Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  He grunts. “Already took care of everything.”

  My eyebrows arch. “Seriously?” I remember Simon slipping on an icy sidewalk and breaking his collarbone when I was eighteen. He was bedridden and downing Percocet for weeks. My guess is Roy has a much higher pain threshold than my stepfather, but he also has multiple broken bones.

  “Let’s not play this game where you pretend you wanna be here, Calla.” My name sounds odd on his accent. Or maybe it’s that he’s using it at all, rather than calling me a city slicker or “girl.” I wasn’t even sure if he remembered it.

  “It’s not about wanting to be here—”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s Muriel. I get it. So, let’s you and me make a deal—if that old nag asks, you tell her everyone’s milked, fed, watered, and in for the night. It’ll be our little secret. Everybody wins. So, you can go on home and let me eat my dinner in peace.”

  I spy the bowl on his table and the opened can of beef stew on the counter, next to a prescription pill bottle. Painkillers, no doubt. The sticker seal on them hasn’t been broken yet. “So, tomorrow morning—”

  “Like I said, I don’t need help. I’ve managed on my own up until now. I’ll figure it out.”

  His deathly pale complexion is worrisome, but I’m not about to stand on Roy’s doorstep and argue with him. “Okay, then … Have a good night, I guess?” I edge away.

  “You like eggs?” he says.

  “Uh … yeah?”

  “I hate eggs.”

  I frown. “Then why do you have all those chickens?”

  “Hold up a sec.” He turns slowly, and I catch the grimace that flashes across his face. Hobbling over to his fridge, he pulls out two cartons and shuffles back. “Here. Got no use for ’em. They’re already washed.”

  “I thought you sell them to the diner?”

  “You want ’em or not?” he snaps.

  It clicks—this is supposed to be a gesture. Of kindness, of gratitude.

  From a man who gives nothing for free, according to Toby.

  I collect the carton from his waiting grasp, noting how his face may have yet turned a shade paler in the slight excursion to the fridge. “Thanks.”

  “Uh-huh,” he adds after a long pause. “Have a good night.”

  “You, too.” I leave Roy’s porch, feeling far less relief than I should about escaping a chore list that involves touching udders and shoveling manure.

  But all I feel is pity, for an old man who hasn’t done a thing to deserve it.

  * * *

  I smile at the sound of the metal spoon clanging against porcelain. “What are you going to do when Mom figures out you’ve been carbing up after she goes to bed?”

  “Vehemently deny it, of course,” Simon mumbles around a mouthful of instant mashed potatoes. I finally discovered where he’d been hiding his stash of Honest Earth Creamy Mash—in the locked cabinet that holds his patients’ files—the only place in the house that is off-limits to my mother.

  It’s eleven thirty in Toronto, but my stepfather has always been a night owl. I knew, when I arrived home from Roy’s and texted him to talk, that he would be awake and available. “So? What are you going to do about this cantankerous neighbor of yours?”

  “I don’t know. What should I do?”

  “What are your options again?”

  I sigh. Simon knows my options. As usual, he’s making me work through this on my own rather than giving me the answers I seek. He can’t help it; it’s the psychiatrist in him. “Either I show up there tomorrow morning or I don’t.”

  “Okay. So, if you go there in the morning, what will happen?”

  “He’ll send me home. And probably yell at me.”

  “And if you don’t go …”

  “Then he’ll be doing everything on his own, and what if he falls? Or passes out from the pain? What if that bear shows up and makes a run for him?” I rifle through the list of horrible outcomes to Roy being left to his own stubborn devices. “You should have seen him today, Simon. He looked ready to keel over.” Muriel is right. He is a fool, refusing our help.

  “So, you feel responsible for his welfare?”

  “Responsible? No. But Muriel asked me to help him.” More like ordered, because Muriel doesn’t know how to ask.

  “And you don’t want to disappoint her?”

  “No, that’s not it. I just …” My words falter. What is it, exactly?

