Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  He smirks, tucking the scrap between the pages of a hardcover book to protect it.

  A rattling metal pulls my attention to the far corner of the kitchen where Bandit sits in a small pet carrier, his plump body twisting against the gated door, his dexterous paws stretching and fumbling with the latch in a frantic attempt to break free.

  “He doesn’t look thrilled,” I note.

  “He will be when he sees his new digs.” Phil arranged for a neighbor to take the last of his livestock—including the goat, thank God—which frees up the pen for our raccoon. And of course, we have no choice but to take him, according to Jonah. If we leave him here, he’ll get into Barry’s crops and Barry will shoot him.

  I shake my head. “Remember when you said he wasn’t a pet?”

  Jonah closes the distance. “Remember when you said I was an asshole?”

  “Jury’s still out on that one,” I tease.

  He leans over and captures my lips with a soft kiss. “Almost forgot this.” He pats the coffeemaker on the counter. “You want to carry that or him?”

  “I’ll take the one that won’t claw my leg, thanks.” My hand smooths over the plastic, reminiscing. It’s a cheap appliance that was an integral part of my father’s simple daily routine. I made the worst pot of coffee known to mankind one morning, using this machine. Dad drank the entire cup without complaint.

  “All right, all right … relax.” Jonah retrieves a chattering Bandit.

  Both of our gazes roll over my father’s kitchen one last time, each caught in a moment’s reflection of our own memories here.

  Jonah looks to me. “Ready?”

  To leave what I know of Alaska, for something entirely unfamiliar and new?

  I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

  With a silent, firm-lipped smile, Jonah leads me out.

  * * *

  “I thought he was supposed to be gone,” I whisper. My eyes don’t know where to land first.

  The front door was unlocked when we arrived. The long, narrow hallway is still lined with coats and shoes and scarves. The worn couch and side tables still fill the living room. Plates and glasses still sit in the dish drainer. The forlorn moose and pair of deer still stare morosely at me from their predicaments on the wall.

  Jonah’s boots leave snowy tracks on the plank floor as he strolls over to the kitchen counter, to where the pile of keys sits, next to a piece of paper. His brow furrows as he scans the handwritten note. “Phil’s gone. Left on a flight this morning,” he confirms, dropping the page on the counter with a heavy hand. A grim smile touches his lips. “He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d leave everything.”

  “No shit,” I mutter. I wander over to the fridge where glossy pictures of little boys—strangers—stare back at me. I guess I’m supposed to throw these out? “This is weird.”

  “Yup,” Jonah agrees. “But I guess it’d be a lot for him to clear all this out by himself. Probably hard, too, with all those memories of his wife here.”

  I open the fridge. “Yeah, I’m sure this half-eaten sandwich was way too sentimental to throw out.” My voice is thick with a mixture of bitterness and frustration. There are bite marks in it. Next to it is a jug of milk, a few loose processed cheese slices, and several jars of preserves—pickles, beets, jam … eggs? Smears of grease and food drippings coat the bottom shelf. Nothing has been wiped down.

  Jonah opens a cupboard to reveal an array of spices and canned goods. The cupboard beside it is equally full, this one with mismatched mugs and glassware. He slowly spins in a circle. “At least he cleaned up the kitchen a bit.”

  I cringe at the dried soap suds and crusted food particles at the bottom of the sink. “Jonah, this place is filthy!” And something tells me cleaning products to tackle the mess are the only thing Phil didn’t leave for us. The dull ache in my head that appeared halfway through the bumpy flight here blossoms with my dread for the work ahead of us. I pinch the bridge of my nose to quell the pain. “How are you not snapping?” Because I’m ready to scream, or cry, or both.

  As wary as I was about buying Phil’s place in the beginning, I’ve been imagining this day with excitement since we signed the papers a month ago. I pictured us strolling into our new house, the rooms barren, the walls bare, our gazes greedily taking in all the empty corners, spotting little secrets and imperfections previously hidden. We’d start making a mental list about what we’d tackle first as we toasted to this exciting new beginning. I even packed champagne flutes in my purse.

