by Teri Wilson
He flipped through the pages and glanced up only when he’d reached the end. “Impressive.”
“Thank you.” Heat rose to her cheeks. One kind word from Ethan Hale, wolf hater extraordinaire, and she was blushing like a schoolgirl. She’d never hated herself more in her entire life.
“Is this part of your paperwork for the NNC grant?”
“Yes, it is.” How in the world could he possibly know that? Why would he be familiar with NNC grant requirements?
“I see,” he said, cryptic as always. Good grief, he could be annoying.
She held out her hand. “Now give it back, please. I have a tour to conduct, and you have work to do.”
Field notes back in hand, she turned, stomped through the snow toward the wheelbarrow that was propped beside the log cabin, and wheeled it back toward him to park it at his immaculate feet.
He eyed it with trepidation. “What’s this?”
“It’s your first assignment.” She smiled. She was enjoying herself. Too much, probably. But she couldn’t help it. “I’d like you to clean up Tundra’s enclosure. The pitchfork is leaning against the fence. And don’t worry. I’ve relocated her to a different pen for the time being so you can move about without fear of being eaten alive.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You want me to clean a wolf pen.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I want you to clean all the wolf pens.”
Ethan narrowed his gaze and released a controlled breath. “All of them?”
“They’re not going to clean themselves, are they?” She was fully aware he would write about this. And she didn’t care. Anyone who’d read his less-than-flattering portrayal of her life’s work would understand. “Start with Tundra’s enclosure. Just remove the dirty straw and replace it with fresh. New bales are piled behind the cabin. Your main job is to remove all of the soiled material.”
“Soiled material,” he repeated. He didn’t sound the least bit amused anymore. In fact, he sounded angry.
Good.
“I’m referring to animal waste.” She smiled sweetly.
He glared at her. Hard. “Believe me. I know exactly what you’re referring to, Piper.”
“Excellent. I’m so glad we understand one another.” Since we’re going to be spending so much time together...
The flicker in his gaze told her that he was thinking about the same thing she was—hours, days, weeks in one another’s company. She already felt distinctly ill at ease after little more than three minutes.
“Piper...” His voice grew soft, almost tender.
If she listened closely, she could almost hear an unspoken apology. Almost.
She wanted to tell him not to bother. It was too little, too late. The damage had been done. Words had created this mess. Words could fix it...maybe...but those words were going to have to be addressed to a bigger audience.
Besides, she didn’t like hearing him say her name like that, as if he knew her. As if he cared. It was confusing. And she’d had more than enough confusion in her life.
“I think it’s best that you go back to calling me Ms. Quinn, since you’re working here now.” Maybe she was pouring it on a little thick. Then again, maybe not.
Ethan’s gaze hardened. “Is that what the kid calls you?” He jerked his head toward Caleb, who was busy filling water buckets. “He works here, too, doesn’t he?”
Ethan sounded almost jealous, which was just plain ludicrous. Almost as ludicrous as the way his potential jealousy made her feel all warm inside, despite the snow flurries enveloping them both.
She squared her shoulders. “Caleb calls me Piper. And yes, he works here. But he’s also managed to refrain from slandering me to the greater Alaskan population.”
She glanced down at the wheelbarrow, then at Ethan’s shiny new boots. Footwear that would likely be unrecognizable by the end of the day. He’d probably also acquire a blister or two. Such a pity.
She beamed up at him. “Enjoy yourself. I have a tour to give.”
* * *
Ethan stood seething as Piper strode through the snow toward a small group that had assembled by the log cabin headquarters while they’d been exchanging pleasantries. Not that their interaction had been entirely pleasant. Or pleasant at all, for that matter.
He wasn’t an idiot. He’d expected Piper to be angry. Just not quite this angry.
He had a diary entry to write at the end of the day. No, not a diary entry. A newspaper article. For all practical purposes, she’d just demanded that he spend the afternoon cleaning a thirty-five-acre litter box. If she thought he wouldn’t write about this, she was fooling herself. How exactly did she expect to gain the respect of his readership when she was behaving this way?
