Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “She’s managing. It happens around us, especially in the villages. It happens too much. People are isolated, there aren’t a lot of options. They get hold of alcohol as an answer, even though it’s not sold anywhere legally.” She shakes her head. “This boy had a drinking problem, and I think maybe she’s been drinking with him sometimes. There have been signs and behavior over the last few months …” Her words drift.

  Mabel? How did the bubbly, innocent twelve-year-old who chased chickens and took me to pick blueberries last summer change so much in a year?

  The quiet on the screened-in porch has shifted to something disconcerting. “You should have told us, Agnes,” I admonish.

  “I didn’t want to worry you. You have enough to focus on here. And Jonah, well, I’m not sure telling him is the best idea. He isn’t the most graceful with communicating at times.”

  “Yeah. I get that.” He’s liable to yell at her, and where will that get him with a rebellious thirteen-year-old girl?

  I watch Agnes closely. I had a feeling she was sugarcoating life in Bangor. I’ve noticed it in our phone calls, when she smoothly diverts the topic away from Aro, away from the new tenant in my father’s house, away from her troubles with raising a teenager. Always away from her, and toward us.

  I should have pushed, but I’ve been so focused on us, too.

  “Are you happy?” I don’t think I’ve ever asked her that outright.

  “I’m …” She frowns. “We’re still trying to find our bearings. Without Wren and Jonah, life doesn’t feel quite alive anymore.” She offers a gentle smile. “But I think this little trip was a good idea for all of us.” She watches the two figures on the lake. “It feels like I have my family back together.”

  Family.

  Yes. That is exactly what this feels like.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When I pull up to Roy’s place the next evening, Oscar and Gus charge me with excited barks, giving my pant leg a sniff before darting away to take up their sentry posts. The barn door is open, but the goats bleat noisily inside. Roy must be tending to them in there.

  It’s been two days since he left his “apology” on our doorstep. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here tonight, except for the simple truth that I spent all afternoon watching the clock and replaying Muriel’s words from yesterday while internally debating my choices.

  And now I’m here.

  Instead of seeking Roy out, though, I head straight for the chicken coop, dragging the hose with me. Someone has shoveled out the chicken poop and replaced the pine shavings. I’d like to think it was Toby, but if there’s anyone stubborn enough to attempt that with a collection of broken bones, it would be Roy.

  I set to work, cleaning out and refilling the feeders, silently wagering with myself how many eggs I’ll find when I check the roosts.

  I sense rather than see eyes on me. When I look over, Roy is standing in the entryway of the barn, a rake in his good hand. His face is still bruised but the purple has faded some, now mottled with hints of green and yellow.

  “Toby said you got a new truck,” he calls out, his voice gruff as per usual.

  “I did. A Jeep.”

  “Why didn’t you drive it here?”

  “I don’t want to scratch up the paint.”

  He harrumphs but says nothing more about it, disappearing back into the barn.

  I finish feeding and watering the flock for the night and then duck into Roy’s house to leave the eggs—six!—along with a plate of Agnes’s roasted chicken, strawberries that Agnes hulled, and the last slice of my birthday cake.

  Roy is lugging a pail of milk when I emerge. The barn door has been pulled shut. It appears chores are done.

  I head for my truck. “I have a million berries to sell at the farmers’ market tomorrow night, so Toby will be here to help you.” I booked my table this morning. Agnes and Mabel have eagerly signed up to help me.

  He frowns and works his mouth as if tasting the words he wants to say before letting them out. “Will you be here in the mornin’?”

  I pat Oscar on his head. “Yeah. I’ll be here.” Mabel sleeps until ten and Agnes has no issues entertaining herself. Though, she’s been hinting at meeting the infamous Roy Donovan. I pause. “By the way, I have family visiting from Bangor until next week. If one of them is crazy enough to come here with me, you better be on your best behavior,” I warn with a stare. “Because if you’re a jerk to them? No amount of eggs or wooden jackasses on my doorstep will ever get me back here again.” I climb into the driver’s seat.

