Wild At Heart: A Novel

by Tucker, K. A.

  I burst into tears at the sound of his voice as relief overwhelms me.

  “Hey, hey, hey …” He reaches with his good arm out, beckoning me.

  “You jerk.” I slip my fingers into his and settle on the edge of the bed.

  “I’m sorry.” He pulls my hand to his mouth. His lips are so dry. “I took a stupid risk. I didn’t think the storm would be that bad and if I stayed low in the valley, I’d be fine. I just … I wanted to get home to you so bad.”

  “You almost didn’t make it back again, ever.” The downdraft Jonah got caught in slammed Veronica into the ground. The state trooper I spoke to said it was a good thing he was flying where he was, otherwise those wind gusts would likely have put him into the side of a mountain, and no one walks away from that.

  As it is, Jonah has enough broken bones and cuts to keep him grounded and busy with healing.

  He tries to adjust his position and winces.

  “Stay put,” I scold, checking the IV drip attached to him that is administering his pain meds.

  “Me and Roy are twins now.”

  “Yeah. You two would have almost matched.” A concussion, a broken collarbone, a shattered left arm that required surgery and pins to put back together, several cracked ribs, a punctured lung, and scrapes and bruises all over his body.

  But Jonah’s alive, I remind myself, as I’ve done a thousand times over since that phone call came in. That’s all that matters.

  His jaw tenses as he stares at the ceiling tile above his bed. “They said Veronica’s totalled.”

  “Yeah. I’ve already called the insurance company.”

  “That was Wren’s favorite plane.”

  It was his favorite plane. It was the last plane he ever flew, with me in the passenger seat. And I know that wrecking it hurts Jonah more than all his injuries combined.

  I smooth a strand of hair off his forehead. “And he’d tell you that it’s just a plane and he’s happy you’re all right. I know because it’s what he said the last time you crashed his plane.”

  Jonah snorts, but his face remains serious. “You regretting this yet?” He takes my left hand in his, his thumb smoothing over my ring.

  “No. Why would I ever?”

  Earnest blue eyes trace my features. “There was a stretch there, when I woke up, and couldn’t get out, couldn’t move—”

  That ball in my throat flares as I’m hit with an image of what that must have looked like from the air. They said they weren’t expecting to find a survivor. They said it was a miracle Jonah survived and in the relatively good shape he’s in.

  “And all I could think about was you, and how I was gonna break my promise about finding my way back. How you were gonna wish you’d never met me.”

  Fresh tears stream down my face as I shake my head. “I could never regret you, Jonah.” Not if I’d lost him last night, not if I lose him in five years or fifty.

  He swallows. “Are you gonna be able to handle me flyin’ again?”

  “Jesus. You’re insane.” I can’t help but laugh. “Can we just focus on you healing first?” It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since he nearly died. He won’t be flying again for months. His firefighting days are done for the season, and Jack Thomas will have to find himself another pilot for his rich hunters.

  “Yeah, fine. Come here,” he whispers holding his arm out.

  Ever so slowly, I ease in and stretch out against his side, balancing precariously close to the edge of the hospital bed. I gingerly rest my head against the crook of his arm. My tears soak into his blue hospital gown. “I know you’re going to fly again, and I would never try to tell you not to. Just please promise me you’ll never take a risk like that again. I’d rather spend a hundred nights alone if it means you were going to come back to me safe at the end of it.”

  “That promise, I know I can keep.” He shutters his eyes. The doctor said he’d be groggy.

  I bring his hand to my mouth, to kiss his knuckles, and then I ease back to sit, intent on letting him sleep.

  “You weren’t alone last night while you waited, were you?”

  “No, no … everyone was there.” Toby drove me in my Jeep to Anchorage, where they airlifted Jonah.

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Well, not Agnes, but the McGivneys and Marie, and Roy—”

  “Roy?”

  “Yeah. I was surprised, too.”

  Jonah makes a sound, but he says nothing.

