Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  Roy’s brow furrows, as if he’s trying to figure out a perplexing puzzle. “Every night. Sometimes in the mornin’, too.”

  “In here, right?” The top of the water feeder is open, the conical metal lid already pushed aside.

  “Yeah, but I need to rinse out the trough. Dirty little birds like to step in everything.”

  “Like this?” I aim the nozzle at the bottom where the chickens must drink, and squeeze the trigger, sending several birds scattering away from the spray.

  Roy grunts, which I assume is a yes.

  Once it’s cleared of all shavings and debris, I begin filling the top, my attention rolling over the chicken-wire enclosure and the raised wooden chicken house—that I’m assuming Roy built. “This is a lot nicer than ours.” He used real wood as opposed to sheets of discarded plywood. The roof is covered in cedar shingles.

  “That’s ’cause Phil couldn’t nail two pieces of wood together to save his life.” Roy shifts on his feet, his good hand twitching at his side, as if fighting the urge to grab the hose from me and take over. It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he’s not keeping busy. I’m starting to see why he has an army of wooden creatures in his cabin. I’ll bet that’s what keeps his hands occupied during the long, cold winter nights.

  “Yeah, we’ve noticed. There’s a piece of trim in our main floor bathroom that’s six inches too short.” The gap was conveniently hidden by a magazine rack when we first came through. “And all the shelving units in our cold cellar are crooked. One’s so bad, you can’t even put breakables on it because they’ll slide or roll off. Jonah put a level on it and it was like twenty degrees off.” Phil was probably drunk when he put it up.

  “You always talk so much?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah. According to my father, anyway.”

  “And what happened to him? You talk him to death?”

  I’m guessing Roy’s just being Roy and didn’t mean anything deliberate by it—how could he? He doesn’t know me. And yet I feel the stab of his words, as if they were wielded with intention.

  “He died last September. Of cancer.” My fingers instinctively reach for my pendant as a ball flares in my throat. For comfort, and perhaps strength, because if Roy says anything else about my father, I’m liable to leave here in tears.

  I’ve caught myself wondering what it’d be like to have Wren Fletcher sitting next to me on our new porch, overlooking the lake and the mountain range, smiling softly as I prattle on about nothing and everything as I always seemed to do, whenever he was around.

  I’d do anything to see him fly in for a visit, to talk to him again.

  After another long moment of brooding, Roy eases into the coop and to the little chicken house to collect the eggs.

  Saying nothing more about anything at all.

  * * *

  I smile through a sip of my morning latte. One of the baby goats—a white one with caramel patches—just leapt off a hay bale and is bouncing around its two siblings as if it has springs on its tiny hooves. “What kind of goats are these?”

  “Nigerian Dwarf,” Roy says from his spot in the next pen over, his wrinkled fingers working on the goat’s udder, a steady-timed squirt of milk shooting into the metal bucket. When I arrived at seven this morning, with another bowl of fresh strawberries, Roy answered the door looking like he’d just rolled out of bed—his shirt rumpled, his salt-and-pepper hair standing on end, his gray beard scruffier than usual, the bags beneath his eyes heavy. I noted, from the front door as he poured himself coffee, that the bottle of OxyContin has still not been cracked.

  And his foul mood certainly proves it.

  He refused to let me carry the metal bucket out here and snapped at me when I reached for the barn door to unlatch and push it open. I’m learning, though, that if I ignore him and continue with what I’m doing, his resistance fades quickly. I see what Teddy meant about his bark being far worse than his bite.

  He didn’t argue with me when I left him here to go to the chicken coop to refill the chicken feed and water. I even opened the hatches to the roost and collected five eggs from inside, which was weirdly exciting, seeing what the hens had been up to overnight. It felt a bit like a childhood treasure hunt.

  The smallest of the three goats nips at another’s side and then bounces away, making me laugh. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they’re cute.”

  Roy makes a sound. “Those and Nubians are the only milkers I like. The others taste too musky.”

  “What are you going to do with these three?”

