Gnashing and baring her teeth, she arches her neck backward.
I secure the stone in my hand, preparing—
Suddenly a familiar sound punctures the rain, slicing open the forest like a firecracker.
In quick succession, it repeats. Six times total.
Instantly, the weight of the grizzly lifts from my chest. The growling stops.
Pattering thuds fade into the distance.
Like a thousand pinpricks, the hairs on my neck stand straight. The rain is falling harder now, splintering when it hits the ground. But only one sound echoes in my ears—Pop!
Dazed, I lift my head. The grizzly has vanished. In the distance, I hear breathing again. Low and steady this time. Human.
Footsteps are ten meters away. Five. I see a shadow moving, a blur in the rain.
Fear grips me. I scramble backward, but someone reaches me before I can stand.
CHAPTER 7
“Hey, don’t move.” He puts a hand gently on my arm.
I flinch, lodging my back against the tree root.
“Whoa,” he says soothingly. “She’s gone. Cubs too.”
Since I was five, I have been instructed to assess people; someone is either a threat, or not.
I run my fingers along the mud until I retrieve the jagged, palm-size stone.
Even kneeling beside me, I can see he’s tall—strong, young, with tousled light brown hair and smooth skin. Beneath his shirt is an outline of broad shoulders. A bolt-action rifle is slung across his back.
Where was he? How’d he reach me so quickly?
He scans my body quickly; his eyes descend from my head to my neck, over my chest, and down to my legs, then back up to my face.
Heat flushes my chest.
My hair has fallen over my face in a tangled mess of mud and leaves. I push it back under my hood.
“You’re not cut,” he murmurs in a deep, clinical voice, sounding both relieved and surprised.
I glance down at my leg. The bear must have struck me with her forepaw—only fur and muscle—no claws. My leggings are ripped from the sharp rock edges on the ground; the material flaps open, exposing a swatch of my pale thigh, now turning a grim violet shade.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
“Yes.” I rub the back of my head. “I’m fine, I think. Thanks.”
With a taut grip, he pulls me to my feet.
Though I’m tall at 175 centimeters, standing I barely reach his shoulder. I look up at him. His face is cut hard and straight, with a square jaw, defined cheekbones, full lips, and piercing green eyes, staring intently at me.
“You’re running out here by yourself?” he inquires sharply.
I nod.
Lightning strikes above us. Prying his eyes from mine, he looks over my shoulder.
Then he takes off his backpack and removes a scope. As he does, his shirt inches aside, revealing an oblong patch of black leather tucked against his hip.
Seeing this irritates me. I can defend myself.
He holds the telescopic lens to his eye, glancing around.
“Is she coming back?” I ask, swiveling my head to scan the trees. With the rain cascading in sheets, the forest blurs into a murky expanse of pine and evergreens. “Lions stalk their prey first,” I explain, “then attack, then leave before returning—”
“You’re not prey,” he answers evenly. “She was just defending her cubs.”
Another bolt of lightning flashes. Dropping the scope, he locks his vibrant eyes back on mine. Why is he looking at me so peculiarly?
My chest tingles beneath my jacket.
“Are you visiting?” he asks casually.
“I live here.” I pause. “Technically, I moved here last night.”
A flicker of familiarity passes his face—so quickly I can’t be sure. He’s attractive, and mature, but still youthful. Does he recognize me from school?
It doesn’t seem possible to have not noticed him there.
He notices me noticing him. A wave of heat swells in my neck, collecting at my throat.
Flustered, I nod at his hip. “I hope you’re better with your SIG than you are with a rifle.”
He looks between the holster and me, amused. “You think a pistol could hurt a grizzly?”
My face goes hot. I avoid placing pressure on my left leg. The pain has to ease up soon. I can’t go home with a limp. “It could if you had better aim.”
He threads the scope onto the rifle. Pushing his lips together, he stares down at me. “Better aim?”
“You missed six times!” I snap angrily. “You nearly hit me.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
With a haughty look, he strides past me, stopping beside a narrow pine. He points at a glinting dark spot on the mossy trunk.