  This is not at all what I pictured.

  Jonah comes up behind me, roping his arms around my waist. “It’ll take no time for the two of us to get through this. And I’ll bet there’s a lot we can use. That cold cellar was full of preserves the last time we checked.”

  “And what about all the stuff we can’t use?” Decades of it, I’d imagine. They were married for fifty years! They’ve lived in this house since 1985!

  “We’ll donate or dump it. Or burn it. We can have a big-ass bonfire. Looks like there’s a nice pit down by the lake.”

  He’s far too even tempered right now.

  I rest my head against his chest, trying my best to focus on the positives—I’m in Alaska with Jonah, and we’ve bought our first home together. A place that’s going to see so many important milestones for us. It’s a bit of clutter, some dirt. Nothing we can’t easily deal with. Nothing compared to what we’ve already faced together.

  “I am so damn annoyed,” I growl.

  Jonah chuckles. “I know you are. But you’ll laugh about it one day.”

  “Will I?”

  Jonah dips his head to graze the side of my neck with his lips, tickling me with his beard. “I promise.” His breath skates over my skin.

  “You’re right. Maybe in an hour, after I’ve finished guzzling that bottle of champagne George and Bobbie sent with us, this’ll be really funny.”

  “Drunk, angry Barbie. Can’t wait,” Jonah says wryly, drawing out my chuckle. “Before you pop that cork, though … we have a problem we have to deal with out back.” He sighs heavily. “And you’re gonna be really pissed about this.”

  * * *

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Jonah scratches his beard. “Nope.”

  “What happened to his neighbor taking it?” I was sitting right across from Phil at his kitchen counter when he confirmed—several whiskeys in—that the guy on the other side of the lake was taking his livestock.

  “The note says they had a fight and the guy changed his mind. He took the chickens, though.” Jonah stands in front of the sizeable animal pen, enclosed with wire fencing, his hands on his hips, in a staring match with Phil’s black-and-white goat.

  Our black-and-white goat now, apparently.

  I wrinkle my nose against the faint, acrid scent of bird poop that permeates the cold. The empty chicken coop is a ramshackle box of plywood and haphazardly nailed shingles that sits three feet off the ground to our left. Next to it is a much larger but equally dilapidated structure. I assume, nighttime shelter for Zeke. “A fight about what? What kind of argument ends in ‘I’ll take your chickens but keep your goat’?”

  “No idea. That’s all the note said—that him and this guy, Roy, had a falling-out, and there should be enough hay and grain to last Zeke until spring.” Jonah presses his lips together in thought.

  I don’t like that look on his face. I’ve seen it before. He’s problem-solving, weighing options.

  There are no options here.

  “So, we’re going to convince Roy to change his mind, right?”

  “I guess.” Jonah cocks his head. “You’re seriously scared of this little guy?”

  Zeke lets out a loud bleat and turns those disturbing horizontal pupils my way. A shiver runs down my spine. “We don’t need a goat.”

  “Bandit might like a friend.”

  “Raccoons don’t have friends.”

  Jonah sets his jaw. “Who says he can’t be friends with a goat?
And goats don’t like to be alone.”

  I see where this is going, and my frustration flares. “I agreed to move to a log cabin in the woods for you. I didn’t complain about the raccoon in the cage. I’m about to sort through fifty years’ worth of someone else’s shit and there is piss all over the bathroom floor because Phil was too drunk to hit the toilet bowl. I draw the line at owning a goat!” My voice carries through the dense, quiet forest that surrounds us.

  Jonah’s lips twitch.

  “This is not funny!”

  He rubs his forehead. “Fine. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.” I take a calming breath. “So, let’s go meet Roy.”

  Jonah’s eyebrows spike. “What, like, right now? We just got here. I thought you wanted to go pick up the mattress today.”

  Zeke bleats loudly, his hoof kicking at the steely wire fence of the enclosure.

  “Yes. Like, right now.”