  “The two females will be ready to sell next week. I’m keeping the male for breeding.” He pauses. “You want one?”

  “No. I already have one goat I don’t need, thanks.”

  “Yeah, a useless wether. At least you’d be able to get milk from these.”

  “I have a dairy allergy.”

  He snorts. “Your generation and all your sensitive snowflake issues.”

  I ignore that. “What do you do with all that milk in the fridge?”

  “Drink it. Freeze it for the winter. I give a few jars away.”

  “Can you sell it?”

  “Not legally.”

  Because legalities are a big concern for you. I eye Oscar and Gus—two animals that might have more wolf than dog in them. “So, you drink a lot of goat’s milk, then.”

  “Been drinkin’ it all my life. I grew up on a cattle ranch, but they never could get me into the cow’s milk.”

  It’s the first shred of anything about Roy’s past life he’s offered.

  “Was that in Texas?” I ask casually.

  There’s a long pause. “Yeah. In Texas.” With a pat against the mother goat’s side and an unexpectedly soft “good girl,” Roy slowly eases himself to his feet, using the pen’s fence post. His grimace of pain says more than words ever could.

  “Would you please let me carry that bucket of milk to the house?” I can’t help the irritation in my voice.

  He scowls. “Fine, but don’t spill any of it.”

  “I’ll try my best not to.” I shoot him a flat look before reaching down to grab the handle.

  The sound of an ATV engine approaching along the laneway sends the dogs off in a frenzy.

  Roy groans. “Great. Just who I didn’t want to deal with right now.”

  I’ve reached the porch with the bucket by the time Muriel appears around the corner, her bright orange helmet covering her head of tight gray curls, her gun strapped over her shoulder, the dogs running circles around her.

  “Go on and take that inside before the bugs are swimmin’ in it,” Roy orders, wiping his hand on his jeans as he awaits Muriel, a grim expression on his face.

  When I return, to my pleasant surprise, they’re not bickering but talking in low, civil tones.

  “… probably the same one. Haven’t seen or heard him around here the past couple days.”

  “They said it came way too close to them. The one guy ended up tossin’ his catch at it to buy them some time to pack up.”

  “Dumb ass.”

  They must be talking about that brown bear.

  “My boys are down there tryin’ to scare him away before he causes any real trouble.” Muriel turns her attention to me and offers me one of those wide, crinkle-eyed smiles. “Just finished up milkin’, I see. Told ya you’d get the hang of things around here.”

  Roy shoots a warning look my way.

  If I wanted to punish him, now would be the time to be honest. “Yup. Sure did.”

  “I got things to tend to inside.” Roy shuffles toward his porch as if his conversation with Muriel is over.

  “So, I’ll pick ya up at eight on Friday?” She hollers after him.

  “What for?”

  She shakes her head. “So they can put a cast on your arm? You know, the one that’s broken in two places?”

  He grunts. “This brace works fine.”

  I sigh. Here we go …

  “Don’t you even think ab
out tellin’ me you don’t need a cast.”

  “I’ll get myself there!” Roy barks.

  “How? You can’t even carry a bucket of milk inside!”

  “The hell I can’t! I only let the girl do it so she’d stop buggin’ me.”

  “You need a cast.” Muriel’s hands have settled on her hips. “Unless you don’t ever want full use of your arm again. And then what good are you gonna be, livin’ out here all alone? You think we’re gonna take care of your stubborn ass every day?”

  Muriel may be right, but her methods of persuading Roy leave much to be desired. His face has gone from ashen to bright red. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a heart attack every time she steps on his property.

  I don’t have the patience to listen to their bickering, and I have no desire to be calling 9-1-1 again. “I will drive Roy to his appointment on Friday. He will get a cast so he can heal as fast as possible, because otherwise he knows he’s going to hear about it for the rest of his life,” I say to Muriel while glaring at Roy.

  He grunts in response. “Fine.”

  “Well … finally, you’re being smart.” Muriel’s lips twist. “I was just over in your garden, Calla. Looks like the strawberries are ready for pickin’. You’ll need to pull all the jars up from the cellar and …”

  Roy hobbles away inside, leaving me to deal with Muriel’s grand plans for jam making.