I follow, touching my fingertips to the shredded bark. Exactly three meters off the ground, in the center of the trunk, is a three-millimeter hole with a shiny copper bullet wedged inside.
To my left is another tree with another hole.
My heart rate speeds up with each bullet I spot.
Surrounding the patch of trail are six trees. Each now has a copper bullet lodged into its trunk, equidistant from the ground.
Six bullets. Six targets. Six perfect shots.
Beneath the hood of my jacket, the skin at the base of my neck prickles. Impossible.
When I look back at him he is watching me with an even, confident expression.
His muscles spread out across his shoulders and down his upper arms like they have been chiseled from stone. He is wearing only a long-sleeved shirt; his chest is sculpted to it, and he doesn’t seem bothered by the rain and cold, or by me.
Which infuriates me, because I am bothered by him. And I can’t articulate why.
His muscular left hand tightens around the rifle stock, grazing the edge of the scope.
“I didn’t miss,” he says assuredly. “I wouldn’t have taken a shot if I thought I’d hit you.”
I step backward. Wincing at the pain in my thigh, I stumble.
“Careful.” He instinctively reaches forward to help, but I step farther back.
The grizzly is gone—my heart rate should be decelerating. Instead, it’s accelerating.
I’m irritated that he stepped in to save me. I don’t need to be saved, especially in Waterford.
If I’d been allowed my FN, I could have fired the shots myself. But mostly, I’m frustrated that I’m flustered. Who is he?
“Where were you?” I demand. “Were you watching me?”
His eyes flare indignantly. “I was coming down that ridge”—he indicates vaguely east with his right hand. “I heard the grizzly. Then I saw you.”
Through the rain-smudged forest, a trail twists among the pine trees, converging with a steep ridgeline two hundred meters off.
I peer between his bolt-action and the ridge. “Those were some aggressive shots.”
“She was an aggressive bear,” he counters dismissively.
“I had it,” I say. “You didn’t need to interfere. I would have been fine.”
“You had it?” he says, astutely. “Against a grizzly with two cubs?”
“Yes,” I say defiantly, gripping the stone in my fist.
For several seconds we stare at each other in protracted silence. He is as intimidating as the grizzly. With his harsh, inquisitive look, I feel more scrutinized than I have all day.
Thunder crackles across the sky.
“Can I walk you home?” he asks. Glancing down, he seems to notice my ripped leggings. “Or to the clinic on Main Street?”
I’m in Montana. His story checks out. I don’t have a valid reason not to trust him. I relax. Slightly.
“No, thanks. I’m headed to a friend’s house,” I explain. “Charlotte Cartwright. She’s on Woodland Star Circle. Another half kilometer southeast …”
The corners of his lips turn upward in an exasperated smile. “You were just attacked by a grizzly and you want to go to your fri
end’s house?”
“I’m not injured.”
“You’re not putting any weight on your left leg,” he points out.
I put equal pressure on both legs. “It’s only bruised.”
He looks dubious. “Most people attacked by a grizzly are at least shaken—”
“Most people can’t hit six separate targets in four seconds from two hundred meters with a bolt-action, let alone iron sights. And certainly not through trees in weather like this.”
His voice cuts through the rain. “You really should get an X-ray to make sure you don’t have a fracture in your leg. Something tells me you know the drill.”
“I do,” I declare. “So I know nothing’s broken.”
The angles of his face draw tight.
Standing with his rifle in his hand, shoulders back, chest out, he reminds me of the soldiers guarding the colonel in Tunis. Except he makes me uneasy in a different way—like my heart is bounding into my throat.
Around us, the sky is nearly dark, the air on the spectrum of a green-hued dusk.
“I’ll walk you to Charlotte’s,” he finally says. “It’s not far.”
“I know where it is.” I shake my head. “I’ll walk myself.”
He points at the muddy path. “This is a grizzly migration trail to the river. Locals stay off it in autumn, so you should too.” Strapping the rifle across his chest, he nods his head southeast. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 8
Charlotte’s door swings open before I’ve even knocked. “Sophia!”
