Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  I feel her shrewd gaze on me as I search beneath the broad green leaves for any more red berries.

  She chuckles. “Colette always said I was part bull.”

  I can’t help but smile. “I think I might have liked Colette.”

  “Yeah … she was a good one.”

  Emboldened, I decide to forge on. “Muriel, we need a proper marketing campaign for this winter carnival if you want it to succeed.”

  “Emily’s workin’ on the poster—”

  “A poster, Muriel? No …” I shake my head. “That’s something to blend into a wall, and flyers end up in the trash. If this is really as important as you say it is, then we need something bigger.”

  She opens her mouth—I assume to argue with me that I don’t know what I’m talking about—but hesitates. “What do you have in mind?”

  “That fireworks show you were asking John to find more money for? You said it’s the biggest winter fireworks show in all of Alaska. Is that true?”

  “It is!” she says with indignation, as if I shouldn’t even be questioning it.

  “Then let’s make it bigger and call it the biggest winter show in Alaskan history. People around here are so proud of their heritage, we need to give them a reason to celebrate.” She opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she can offer a rebuttal or dismissal. “I might not be from around here, but this is what I’m good at, Muriel. Any one of you can organize this outhouse race.” I set my jaw with determination. “If people haven’t been coming around as much over the past few years, then it’s time to shake things up. I can do that. I can bring fresh ideas, and I can appeal to a younger generation. Plus, hey, if all my efforts don’t pay off, you haven’t lost anything.” I shrug. “It’s not like I’m getting paid.”

  Her brow is furrowed as she seems to mull that over. “I’d have to talk to Emily. She’s been handlin’ things—”

  “I’ll talk to her.” Something tells me I can find a more polite, creative way than Muriel would. “Emily and I can work on it together.”

  She hums. “Well, what can I say, except … I’m excited to see what you come up with.”

  I smile as I shift my focus back to my berry plant. So am I, I think. I have a challenge, a task, and it feels like me.

  “So, Toby tells me Roy’s been givin’ you a hard time. You two had a fight last week?”

  I stifle my groan. This conversation was inevitable. I only wondered if it would happen before or after she demanded that I bring out my new gun so she could teach me how to shoot.

  I steal a glance to confirm that our quiet sentry is there, sitting at the tree line. Since last week, Oscar has ventured over every morning, as if he knows that’s when I’m back here, tending to the garden. “Yeah.”

  “And you haven’t been back since?”

  “Toby said he would go for me while Diana was here.”

  “Didn’t Diana leave yesterday?” she asks, in a knowing tone.

  I shift to a new plant. My knees are beginning to hurt. I recall seeing a foam pad much like Muriel’s when I was cleaning the house. I regret tossing it. “Roy and I are working through our issues.” With eggs and wooden donkeys.

  “Hmm …”

  I keep my head down, plucking and filling my basket, bracing myself for a lecture about helping thy neighbor, even when thy neighbor is an irredeemable asshole.

  “Did I ever tell you how Roy came to help us look for my boy Deacon?”

  My red-stained fingers stall on a berry. In the months I’ve known Muriel, the one person she never talks about is her missing son. I look to her now, meeting her steely-gray gaze. “No. You didn’t.”

  She turns back to her plant. “When we got the call that they couldn’t find him, Teddy and I jumped in the truck and headed on up there to meet the state troopers right away. But soon enough, others were showin’ up. Friends of Deacon’s, our regulars at the resort, people from around Trapper’s Crossing. Everybody seemed to be rallyin’. It was nice to see. A real sense of community, pullin’ together.” She smiles sadly. “The official search for Deacon lasted seven days. There was a lot of focus on the river, ’cause that’s where the signs led. Toby’s bum knee wouldn’t let him walk too far, so him and Phil searched as best they could from the sky, while the rest of the volunteers combed the riverbank. But the days passed with no luck.”