  Chapter Ten

  “This has to be it.” Jonah slows at the end of the road where a rustic wooden sign with R. Donovan carved into it is nailed to a tree. It’s a good thing he suggested we take one of Phil’s old snow machines because the path ahead looks more like a hiking trail than a driveway, unfit for any full-sized vehicle. A trail that’s not in use. It hasn’t snowed in almost a week, according to the local weather reports, and yet there isn’t a hint of tracks in or out of the property from this direction.

  My arms are roped tightly around Jonah’s waist as we coast down the lane, deeper and deeper into the woods, passing two neon yellow No Trespassing signs. A little farther ahead is yet another sign, this one wooden with carved letters painted black, that reads, “I support the right to stand my ground.”

  “What does that mean?” I holler over the low, rugged hum of the engine.

  “Different things to different people,” Jonah answers cryptically, rounding a bend of trees, only to discover that the trail continues.

  “I don’t think this is the right way!”

  Jonah points at a spot above the trees, and I see the haze of smoke that sails upward, countering my worries. The snow machine’s engine whirs as he speeds up.

  The forest finally thins, revealing a tiny weathered one-story cabin with a screened-in porch off the front, missing a porch door. Beyond it is a barn at least three times the size of the home and several smaller shacks and lean-tos. In between is a whole lot of everything. Barrels, pails, used tires, gas cans and propane tanks, wood in various states—from fallen trees to neatly chopped kindling. Three old trucks sit off to one side, two of them rusted and missing parts.

  It looks like a junkyard.

  Jonah cuts the engine as two enormous dogs round the corner of the barn, charging toward us, their growl-barks unsettling. The closer they get, the less they look like dogs and the more they look like wolves.

  “Jonah?” I call out, lifting my left leg, readying to kick in defense as the black one moves in, teeth bared.

  The front door of the cabin opens with a loud creak, and a man emerges. “Oscar! Gus! Heel!” His harsh tone cuts through the chaos.

  The wolf dogs quiet instantly and settle back on their haunches, licking their maws. The mottled-gray one—the seemingly calmer of the two—locks its sharp yellow gaze on me. As if waiting for a twitch, a cough—some reason to lunge.

  Chickens cluck frantically from the coop nearby, stirred by all the commotion.

  “You Roy?” Jonah calls out.

  The man, who has moved to the opening at the top of the porch steps where a door belongs, stares hard at Jonah for a minute, as if considering his answer. He’s in his fifties, at least—maybe older—and weathered looking, either by age or hardship or both, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly off his face much darker than the scruffy solid-gray beard that covers his jaw. Sawdust clings to his blue jeans and heavy flannel jacket. “Who’s askin’?” he demands, in an accent that belongs somewhere in the Deep South.

  With a wary glance at the wolf dogs and a comforting squeeze of my thigh, Jonah climbs off the snow machine and strolls over to the front porch. He slides off his right glove as he eases up the three steps. “I’m Jonah Riggs.”

  Roy studies Jonah’s proffered hand for a long moment before accepting it in a single up-and-down handshake.

  “We moved in next door. Bought Phil’s place.”

  Next door is a stretch. We’re miles away from this guy. At least, it feels like it, with the two lengthy driveways.

  “Right.” Roy sniffs. “The pilot who wants to fly his goddamn planes over my head all the livelong day.” There’s no small amount of bitterness in his tone, nor in the steely glare he settles on Jonah. A challenge, perhaps. To what, I don’t know. Jonah is a physically intimidating man—well over six feet tall and broad shouldered. It’s hard to compare Roy, standing several steps above, his shoulders hunched, but I’d bet money Jonah has as many pounds on Roy as Roy has years on Jonah. And yet, if Roy is the least bit intimidated by his visitor, he doesn’t show it.

  Jonah eases back down the porch steps, glancing over his shoulder, to give me a look—part amused, part “can you believe this guy?”—before facing our friendly neighbor again. “Phil said you were plannin’ on takin’ his goat. We thought we’d check to see if you’re still interested.”

  Roy’s attention swings to the barn where five goats of varying size mill along the fence line, curious of the newcomers. A large clearing stretches out beyond the barn. “Got enough goats.”