  “Listen, you need your sleep. I’m going to get Agnes and Mabel before you fall asleep. They’re in the waiting room. George flew them in.”

  “Have you told them about their cabin yet?”

  I laugh. “No. You can. Take full advantage of their pity for you and make them agree to it.”

  He smirks. “Done. Come and give me a kiss first.”

  I lean in to press a teasing kiss on his forehead.

  “Not there.”

  I peck his nose.

  He groans.

  With a smile, I savor his lips.

  Jonah lets out a contented sigh. “I can’t wait to get home so you can wait on me hand and foot.”

  “Oh, you think so.” I laugh. It feels so good to laugh with Jonah.

  “Can you get me a cowbell?”

  “Sure. I’ll also tell you where you can shove it.” My gaze trails the gash above his left eyebrow.

  “How many stitches?”

  I count them. “Six, I think?” I smooth my palm over his beard. It needs a trim. “At least it’s smaller than the last one.”

  He laces his fingers through mine. “Am I still pretty enough for you?”

  Chapter Forty

  December

  The cold bites my cheeks as I sail across the frozen lake on the snow machine, and for a moment, I regret mocking the neoprene face mask Jonah brought home for me ahead of this cold spell. I complained that I would look like a criminal.

  But at least I’d look like a criminal without frostbite.

  I pull up next to the other snow machine parked at the edge of the shoreline. Oscar and Gus catch up, their tails wagging. “I win!” I tease, giving Oscar a head scratch as I climb off my seat. Lately, the wolf dogs spend more time here than at their home.

  I march up the cleared path, marveling at the winter wonderland before me. It snowed for the last four days straight before the drastic temperature drop, blanketing the earth in white. The tree branches sag beneath the weight of their snow coats, sprinkling me with snowflakes as I brush past.

  Ahead, the small log cabin sits nestled within the forest, soft light filling the two new windows we cut into the lakeside wall for more light and a view. A steady stream of smoke curls up into the frosty air above it. All around, the trees have been trimmed back to allow for light while also respecting nature.

  Behind the cabin, on the narrow laneway we put in last August, sits the scratched-up black truck, with its tires chained and its bed loaded with carpentry tools.

  “You two stay here,” I order as I kick off the snow from my boots, leaving the hounds on the porch. Warmth envelops me the moment I push through the new red door. “It’s so damn cold out there.” I shudder for emphasis, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut wood as I do every time I come here. While the cabin was in good shape, I wanted a bright, clean feel inside. Everything has been clad with new wood, with a rolling barn-door-type wall to separate the bedroom from the living space and a tiny bathroom in the far right corner, behind the compact kitchen that Roy is putting finishing touches on.

  “Too bad you don’t have anything to protect your face,” Jonah says, shoving another log into the woodstove in the corner.

  I smirk at his sarcasm as I haul the basket of lunch onto a small folding table that the guys have been using for meals. “The soup was hot when I packed it, but I don’t know how old this thermos is, so don’t let it sit too long. There’s also roast beef on whole-grain buns—store-bought,” I confirm with annoyance, when I see the wary look Jonah and Roy share. I’ve
been testing out recipes with Colette’s bread machine and, let’s just say I have a ways to go before I’m serving the results to guests. I certainly won’t be feeding any of it to Jonah’s mom and stepfather when they arrive next week.

  Jonah hauls himself to his feet and wanders over to root through the basket, pausing long enough to plant a kiss on my lips.

  “Yours is waiting for you at home,” I scold, playfully slapping his hand away before I smooth mine over his forearm. It’s noticeably thinner, but growing stronger every day. Of all Jonah’s injuries, his arm took the longest to heal—almost three months. He was stuck on the ground and grumpy for most of it, and supervising Steve and his crew so intently that they finished ahead of schedule, likely to get away. But he’s been cast-free and in the air for the past month, his mood back to normal.