  “What will happen if you call this Muriel and let her know that he’s unwilling to let you help?”

  “She’ll tell me I must not have tried very hard. And then she’ll be there every morning and night, and I know she doesn’t have time for that. They’re swamped at the resort.” I, on the other hand, have plenty of time.

  “So, you’ll feel like you somehow failed her?”

  “No, but … she’s helped us out a lot.” Whether I’ve asked for it or not.

  “And her opinion matters to you?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Are you sure?” Simon asks in that gentle prodding way of his.

  “I don’t know. I guess maybe it does, a little?”

  She’s a good girl. Smart, and a hard worker.

  I can’t ignore the blip of pride that stirred in my stomach when Muriel said that to Roy, shocked as I was by her edict that I’m the person to help him. So, maybe I do care what Muriel thinks of me. “Plus, I know Roy’ll be angry if I sic her on him.” According to him, we’ve made a pact to keep Muriel out of this arrangement. Everyone wins, he claimed. But it didn’t look like he’s winning anything except a much slower recovery time.

  “And his opinion matters to you?”

  I snort. “Are you kidding? He doesn’t have a good opinion of anyone. But it’s sad. I don’t think he knows how to let people help him. And I think he’s intentionally offensive to keep people at arm’s length. Or maybe he’s been alone for so long, he doesn’t know how to be anything else.” And yet he made a rare appearance at the Ale House the night of the chili cook-off to thank me for saving Oscar, and to warn Muriel about this potential problem bear. Whether he did those things because he felt the burden of responsibility or was genuinely compelled, I can’t say.

  “Maybe both of those things are true.”

  I sigh. “Maybe.”

  “You know, it’s common for men as they age to become, for lack of a better word, grumpy. It has to do with their decreasing testosterone levels.”

  I cringe. “I don’t want to talk about Roy’s testosterone levels, Simon. Besides, according to Muriel and Teddy, he’s been this way since he moved here.”

  “Hmm … You said he was married once?”

  “Yeah. And I think he has a daughter. Or had one.” My curiosity about Roy’s past has taken over my idle thoughts since I saw that portrait yesterday. I’m intrigued about what might have happened, and if it made him into who he is today.

  “Well, my dear, it sounds like you don’t really have options, then.”

  Simon’s right. Whether it’s my guilt or sense of responsibility, or because I know it’s the right thing to do, I have to go to Roy’s in the morning and offer my help again. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. “How do I do it in a way that won’t make him reach for his gun?” Not that he could fire it at me at the moment, thank God.

  “By beguiling him, of course.” I hear the smile in Simon’s voice. “If he’s isolated himself for this long, perhaps it’s best to let him get used to you being around, for starters.”

  I shake my head, though he can’t see it. “I can’t believe I’m actually trying to find a way to help that asshole milk his stupid goats.”

  Simon chuckles. “Remember when you used to be terrified of those things?”

  “Vaguely. Funny enough, next to bears, they don’t seem so scary anymore.”

  “Yes, perhaps we best not mention that part of this story to your mother, okay? She already worries enough.” He pauses. “And how are things otherwise?”

  “They’re fine.” M
y stock answer these days. “Jonah’s been working all the time lately.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  I stifle my groan at Simon’s favorite question. “Lonely?” I offer casually, but there’s nothing casual about that. “Sometimes, it seems like working is more important to Jonah than spending time with me.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud, and it feels like a betrayal.

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “Not in so many words.” Not at all, really. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

  “Are you feeling resentment toward Jonah because of it?”

  “No. I mean, how can I? I told him to take the job.” Mainly because I felt guilty after overhearing his conversation with Marie. “And what he’s doing is important. The wildfires are really bad this year.” The smoke has gotten so dense, the Chugach Mountains aren’t even visible from Anchorage right now.

  “It is important,” Simon agrees. “But so is acknowledging your feelings and deciding how you want to deal with them.”