More importantly, how was he supposed to write eight hundred words about such a repugnant task?
Ethan pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’d been nursing a headache since the moment Lou had dumped this crazy assignment on him. Ethan was embedded all right. And now that he’d arrived in enemy territory, the pounding behind his eyes had intensified tenfold.
He huffed out a breath. He needed to forget about trying to write something riveting about cleaning up wolf pens. He just needed to report the sloppy truth. And he really needed to stop worrying about how that truth would make Piper look. Let her shoot herself in the foot. At least her public humiliation wouldn’t be his fault. This time.
He grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and aimed it in the direction of the enclosure. The first gate to the pen stood propped open with a pitchfork. Ethan took it, gripping the handle a little too tightly as he unlatched the second gate and stepped inside. His gaze swept the snow-covered ground, the pale bark of the aspen trees and the silver slate rocks that punctuated the landscape. So much white.
The memory of Tundra’s snowy coat crept into his consciousness. His throat grew tight, and he searched the area for a glimpse of lupine copper eyes. Just in case.
Get on with things. The wolf’s not here.
He thrust the pitchfork into a pile of snow near the fence and went back for the wheelbarrow. As he maneuvered it inside, the gate slammed shut behind him with a clang of finality. Ethan reached again for the pitchfork. If he didn’t get started, he’d be here all night. But before his hand made contact, he heard a rustling in the distance.
He paused.
And waited.
Just when he’d convinced himself that he’d been hearing things, a twig snapped somewhere behind the tree line. His head jerked in the direction of the noise. Another memory washed over him. Not so much a single recollection as a collection of sensations—a stirring in the alder thickets, a dizzying brown blur exploding from the brush, an upturned basket of wild blueberries, the hot breath of the bear on his neck, then the sticky sweet smell of blood. Ethan’s hands balled into fists, his body preparing for battle as he fought against the pictures in his head.
A breeze blew through the enclosure, sending snow tumbling from the boughs of the evergreens. It fell like a heavy, frozen curtain. Ethan saw nothing but white. He blinked against the assault, eyes stinging in the Arctic wind. Shaken by his memories, he couldn’t be certain what was real and what wasn’t. Had he really heard a creature in the enclosure? Was the ghostly shape he thought he saw moving among the trees really the elusive white wolf, Tundra, or was his tortured mind playing tricks on him?
His answer came in the form of a tiny white fluff ball that hopped out from between two hemlocks. A rabbit. Specifically, a snowshoe hare with a winter-white pelt and dark, watchful eyes. It blinked at him, twitched its quivering nose and hopped out of view.
Ethan released the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He felt off-kilter, dizzy. He’d been completely unnerved.
By a bunny.
He glanced over his shoulder in search of Piper. Relief swept over him when he spotted her in the distance, surrounded by a small group of people wearing puffy coats, mittens and rapt expressions. He wondered
what she was saying that had them so enamored. Not that it mattered. He was going to be around for a while. Days. Weeks. He’d hear her spiel eventually. In the meantime, he should just say a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t witnessed his moment of panic.
Her words from three days ago came back to him.
While wolves are indeed predators, I wouldn’t be so quick to call them dangerous...unless you’re a bunny rabbit.
The sentiment, which he’d merely found annoying at the time, now seemed prophetic. Uncomfortably so. Because in his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined that he himself would be the bunny rabbit in this scenario.
He was afraid.
Of what, he wasn’t even sure. It wasn’t the wolves. His feelings were more complicated than that. It was his past, the memories, the wolves and nature itself all rolled together in a tangle of anger, regret, dread...and loss. Loss of life. Loss of control.
So much loss.