  She presses her lips tightly and then clears her throat. “State troopers called off the search after a week, but we kept goin’. Less and less people came out each day. We understood. People had to go back to their lives. Nights were coolin’ off fast. Soon, even Teddy said it was time to pack it in. And that’s when Roy showed up.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “He came with his gun and his campin’ gear, sayin’ he was there for some moose huntin’ and took off into the bush.”

  “Alone?”

  “The only way Roy does anythin’ is alone. But, no.” She smirks. “Moose huntin’ had ended and even he ain’t ballsy enough to go off-season. But he was too stubborn to admit that he knew I’d be too stubborn to call it quits so soon, so he made up this cockamamie story, knowing I’d follow. I did. And Roy and I spent another nine days out there, him in his tent, me in mine, combing the woods for my boy, until the snow made it pointless.”

  I’m trying to picture Muriel and Roy spending nine days together—alone—in the woods, with guns, but I’m struggling. “You two didn’t fight?”

  “Oh, we fought.” She laughs. “When don’t we? It was more to pass the time than anythin’. But he never complained about bein’ out there. Never said anything about quittin’. He waited for me to make the call.”

  “That was … kind of him.” And so unlike everything I know about Roy Donovan so far.

  “Yeah. Kind. That’s a good word for it. Who knew Roy’d be capable of that?” She snorts. “He’s an odd duck, I’ll give him that. Not easy to deal with, or even like. But he knows right from wrong, and he chooses right when it counts.”

  “What made him like that?”

  “I don’t know if there’s any rhyme or reason to the way he is. My guess is he’s always been like that, but nobody knows much about Roy Donovan at all. That he ever managed to wrangle a wife in the first place is a mystery to me, if he behaved the way he does with us.”

  “There’s someone for everyone,” I echo what I’ve heard Simon say on more than one occasion. “I think Roy has troubles with addiction. He said a few things …” My words drift as I hesitate. Am I betraying Roy by talking about this with Muriel? Will she storm over there with her hands on her hips to question him about it? Do I even care?

  “Yeah, I’ve gotten that impression, too.” She frowns at the berry in her hand before chucking it over the fence for Zeke. “He told me he got himself into some trouble with the law, back in Texas. Not exactly sure what all happened, but I know it was enough that his wife picked up and left him, told him to stay far away.”

  So he came to Alaska. I guess that’s about as far away as anyone could get while staying within their own country.

  “He actually told you that?”

  She chuckles. “Nine days is a long time to spend with any one person. We got a pretty good understandin’ of each other.”

  “Did you know he has a daughter, too?”

  Her eyes flash to me. “I know about her. How do you know about her?”

  “I saw a picture in his cabin, the day I went to look for a blanket for him. I asked him.”

  She makes a sound. “I suppose that’s the reason for this disagreement between you two.”

  “Yeah. Part of it.”

  She nods slowly. “On that last day, when I had to throw in the towel and accept that I’d likely never see Deacon alive again, Roy mentioned how he had a daughter he’d never see again either.” Her brow furrows. “I think he was tryin’ to relate in his own way. ’Course, I made the mistake of tellin’ him it wasn’t the same. That was his choice to take off on her, and she was alive and well, as far as he knew. He could see h
er anytime he wants if he’d get over himself. Me?” She shakes her head. “I can’t even visit my boy’s grave.” There’s the slightest quiver in her voice, and it throws me off. Muriel is never anything but loud and strong and certain.

  “Well, Roy got madder than I’ve ever seen him get before, which is sayin’ somethin’. We’ve had an unspoken agreement since then. I don’t mention his girl and he doesn’t bring up Deacon. It’s a good thing, too, ’cause Lord knows he’d say somethin’ that would make me pull out my gun and shoot him on the spot.” She leans back on her haunches, assessing the rows of plants still prime for picking. “I thought you two spendin’ some time together might be good, ’specially after what you told me about you and your own father, how you were estranged and then you weren’t. I thought, if you somehow ended up mentioning it to that old badger, maybe it’d give him ideas. Maybe he’d see that it’s never too late.”

  “So there was method to your madness,” I murmur, more to myself.