  “I’m dealing with them by keeping myself busy and looking forward to things like my birthday.” A weekend away is exactly what Jonah and I need. “Besides, it’s only for a few more months.” And then he’s gone for three weeks to fly Jack Thomas’s rich hunters around. Quiet days are one thing. My stomach clenches with dread at all those nights alone, listening to every creak the house makes, my overactive imagination conjuring up what might be lurking outside.

  I need to start looking at flights to Toronto.

  There’s a long pause on the other end of the phone, so long that I begin to think the line has cut off.

  “Simon?”

  “I’m here, I’m here. I thought I heard your mother stirring.”

  I smile at the thought of my stepfather scrambling to hide his guilty pleasure from her.

  And realize how much I miss them both.

  * * *

  The front tire of our pickup rolls through a deep pothole in Roy’s laneway, jerking my body.

  “Crap!” I scowl at the splash of foamed soy milk on my track pants. I was already annoyed about being up this early.

  Why am I doing this to myself again?

  Roy appears at the opening to the barn with a rake in his one good hand, his face looking as battered and ashen as it did yesterday.

  Right, that’s why I’m doing this.

  Oscar and Gus charge out of the barn, barking. But the moment I hop out of the truck, they calm, coming in close enough to catch a sniff of my leg before darting off again.

  “What are you doin’ here?” Roy grumbles.

  I trudge forward. “Do you like strawberries?”

  His gaze drops to the bowl in my grasp, narrowing. “Maybe.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “It’s a yes or no answer, Roy.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s been awhile but, yeah, I like ‘em. Who doesn’t?”

  “I don’t, actually. And I have Colette’s entire patch growing in the garden. These are washed and hulled, ready to eat.” I hold out the bowl for him.

  He stares at it another moment. Leaning the rake against the wall to free his one hand, he collects the bowl and sets it on a small table. Without so much as a thanks, I note. “You best be on your way, girl. I’ve got work to do.” With that, he turns and shuffles to the back of the barn, to the empty goat pen.

  Arming myself with a deep breath and my conviction, I follow. “So, how often do you milk your goats?”

  He glares at me. “Told you already, I don’t need your help.”

  “Oh, I know. But we both know that Muriel is going to show up here one day soon to check on things, and if she finds out you’ve been sending me away, well … I guess you’ll have her here twice a day for the next month or two.”

  Roy grunts. “That damn woman.”

  “It’s her or me, but it’s going to be one of us, so take your pick.” I stared at our wooden ceiling for far too long last night, searching for today’s game plan on tackling Roy. The threat of Muriel seemed a guaranteed winner.

  His sharp eyes drift over my red rubber boots. “Suit yourself. But don’t get in my way.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll just hang back here. And enjoy your charm from afar.” I take a long, leisurely sip of my latte, in part to hide any trace of apprehension that may show on my face.

  Heavy sarcasm will go one of two ways with Roy—very badly or very well. I’m hoping on the latter, given he admitted to being “a real SOB.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch before he turns his back to me. “You must be real bored over there.”

  I allow myself a small smile of victory.

  * * *

  “Okay, okay …” I unwind the wire that secures the latch to the animal pen. Zeke was kicking excitedly at the fence post when I rounded the corner, and Bandit had climbed up the chicken coop’s enclosure to sit on top of the roof. “Sorry I’m late. I was over at our friendly neighbor’s house.” Following Roy as he muttered and cursed and refused to let me even fill up a water bucket, all while grimacing in pain.

  I prop open the gate with a brick, and Zeke immediately trots over to nip at the bear bell on my shoe. Bandit scurries closely after. With them free to roam, I hop back onto my ATV and head for the garden, a goat and a raccoon trailing me, bear spray in my holster. I’m hypervigilant of the surrounding forest for movement, now that I know of this brown bear. Perhaps that’s why I spot Oscar right away, sitting at the tree line, watching from afar, as if he’s been waiting there awhile.

  He was at Roy’s when I left. He must have headed this way the moment my taillights vanished from sight.

