Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  “Not with the way it’s lookin’. Supposed to keep going well into tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I feel my shoulders sag. And here I was, thinking how smooth today’s travel was going so far. “This sucks!”

  “Relax. It’s the way it is around here. You’ll get used to it.”

  “I don’t want to get used to it,” I say, pouting. Three airports, two planes, and eleven hours later, my frustration is swelling. More than anything else, I’m desperate to see Jonah.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, well … Let’s hope your plane takes off tomorrow.”

  My jaw drops. Tomorrow is the twenty-fourth. If it doesn’t take off tomorrow… “Oh my God. I’m going to be alone in an airport on Christmas Day, aren’t I!”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Things can change on a dime around here. Listen, I went ahead and grabbed you a room at the lodge down the road. It’s nothin’ fancy but most places are booked up, with it being the holidays. I know the owners, Chris and Andrea. They’re good people. There’s a shuttle that’ll take you there.”

  “Thanks,” I offer with resignation.

  “You’re welcome, Barbie.”

  I grin despite my sour mood. I used to hate it when he called me that. “Have you grown your beard back yet?” I keep asking and he keeps evading. I hope he has—a wish I never thought I’d be making.

  “Guess you’ll have to wait and see. Go. Grab your twenty-five overweight suitcases and head on over. Call me later.”

  “’Kay.” I bite my lip against the urge to utter those three little words that I held back at the airport gate a month ago, that I hold back with every phone call, having convinced myself I can’t say them for the first time from thousands of miles away.

  But, deep down, I’m fearful Jonah doesn’t feel the same way. Not yet, anyway. I’m confident his feelings for me are strong—we wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. But, if Jonah is anything, it’s blunt and undaunted, and he has yet to tell me that he loves me, which makes me think maybe he’s not sure yet.

  So I can’t be the first one to say it.

  “I’ll talk to you soon?”

  Jonah chuckles softly. “Yeah, for sure. See you soon, Calla.”

  I try not to drag my feet as I head for the luggage carousel. Thankfully, the belt is churning out suitcases from the Chicago flight. I don’t see mine on the conveyor belt yet, so I stand and wait, my disappointment with being stuck in Anchorage for a night—sans Jonah—weighing heavily on my spirits.

  Thirty minutes later, long after the suitcases have stopped sliding down the shoot for my flight and the last of the passengers have wheeled their belongings away, I add “missing luggage” to my list of “things that went horribly wrong when I moved to Alaska.”

  I’ll be able to laugh about this … one day.

  Chapter Three

  “What does Alaska have against me having clothes?” I accept my glass of red wine from the server—a man with unkempt brown hair and a black button-down shirt—with a nod of thanks, my phone pressed to my ear.

  “You do look pretty good without them,” Jonah says wryly.

  My cheeks flush. The last time I was without my luggage was thanks to him and that tiny tin-can plane he came to get me in, back when he thought I was nothing more than a spoiled brat in need of a hard lesson. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  He chuckles. “I wish. Have they located them yet?”

  “Apparently. They got shuffled in Chicago because of some glitch with the overweight baggage. They said they’d have them on a late flight tonight and they’d get them to the hotel by tomorrow morning, first thing.” I don’t know if I believe them. The airline attendant apologized and offered to refund my exorbitant fees before offering me an emergency care pack of a cheap, disposable toothbrush and pint-sized tube of toothpaste. Fortunately, I packed my toiletries and cosmetics in my carry-on. Between that and the night shirt I grabbed at the Walmart down the road, I’ll be fine for the night.

  What I’m concerned about, though, are the Christmas presents I packed. “What if they don’t arrive in time? My flight leaves at three.” I spent two hours on the phone with the airline from my hotel room to secure that seat.

  “Don’t worry. You’re not gonna need any clothes for a few days, at least.”

  My blood surges with Jonah’s unspoken promise of what’s coming, delivered in a huskier tone.

  This last month may have seemed frantic at times with all the preparation for my move, but it also dragged. We went from essentially living together during those last weeks before my dad died to parting ways on a chilly day in Anchorage with no plans to continue our relationship, to reuniting two months later over a four-day-weekend visit.

