by Kody Boye
When the Red Wolf Runs
The Red Wolf Trilogy - Book 1
Kody Boye
When the Red Wolf Runs
The Red Wolf Trilogy, #1
Copyright © 2020 by Kody Boye
All rights reserved.
Cover art by KDS Cover Concepts
Edited by Connie Frater
Formatted by Kody Boye
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical articles and reviews or works within the public domain.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
Other YA Novels by Kody boye
Chapter One
“There are no wolves in Texas.”
I state this plainly to my fellow classmates as I stand at the front of Mrs. Ledger’s classroom, gripping tightly the edges of the podium as I attempt to fight off the swell of anxiety that threatens to overwhelm me.
“Twenty years ago,” I say, “in the early 2010s, the last of the great wolf population was decimated by a combination of many things—poaching, human expansion, and climate change being three of them. Since then, not a single red wolf has been seen in East Texas.”
“Boring,” a fellow classmate, and general annoyance named Easton Wells, says.
“Mr. Wells,” Mrs. Ledger says, narrowing her eyes like daggers across the room. “To the principal’s office! Now!”
I try to keep my nerves from flustering me even further as the young man makes his way from his desk and toward the classroom’s exit, but find my panic surging even further as he turns and glares at me. It’s no secret that Easton’s father, Paxton, owns the Wells Hunting and Fishing Supplies store, and is thought to be responsible for killing the last red wolf known to exist in the state. He claimed it was because it was encroaching on his land. But I know better. I know that Paxton Wells killed the wolf because he wanted it as a trophy.
The thought, enraging to me as it happens to be, emboldens me to continue my presentation to the rest of the class, who stare at me with wide eyes and mouths agape.
“In conclusion,” I say, turning my eyes on Mrs. Ledger, who merely nods and gestures me to continue with a wave of her hand, “wildlife specialists and conservationists are doing their best to maintain the wolf population in our zoos and sanctuaries, where they are currently thriving as best as they can.
“Thank you.”
The class claps as Mrs. Ledger puts her hands together. “Well,” she says, leaning forward to examine first me, then the class around me. “Thank you, Miss Smith, for that wonderful, if somewhat saddening, presentation.
“Now then,” she continues, “you all know the drill. Finals are on the last Tuesday of the month, so be sure to study.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ledger,” the class says as I make my way back to my desk.
“Dismissed,” she says, just as the bell to head home begins to ring.
“How does she do that?” my best friend, J’vonte, asks as I gather my binder and follow her into the hall. “It’s like she has a sixth sense or something.”
“I think you’d need it to be a teacher,” I offer.
J’vonte shrugs and leads us through the many winding halls of Red Wolf High, careful to avoid the line of students making their way to and from lockers and out of the school. Fortunately for us, our lockers are positioned directly near the school’s exit. Unfortunately, it’s directly near the front office—which is also where the principal’s office is housed.
I try to avert my eyes from the massive panorama of glass windows that look into the front office—hoping, to whatever kind angels might be listening, that I won’t catch a glimpse of Easton Wells as he waits for his punishment to be doled out to him.
“What are you looking for?” J’vonte asks.
“Nothing,” I reply. “I just don’t want to see—“
My eyes center on Easton Wells.
Crap, I think.
Though the young man offers me his usual petulant glare, it’s what he mouths to me that leaves me questioning myself.
What did he say? I think.
I’ve never been good at reading lips, which could either be a good or a bad thing, depending on the situation. Today, it leaves me reeling with dread.
“Just ignore him,” J’vonte says, guiding me toward our lockers. “He’s just a little weasel anyway.”
“A little weasel whose dad could ruin my dad’s life,” I offer.
J’vonte frowns as she dials her combination before opening her locker and considering her reflection in the mirror hanging inside of it. I have always been envious of her dark complexion, rich as a sunset and smooth like silk. I could only dream of being as pretty as her.
“Something wrong?” J’vonte asks.
“No,” I reply, shaking my head before opening my own locker. “Just… thinking.”
“About what? The wolves?”
“No. I mean, I—”
“I know it upsets you, Oaklynn. That’s why I was surprised you did your report on them.”
“I had to do it on something,” I offer.
“But the wolves?” J’vonte shakes her head. “You wouldn’t catch me walking that tightrope, especially not with… you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I do know. More than well, in fact. And now that I may have screwed up simply by existing, I can’t help but wonder what might come next.