  I cut the ATV engine and climb off, but he makes no effort to approach, his sharp gaze flickering once to Zeke before shifting off away, uninterested.

  He’s like a sentry, on guard for threats unseen.

  I can’t help but smile. It’s ironic that this wolf dog terrorized me for months, slinking through the trees, and yet having him here now makes me feel safer.

  I know the moment Zeke has caught wind of our visitor because he begins bleating noisily and then keels over.

  * * *

  Roy is dragging a hose from the house to the chicken coop when I pull in next to his truck at five p.m. sharp.

  He scowls at his watch. “What’re you doin’ here so early? I said six.”

  “And you were lying, so you’d be finished by the time I showed up.” Oscar allows me a quick scratch between his ears on my way over. In my other hand, I have a Tupperware container. “I brought you dinner. It’s homemade spaghetti.” Real homemade this time. I even used stewed tomatoes and fresh oregano from the garden.

  “I don’t need charity from you,” he says, but there’s no fire in his words.

  “It’s not charity. I made too much, and I don’t like leftovers.” Jonah does, but Roy doesn’t need to know that.

  He opens his mouth and I brace myself for a hostile response, but then he seems to change his mind. He eyes the container. “Well, it’s not tasteless beef from a can, but it’ll do.” The corners of his mouth twitch.

  Did Roy crack a joke?

  I bite back the urge to make a big deal of the fact that, buried deep beneath his prickly exterior, Roy might have a sense of humor. “I’ll drop it off in your kitchen—”

  The hint of humor is gone from his face in an instant. “I don’t like anyone goin’ in my house!”

  I was anticipating this. “I’ve already been inside once, Roy, and I didn’t do anything weird. I’ll just drop this off in the fridge and then I’ll come back outside in, like, five seconds to not help you, I swear.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re as pushy as Muriel.”

  “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

  He continues toward the coop, grumbling, “Don’t know why you keep fightin’ to hang around here. I’m rotten company on my best days.”

  “Self-awareness is the first step to change.” A
t least that’s what Simon always says.

  He mumbles something incoherent but continues on.

  With no further objections, I head up the porch steps and into the cabin.

  I wasn’t focused on Roy’s kitchen the last time I was here, too enthralled by all the wooden figurines. It’s basic and functional, but tidy—a small corner of the cabin with a sink, an old white stove, and fridge. A coffeemaker and toaster occupy a four-foot laminate countertop. Two shelves hold a few basic dishes—one of each—and a selection of canned and dried goods. Two pots and one frying pan hang from hooks on the wall. Everything about this kitchen says “one person and one person only.”

  I note the bottle of painkillers—a prescription to OxyContin for Roy Richard Donovan, the seal still unbroken—sitting on the counter, next to an unopened can of beef stew. His dinner for tonight. And for most nights, based on the grim selection I see. The metal bucket he used to collect milk from the goat this morning and a sieve are drying in the rack beside the sink, along with several glass mason jars. Even in his current state, Roy prepared his goat milk and washed up afterward.

  I shake my head as I open the refrigerator.

  “Wow.” I eyeball all the cartons of eggs and mason jars of milk that fill the shelves. There isn’t much of anything else, save for a few condiments, a stick of butter, and the strawberries I delivered this morning. I smile at the nearly empty bowl. There was at least two pints’ worth in there. Roy must enjoy them far more than he let on.

  Setting the container of spaghetti on top of the bowl, I head back outside, unable to avoid stealing a glance at the trunk beneath the window.

  The family portrait is gone.

  That only adds fuel to the curiosity fire burning inside me.

  Roy is cursing at a kink in the hose when I reach him, unable to nudge it free with his boot.

  “So, how often do you fill up their water?” I ask, reaching down to straighten the hose, before grabbing and dragging it the rest of the way to the pen. The door is propped open, but the chickens don’t seem in any hurry to escape with Oscar and Gus lingering.