  “How long before you have to leave?” I ask. Archie is sitting on his skis at the end of the airstrip, waiting for takeoff. We’re down to one plane while Toby overhauls Phil’s old plane—it doesn’t even have seats anymore—and Jonah decides what he wants to do with the insurance money collected from Veronica.

  Jonah checks his watch. “An hour.”

  “Same here. I promised Muriel I’d be at the Christmas bazaar to make sure everything’s running smoothly.” We’re on the second weekend of the Winter Carnival. Last weekend brought record attendance. I’d like to think it had something to do with the marketing campaign Emily and I launched, targeting radio and news stations between here and Anchorage, tourist companies, schools, markets—basically everyone. We even rallied local celebrities and politicians who were more than happy to attend last weekend’s fireworks display and a fun airshow that Sam’s Fire Boss planes put on, as a tribute to all the hard work of the firefighters this past summer.

  Muriel has already confirmed with glee that the community center is getting its new restrooms in the spring. The library may even get the face-lift it so desperately needs.

  She also informed me that the head of the planning committee for Anchorage’s Farmers’ Market contacted her to find out which brilliant firm they hired to do their marketing because they want to revamp their summer-long program.

  “Mabel say how she’s doin’?” Jonah reaches for his jacket on the hook by the door.

  “Yeah. Sales have been steady.” I say this to Jonah but I mean it more for Roy to hear. Mabel and Agnes flew in yesterday to help out. Mabel’s been running the table for Roy’s carvings at the bazaar. “People keep asking her who The Curmudgeon is.”

  Roy takes a break from glaring at the level on the countertop to glare at me, before shifting back. “I wish I’d made the bases smaller, so you wouldn’t have any room to sign ’em.”

  “Oh, I’d find a way to make it happen.” I wink. “And your website is getting a lot of hits.” I launched The Curmudgeon Carvings without asking a month ago, mainly to showcase his work and to take online orders. Since last weekend, three customers have made purchases. “Someone asked for a custom carving—”

  “No custom!” He steps back from the counter, level in hand, seemingly satisfied with his work. As with everything wood-related, Roy has been meticulous with each cut and angle of this interior. I knew he would be when I rolled up to his place a week after Jonah’s crash to ask if he’d be interested in refinishing the inside of his family’s cabin. It was a job I was going to task Steve and his crew with, but my gut told me that given the years of effort and care Roy had secretly put into the place, he might appreciate being the one to help bring it new life.

  He seemed surprised to see me that day, and doubtful that I’d actually want to work with him. I assume that’s because of the confession he made on what I can only hope will remain the darkest day of my life.

  I’m still trying to figure out why Roy divulged those details in the first place.

  For distraction?

  To warn me away from him?

  But I’m not afraid of Roy. And I haven’t repeated his sins to anyone, not even Jonah, who likely wouldn’t be too keen on this arrangement if he knew.

  Roy can’t be called a good man, but I also wouldn’t necessarily call him a bad one. The question of what he deserves for his past crimes isn’t up to me to answer, his punishment not up to me to dole out, especially not when he’s spent the last three decades punishing himself.

  All I know is the man Roy is now, and that man was there for me.

  And one day, if and when he decides he’d like to reconnect with his daughter, maybe I can be there for him, too.

  “You think we’ll be ready to move the furniture in on Monday?” I ask, unpacking the soup thermos for Roy.

  “More like Tuesday.” His gaze rolls around the space. “Got a few more things I wanna finish, and then it’s gonna take at least two days to clean up this mess.”

  “Cuttin’ it close,” Jonah says.

  “We’ll be fine. There isn’t a ton to move in.” A queen bed, a futon, propane appliances and kitchen supplies, and plenty of blankets and decorative touches to make it cozy.

  “Still think we should be the ones stayin’ here.”

  “Your mom is insisting.” I’ve had a dozen conversations with Astrid since they decided they were coming, and she has made it abundantly clear that Jonah and his stepfather would do best with a lake between them. I have to agree.