  “Why’d you come back, girl?” he hollers after me, tilting his head with interest.

  What did make me come back?

  My pity for the cantankerous bastard who chases everyone away so they can’t get too close?

  Or is it my growing curiosity about the man who spent nine days in the woods, keeping Muriel company while she came to terms with the reality that her son was gone?

  Or perhaps this has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

  Me, sensing that he likes having me around far more than he lets on.

  Me, seeing Roy as another monumental challenge in this isolated life, but one that I can overcome.

  Me, feeling like, if I can win over the man who keeps reminding me that I’ll never fit in, then maybe I will belong.

  Maybe all three. All I know is, I felt compelled to come.

  “I must be really bored.” With that, I start the engine and take off, the truck dipping and bumping through the potholes.

  I catch a glimpse of Roy watching after me in the rearview mirror.

  And I swear I see him smile.

  * * *

  “What’s this for?” I survey the wooden crate, brimming with Roy’s wooden figurines, that sits on the edge of the porch the next morning. Beside it are the dinner dishes I left last night, washed and stacked.

  Roy shifts on his feet. The milk pail dangles from his good hand. “You said you’re goin’ to be at that farmers’ market today, right?”

  “Right,” I say slowly.

  “And you think people might wanna buy these things?”

  “I do.” I’m not sure if a farmers’ market is the best place, though.

  His weathered face furrows. “I won’t be able to build anythin’ for another month, at least. I need to make some money.”

  Roy’s asking for my help. And, by the clench of his jaw, he’s having a hard time doing it.

  “How much should I sell them for?” I ask somberly.

  I catch an almost inaudible sigh escape him. “Whatever you think you can get.” He turns and trudges toward the barn.

  I pull out one figurine, then another, marveling at the detail. “Have you at least signed them?” I ask, turning one over.

  “Signed ’em?” He stops, his face twisting. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Because these are art pieces!”

  “They’re not art. They’re just wood,” he mutters, as if the very idea is deplorable.

  I roll my eyes. “They should be signed.”

  “Then sign ’em!”

  “You want me to sign them?”

  “I don’t care who signs ’em. I ain’t signin’ shit.” He disappears into the barn.

  * * *

  “Wait here, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Mabel’s eager eyes wander over Roy’s property. “Where’s Oscar?”

  The wolf dog was at his usual post this morning to greet us when we reached the garden. Once Mabel knew he wasn’t there to maul us, she became curious, then enamored. “I don’t know. I don’t see either of them. Be back in a minute.”

  I grab the wooden crate from the seat between us and carry it to Roy’s front porch. I had planned on leaving it there for him to find in the morning, and yet now that I’m here, I feel compelled to knock.

  Moments later, the door creaks open and Roy stands before me in a two-piece pajama set, scowling.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t
realize it was so … late?” It’s only eight. The sun is nowhere near the horizon and won’t be for hours. “We just got home from the farmers’ market.” I can’t keep the wide grin from my face as I fish out the envelope of cash and thrust it forward. “We sold all but two of them.”

  Roy’s eyebrows arch as he thumbs through the wad of twenties. “Huh … You were right.”

  “I can sell more next week, if you want. Lord knows I’ll have more strawberries to get rid of.” And Roy has hundreds of these to offload.

  After a moment, he nods, his frown still on the money.

  “Okay, well, I’ll leave this on your counter for you?” I edge in past him to set the box on the counter, next to the full bottle of painkillers. “Where are the dogs, by the way?”

  “Out huntin’ for rabbits, probably. They’ll be back soon.”

  “Lovely.” I cringe, pushing out the visual of that poor animal’s outcome. “I left Mabel in the truck so I should go—” My last word falters on my tongue as I spot the portrait of Roy and his family back in its place, on the trunk beneath the window. That wasn’t there last night.

  My eyes flash to Roy, to see him watching me, his face hard. Daring me to say something. As if I’d make that mistake again. “So, I’ll see you in the morning.” I move for the door, noting the rifle propped against the wall next to it. Good grief, Roy. I shake my head.