He was broken. Broken and bitter. That much he’d known. But he hadn’t realized that his fury was also suffused with fear. It was a sobering realization. The wind, the snow, the slender pine boughs were all things he’d once loved. Before the bear attack, he’d slept outside during the summer months, under the stars, more often than he’d lain in a bed at night. That’s why he’d come to Alaska all those years ago. He’d wanted to a build a life in the most majestic place on earth. The kid who’d spent his childhood with his face pressed against hotel windows had beaten a trail to the Last Frontier as quickly as he could.
Where had that fearless soul gone?
Ethan stabbed at a pile of straw with the pitchfork and heaved it into the wheelbarrow. Then he did the same thing again, and again. With each jab, he felt the muscles in his arms and back loosen, then begin to burn. But it was a good burn, the kind of sharp ache that came with physical work.
He made short work of cleaning out Tundra’s pen. Piper seemed genuinely surprised, and possibly even a little impressed, when he told her he was ready to move on to the next enclosure. She even smiled as she escorted Tundra back to her pen. And the way she did was altogether different from the sassy grin she’d greeted him with earlier. This was a genuine smile, full of sweetness and light. Looking at it brought about an ache in the center of his chest that made him forget the burn in his biceps.
But Ethan knew better. The smile was for the wolf. Not for him. What he didn’t know was why it made him feel so empty inside.
Chapter Four
“Is this true?” Posy lowered the morning edition of the Yukon Reporter and, mouth agape, stared at Piper. “Did you really make him clean out the wolf pens?”
Piper swallowed. “He put that in his article?”
“Yes. It says so right here.” Posy tapped the front page with her index finger.
Piper hadn’t been able to bring herself to read Ethan’s account of his first day volunteering at the sanctuary, even though procuring a copy of the newspaper was precisely why she’d driven into town.
That had been the plan, anyway, when she’d headed down the mountain. She’d intended to grab a newspaper at the corner store and then head right back up. Instead, she’d found herself at the church with three coffees in tow—hers, plus one each for Liam and Posy. The church had been quiet, though. The parking lot had been empty and the doors locked.
She should have headed straight back to the wildlife sanctuary. She had work to do. Loads of it. But when she’d driven past Posy’s ballet school and seen the warm glow of light through its windows, her car had somehow parked itself in the closest parking space.
She liked Posy. Posy was the closest thing to a friend she had here, so it was only natural that Piper should stop by and say good morning. She wasn’t putting off going back to the sanctuary because she was nervous about being alone with Ethan. He had nothing to do with it.
Well, maybe a little. Just a tad.
“He wrote all about it.” Posy pulled a face. “In excruciating detail, I might add.”
Piper shrugged. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.” And that somebody may as well be Ethan.
Posy narrowed her gaze at Piper over the rim of her coffee cup. “I thought the point of having him write these articles was for the community to see the wolf sanctuary in a more positive light.”
“It is.” A small knot of something that felt too much like guilt settled in Piper’s stomach. She had nothing to feel guilty about. If anyone should be tormented by remorse, it was Ethan. He should be racked with guilt day and night over what he’d done.
Okay, so maybe that would be extreme. Then again, maybe not.
She turned the newspaper facedown on Posy’s desk so she wouldn’t have to see Ethan’s penetrating gaze staring back at her from the thumbnail photo above his byline. It was altogether distracting. “All I want is for people to support the sanctuary and appreciate the wolves.”
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” Posy’s lips quirked into a grin that she apparently couldn’t hold back any longer.
Busted.
So maybe Piper wanted some retribution. Just the tiniest possible amount. She was only human, after all. “Point taken. Revenge will get me nowhere. Plus it’s wrong. I’ll give Ethan something less...messy to do today.”
She’d do just that as soon as she got to the sanctuary. Of course, who knew when exactly that would be, since she apparently wasn’t in any hurry to get there.
Caleb’s mother had called Piper late the night before to tell her that he’d come down with a nasty stomach bug. He wouldn’t be around as a buffer. It would be her and Ethan. Just the two of them. Alone.
Except for the wolves.
She should get going. Ethan was probably roaming around the sanctuary right now, wondering where she was. If only he didn’t look so ruggedly handsome while he did so. Then maybe, just maybe, the thought of working in tandem with him wouldn’t make her feel so uncomfortable.