Sighing, I finish depositing and withdrawing my belongings within my locker, then turn to J’vonte and say, “Ready?”
“Ready.”
We cut through the crowd and step out the front doors and into the breezy autumn air, which tousles my blonde hair and makes waves through J’vonte’s curls. My friend immediately dons her hood. I, however, am content to let the breeze waft over me as we make our way across the lawn and toward the pickup lane.
“So,” my best friend says. “I take it your mom is picking you up?”
“No,” I reply.
J’vonte frowns.
“What?” I ask, jarring to a halt as J’vonte stops moving.
“You know how I feel about you walking on that dirt road,” my friend offers.
“Both of my parents are at work,” I say. “And besides—it’s not like anything’s ever happened on that road.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Oaklynn. I mean, come on. Have you ever heard of hitchhikers? Or serial killers? Or someone’s dogs?”
“Dogs like me,” I say, hoping to disarm the mood with an innocent smile.
“Sure they do. Especially when they’re rabid.” My friend frowns as she turns to consider the cars pulling up
alongside the curb, then sighs a short moment later. “I’m sorry, but… I just don’t like it that you have to walk home.”
“I know you don’t. But like I said: I’ll be fine. I’ve walked that road a dozen times. It’s not like another’s going to be any different.”
“I know.” She turns to regard the bus. “I just wish the bus ran down the old road.”
“Yeah. I do too.”
“I guess I should go,” my friend says. “See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow,” I reply, and offer her a brief wave before turning to make my way down the road.
The sound of the school buses revving their engines and the cars driving off quickly fades as I head east—toward where the urban landscape of the small farming town begins to taper out and the fields rise in their stead.
As I walk, slowly but surely advancing toward the dirt road that will eventually lead to my home, I consider the old barbwire fence that rises to my right, then the horses that graze in the fields beside of it. The whole while I wonder if I will get my father in trouble at his place of employment at Wells Hunting and Fishing.
You’re overreacting, I think, taking a deep breath before expelling it. Easton got himself in trouble. It’s not like you can get blamed for that.
Maybe not. But, at the same time, it doesn’t paint me in a very fine light, especially when it was my presentation he decided to speak out at.
“It could’ve been anyone’s,” I mumble.
No, I think. It couldn’t have. I was the one who decided to do my presentation on the wolves, regardless of the fact that Easton was in my class, and knowing that I might have been called upon.
It won’t be me who suffers if anything happens. It’ll be Dad.
I shake my head in an effort to dispel my father’s fragile working life from my mind and step onto the dirt road.
Here—beyond the city limits, and in a place where few cars willingly travel—the grass seems greener, the air purer, the world sounder. I hear birds chirping in the trees, squirrels playing in the underbrush, bugs as they cavort in the slowly-cooling air of East Texas. It’s late in the year, but still warm, and will probably remain that way until October or November, maybe even December, if the weather decides to act as it should. It’s been erratic for the past five years, leaving climatologists to believe that the southern United States is finally beginning to succumb to climate change.
I trudge onward—passing by the old horse ranch, then alongside the grassy hills that frame the old town of Red Wolf. Distantly, I can make out trees, which are part of the old growth of the national forest that runs alongside the highway; and while standing there, staring out at them, I wonder if the wolves I spoke about will ever run these lands again.
Then the reality hits.
If wolves were ever reintroduced here, they’d likely just fall victim to the same poachers and permits that caused them to go extinct in the wild in the first place.
I am just about to reach for my earbuds and smartphone so I can play some music when something moves out my peripheral.
I turn, expecting to see a dog scampering through the trees that line the edge of the ranch. Instead, I see nothing but brush moving.
What was that? I think.
Could it have been a fox, maybe? Or a cat?
No, I muse. It was too big. Too noticeable.
Neither would’ve caught my eye like a dog would have.
If it was a dog.
What else would it have been? I think. A wolf?
I laugh, and pull my smartphone and earbuds from my pocket.
I’m just about to start forward again when the same movement appears out my peripheral.
I spin, ready to face the dog in the underbrush.
That’s when I see it.
The stark red fur. The tawny complexion. The proud yet noble face.
It’s there only for a moment. After that, it darts into the underbrush and disappears from sight.
My heart skips as I consider what just happened.
No, I think. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
As I stand here, dumbfounded as can be, I find myself reminiscing on what I said no more than a half-hour beforehand.
I used to think there were no wolves in Texas.
Now I know I’m wrong.