“Hi—”
“What happened to you?!” Charlotte stares down at me.
Beneath the porch light, I notice that not only are my leggings ripped, but I am covered in mud, leaves, twigs, and possibly remnants of bear fur—ugh.
I wipe a chunk of mud off my knee and stomp my sneakers on the doormat. “I got caught in the storm.”
“You ran here?” Charlotte asks, perplexed. She peers over my shoulder. “Alone?”
He had taken me on a trail that wasn’t on my father’s map, and we’d emerged from the forest near Charlotte’s house, at the base of a narrow granite canyon marked by a sign—Eagle Pass.
Wondering if he waited for me to make it inside, I turn. Both the driveway and wet glistening road are empty.
“Yeah,” I answer, realizing I still have the jagged stone in my palm. Discreetly, I toss it onto her lawn.
Charlotte drops back on her heels; her long hair cascades over her shoulders in waves. “Why didn’t you drive?”
“I don’t have a license.”
She shuts the door, laughing, “Sophia, when you learn to drive—drive!”
Charlotte’s bedroom resembles a tree house; two walls are plastered in a collage of Winter Olympics posters; the remaining walls are windows. After inspecting my throbbing thigh, mutating into various shades of violet and reddish-violet, I change into a pair of Charlotte’s royal blue Waterford High sweats and return downstairs.
“Heard you got wet.” Emma is removing bowls from a cupboard beside the fridge, wearing a plaid button-up shirt, with her auburn hair braided down her back.
Laughing, I detangle my damp hair with my fingers. “Slightly.”
Emma sets down the bowls. “Too bad you missed cross-country. We needed you!”
“You run cross-country too?”
“Too?” Emma inquires.
“You’re a swimmer, right?” I flush. “I saw the posters at school … and your hair … it was wet earlier … and smelled faintly like chlorine …”
Emma draws a strand of hair to her nose, laughing. “You’re right, Sherlock. The season’s about to start, so I’ve begun training in the mornings.”
Charlotte pulls out a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer and hands me a spoon. “Have as much as you want. We have more.”
They scoop ice cream into their bowls, then drown the ice cream in chocolate brownies, chocolate sprinkles, and chocolate shavings, before drizzling a thick chocolate syrup over the mound like a volcano. Our mudslides are so gigantic they drip over the sides of the bowls and I have to lick the rim before eating a spoonful.
As we settle into cozy velvet chairs by the fireplace, Charlotte turns to us intently. “Okay, let’s play a game. Never Have I Ever”—she scrunches her nose—“been to Paris. You eat, Sophia, because you’ve done it and I haven’t. Get it?”
My mouth already full of chocolate shavings, I eat another bite of ice cream.
Grinning, Charlotte points to Emma. “You’re up.”
Emma wipes her mouth. “Never Have I Ever … kissed Tate McCormick.”
Charlotte rolls her eyes, distinctly not taking a bite. Emma motions to me. “Sophia?”
I wrinkle my nose, pondering. “Never Have I Ever … been to Idaho?”
Charlotte groans. “Weak. That was totally weak!”
Emma laughs. “Shouldn’t even count.”
“Okay, okay,” Charlotte says. “Never Have I Ever … been alone with Aksel Fredricksen.”
Emma’s smile fades. She looks inquiringly at Charlotte, who points at my mudslide. “You’re supposed to take a bite.”
“Sorry?” I ask, confused.
“Sophia, you’re a terrible liar!” Charlotte leans forward. “I saw him walk you here!”
“Who?” Emma’s eyes flit between Charlotte and me.
“Yes, Sophia, who was it?” Charlotte asks innocently.
I twirl the ice cream around in my bowl. “I didn’t learn his name.”
“His name is Aksel, Sophia.” Charlotte licks her spoon. “Aksel Fredricksen.”
“Why?” Emma interrupts. “Was he heading home?”
Charlotte nods to the windows. “He lives a few miles up Eagle Pass; it’s at the base of Silver Canyon. He’s the only one up there year-round of course; everyone else just comes to ski, so it’s basically a private lane.”