A nervous flutter passed through her. Get a grip. You can’t hide in the ballet studio until school gets out. She ordered herself to stand and go, but her backside stubbornly remained planted in the chair opposite Posy’s desk. Since when had she turned into the kind of woman who hid from a little meaningless confrontation?
Since that confrontation had somehow become meaningful.
She pushed that thought away and watched Posy slip her feet into a pair of soft pink ballet slippers.
“You’re welcome to stay and watch my baby ballerina class if you like,” she said, rising from her chair and moving into a series of deep knee bends.
Piper blinked. “Baby ballerinas? You mean babies, as in infants?”
“Sorry.” Posy laughed. “Not actual babies. Four-year-olds. As far as ballet goes, they’re babies.”
“That’s actually impressive. I’m surprised four-year-olds can even do ballet.” Not that Piper could stay and watch. That would be taking her avoidance of Ethan to a whole new level.
“They can plié. And they love to glissade.” Posy noticed what was surely the blank look on Piper’s face. “That means gliding.”
“Of course it does.” Piper grinned. “Maybe I need to sign up for baby ballet. It sounds like I could learn a few things.”
Posy laughed. “You don’t quite fit the age requirements, but since opening this place has cost Liam and me a small fortune, I might be persuaded to make an exception. I could use a new student. Or twelve. You’d be the tallest in the class. You could be the tree in the center of our forest.”
“There’s a forest?” Piper looked around the pristine studio, with its mirrored walls and smooth wood floor, and tried to imagine a cluster of aspen and paper birch trees taking root.
“Well, for right now it’s only imaginary. I’m having the girls pretend that the wind is blowing their arms out and they have to tiptoe through the trees. We have a recital coming up next month, and it would be great if the baby ballerina class could participate. I just have to come up with a story of some sort. A story that could
be told with very simple steps and inexpensive costumes.”
“In a pretend forest.” Suddenly caring for a ragtag pack of rescued wolves didn’t seem all that difficult.
“Right.” Posy grimaced. “Surely I can come up with something. The older girls are doing Cinderella and Snow White. There’s got to be something for the little ones to do. They look so cute in their tiny ballet shoes. I know their parents would love to see them dance. The rest of the town, too, possibly.”
Cinderella and Snow White, the quintessential fairy-tale princesses. Of course, Piper’s tastes ran more along the lines of Little Red Riding Hood. That story had everything—wind, a forest, trees.
A wolf.
Piper grew very still in her chair, her coffee cup midway to her mouth. But her thoughts were suddenly spinning out of control. She could already see it—Posy’s youngest students tiptoeing across the floor in bright red tutus and capes, papier-mâché trees rising up from the floor and green tissue paper leaves hanging from the ceiling. Dim lights, whimsical music and a wolf, a real wolf. One of Piper’s wolves.
Koko could do it. In Colorado, she’d taken him on at least half a dozen school visits. At a year and a half, he hadn’t yet developed enough adult wolf tendencies to be standoffish around people. Adolescent wolves were almost like puppies. They were interested. Curious. But most wolves were easily spooked by strange people and new places.
Koko was unique. He didn’t get stressed around crowds, so long as the atmosphere was calm. He’d grown up on a photo farm, bred and born to look cute in pictures for calendars, T-shirts and coffee mugs. As a tiny wolf pup, he’d been handled constantly.
Then he’d outgrown his cuteness, and things had taken a turn for the worse.
He was too big. Too imposing. Too wolfish. So he’d been abandoned, left in a Dumpster to starve. He was barely found in time. Then the hands that touched him no longer belonged to people he knew from the farm, but rather to strangers. Veterinarians. Medical professionals.
Piper felt sick every time she thought about what had happened to Koko, but at least he was safe now. And his constant exposure to human interaction made him an ideal ambassador for his species. He was accustomed to people. He could even walk on a leash. She could bring him onstage, on a lead, near the end of the dance.