  “Her name’s Delyla.”

  I stop. The name spoken in the silence of this house is deafening.

  “She’s a few years older than you. Thirty-four, I think. Maybe thirty-five.” He studies the floor. “I can’t even remember anymore. It’s been so long.”

  “That’s a pretty name.” My pulse pounds in my ears, the urge to ask him what happened overpowering. But I bite my tongue. “Have a good night, Roy.” I hold my breath until I duck out the door, and then I let out a long, shaky breath. A smile stretches across my lips.

  Mabel’s head is bowed, her earbuds in, her attention glued to her phone. As per usual lately, it seems.

  I take the stairs down, a slight spring in my step as my gaze drifts over my surroundings—the tidy stack of wood, the chicken coop, the heap of rusted trucks, the collection of water jugs and propane tanks, the brown bear in front of the barn door—

  Every muscle in my body locks instantly, except for the one that controls my jaw.

  My mouth drops open to scream.

  No sound escapes.

  Don’t scream, I remind myself, clamping my lips together as my heart pounds. I steal a panicked glance toward Mabel, who happens to look up then to see my face. Her brow furrows in question.

  “Bear.” It’s not loud, almost a whisper.

  She must read the word on my lips, because her eyes begin frantically searching, spotting it only moments later.

  The bear lets out a deep, rattling growl that makes every hair on my body stand on end. It swats at the ground with its paw in warning. It’s too close.

  I am too close.

  “Calla …?” Mabel calls out with alarm, yanking the cord for her earbuds.

  “Close your window and stay in there,” I warn, my voice taking on an odd, unfamiliar tone. Walking toward the truck would mean getting closer to it, and so I edge backward slowly, toward Roy’s house, hoping it’s not too late, that I’m not already too close.

  I stumble as I try to climb the steps backward on shaky legs, and the bear takes several charging steps forward.

  My breathing stops altogether, and cold calm settles over me as it moves in. This is it.

  A horn blasts through the air, once and then a second and third time. Mabel is slamming her palm on the steering wheel in a desperate attempt to distract it. It seems to work, swinging the bear’s attention to the pickup truck as it sidesteps to get away from the sudden and menacing sound from another direction.

  I use that time to clamber to my feet and rush up the stairs.

  Roy’s front door flies open. “What the hell is goin’—” He sees my face, must see the terror, because he reaches inside and grabs his gun. “He’s back again, is he?” He steps out onto the porch, sounding more annoyed than anything. “Get behind me.”

  I do as told without question as he searches out and locates the pacing bear. “I’ve given this thing enough goddamn chances.”

  A flurry of wild barking erupts from somewhere within the trees then, growing louder by the second as Oscar and Gus charge in, Gus in the lead.

  “Heel!” Roy shouts, but the dogs don’t listen, each taking a side as they approach the bear. It’s more than twice the size of either wolf dog, and yet they herd him back toward the barn door, teeth bared with threatening snarls. The bear roars and swats, its lengthy claws slicing the air as they dive at its haunches before darting out of reach. It’s only a matter of time before the bear connects.

  Roy must be thinking the same. “He’s gonna kill one of ’em. Maybe both,” he says with certainly. “Come here.”

  I step forward without thought.

  “Take this.” He thrusts the gun into my hands.

  I follow on autopilot as he roughly guides my grip, propping the butt of the gun into the ball of my shoulder.

  His intentions finally register in my head. “I’ve never fired a gun, Roy,” I admit, my voice hollow.

  “It’s easy. Point, aim, pull the trigger, watch the kickback. And try not to hit the dogs.”

  I falter, struggling with the weight and awkwardness of it as I train the muzzle on the massive brown body, silently regretting not taking Muriel’s advice to learn how to do this.

  “Come on, girl. Before he gets hold of one of them,” Roy pushes.

  A loud yelp sounds and Gus leaps away. The blood streaming down his side is glossy against his black fur. With him temporarily subdued, the bear turns on Oscar and charges forward. Oscar loses his footing and tumbles to the ground.