  In my third-story bedroom, directly above my mom and Simon.

  Not exactly conducive to the kind of intimacy we were both craving, though we made the best of it. But this month-long wait has only left me with an unending ache of frustration. Hearing Jonah say things like that doesn’t help.

  I cannot wait to be alone with him.

  I swallow a gulp of wine. “Is it still snowing there?”

  “Still snowing. How’s the hotel?”

  I drop my voice to a whispered hiss. “Aside from all the dead animals?” The lobby is full of bear skins and deer heads and stuffed fish. Pelts of every color and size adorn the walls of the hallways. A chandelier made from mismatched antlers—foraged in the woods or the prize of several kills?—dangles from the foyer, the dim light it casts adding to the eeriness of the place. “There’s a freaking water buffalo beside the front desk.”

  “That’s a musk ox.”

  “Whatever. This place is a wild animal tomb.”

  “Yeah, it’s kind of their theme. Andrea’s a taxidermist.”

  I feel my eyebrows pop. “She stuffed all these things?”

  “And hunted most of them. You should see their house. They’ve got a full-grown male grizzly bear standing in the corner.”

  “That sounds delightful.” I cringe, trying to picture the kind of woman who’d find pleasure in gutting animals and measuring their eye sockets for the perfect glass balls. Something tells me we won’t be swapping favorite nail polish colors.

  “You’re in Alaska. People shoot and stuff things around here, and not only the men. It’s the way things are. Get used to it.”

  I groan. “Get used to it” seems to be Jonah’s new favorite slogan. “As long as you never bring home a carcass and ask me to clean and cook it.” I know Jonah hunts. I’ve seen the collection of rifles and shotguns in his safe. I’m just not sure how I feel about it yet.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” I hear the smile in his voice. “The restaurant’s cozy, though, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. It’s plainly decorated in dark wood paneling and warmed by a rustic stone fireplace that blazes in a nearby corner. Picture windows overlook a frozen, snow-covered Lake Hood, cast in shadows of an afternoon sunset, all white save for the colorful small-engine planes, wearing skis in place of wheels. On the other side of the lake are humble brown-brick apartment buildings. Beyond them, in the far distance, majestic white-capped mountains loom.

  I survey the tables with a curious glance. A third of them are occupied. How many of these people are also stranded, waiting to get somewhere?

  “So, what’re you gonna order?”

  “I don’t know.” I flip through the pages. It’s mainly pub fare, with a prime rib special. “A lot of wine, to drown my sorrows?”

  “Go sit at the bar, then. Chris should be there.”

  My gaze wanders to the long, stately dark walnut counter—the fanciest thing in this place—and to the tall man with wiry gray hair. “Big, bushy mustache?”

  “Yeah, that’s him. He’ll talk your ear off all night. Ask him about his huskies. He’s got a dogsled team that their son races in the Iditarod every year. And get the burger. Andrea makes the patties herself.”

  “With real beef?” I ask pointedly. I’ve l
earned my lesson.

  Jonah chuckles. And doesn’t answer, I note. “Also, the butternut squash soup is good.”

  I grimace. “I hate squash.”

  “What? No, you don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. It makes me gag.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Why are you arguing with me about this? Yes, it does! Same with beets. They taste like dirt.”

  Jonah groans. “Jesus. You’re as bad as Wren was.”

  I feel a prick in my chest at the mention of my dad, who, in many ways, Jonah knew better than I ever will. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t eat a single vegetable. I only won’t eat squash and beets.” I add after a lengthy pause, “Or cabbage, or mushrooms. And I hate strawberries.”

  “Strawberries? Man, what have I signed up for?” There’s a teasing note in his tone. “Okay, Barbie, give me the rundown. What else are you gonna be difficult about? Wait, wait … lemme get a notepad. I have a feeling this is gonna be a long list.”

