by Forthright
The footpaths were still there, well-trod but no wider than deer tracks. He knew where each led—to berry brambles, to stands of fern, to a half-wild cluster of apple trees that stood beside one of four ponds. But every time Cole paused at a turning, Charles pointed them deeper into the forest, toward the creek that had always been his.
Drew had been following at an unhurried pace, and Charles paused to let him catch up. “How are you two doing?”
“We seem to have reached an accord,” Drew said mildly. “This is familiar territory for you.”
“My mother used to accuse me of living out here—all summer, every day after school. I was always wandering and exploring and thinking and listening.” He paused, gaze lifting to the soft sighing of the tree branches overhead. He quoted his father. “A kid needs room to run a little wild, you know?”
“How far have you explored?”
“Dad set a few boundaries. Today, I’ll show them to Cole.” Charles gestured vaguely. “The safe zone is about a mile square, but Dad and I would sometimes hike farther.”
“Are you aware how far your land extends?” Drew asked again.
“Not really.” Maybe he’d have learned more if he hadn’t left. Taking responsibility had taken him away from all this. “Did you find something in Dad’s papers?”
“One thousand four hundred acres.”
“What?”
Drew didn’t repeat himself. With a bland expression, he asked, “Did you hear a splash?”
Slippery When Wet
When they crested the next rise, Daroo was no more surprised than Charles at the sight of a sodden Coop, knee-deep in the promised creek. A wolf’s ears were keen, as was this father’s grasp on the inevitable. Why else were there towels in his pack?
It also became clear why he’d shouldered a rake and broom before making the trek. Not far from the creekbank, across a simple footbridge, waited a bench with a mossy stone for a stool, comfortably arranged beside what looked like a cabinet on stilts.
Charles dropped his backpack on the ground and set straight to work sweeping the bench clear of old leaves and spiderwebs. He did the same for the cabinet, which Coop circled squishily and knocked against.
“What’s this for?”
“Take a guess,” suggested his father.
“A birdhouse?”
“Nope.”
“A beehive?”
“Nope.” Charles’ smile had the wistful tilt of nostalgia. “Grandpa built it for me. It’s a library.”
“In the woods?” Coop exclaimed.
“Why not? He planned gardens and planted vines for himself. The bridges and bench and bookshelf were for me. My dad thought it was important for boys to have hobbies, and … this was mine.”
“Can I open it?” asked Coop.
“It’s not locked.” His tone gave permission.
Inside the cupboard were three shelves, kept safe from the elements despite the intervening years. There were perhaps two dozen books, most slim. Hardly enough to fill the space. However, Daroo spotted other odds and ends. Fishing line and hooks, an enamel mug and a flashlight, a whetstone and hatchet, twine and a matchbox.
“You liked to read?” Coop poked through a pile of stones—agates by the look of them—and flipped open a compass.
“I liked the woods.” His father’s expression turned wistful. “I used to want to live out here, all by myself.”
“Why didn’t you?” asked the boy.
Charles smiled a little. “Maybe I got lonesome?”
“Not anymore.” Coop patted his dad’s arm. “We should try again.”
Ruffling the boy’s hair, Charles said, “I love you.”
“I know.”
With fresh lightness within, the man scanned the vicinity and stepped briskly to a low wall of greenery. He pulled and pruned the clamber of vines, revealing a length of plastic pipe suspended between two sturdy posts. Its purpose was made immediately obvious.
“Get out of those clothes.”
Cole did as he was told and was back in the creek, quick as a wink. “It’s freezing!” he reported gleefully.
“Spring fed,” said Charles. “I’ll show you where the water’s safe to drink.”
“This isn’t?” The kid had already slurped down three handfuls.
His father snorted. “You’ll survive. But better safe than sorry.”
After hanging Cole’s clothes to dry, Charles draped his own shirt over the post, shed his boots and socks, and joined his son in the creek.
The boy was all questions. Quite normal in Daroo-fen’s experience.
Charles was all answers. Or better questions. A good combination.
Left to his own devices, Daroo availed himself of the bench. It was more suited to someone of Charles’ stature, but the craftsmanship was solid. It offered no complaint when he settled himself … and the diminutive Rose. Newborn, she probably would have made a scant handful. Elbows on knees, he cradled her on his forearms, which put them face-to-face. She seemed to favor her sire, with dark curls and blue eyes. Which suggested that Cole’s fair hair was a Pfeiffer trait.
Thinking back, Daroo realized that there had been no photographs of Charles with his wife—not in the files, not on display. He understood that many children left home and lost touch. But he’d noticed something that prevented him from dismissing the signs … and the trail they suggested.
Despite David Cooper’s diligent accumulation of his son’s many milestones, there had been no report of grades for his twelfth year, nor had he posed for any kind of senior picture. No playbills or team photos. No highlights or hints of graduation day. It was as if Charles Cooper’s life had ended at seventeen. And in scandal.
If his math was right, that made Cole eight years old.
Charles had left these woods to become a father.
