride.”

  * * *

  The back of Muriel’s jeans and coat are splattered with mud by the time she hops out of her seat in the middle of the thicket.

  I check my own pant legs to confirm that my clothes are equally dirty. The narrow, wet path she led me on to get here was sinking and churning beneath the weight of our ATVs.

  We’re surrounded by tall, leggy spruce and birch trees that are still mostly naked, though I see tiny buds on the ends of skinny branches. Fallen trunks lay in every direction, many rotted and coated with patches of bright green moss. A blanket of crumpled brown leaves from last fall’s shedding layers the forest floor in clumps, like soggy newsprint, waiting to decompose fully.

  “Is this my property?” I feel like an idiot asking that, but it seemed like I trailed Muriel forever.

  “Sure is.” She unfastens her helmet and hooks it on her handlebar, then reaches for the brown rifle strapped on her ATV’s rack. “I imagine we made enough noise comin’ in that there won’t be a sane critter within a mile of us, but I like to be prepared, just in case.”

  What about insane critters? I want to ask. The predatory grizzly that dragged a man out of his tent in the middle of the night? The protective moose that trampled a dog because it got between her and her baby?

  I haven’t seen our moose in weeks. Jonah thinks the noise from the plane taking off every day may have caused them to venture elsewhere.

  Muriel checks something on the gun before throwing the strap over her shoulder. “Jonah’s taught you how to use one of these, right?”

  Here we go … “I don’t like guns.”

  “It has nothin’ to do with likin’ them. Though, plenty of people love their guns.” She picks through the
loose branches, her boots kicking away clumps of wet leaves. “It’s about feeling safe.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t feel safe around them.” Even seeing this one in her grip unsettles me. “I didn’t grow up around guns.”

  “What? Your dad never took you out huntin’ in the tundra when you came to visit?”

  Toby and Teddy know I’m from Toronto and that my father owned Alaska Wild, so I have to assume they are Muriel’s source of information. “I never came to visit. My father and I … we weren’t on speaking terms until last summer. I hadn’t seen him in twenty-four years.”

  She steals a gray-eyed glance back my way, quiet for a moment, and I brace myself for the invasive prodding, the wise-woman lecture, the uninvited opinion.

  “Well, you know what’s more dangerous than a gun? Being in Alaska and not having one when you need it,” she says instead.

  Your son, Deacon, had a gun and look where that got him.

  I trail her as she pushes through the brush, her rubber boots heavy as they fall. I wonder, deep down beneath the rough exterior of this woman—never a lady, according to her loved ones—how often she thinks about the son who disappeared one day five years ago. Is that startling truth still the first thought she wakes up to every morning, in that precise moment when the fog of sleep dissipates?

  “There’s a ton of history about the Mat-Su Valley that I’m guessin’ you have no idea about.”

  “You’re right. I don’t,” I admit.

  “When you have kids, they’ll learn about it all in school. Of course, most of the focus is on the colonists. They get all the fanfare. Parades and special days and all that hoopla for them. But they didn’t start comin’ up here until the Great Depression. There were plenty of people here before them who helped settle the area. Farmers, miners, people wanting to be free and live off the land. They began headin’ up this way as soon as homesteading was allowed, back before the turn of the century, when we were a district of the United States. That’s how my family ended up here. They were originally from Montana.” She pushes a low tree branch back, holding it for me to pass. We round the thick crop of trees to find a small, dilapidated cabin ahead.