  I’m picturing him stretching out on his sectional in a pair of baggy jeans, a sinewy arm tucked under his head, a simple cotton shirt stretched across his broad chest, unintentionally showing off the many hard ridges that sculpt his muscular body.

  I should have been lying on top of that body tonight, I think bitterly.

  “Let me see …” I settle into my own seat, propping my hiking boots up on the chair opposite me, and grin. “For starters, hairy, obnoxious men and cheap beer.”

  * * *

  “Nooo!” I moan into my pillow as the news headline flashes across the bottom of the TV screen, claiming the worst snowfall in southwestern Alaska in nearly fifty years. The accompanying videos and pictures from yesterday—snow blowing sideways, four-foot drifts over roads, cars buried—do well to emphasize that statement.

  Worse, the weatherman, dressed in a red, fur-lined parka, his face hidden within the cove of his hood, is promising that Anchorage is going to catch a ribbon of that inclement weather beginning this morning. I checked in on my flight and it’s already marked as delayed by an hour.

  Dragging myself out of bed, I head for the window, the cool air chilling my bare legs, an odd comfort for the dull ache in my head. I took Jonah’s advice last night and shifted my pity party of one to the bar to strike up a conversation with Chris, who turned out to be as nice as Jonah promised, albeit a bit awkward, telling stale jokes about Canadian accents and our horse-riding Mounties. Andrea made an appearance around nine and proved to be nothing like I imagined the killing, trophy-stuffing woman to be, her pixie-like face framed by a pale blonde bob, her wide smile offering nothing but warmth and friendliness.

  They fed me red wine—a few glasses on the house—and entertained me for hours with stories of her hunting exploits and the lodge’s crazy customers, until my body buzzed and my stomach hurt from laughing and I had earned myself an invitation to Christmas dinner, should I find myself stuck in Anchorage.

  It was after eleven by the time I staggered to my room, but I forced myself to stay up, watching movies and plugging away at my computer until almost two a.m., trying to reset my internal clock against the four-hour time change.

  I still woke up at six this morning.

  I peel back the curtain and greet a sea of black nothing, the sun far from rising. The few dim streetlights that shine down over the parking lot show nothing of any falling snow. If clouds are rolling in above us, I won’t see them for a few more hours.

  But, with the way my luck is going so far, I fear I’ll be spending Christmas dinner with strangers.

  I stumble back to bed, dismayed, to check for a response to my “are you awake yet? How bad is it?” text that I sent to Jonah the moment my eyelids cracked open.

  Jonah: It’s not looking good for today. Heading to Wild to help sort out the mess.

  I sigh heavily. He refuses to call my dad’s charter company anything but, though the planes and small terminal have been sporting the shiny new crimson-and-blue “Aro” logo for weeks. That’s the only thing that’s visibly changed so far, from what he’s told me. The new owner has been focused on getting the business’s technology up to speed, with plans to freshen up the office and waiting area in the summer.

  We will have left Bangor by then, if we can find the right place near Anchorage.

  And if it ever stops snowing.

  With my spirits low enough to threaten tears, I wash down a few Advil with a mouthful of water and burrow under the comforter.

  * * *

  The shrill sound of the hotel phone pierces the silence, stirring me from a restless sleep before noon. It’s the front desk, telling me that my luggage has arrived. Relief amid frustration. It doesn’t last long, though, as I check my flight on my phone to see that it’s been delayed another hour. On the bright side, it hasn’t been outright canceled. Yet.

  There are no more texts from Jonah, though I’m not surprised. I don’t normally hear from him when he’s at work. Still, it doesn’t help my mood. Neither does my growling stomach.

  There is, however, a text from my mom, with a selfie of her and Simon on the beach, toasting to the camera, pasty-white-skinned and smiling.

  Maybe I should have listened to her and gone to Turks. I wouldn’t be spending Christmas with a stuffed grizzly bear watching over me while I eat.

  I push that sour thought aside and get ready—yanking on my same traveling clothes from yesterday, brushing my teeth, pulling my hair into a quick topknot, and swiping my mascara wand across my lashes.

