“Grab those little sticks and break them up.”
She snaps back. “Do it yourself.”
I stand and face her. “Look, I’m trying to help.”
She glares at me and pulls her fake fur hat down over her ears. Her nose is red, and her eyes are watering, a true contrast to her voice, which is sharp and cutting. “Yeah? Well, you’ve done enough already.”
Her words cut me deep, and the semi-permanent lump in my throat swells. It’s the first time I’ve realized that Skyler holds me solely responsible for her dad’s death. Maybe she’d feel differently if she knew how much I miss Carl, too. Well, the old Carl anyway. Sometimes, I lie in bed at night and remember his laugh, they way he helped Dad build a tree fort for Skyler and me when we were barely in elementary school. How the four of us used to go snowmobiling in the winters. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I loved Carl like he was part of my family.
I try hard to swallow back the untapped emotions from the past few months. “Skyler, you’re not the only person who lost someone, you know.” My voice comes out scratchy, like it’s been pushed through the splintered wall of hurt and guilt I’ve stacked around me.
The look coming from her bright blue eyes shocks me. It’s pure hate. Not a “we are not from the same crowd in school” hate, but a real, deep down to the core hatred. And as much as I don’t like Skyler and how much she’s changed from the days when we used to catch tadpoles in the stream together, I’ve never hated her.
She takes a breath and forces words out through her clenched teeth. “Yeah, but I didn’t kill yours.”
My body heats up in anger at her horrible comment. Instead of lashing out, I force myself to turn away. I can’t face her anymore without showing her my weakness, my guilt. And no matter what I want to say or do, it won’t heal the damage that’s been done. Skyler will never forgive me and neither will Wyn. I suddenly feel very alone.
As I resume gathering sticks, tears fill my eyes. I suddenly feel like crying for Carl, Dad, Mo, and my dog Bear; for losing Tommy and Wyn; for everything I did to let them walk away. A tear trails down my cheek. I hear Skyler sniff behind me. This time, I don’t turn around for fear she might be crying too.
A few minutes later, Wyn breaks the awkwardness by crashing back into the clearing, carrying a few logs. He drops them in the circle. So much for tracking quietly.
I dry both eyes with my shirtsleeve and drop a few more sticks onto the pile. He takes out a flint and steel from our survival pack and beds down to light the pile of tinder just like Agent Sweeney taught us. Only Wyn doesn’t know matches are in the kit, too.
“Wyn…”
He keeps using the flint. “Grace, let me handle this. For once.”
I bite my tongue and wait. Little sparks shoot out, but nothing catches fire. If he’d just listen to me, I could help him. But I’m not going to say any more until he asks. Or begs. Let him be the self-appointed leader who chooses fashion over function if he wants. He can figure it out by himself. Or better yet, let Skyler help him light his fire.
After a few tries, he glances up at me. “I could use some help here.”
I look around. “Wait, are you talking to me?”
“Come on. Give me a break.”
As a brisk wind comes through the clearing, I pull the hood over my head and zip up. “Thought you wanted to handle this.”
He stands and faces me. For a split second, our eyes lock. I see his face soften. “If you think you can do better, be my guest.”
I smile. Wyn challenging me to build a fire is like me challenging the sun to shine. “Fine. Step aside and learn.”
I pull a box of matches from my pocket and strike one until flames dance off the red tip. I quickly light the tinder and smile. “There. I think those made it much easier. Don’t you?”
Wyn frowns and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Very funny. You could have told me about those.”
“I tried.” I shrug. “But you wanted to lead. And, you’re the boss.”
He tosses me the backpack. “Not anymore.”
Wyn walks away dejected, and I immediately feel bad for embarrassing him. But as soon as I stand to apologize, Skyler is already at his side, hooking her arm through his. They both sit down together to get warm, and she whispers sweet nothings in his ear.
There’s no way Wyn and I will ever patch things up as long as she’s standing between us. And I’m pretty sure there’s no way she’ll get out of my way so we can. Feeling like the third wheel, I decide to search for more signs of the pack we’re supposed to be tracking. I move in a circular path around the fire, venturing farther and farther away from the makeshift campsite. Finally, I come upon a print.
Only this is no wolf.
My heart starts to race as I skim the trees, looking for something. Or someone. I check my radio to see if Porter’s called and is on his way. Nothing. I don’t want to yell, so instead I whistle to get Wyn’s attention. When he looks up, I motion him over. He reluctantly leaves Skyler’s clutches and makes his way through the trees.
“What is it this time? Something else I’m doing wrong you want to show me?”
I point down at the print. “Look.”
He studies the marking and shrugs. “Yeah, so?”
I put my finger to my lips and my mouth turns dry. “Shhhh.” I point down to an indention in the snow. “It’s fresh because of the snow melting around the edges.”
He looks down and then back at me. “And I care about this because why?”
A branch cracks in the distance.
I whisper. “Because we’re not alone.”
Survival Skill #7
A track in the snow may look different after the warm sun has enlarged and distorted it.
I realize I’ve been out here for a couple hours and not once have I thought of Al.
Until now.