  I’m also learning where Jonah gets his stubbornness from, and I no longer believe it’s his father. Part of me is dreading the wedding discussions. Between Jonah’s accident, renovating this place, and the planning stages of the cabin we’re building for Agnes and Mabel, we haven’t had time to make any nuptial decisions. Jonah is all for eloping, and I’m beginning to think it’s not a bad idea.

  “So, meet you back there?” Jonah gives me a steady look—one that can’t be mistaken, his eyes lingering on my mouth—and my heart skips several beats. His recovery time was long for several reasons.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” I smile softly.

  “See ya later, Roy,” he calls on his way out the door, not waiting for a response.

  Roy grunts, too busy scowling at a corner in the wall to say more. Not that he’s ever been one for the “hellos” and “goodbyes,” anyway.

  “Hey, I was wondering if you’d mind hanging this outside, by the door.” Collecting a nervous breath, I slip out the plaque I picked up from Wasilla this morning and hand it to him. “You think they did a good job?”

  He pulls out a cheap pair of reading glasses from his pocket and slides them on. His jaw clenches.

  “I got the information from town records.” It took me several calls and an afternoon of digging through archives to find the original homestead filing from 1965, made by Roy’s father—Richard Donovan. It took me another week to track down the names of his late mother and younger brother, because I knew that if I asked, Roy wouldn’t give them to me.

  The plaque is modest—cast in aluminum and engraved in acrylic, noting the year the cabin was built and the four family members who first lived here.

  I hold my breath.

  “Where do you want it?” he answers, his voice more gruff than usual.

  “Just outside the door. Wherever you think it’d look best. I trust you.”

  His eyes flash to me, and an emotion I can’t read fills them. And then he simply nods.

  That’s as much as I’ll ever get from Roy Donovan.

  But it’s enough.

  I back away, eager to spend time with Jonah before we part ways for the afternoon. “Oh, you wouldn’t happen to have a ten-person, live-edge dining table I could buy off you, would you?” My dining chairs arrived three weeks ago, but I know Roy was working on something for me. I’ve known since the day I showed up at his place to ask him to do the cabin’s interior and I found him in the barn, measuring wood while scribbling notes on the catalogue picture.

  His gaze cuts to me before shifting back to his work, the corners of his mouth curling upward. “I think I might.”

  “Can I come get
it on Wednesday?”

  “It’s heavy,” he warns.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got lots of help.” More than I could ever have wished for, and always just a phone call away.

  With that, I step outside again, taking a deep breath as the shockingly cold air grips me.

  Jonah is waiting on the lake, the old snow machine’s engine rumbling. “Race you back?” he hollers.

  Instead of hopping onto mine, I scoot onto the back of his. “We can come back for it before you leave.” I curl my arms around his torso and press my body against him, reveling in the warmth and strength as my hands wander.

  He peers back over his shoulder. “You ready?”

  “Probably not.” Jonah likes to ride this thing at full throttle. As with everything he does in life, it seems. But that’s who he is. He’ll always be wild at heart, and there is no way to tame or change him.

  Not that I would ever want to.

  I smile.

  And I hold on tight.

  Acknowledgments

  These last few months spent with Calla, Jonah, Agnes, Mabel, and the memory of Wren have been utterly enjoyable. I appreciated the opportunity to bring Calla and Jonah’s relationship to life in a way I never have before as a writer, as well as to delve into Calla’s continued growth. Even though this story is a sequel, it felt fresh, given the new world and new cast of characters to explore, and the chance to incorporate a bear incident. (I spent far too much time researching and watching YouTube videos of bear attacks to not include one. My obsession has been sated.)

  I’d like to thank the following people for their help pulling this story together (and let me preface this by saying that any mistakes made are my own, either by accident or by creative design):

  Trisha Wyrick, for your invaluable help with my questions surrounding the Willow, Alaska, area, the model for my fictional town of Trapper’s Crossing.

  Suzanna Lynn, for answering my legal questions regarding estates.

  Tiffany McNair, for confirming where to tranquilize poor Oscar in his time of need.