  How funny it is that I wouldn’t be caught dead barefaced six months ago, before Jonah intruded on my life. My appearance seemed vastly more important to me in the grand scheme of things then than it does now.

  I throw open the door, intent on grabbing breakfast along with my things.

  And gasp at the scruffy-faced male figure leaning against the wall, his tall, muscular body draped in a heavy plaid winter coat overtop layers of fleece, his ash-blond hair capped with a black beanie. His piercing icy blue eyes are locked on me.

  “What are you doing here!” I exclaim, as waves of relief course through my limbs.

  “Take a wild guess.” Jonah’s gruff voice rattles in my chest. God, I’ve missed hearing it in person.

  “But I thought … the storm—”

  “There was a decent break, so I took it, flew low, and prayed it would hold.” His gaze skates over my hair, my nose, my mouth, stalling there.

  “Was it bad?”

  “Would you get over here already?” He heaves himself off the wall, taking a step toward me.

  I dive into his chest, savoring the feel of his hard body against mine and the smell of him—spearmint gum and woodsy soap—as our lips find each other in a welcoming kiss. “My flight’s delayed.”

  He curls his arms around me and pulls me tight to him, his bristly hair scratching against my skin as he bends to dip his face into the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply and then lets out a contented sigh. “I know. The airport’s a mess. Tons of people trying to get places for Christmas.”

  I close my eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here.” Suddenly, spending our first Christmas together at the dead-animal hotel doesn’t seem so appalling.

  “Of course, I’m here. As if I was gonna let you get stuck, alone, on Christmas.”

  “So, I’ll fly back with you, then?”

  “We’re not going back that way today.” There’s an edge to his voice, one that makes me think the trip here over the mountains was far worse than he’s letting on. And Jonah is fearless when it comes to flying.

  A part of me wants to reprimand him—what if he had crashed?—but a bigger part is overwhelmed with emotion that he made the risky trip for me.

  “I love you,” I blurt before I can give it too much thought.

  Several beats pass before Jonah pulls away, far enough to meet my gaze, a curious look in his.

  I hold my breath, suddenly afraid that I’m going to have to add this moment to the top of my growing list of
things that have gone terribly wrong so far with this move.

  “I was wonderin’ how long it’d take you to get up the nerve to say it. Especially after you chickened out at the airport.” He brushes an errant strand of hair off my face. “Thought I might have to wait forever.”

  My mouth hangs open for a moment. “You knew?”

  “You Fletchers never have been good at speakin’ your mind.” A soft, crooked smile curls his lips. “Of course, I knew.”

  I roll my eyes even as my cheeks flush. In the dingy Anchorage lodge hallway, being chastised by Jonah for how much like my father I am is not how I was envisioning this moment going. “Well … great.” What else am I supposed to say, especially since he hasn’t echoed the sentiment?

  His mouth splits into a perfect, white-toothed grin. “You’re cute when you’re vulnerable.”

  My indignation flares. “You know what? I take it back.”

  “Nah. You don’t.”

  “Yeah, I do. In fact, I think I hate you right now.” I make to pull free from his arms, but they coil tighter, keeping me in place.

  “Look at me,” he demands softly.

  After a moment of reluctance, I do. His blue eyes are severe as they pin me down. “I can’t remember what it feels like not being in love with you, Calla.”

  My pulse pounds in my veins.

  He leans in, presses his forehead against mine. “I can’t remember what it’s like to wake up and not have you be the first thing I think about. Every morning, I roll over in bed to check for a message from you. Every night, I go to bed annoyed because you’re not beside me. Because you’re so far away. I need you in my life like I need to fly. Like I need this Alaskan air. More than I need this air.”

  “Wow. That’s …” I swallow the lump in my throat, about to float away on a euphoric high from his tender admission. That’s way better than just blurting out “I love you.”

  He cups my chin with his palms. “You were made for me. I am madly in love with you, Calla Fletcher.” His mouth catches mine in a deceptively soft kiss that threatens to buckle my knees. It draws a moan from deep within me, the agonizing month-long wait to feel Jonah’s lips against mine finally over.