I stare at the print a little longer and make out the edges. I think back to the bootprint pictures I gave Mama Sue to use for tracking down the owner, but I can’t seem to remember the details. Did Al wear a size 10 or 11?
A scuffling of leaves catches my attention, and I immediately crouch down.
Wyn squats next to me and touches my shoulder. “You okay?”
I flinch and stare into the wall of trees drooping with melting snow, looking for anything out of place. As the wind blows, it loosens the powder and sends it tumbling to the ground, making the air a fuzzy white. My head snaps to the right when my peripheral vision catches movement.
A dark silhouette weaves through the woods, hidden in the shadows created by the thick, white blanket of the treetops sheltering us. I can’t help but think of Mo, remembering the first time I saw him slinking around Bear Creek. I squint as snowflakes land on my eyelashes, making my eyes water.
I hear myself take a breath, a small gasp no one would hear but me. Could this be Mo? It’s been three months and still no sign he’s alive. There’s barely any sign he ever was. Agent Sweeney won’t say anything about knowing Mo whenever I inquire, but I’ll never forget what he said when I brought in the papers Mo left me. He snatched them up without any explanation and gave me his “condolences,” said he was “sorry for my losses.” Not loss. Losses. More than one. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t count Carl. He could’ve only meant two people, Dad and Mo, which means even he thinks Mo is dead.
I snap out of my thoughts and watch the figure move closer. But when the shadow is only a few yards away, I immediately know it’s not Mo. I know Mo’s walk, the way he sways and swings one arm more than the other. Then it hits me – this shadow is much larger.
The hairs on my neck stand, and I hear myself whisper, “Al.”
Just then, Porter steps out of the trees with snow on his hat. He stops and stares in the direction we’re facing. “See a ghost or something?”
Wyn screams like a little girl. “Jesus!”
I jolt back to life but stay squatted because my legs are shaking. “Ah, sorry. We were wondering who you wer
e.”
Porter takes off his hat and hits it against his leg to shake off any dirt or debris. “Who else would you be expecting?”
I mutter, still staring into the forest, “No one special.” Bummed he’s not Mo, but relieved he’s not Al.
I pull my eyes away from the woods and turn around. Still can’t help feeling as if Mo and Al are out there somewhere. Crazy. That would mean one was coming back from the dead, and the other was coming back for revenge.
“Radio wasn’t working or I’d have called.” He slings the hat back on his head and rubs his hands together. “So… taking a break?”
Skyler is still sitting by the fire, looking like a blob of fluffy cotton candy in her white and pink furry get up. “It was cold.”
She was obviously completely unaware of what happened in the last five minutes – my moment of hope followed by a moment of fear.
Porter nods a little longer than necessary. “Yep, and it will get colder. A bad front’s coming in a couple of days.” He grabs a handful of snow and throws in on the fire. The flames hiss in anger. He stomps out the embers and claps his gloved hands together. “Time to find the wolves before it gets dark. You guys are close. Transmitters show them within a half mile.”
“Let’s go then.” I sling the backpack over my shoulder.
Porter smoothes his graying mustache down with two fingers. “New leadership?”
I smile. “Let’s just say there was a coup d'état.”
Wyn frowns. “Very funny.”
Porter tucks his lumberjack shirt into his snow pants and zips his coat. “Fine, then. Half a mile to the north. Grace, why don’t you lead the way?”
I can’t help but smile. Finally someone smart.
The four of us hike in a single-file line up a thin path bordered by two-foot embankments. One step to either side, and we’d be in snow up to our knees. No one says a word. Well, except for Skyler, who is still grumbling several. Luckily with two people between us, I can’t hear much, which allows me to finally relish in my surroundings.
The mountain sounds are different in winter than in summer – not as much twittering or skittering. Just the wind whistling through the thinning trees, the sparkling snow crunching under my feet, and the faint song from a family of nuthatches perched high in a tree. The smooth, untouched snow hides the land’s blemishes and gives the impression we’re walking amongst the clouds.
As we move up the mountain, I can feel the temperature change. Soon my nose is numb and running, and a chill skitters down my spine. My breath comes out in puffs as I cut through the untouched trail for everyone behind me. It’s difficult, and I can already feel my thighs throbbing. But I’m not about to give Wyn the last laugh by quitting or taking a break.
I forge ahead and talk over my shoulder to Porter, who’s close behind. “How long have you been tracking wolves?”
He huffs as he answers. “More than forty years. Used to live out in Montana. Friends owned a cattle ranch there and used to complain of wolves getting their sheep. I used to volunteer to relocate the wolves. Course those were gray wolves. Not red ones.”
“Aren’t they pretty similar?”
I move aside a branch and hold it so it doesn’t slap him in the face. He nods his appreciation.
“Gray wolves are much larger and live in packs of up to thirty; whereas, red wolves are usually found in packs of ten. Gray wolves also tend to be much more aggressive than red wolves, who tend to be much harder to spot.”
I keep moving up the mountain. “Have you ever been to North Carolina before now?”
“My wife died here.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
Porter pauses for a second. “Me too.”
I take a few more steps and decide to change the conversation quickly. I don’t want to start sharing our stories of death. Not right now. “Do you think the reintroduction will work?”