“You have doubled his blessings, little flower,” Daroo-fen murmured, nuzzling her cheek and letting her grab his nose. He hummed an ancient lullaby and told her things she probably already knew—that she was safe, that she was loved, and that she was where she’d always belonged.
“Everything okay? Sorry to leave you stranded.” Charles picked his way from the creek, tender feet lending a limp to his gait.
“We’re fine, as you can see.” Daroo ignored the apology, though he wished he could banish them from Charles’ lips. “Your son is learning woods lore from you, and I’ve handed down several trade secrets to your daughter. Their futures are bright.”
“It might be a little early to enroll her in law school.”
“Just a bit,” he conceded. Not that his secrets had much to do with law.
Charles toweled his legs, spread the blanket, and opened the diaper bag. “I should have realized we’d stay and play. The only food I brought is a bottle for Rose and a granola bar to tide over Cole. Are you okay?”
“Never better.” He watched Charles mix and shake. “We’ll all have a good appetite for dinner.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Charles cautiously offered.
Daroo knew he really should say no. “Sounds like a plan.”
Prep done, Charles beckoned for the baby, and Daroo surrendered her with more reluctance than was admissible. To distract himself, he perused the bookshelf. There wasn’t much in the way of fiction. A few titles about boys surviving in the wild by foraging and hunting and fishing, getting by on little more than ingenuity and a healthy respect for nature. Most of the books were guides to birds, trees, and edible plants.
Daroo flipped through a boy scout manual, then pulled a slim volume on campfire cookery. Holding it up for Charles to see, he asked, “You have a firepit?”
“Not here. Too dangerous,” said Charles. “There’s a gully over that way that’s nearly all stone. Dad and I built a fireplace in it. Much safer.”
“A library and a kitchen.”
“When I was younger, I had rooms all over the place. This is the only one that’s furnished. The rest were just sort of … up to the i
magination.” Charles shook his head. “I was going to be self-sufficient and independent. Now I need a lawyer to open my mail.”
“You strike me as a capable man.” Daroo found a recipe for rabbit stew that had his mouth watering. Showing Charles the page, he said, “Next time, we’ll come better prepared.”
Daroo-fen was in a bit of a quandary.
He’d been tasked with the safety and care of Rose, but she had little use for him. Not with her father curled protectively around her while she slept. Charles probably hadn’t meant to doze off, as well. Daroo suspected the man wasn’t sleeping properly.
A pity, given the human sleep requirement. But a greater problem had arisen. Coop was gone and still going. Charles may have wanted to give his son freedom, but he’d also wanted to give him safe boundaries. Daroo-fen knew the dangers of the former without the latter.
Setting aside his book and his boots, he strolled away, feet barely making a sound on the carpet of past seasons’ leaves and needles. With a backward glance to make certain he was lost to view, Daroo-fen dropped to all fours and loped away.
Boy Meets Wolf
How long had it been since he’d taken truest form?
Too long, given how hard his heart was pounding, how fast his blood was racing. Daroo-fen leapt easily over a fallen log and dodged around a rocky outcropping, getting a feel for being back on four feet. This was good and right, as natural as breathing, and true as the note of the howl already building in his heart. Not that he could let it loose. Not that he could stay for long.
No one could know.
That would be disastrous.
He would only make certain the boy was safe. Then back to business as usual.
Following Coop’s trail along sun-dappled paths was no trouble whatsoever. He was a straightforward boy—no subterfuge, no doubling back, straight on without any doubt and without second thoughts. It probably never occurred to him how worried his father would be if he knew how far he’d wandered. Not that this part of the woods was particularly dangerous. But a parent—even one in need of some time apart—found no peace in absence.
Even when it was necessary.
Paying more heed to old times and lone ways than the trail to which he’d put his nose, Daroo-fen sprang lightly over a bramble and sat down hard. He’d found Coop.
The boy was on his knees. For the flicker of a moment, Daroo-fen panicked. The scent of blood was faint, but it was there. He thrust his nose into the boy’s chest, his face, his hand, urgently seeking injuries.
But the streaks of red were nothing more than the juice of wild blackberries. And his fair skin bore faint scratches because of the thorns. And … he was afraid. For good reason. Daroo-fen had all the appearance of a large, hungry predator, and Coop was a lone, shivering boy.
Bad combination.
Worse if word spread. The last thing these woods needed was a wolf hunt.
Daroo-fen backed up and lowered himself to his belly, giving a tentative wag of his tail. Come on, Coop. I’m not the Big Bad Wolf. He added a soft whine.
Coop slowly reached out, hand flat. He’d probably been taught to do so when being introduced to neighborhood dogs. Not exactly a good idea in the wild, but Daroo-fen wasn’t about to complain. He sniffed trembling fingers and licked Coop’s palm.
“You look like a wolf. Are you a wolf?”
I plead the fifth. And to prove how very un-wolfish he was, Daroo-fen rolled onto his back and let his tongue loll.
“I’ve never seen a real wolf before. Not up close.” The boy scooted closer. “Do you live in our woods?”
