Wild at Heart (Wild, #2)

by K.A. Tucker

“She likes you, though. Talks about you all the time.”

Anyway, she doesn’t think you’re an idiot, Calla. She was impressed with how hard you worked out there. Said you never complained once.”

Mom mentioned Jonah to him. The guy’s got a good reputation because Jack already knew about him.”

“I know I can be a real SOB,” he says. “But thank you, for what you did for Oscar.” His gaze flashes to mine briefly, long enough to show me the sincerity in his words before he turns back to his bottle.

“Yeah, I heard exactly what she tries to handle. You sayin’ I’ll come back to you pounding draft beer and hittin’ on Toby?” “If you do, go easy on him. He’s probably tried to fend me off.” “Yeah, doubt that,” he mutters.

I lean back against the porch post and watch with greedy anticipation as he trails soft kisses up the inside of my thigh, all thoughts of the cold temperatures and fighting fires and three weeks without him vanishing the moment his mouth lands on its destination.

But the days are long, my meals are lonely, and I find myself counting down the hours until I hear the familiar hum of an approaching plane.

Oscar is standing at our side door. His tail wags as if we’re old friends.

“Can you wiggle your toes?” “If I can’t, will you shoot me like you tried to shoot my dog?”

“Calla, here, will come and help you until you’re back on your feet.”

“And we help our neighbors. That’s what we do.”

having waited for Jonah as long as possible. I knew not to expect him. I know he’s out doing critical, life-saving work, and yet I’m disappointed all the same.

He grunts. “Already took care of everything.”

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.”

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

“I can’t believe I’m actually trying to find a way to help that asshole milk his stupid goats.”

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’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.

“And you were lying, so you’d be finished by the time I showed up.”

“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.”

“Don’t know why you keep fightin’ to hang around here. I’m rotten company on my best days.”

“You always talk so much?” I chuckle. “Yeah. According to my father, anyway.” “And what happened to him? You talk him to death?”

“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,

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

“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.”

“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 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.

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.

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

“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.

“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.

“Just a few at night, huh? So easy.” His brow furrows. “Me and addictive things don’t mix well.” Is that another glimpse into Roy’s life? A dark sliver of his past? It clicks. “Is that why you don’t drink, either? I noticed you didn’t drink your beer at the Ale House.” He held it, he stared at it, but he never took a single sip. “First a spy, now a detective,” Roy grumbles, then purses his lips, as if deciding whether he wants to explain himself. “Haven’t had a drink since I came up here, thirty-three years ago.”

“What made you stop drinking?” I dare ask. “Life.”

He shifts to move out, but then pulls back, glaring at the laneway ahead. “What’re you doin’, girl?” “I’m trying to get you home in one piece!” “No, I mean, why’re you keepin’ this up? Comin’ around every day, bringin’ me dinner and muffins and shit.” “Because you need help?” “Whatever you’re lookin’ for here, you ain’t gonna find it in me.” I feel my cheeks flush with indignation. “I’m not looking for anything—” “I’m no replacement for your dead daddy, and I don’t wanna be.”

“Maybe you’ll listen to me when I tell you to stay away!” he fires back. “You win! I am done helping you!” My voice is husky with emotion. I add after a beat, “And I don’t care if that bear eats you on your way home!” “Don’t worry, it won’t. I’m too bitter.”

What Jonah’s doing is important, I tell myself, even as hot tears trickle down my cheeks, the wave of hurt and disappointment overwhelming. The most painful thing about this, I realize, is that I’m not surprised.

“Yeah … That’s gonna be a problem.” Jonah sighs heavily. “For the record, I wasn’t at work today.” He shifts, unblocking the view of the stone path that leads to our porch from the driveway.

And the tall, leggy blonde who’s picking along it in a pair of heeled sandals and a brown suede satchel purse swinging at her hip. “Diana?”

“How long have you known about this?” “Since she called to bail on you.”

I stop dead when I spot the pearl-blue Jeep parked beside our old battered pickup truck. It’s the exact model I test-drove at the dealership. Diana takes a break from swatting at the buzzing mosquitos to yell, “I got to drive your birthday present before you did!”

I finally called Jonah because I didn’t know what else to do!” Oh my god. It’s all making sense now. “So, you flew to Anchorage to find the keys.”

“So, that’s why you were in the hangar so long? You were waiting until Diana got here.” And then he came home to find me on the porch, hysterical and professing my unhappiness about my life with him in Alaska. My stomach roils with guilt as I close the distance. “I love it. And you.”

“But I just want you to be happy here.” There’s a sadness in his icy blue eyes.

I overcompensated for my harsh words by taking every opportunity to touch Jonah today—to hold his hand, to tickle his side, to play with his beard—and prove that they’re false. He responded in kind, with smirks and squeezes and back rubs, never withholding an ounce of affection. But I saw it in his eyes. The sadness. The worry. Possibly the worst of all—the same doubt I’m beginning to fear.

It’s strange how your relationship can feel impenetrable one day and vulnerable the next—with a misunderstanding, a few words, and a mountain of repressed worries that finally swell to the surface.

I’ve got another hour or two in my tank. But don’t get jealous when your hot Viking has to throw me over his shoulder to get me home, because I’m already drunk.” She punctuates that declaration with a hiccup. “Also, I’ll probably cop a feel and blame it on the booze. Just so you know.”

“Maybe if he stops crushing on you, it’ll happen.”

By the way, what happened between you and Roy? I went to help him out today, and he asked me if you still wanted him dead.”

I don’t really want to get into the details of Roy basically claiming I have daddy issues. I know what daddy issues are because I used to have them. Now all I have is a desire to keep my father’s memory alive. But there is no way that would ever happen in the form of Roy Donovan. Not unless Roy is the evil and monstrous Mr. Hyde version of Wren Fletcher.

“Why not? She has her friend here. And I haven’t been out to the villages in months.”