  “Now, Calla!” Roy roars.

  Steeling my shaky hands, I pull the trigger.

  * * *

  “One … two … three.” Toby, Teddy, and Jonah hoist the body into the back of Toby’s truck with a chorus of grunts and groans.

  “Damn, this thing must weigh almost three hundred pounds,” Jonah says, studying the motionless bear.

  I flinch and turn away. The throb in my shoulder radiates from where the base of the gun recoiled upon firing and rammed into my flesh and bone. It all happened so quickly. One second, the bear was lunging for Oscar, and the next, it was on the ground, giving a few last twitches before stilling. Somehow, by sheer luck, and perhaps divine intervention, the bullet landed behind its front leg, to carve through fur and flesh and reach its heart.

  An impossible kill shot for a girl who’s never even fired a gun, apparently. It had Teddy scratching his head and Muriel nodding her head, impressed.

  “You sure you don’t want the meat, Roy?” Muriel asks.

  He grimaces. “Thing’s probably parasitic.”

  She looks to me and I shake my head. “You want me to call it in for you, or you gonna come by our place to use the phone?”

  “I ain’t callin’ in shit.”

  Muriel’s hands find her ample hips, as if she was waiting for this argument. “Now, Roy, you know you need to report this.”

  “So I can risk havin’ someone come sniffin’ around here, lookin’ to stir up trouble? Hell no!”

  I steal a glance toward the barn where Marie works on cleaning and stitching up a sizeable gash on a sedated Gus, Agnes and Mabel acting as observers and helpers. Nearby, Oscar paces on three legs. Thankfully, he earned only minor scratches.

  What would the wildlife troopers do to them if they found them here?

  “All right.” Teddy chuckles, stepping in to settle a hand on Muriel’s arm and defuse the shouting match that’s about to erupt. “We’ll have the hide and skull ready for you in a few days. You do with it whatever you want, okay, Roy?”

  Roy grunts, his severe gaze flitting over all the vehicles in the driveway for the umpt
eenth time. Is he counting them? There are five in total, including my Jeep that Jonah and Agnes hopped into when Mabel called home to tell them what happened. Has he ever had this many people on his property at once? I doubt it. He looks apoplectic.

  “Good job tonight, Calla,” Muriel calls out and then climbs into Toby’s pickup. The truck engine revs to life and then the McGivneys are coasting down the narrow laneway, the lifeless carcass in the back bobbing with each divot.

  Jonah checks over his shoulder at Marie who is peeling latex gloves off her hands and collecting her supplies, her stitch work finished. “We should get goin’, too.”

  My legs feel wobbly as I take a step, like they might not be able to carry me all the way home.

  Jonah helps Marie carry Gus to the porch on a bedsheet to sleep off his sedative, while Agnes and Mabel load her truck. We thank her for coming—even Roy grants her a nod—and she takes off.

  “You have a nice place here, Roy,” Agnes offers with her signature soft smile, the one that would make you believe her, even if she doesn’t mean it—but she always does. “Minus the bears. Come on, Mabel.” They take my Jeep home, leaving Jonah and me with Roy.

  “Remember when you said I probably wouldn’t see a bear for years?” I wince as I test my arm.

  Jonah grimaces, pulling me into his side. “Yeah, I’m not gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

  I shoot him a glare.

  “Put some ice on that shoulder. You’ll be fine in a few days,” Roy hollers from the porch. He pauses in thought. “Unless you want some painkillers.”

  “I heard those are addictive.”

  He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  A curious frown flickers over Jonah’s brow as he heads for the truck, not understanding.

  Roy and I have an inside joke, I realize.

  The porch creaks as Roy’s weight shifts, the rifle in his grip. He’s still in his pajamas. “Go on home, girl. You look like hell.”

  “I feel like puking.” The nausea has clung to me since my adrenaline slowed. I killed something tonight. Worse, I don’t know if I feel guilty or not about it. I know I’d feel a lot worse if something had happened to Oscar or Gus, or Mabel.