Once upon a time. Fingers appeared before his muzzle again, and he proved again that he would not bite. Which was apparently permission to pet. And not any kind of cautious, conservative stroking of fur. Coop was more of a big-handfuls rougher and belly-rub scruffier.
It was undignified.
And he did everything he could to egg the boy on.
He allowed himself five minutes of bliss, then five more. But Charles might wake at any time, and Daroo-fen had no desire to add to his worries. Which meant coming up with an out. Or at least calling in his lawyer.
Wriggling free, he pretended to hear someone coming. He pricked his ears toward the creek. Work with me here, Coop.
The boy scrambled to his feet and followed his gaze. “What’s up?” he whispered. “Is your family calling you home?”
Daroo-fen’s heart clenched, but he seized the fiction.
With a parting lick, he bounded away, but not far. He changed back into speaking form, and with the inherent speed of his kind, he circled around to walk into view from the forecast direction. “There you are,” Drew Hunter called. “Done swimming?”
The boy waved broadly. “I found berries!”
“Are they edible?”
Coop rubbed at his stomach. “What happens if they’re not?”
This kid.
All the way back to Charles’ woodland book nook, Daroo-fen offered salient points about hidden dangers and harmful plants. The boy’s attention seemed to be everywhere at once, but he was quick on the uptake, asking questions, finding samples.
But he kept looking back over his shoulder.
And he never once mentioned the wolf.
The Empty Doghouse
Now that the den was cleared out, Charles was reluctant to clutter it up. It was a little barren, and the emptiness echoed slightly, but that sort of fit how he was feeling. He wasn’t going to hide from his losses, so this was one way to face them.
Keeping it simple, he dragged the full-sized mattress from his parents’ room and made a bed for himself on the floor. It was more comfortable than a couch. And it was big enough for those times when a bad dream or a fussing baby meant sharing.
He moved Rose’s playpen into the corner, so she’d have a quieter place to nap.
And it was enough. For now. But it was also the beginning, because having a project was keeping him sane. Charles went through closets and cupboards. He sorted through cabinets and drawers. Little by little, he began emptying the rest of the house, paring away the excess and unnecessary.
Cole was a big help.
Each item they brought out was given a minute’s consideration. Sometimes there was a story. Sometimes it was a mystery. This became a kind of farewell ritual, for once done, they’d place the thing with respectful firmness into one of the boxes by the front door. And at the end of each afternoon, before closing time, they’d roll a wagonful to the donation center in town.
“We could bring a truck over,” offered the pastor whose church ran the thrift store. “Load it all up at once, save you all these trips.”
“No, thank you. I’m going through things a little at a time. There’s no hurry.”
“Fair enough. We can’t complain when you’ve been so generous.” The man’s tone gentled. “If you ever need to talk …?”
“Thanks, sir, but it’s okay. We’re fine. We’re great.”
It was shockingly easy to lie, and he was thoroughly ashamed of himself.
Day after day, Charles got rid of a lot. But he kept things, too.
Things with good memories still attached. Things they could use. They found fishing tackle and camping gear, lanterns and tools, scrap lumber and the old hammock that had once hung in one of his forest rooms.
“Dad! Look what I found!”
Charles followed the sound of Cole’s voice to the back of the shed, where a tarp had been thrown over a large doghouse up on cinderblocks. Dad must have decided against getting another dog. His health had failed after Mom’s death.
“It’s a doghouse, right?”
“Yes.”
“You had a dog?”
“Your grandpa always kept a dog, all through the years. The one I remember was Sheba. She was a German Shepherd, and she went everywhere with me. Slept in my room, too. Grandpa called her my second mother and my best friend, all wrapped into one.”
Cole clambered inside the doghouse and poked his he
ad out. “How come we never got one?”
“Your mother vetoed the idea.” More than once.
“Too bad.” His son’s face was solemn. “Dogs are pretty great, huh?”
“I’ve always thought so.” Charles waited for the inevitable plea for a puppy.
To his surprise, Cole only nodded to himself and repeated, “Dogs are pretty great.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Cole, who was always contemplative over his cornflakes. “We should probably live wild now, before Rose is old enough to improve our manners.”
Charles smiled over his choice in words. Probably borrowed from some book. “All right. What did you have in mind?”
“No shirt. No shoes. No homework.”
It was June. Cole had missed a few months of school, but maybe this was another case of extenuating circumstances. Why not run wild? Wasn’t that the whole point of summer?
“I suppose we could toughen up our feet for a while, but they won’t let us into the library without shoes.”
“I’ll read your books in the woods.”
Charles was liking this idea more than he probably should have. “They won’t let us into the grocery store, either.”
“There’s a farmer’s market every Tuesday and Friday.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” He hated to put a damper on things, but they couldn’t get everything they needed at a vegetable stand. “What about diapers and formula for Rose?”
Cole pondered that, then offered what he obviously considered the perfect solution. “Easy. We’ll send our lawyer.”
Be My Gopher
Daroo-fen knew something had changed the moment he turned in at the last house on End Street. Charles and Coop sat waiting for him on their front step—both shirtless, both barefoot, both watching his approach with grim resolve.
“I feel overdressed.”