Staring into the darkness, I recall the steep ravine as we emerged from the forest—Eagle Pass is more a narrow chasm between granite rather than an independent canyon.
“Didn’t you just move here?” Emma asks. “How do you know Aksel? Why did he—”
“I don’t know him. It was an accident. I was running on this trail and there was a grizzly and she attacked me and—”
“A grizzly?” Charlotte nearly chokes on her ice cream. “And you’re alive? Why didn’t you say anything?!”
“I’m not hurt!” I exclaim defensively. “I only have a bruise, and some scratches—”
We are interrupted by the doorbell.
A crew of classmates enter Charlotte’s house in a pack.
Nevertheless, for the rest of the evening, I try to keep Aksel Fredricksen out of my mind.
I fail.
CHAPTER 9
I wake at dawn. My forehead is damp, and the sheets are tangled around me. Extricating myself from the linens, I dash to the gabled window and unhook the latch. I inhale the crisp alpine air, trying to calm my nerves, to cool myself off.
Parched mouth … a smell of garlic and vinegar beneath the doorway … loud shouting on the other side of the wall … a blinding flash of light …
I cling to the window ledge. That was the past. I press my eyelids together until I see stars. It is over now. Over.
“Why did you leave so fast?” my mother asks as I hurry down the staircase a short while later, having returned home from my morning run with barely enough time to shower. “I would have joined you!” There is a reason I prefer running with my father over my mother—she can beat me, and he can’t.
She nods at my outfit: a plaid button-up blouse tucked into high-waist jeans. “All part of blending in.” She smiles ruefully.
“You’re not leaving without breakfast!” my father orders from down the hall. I step into the small, modern kitchen—marble counters, a polished-nickel faucet, and French tile on the walls. My mother’s favorite Stelton teapot is on the stove, and her Celine handbag is on the counter, but other than that—nothing. No ph
otographs. No sticky notes with our handwriting. No handmade figurines. Nothing of us.
“They sell muesli in Waterford?” I ask, distracting myself from comparing my pristine, sterile kitchen to Charlotte’s cozy, cluttered one.
The muesli package is open on the counter. My father has made three yogurt parfaits drizzled with honey. He gives me one.
“Found it at Alpine Market. It’s actually not bad.” My father eats so quickly he’s emptied his dish and washed it before I take my first bite.
“Sit,” my mother says sternly. “Some American habits I want you to learn. Others, I do not.” She motions to me, standing in the middle of the kitchen, eating. I dutifully sit.
“Sophia,” she says, casually glancing at my leg.
It’s been a week since the grizzly attacked me. To explain my limp, I told her I tripped on the way to Charlotte’s.
“Yes?” I say innocuously.
She taps her fingers on the tabletop, pursing her lips. “You can’t run around Waterford with a 5-7,” she eventually says, “but you can at least take your Ladybug.”
I stare at her inquisitively; I lost my Ladybug at the Sport Club in Beirut.
She walks to her handbag and retrieves a delicate five-centimeter blade.
“You said I wouldn’t need a weapon here,” I say.
My mother walks behind me and pushes aside my hair. She reaches her hand into the back of my new blouse and lifts out the price tag. Snip.
Clicking the Ladybug closed, she leans over my shoulder and puts it on the table beside my glass dish of muesli and yogurt. “Who said it’s a weapon?”
Charlotte dumps her precalculus textbook onto the cafeteria table, “I loathe Krenshaw!”
I check my silver Skagen watch and groan. “I forgot Krenshaw’s assignment in my locker.” I stuff my thermos into my backpack. “See you guys later?”
“You better hurry!” Charlotte warns through a mouthful of pizza as I run out of the cafeteria and into the corridor.
Approaching the glass-walled vestibule connecting the cafeteria to the north hall, I notice something out of the corner of my eye—someone.
He is here?
Crossing the lawn with long, lithe steps, Aksel keeps his head bowed against the damp wind rushing in from the canyons.
Girl from Nowhere Page 3