  Chapter Thirty

  The sun is high in the sky when I hop out of the truck at Roy’s on Friday morning. They’re calling for temperature in the low eighties, which is only a few degrees less than in Toronto.

  Roy steps out of his cabin with his mug of coffee as I’m walking toward his porch, looking slightly less rumpled than he has the last few mornings. Restless goats are bleating in the barn, waiting to be let out, and the chickens cluck. Somewhere in the distance, a chainsaw buzzes as it carves through wood.

  Roy inhales deeply.

  I’m sure he smells the smoke, too. I caught the faint scent when I stepped out of my house today. At first, I thought it might be a nearby bonfire, but the fire restrictions are so severe right now, no one’s burning anything. The radio confirmed that the smoke is coming from the raging fires, more than a hundred miles south of us, carried up on the wind.

  Jonah was cursing on his way out this morning. Wind will wreak havoc on their firefighting efforts, fanning the flames that have already laid destruction to almost sixty thousand acres of the Swan Lake area. The only upside to it is that it should help with air quality, which has been deemed “unhealthy.”

  Roy frowns at my face, my hair, my clothes—a pair of jeans and a pale pink T-shirt I haven’t worn in too long. “What are you all gussied up for?”

  I assume he’s referring to the makeup I put on and the curler I ran through my hair to add some beachy waves. “Your appointment, remember?”

  “What, your pilot not good enough anymore? You lookin’ to trade in for a doctor already?”

  I afford him a flat look. “You know that we’re in the twenty-first century, right? Women don’t make an effort in their appearance to find a husband. They can also look good because they want to, for themselves.”

  He makes a sound but says nothing.

  I hold out a plate of strawberry muffins. “Here. I baked these last night. I think they actually turned out.”

  Roy regards the plate a moment before accepting it. “You sound surprised.”

  “Let’s say my track record for baking isn’t good. But Jonah seemed to like them.” He ate three on his way out.

  “I don’t eat in the mornin’.” Roy’s steely eyes dart to mine a moment before shifting back to the plate. “But maybe I’ll try one in a bit and let you know if it’s awful.”

  “I knew I could count on you. By the way, do I want to ask how that stir fry I brought last night was?” I’ve been bringing him dinner every night so far. He stopped complaining about me going into his kitchen to drop it off, and the container from the day before is always washed and waiting for me to collect.

  That tiny smirk that hints at amusement touches Roy’s mouth. “Not awful.”

  “Well … good.” At least I seem to be getting the knack for cooking. “So, we have about an hour to get all the morning chores finished before we leave for your appointment.” Palmer is fifty minutes away, on the other side of Wasilla. I brace myself, preparing for Roy’s stubborn refusal, ready to wave my phone in the air and threaten a call to Muriel.

  “There’s half a pot of coffee. Help yourself if you want one.” With that, he ducks back in the house, leaving me smiling at the simple gesture of hospitality, something I would have assumed Roy incapable of only days ago.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what’s takin’ them so goddamn long,” Roy growls. “That idiot technician damn near killed me takin’ that X-ray, and now they leave me sittin’ out here with my thumb up my ass all damn day long. This was a waste of time.”

  I shoot an apologetic look to the glowering woman who sits across from us. Thankfully, her son, who can’t be more than seven and has his leg in a full cast, doesn’t seem to be paying attention to anything besides his iPad screen. “It’s been a half hour, Roy,” I say with forced patience. When Simon broke his collarbone, I sat in the emergency waiting room with him for seven hours. Had my father gone through with chemotherapy, the doctor was recommending an eight-hour-a-day, five-days-a-week program. A thirty-minute wait is a blink in time.

  I want to tell Roy all these things, but I know it won’t make a difference. “Let me go up there and ask them. You stay here.” I drop my voice to a whisper, “And maybe stop swearing in front of small children.”