  “Everyone needs someone to care about. Even that old grump.” Her gaze narrows on something in the distance. “You expectin’ someone?”

  “No?” I follow her sight line to see a small plane descending, angling for our airstrip. I had heard the buzz of the engine but tuned it out, having grown accustomed to the sound.

  “This is private property. Pilots can’t just land wherever they want. They gotta call it in!” She sounds offended.

  “Maybe it’s an emergency.” And there’s no one to call. I’m all the way out here.

  When it becomes clear that this plane is in fact landing on our airstrip, I head for my ATV.

  * * *

  I feel the blip of excitement the moment Bobbie’s blonde head emerges from the plane. George’s plane, I realize now, taking in the familiar blue-and-green stripes along the fuselage.

  But it’s the small figure that pops out from the back passenger seat next that has my heart skipping and my legs propelling me forward in a jog.

  “I didn’t know you were coming today!” I throw my arms around Agnes’s slight shoulders. I haven’t seen her in months. We’ve tried to plan a visit several times, but between work and school and the weather, it’s never panned out.

  She returns the embrace with ferocity. “Didn’t Jonah mention it?”

  “Uh … No.” I greet Bobbie with a hug.

  Agnes smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “George and Bobbie are on their way up to their cabin, so we hitched a ride. Thought we’d come hang out here for a while, if that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, of course!” I turn to see a taller Mabel round the other side of the plane, a backpack slung over her shoulder. George lumbers behind her. “Holy cow! You’ve grown!” It’s only been four months but she has changed considerably—her hips rounder in more fitted jean shorts, her legs shapelier, her face thinned out. The biggest change, though, is her hair. She chopped her espresso-colored locks, and they now sit at her jawline in a sleek bob that makes her look years older.

  “We tried calling on your birthday but we kept getting your voicemail.” Mabel smiles. It’s not the wide, toothy grin that I remember, but it’s a smile, nonetheless.

  I close the distance to give her a tight hug.

  “I take it you know these people,” Muriel hollers, her approaching footfalls heavy and slow.

  “Yes,” I laugh and make quick introductions.

  “Well, if this isn’t perfect timing!” Muriel studies Mabel with keen interest. “We have a whole patch of strawberries waitin’ to be picked.”

  * * *

  I step out to the screened-in porch carrying two lattes.

  “This is fancy.” Agnes accepts her mug with a murmured thanks. “You just missed the fox. He went that way.” She points to our left toward a small, covered woodshed used for firewood.

  “Yeah, he comes around every night at this time. I think Phil was feeding him.” It used to startle me, looking up to see his orange face watching me, but I’ve grown accustomed to it. I’ve even snapped a few pictures. The moose haven’t been around for months. I’m beginning to think that has less to do with the planes and more to do with Oscar.

  Agnes sighs through a sip, her near-black eyes on the lake where Jonah and Mabel float in our aluminum boat, rods propped in their grips. Jonah came home early from work tonight, well before dinner. They’ve been fishing for an hour, ducking out for some one-on-one time while the sun graces Denali’s western side with a late-day glow.

  Watching them brings me back to that day on a remote lake with my father—the four of us dangling our lines at opposite corners of a tin boat, Mabel repeatedly mistaking the current for attracted fish, Jonah reprimanding me for my whining, my father chuckling at the lot of us. Nothing bit my line that day, and the hours seemed long and tedious. What I would do to travel back in time to that day, just for a moment.

  “You two sure have a good thing here, Calla.”

  I catch Agnes’s gaze flickering to my neck, and I realize I’ve been toying with my pendant. I smooth my hand over it. “So, when did you decide to come? Was it after Jonah called you on Saturday night?” Is she that worried about us, that she’d take time off work and fly here?

  She returns her focus to the lake, smiling softly. “This visit was long overdue. For all of us.”

  That’s not an answer, but I don’t push, because it doesn’t matter what Agnes’s reason is for being here. She’s here, and she brings with her an inexplicable sense of comfort.

  “Some days are really hard,” I admit in a whisper, leaning against the porch post.