  “I see that.” Jonah nods slowly. “So, what’s one more, then? Looks like you’ve got a big barn there. And you obviously know what you’re doin’. I’ll even throw in some hay and grain. Enough to get you through till spring.”

  “Why don’t you want him?”

  “We’re not in a place to take on livestock right now. We’re just startin’ out.”

  “Huh. Just starting out.” Roy smirks. “All you outsiders, coming here to ‘just start out.’” Again, that bitter tone laces his words.

  I may be an outsider, but Jonah certainly is not. I feel the urge to point out that Jonah grew up in the Anchorage area, that’s he’s as Alaskan as they come, but Jonah speaks before I get a chance to decide if I should.

  “It’d be a big favor to us if you took him off our hands, added him to your herd.” I hear the strain in Jonah’s voice. He doesn’t have patience in the face of attitude.

  Roy shifts on his boots, moving out from behind the porch post and into full view. It’s only then that I see the gun propped against the floor in his left hand.

  Tension skitters down my spine.

  “Nah. He ain’t good for nothin’.”

  “He’s a male goat. I can think of one thing he’s good for.” Jonah looks pointedly at the animal pen. “You’ve gotta have some females in there?”

  “They’re all females.” Roy chuckles darkly. “And he ain’t even good for that.”

  “Shit,” Jonah mutters.

  “Maybe you can find some fool who don’t know nothing about goats to take him off your hands. Or someone who likes the taste of old meat. I don’t.”

  “Thanks for your time,” Jonah says, not hiding the annoyance from his tone. He marches toward me.

  “Tell you what … bring him on over.”

  Jonah stalls. “Really? I appreciate it—”

  “The hounds have gotten fat and lazy over the winter. Figure a good chase an’ kill ahead of the summer might do ’em some good. Though I doubt he’ll give them much of a chase.”

  I grimace. I may not like goats but the picture Roy just painted is far more disturbing than creepy pupils and unpleasant childhood memories.

  Jonah’s jaw hangs in a rare moment of speechlessness before he regains his composure. “Good to meet ya, Roy.” His brow is furrowed as he trudges back to take his seat and start the engine.

  The black wolf dog slinks away as if nervous by the hum, but the gray one hasn’t so much as twitched. It’s unnerving how it watches us. Me.
r />   Curling my arms around Jonah’s torso, I steal a glance Roy’s way in time to catch the knowing smirk on his tight, thin lips before Jonah squeezes the throttle.

  “You’re gonna have to get over your goat PTSD because there is no way in hell we’re givin’ Zeke to that asshole!” he hollers over his shoulder as we race back down the long trail toward the road, much faster than we came, Jonah’s body tense beneath my grip.

  * * *

  “Who greets people with a gun?” I take a healthy sip of chardonnay from an ornate etched-crystal glass I found in the cupboard and then drop to my knees to finish scrubbing the fridge. After our meet and greet with the neighborhood lunatic, we took our new old truck—that smells of motor oil and is plastered with silver duct tape to keep the worn leather on the seats in place—to Wasilla for a few groceries and a mattress.

  “He’s just an old man trying to intimidate us.” Jonah gives the logs in the fieldstone fireplace a stab with the cast-iron poker. Of the two of us, he’s certainly handling today’s unpleasant surprises with more grace than I am.

  “Well, it worked because we’re never stepping foot on his property again. Especially not with those wolves. You can’t keep wolves for pets. We should report him.”

  “They’re not wolves. Hybrids, maybe, though I haven’t heard of any trained to listen like that. But sendin’ the cops to our neighbor on our first day probably isn’t the best way to start out here.” Jonah eases away from the fireplace. “Whatever. That’s another plus to living where we are. If you hate your neighbors, you don’t have to see ’em.”

  Finally satisfied with the interior of the fridge after having worked on it for the past hour, I peel the rubber gloves off with a sigh. “That’s one thing done.” Only a million more to go.

  I catch the telltale whir of speeding snow machine engines. Jonah wanders over to the big bay window to peer out on the frozen clearing as several race past, their headlights dull beams in the evening’s dusk.