  I leave Roy scowling as I head to the reception desk. The nurse is busy on the phone, but the doctor who has been tending to Roy’s arm—a white man in his fifties with bushy eyebrows and a pinched nose—comes around the corner, a folder tucked under his arm.

  “Hi, excuse me, I was wondering if Roy Donovan’s X-ray results are ready yet? He’s getting a little … antsy.”

  The doctor offers a tight-lipped smile. “He’s not too happy to be here, is he? I was just coming to get him, actually. Tell me, has your father been taking it easy?”

  “She’s not my daughter!” Roy barks directly behind me.

  I startle and shoot Roy an exasperated look for sneaking up on me. “I’m his neighbor. But no, he hasn’t been taking it easy at all. I’ve had to fight with him every day to let me help around his place.” There is something satisfying about tattling on Roy, especially when I watch the deep frown of disapproval that forms on the doctor’s brow.

  “I had a feeling. There’s more swelling than I hoped to see by this point—”

  “Well, I ain’t comin’ back here again, doc, so you better figure it out,” Roy snaps.

  The doctor shares a knowing look with me. “I was going to say that I think we can set your arm today. Has he been taking the medication I prescribed to manage the pain?”

  “Yeah,” Roy says at the same time I say, “The seal on the bottle hasn’t even been broken.”

  If looks could kill, the withering gaze Roy spears me with would have them wheeling me to the morgue. “What, are you spying on me?” he growls.

  “You sure she’s not your daughter?” The doctor chuckles, unfazed by Roy’s hostile tone. “All right. We’ll get you casted up and on your way.”

  * * *

  It’s midafternoon by the time we pass the sign marking Trapper’s Crossing. The ride has been quiet, Roy taking turns scowling at the road and the navy-blue fiberglass cast that stretches from his knuckles all the way to just below his armpit.

  “Did the doctor say how long you’d have to wear it?” I dare ask.

  “Six to eight weeks, if I don’t do anything stupid.”

  “You mean, like refuse help from everyone around you?” I say lightly but quickly add, “That’s nothing. Your arm could have been shattered. If you needed surgery, you would have been in that thing for mon
ths. Don’t worry, you’ll be carving your wooden figurines again in no time.”

  He doesn’t respond, so I assume that’s the end of our conversation. I adjust the dial of the radio to find a station with better music.

  “And whittling.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Some of them aren’t carved, they’re whittled. There’s a difference.”

  I wait a moment, and when he doesn’t elaborate, I ask, “What’s the difference?”

  “With carving, you use different tools. Chisels and gouges, and lathes. With whittling, you only use a knife.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I say slowly.

  “Well … now you do.”

  “When did you start doing that?”

  “A long time ago.” Again, that long pause, where I assume the conversation is done, and then he offers, “I was eight. My daddy was sittin’ on the porch after supper, with his pipe and a fresh piece of basswood. He let me give it a try. Stabbed myself here.” He holds out his left hand to display the jagged scar on his palm.

  “That sounds like a great activity for a small child,” I murmur.

  “Good way to pass the time.” His focus drifts out the window, seemingly lost. “Too many years to ride out, I guess. I’m runnin’ outta room.” There’s something acutely sad about the way he says that.

  “You could probably make some decent money off them—”

  “They’re not for sale,” he snaps, his jaw tensing. “Not everything has a price tag on it.”

  “Relax. It was just an idea.”

  After a moment, he says, “Who the hell’s gonna pay money for a bunch of wooden animals, anyway?”

  “People would. Ones as nice as yours, anyway.” I feel Roy’s narrowed gaze on me as I turn off the main road and onto the one that will lead us home. “Before I forget, I won’t be here tomorrow or Sunday to help you with the chores.”

  “Why? Where are you goin’?”

  I can’t help but hear an edge of something in his tone. I smother my smile with the idea that Roy might be getting used to me being around, might have begun to prefer it. “It’s my birthday tomorrow, so we’re flying somewhere in the morning. I have no idea where.” I’ve been needling Jonah for hints, but he hasn’t divulged a thing. “Don’t worry, though, Toby will be by to help.”