Chapter Two
There is no way for me to explain what I have just seen, no way to determine the magnitude of what it means, or what it could mean, to the people of the small town of Red Wolf, Texas. Because of that, I simply walk, slowly but surely advancing down the road that will take me home, trying my hardest not to think about what I saw. Several times, I cast a glance over my shoulder—not out of fear of being tracked down by the creature, but awe over the possibility of its existence—and begin to wonder.
Wolves? Back in Texas?
How could this be possible?
It can’t, I am quick to tell myself. You were just seeing things.
J’vonte has always said that I preferred daydreaming over studying, the fantastical happenings inside my head over the reality that existed outside of it.
Though I want to believe that they are gone, a part of me speculates on just what I could’ve seen.
It couldn’t have been a coyote, or a fox, or a coydog, or anything of the sort, because it was too big, too proud, too regal. For that reason, I have to think that, maybe, just maybe, the wolves hadn’t been extinct this whole time. Maybe they’d just been hiding, like people suppose the Tasmanian Tiger does in Australia. Maybe they’re just so elusive, so out of place, that people haven’t been able to see them.
After a moment’s consideration, I shake my head.
No, I think. That’s ridiculous. People would know wolves were around. They make prints, and howl, and eat deer. Surely they would’ve found some evidence of them if they happened to still exist in the wild.
Right, I think, and nod.
I can’t get my hopes up for something that can’t possibly be real. For that reason, I continue to repeat the mantra inside my head.
There are no wolves in Texas. There are no wolves in Texas.
“There are no wolves in Texas,” I say, and sigh.
I continue to pout like the child I still seem to be as my home comes into view—as the brickwork that frames the outside of the house rises like a monument to a dead civilization. The house is old—terribly so—but Mom and Dad, they’ve been renovating it for years, stripping the old window frames out, reworking the front porch so it won’t cave in on us, paving a new driveway so people can actually visit. Given their salaries, I’m not sure they’ll be done until after I move out.
But today, this isn’t what catches my attention.
No.
It’s the moving truck in the drive across the road that does.
Is that— I start to think.
But before I can finish, a young man emerges from the back of the moving truck. It’s hard to make out what he actually looks like from this distance, but as I draw nearer, and as he makes his way down the ramp leading into the truck, subtle details become more obvious—including his dark hair, which is flecked with hints of ruddy blonde, and the muscles on his arms, which are thick and bulging with the effort of carrying a massive box.
Though my mother has always told me not to stare, it’s hard not to, all things considering.
My first thought is: who would move into the old house across the road?
The second thought is: who is this guy?
I am like a moth to a flame—fluttering my wings, drawing nearer, anticipating the sweet light at the end of the dark tunnel.
The young man lifts his eyes to face me as I begin to cross the road and says, “Hey!”
“Hey!” I call back, and lift a hand.
“You’re gonna tri—“
But before he can finish, I feel myself going down like the unfortunate soul that I am.
Thankfully, I’m able to pinwheel my arms, so I don’t fall on my face. Instea
d, I hit the ground on my butt and grimace as pain shoots up my spine.
The young man drops the box and comes running up to me. “You okay?” he asks.
“I’m… fine,” I manage, gritting my teeth as I tilt my head up to look at him.
The moment I set my eyes on his, I blink, stunned.
“What?” he asks. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Your… eyes,” I say, as I look into their brown depths, as I gaze upon the gold flecks throughout them.
He laughs. “Yeah. I get that a lot.” He extends a hand toward me. “My name’s Jackson. Sorry I made you trip.”
“You didn’t,” I reply, automatically reaching out to take hold of his hand.
The moment his palm touches mine is the moment I lose all sense of self.
Don’t act stupid, J’vonte would’ve said. Just be cool, and normal.
Normal, I think.
Sure. Like I could be normal in front of a guy like Jackson.
As he pulls me to my feet, and as he reaches down to lift my backpack that has fallen in the wake of my fall, I am able to get my first good look at him—and am surprised when I don’t immediately start blushing. His eyes are pretty, his hair soft and wavy. His face is covered in about three days’ worth of stubble; but unlike the guys at school, it actually suits him. He’s undoubtedly gorgeous, which does little to keep me from feeling—and, potentially, acting—like a fool.
He extends the backpack. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” I reply, hugging the backpack to my chest. I swallow the ever-developing lump in my throat and look down at the box he was carrying. “I hope there wasn’t anything fragile in there.”
“No. Just old books and stuff.”