  “Some days were never going to be easy.”

  “I know.” I watch Jonah adjust his baseball cap. “I guess I was expecting them all in the winter.” That’s all anyone ever talks about—the long, cold, dark nights that stretch forever. “And now Jonah’s fighting fires all day long and I’m trying my best to be supportive. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m constantly worried. About everything.”

  “You’ll always worry about him, no matter what. I’ll always worry about him. That’s what you do with the people you love.” She sighs. “I think he’s still figuring things out for himself.” She reaches out to give my forearm a gentle pat. “You’ll figure things out for yourself, too. I have faith.”

  Jonah’s deep, bellowing laugh echoes clear across the lake.

  I shake my head. “He’s so loud.”

  “Jonah’s always been loud.” Her appraising dark eyes shift over the lake, to the trees beyond and the looming mountains. “But, no, it’s just that quiet here. Peaceful,” she says quickly, as if correcting herself. “Your own slice of heaven.”

  I think of the way Diana would sink into the wicker chair behind us, donning pajamas, a glass of wine cradled in her hands, and marvel at the vista and the serenity. “I think I like my slice more when I’m sharing it.”

  “You won’t ever catch us complaining.” She buries her smile in her mug.

  “You know, you two should move here. Come live with us.” It’s an impulsive invitation, not at all considered, and yet as soon as the words escape, I know I mean them. The idea of having Agnes around warms my heart. She is a piece of my father as I knew him.

  “A young couple needs their space, Calla.”

  Thoughts of last night—of the steady drumbeat of our headboard against the wall, of Jonah climaxing—make me flush. Permanent house guests would be hard, especially in our small house. “You could build your own cabin.”

  “My own cabin.” She laughs and shakes her head, as if the idea is farfetched.

  I examine the far end of our vast, private lake. “There’s an old place on the other side, from, like, the ’60s.” I point in the general direction, because I’m not entirely sure where it is.

  She squints as she searches the trees on the opposite shoreline.

  “You can’t see it. Everything has grown in, the cabin’s old and musty, and tiny. Diana thinks I should try to fix it up and rent it out to weekenders.” Couples, looking for a
romantic escape. I don’t know if that’s even possible given its state, but I haven’t been able to shake that idea since she suggested it. It would be nice to have signs of life within view.

  “How’d you ever find it?”

  “Muriel. She took me.”

  “Ah … Yes.” She frowns. “That is one motivated lady.”

  I snort. “That’s one word for it.” By the time I’d given Agnes, George, and Bobbie a tour of the house, and led them out to the garden, Mabel’s fingers were already stained red with berry juice. George and Bobbie continued on their journey, and we spent the afternoon in the kitchen, filling dozens of sterilized jars with Colette’s prized strawberry jam recipe, Muriel instructing through each step. “Anyway, she took me out one day. It’s in surprisingly good shape, for as old as it is.”

  Agnes nods slowly. “Sounds like she’s taking good care of you two.”

  “She gave me a gun for my birthday.”

  “Jonah mentioned.” Agnes’s eyes twinkle with her laughter. “Have you learned how to shoot it yet?”

  “No. But I probably should,” I admit reluctantly.

  “It would be smart, given where you live,” she agrees. “And I think that rental cabin is a good idea, too. I’m sure lots of people would enjoy it year-round.”

  Mabel lets out a playful shriek, followed by a firm, “No!”

  “I haven’t heard her like that in a while.” Agnes smiles. But I also note how her eyes gloss over as she regards her daughter.

  “Mabel is changing, huh?”

  Agnes’s mouth opens but she hesitates for a long moment. “One of her friends died a few weeks ago. He was from a village nearby.”

  “How—”

  “Suicide.”

  My stomach clenches. I’ve never lost anyone close to me that way.

  “He was a little older than her. Fifteen.”

  “Was he a friend? Or …”

  She gives me a knowing look. “I think more, though she wouldn’t tell me. She knows I don’t want her dating anyone yet. She’s too young.”

  “How is she taking it?”