His breath is a little labored as he answers. “Depends on if we can keep them away from poachers and cars. Keep track of them to be sure they stay healthy.” Porter drops his voice to a whisper and points up the mountain. “One of the pack’s main dens should be just over that ridge.”
I keep walking along the path until I start to see small wolf prints in the snow. Only one set. They lead up the mountain. I kneel down to touch them. Next to them is what looks like more shoe prints.
I hear myself whisper, “You been up here today?”
Porter almost slams into me from behind. “No, why?”
A chill skitters down my back. Without answering, I mutter under my breath. “Oh, no.”
Before Porter can ask any questions, I take off up the hill, kicking my feet out to the sides over the high snow. My pack weighs me down and my legs resist, but I push on through the thick ground cover.
Porter calls after me. “Wait!”
But I don’t stop. To be honest, I don’t know why I’m running, but my gut tells me something isn’t right.
Both prints head off on the same path, as if one is tracking the other. I veer right and sludge through the snow until I come upon the source. A red wolf is lying in the snow.
Please, God. No.
As the rest of my team crashes through the trees behind me, I move quickly around to one side, keeping my distance. Hoping. Praying that this animal is merely hurt but still alive. As soon as I see his eyes, any hope I had is crushed. I cover my mouth as Porter comes into view. He throws down his pack and yells when he sees the wolf lying still.
“Damn it!”
Wyn calls out. “What’s wrong? Is it dead?”
I nod without looking at him, and Skyler wails. Wyn hugs her as she buries her face into his shirt, crying. To be honest, I feel like crying, too, but I don’t. Instead, I reach over and touch the beautiful creature. My fingers slide through his thick, reddish fur.
Porter kneels down, inspecting the dead animal, cussing under his breath.
My lip quivers when I talk. “What happened?”
He lifts up the wolf’s head with his hand. “I can’t tell.”
I stare at the animal. His soft fur quivers in the light breeze, and my stomach churns in distaste.
Porter takes off his hat as if paying his respects. “There’s no blood.” He looks around the area and points to a slew of other prints. “Looks like the pack was here. Maybe he was sick. They left him when they heard you crashing about.”
He frowns at me.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.” I stand and move back to give him room so he can inspect the animal more. “Do you think it was an accident?”
“Probably natural causes.”
I look back the way we came. “I saw footprints back there. Maybe a poacher?”
Porter sits back on his heels and shakes his head. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“But how do you know?”
He narrows his eyes. “Because I’ve been doing this for decades.”
“Yes, but…”
“And you’ve been doing this a few minutes.” He stands and softens his voice. “Look, I know this is hard. Seeing your first dead one always is. But this is why we’re out here.”
“To find them dead?”
He unzips his pack and takes out some tracking supplies. “No, to find out why they can’t survive. So we can help them live.” He starts marking the trail and noting coordinates. “Look, why don’t you go rest? I’ll take care of this. You’ve been through enough.”
My head feel fuzzy, so I lean against a tree to steady myself.
Wyn appears next to me and cups my elbow. “You okay?”
I look up into his eyes, and my body starts to tremble. I try a couple times to speak, but my mouth is so dry. It’s like I haven’t had water in days or like I’ve been drinking sand. His expression changes and he puts both hands on my shoulders. It’s more than the wolf.
It’s the death. Seeing it and being around it again.
“You’re cold. You’re shaking.” Wyn takes off his coat and wraps it over my shou
lders.
I flinch at his touch and look up into his eyes. “I’m fine.”
I can feel Skyler’s eyes bearing into my skull, but I don’t dare look. No use seeing another dagger shoot from her eyes.
She calls out. “Wyn?”
But Wyn doesn’t budge. He just stands there staring at me, like he’s frozen in the snow. Flakes land on his eyelashes, but he doesn’t blink. It’s the first time we’ve stood face to face since that day at the station. Even though it was months ago, I remember it like it was yesterday. The things he said, the look of disappointment on his face. Even though I’m still mad at how he’s treated me, I realize how much I miss my best friend. In this one moment, it’s like nothing has ever changed between us. It’s as if we only paused for a few months and now someone has pressed Play again.
I hear Skyler again. “Wyn?”
He snaps to life and immediately drops his hands. “Huh? Oh, sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You alright?”
I smile. “Always.”
He spins around and heads off toward Skyler, probably to do some serious damage control.
I move next to Porter, who is standing with his hands on both hips, staring at the dead animal.
“Damn shame. Definitely not good for the project.”
I look from the animal to Porter. “But you said this happens.”
He rubs his neck. “It does, but that doesn’t mean we like it. It’s another sign telling us maybe wolves aren’t meant to be out here anymore.”
“But they are. They have to be.” My sadness flips into anger. These creatures deserve to be out here more than any of us do.
Porter leans over the wolf and removes the transmitter from its neck. He reads the number aloud. “M79. Looks like one of the smaller males.” He wipes his face with a rag. “This won’t be too detrimental for the pack.”
I wait for him to say more, but he goes quiet. “So does that mean they’ll be okay?”
He looks into my eyes. “Let’s hope so.”
Uncontrollable (The Nature of Grace, Book 2) Page 7