My Heart For Yours (Sinful Secrets 2)

I watched him wake up and walk around in circles that day, moaning and chuffing. His body shook from the anesthesia required to transport him to my place. His eyes darted around—looking for other animals? He’d spent his entire life with dogs, except the previous three weeks, when he’d been kept at a shelter.

Clinging to my cell phone, with my tracking program zeroed in on Papa’s small green dot, I went into my cabin and cried.

Gradually, I started reading more about techniques developed by other caretakers in a similar position. Things that might help Papa.

For the remainder of last winter, I found myself obsessed with him. I started talking to him through an opening in the fence. I started throwing cardboard tubes filled with berries and honeycomb over the fence, teaching him, with the tubes, to do normal bear things, like forage for food. The frozen vitamin ball bombs I threw over the fence got his coat looking shiny. I brought him black cherries and hickory nuts that helped him put on weight.

Then in July, just a few weeks after I opened the isolation pen and granted Papa access to the other bears, he cut his foot on something and got an infection. I called my friend Sam, a large-game vet who works at the Memphis Zoo, and he came out and helped me sedate Papa. He cleaned and wrapped the wound, then left me with antibiotics and promised to return in a few days.

I took the opportunity to sit with my sleeping friend.

To my shock and horror, Papa Bear woke up early. I had my arm around his neck. He raised his head and made a keening sound. I stood slowly. He lumbered up and looked right at me. Shaking, and with glazed eyes, he nuzzled me. All the blood drained from my face. He made a roaring noise, and just as my sweating fingers reached for my bear spray, he nuzzled my arm. Since then, he comes to me and leans against me every t

ime I go into the enclosure. I guess he wants the nurturing he never got.

I’m feeling pretty chipper as I punch my code—010212—into the gate and stride to the stock shed just inside.

The weathered shed came with the property, a relic from an old moonshine operation. I thought it was cute, so I reinforced the worn, wood walls from the inside, laid a cement floor, and installed metal shelving, plus a refrigerator and a tiny sink. I punch the same code into the lock beside its door and pull the door open.

Creak…

I see a swirl of snowflakes that aren’t here. I smell gardenias, feel the numb cold seeping through my boots. The clink of tire chains against ice is loud enough to drown out every thought inside my head. A year ago, my next move would have been to crouch under the metal shelves and put my head on my knees. Now I stop and take a breath. I count while I release it, imagining the memory running through me like the white fog of a ghost.

Sometimes certain sounds will bring on a flashback. I’ve noticed the triggers are often clinks and beeps and creaks—like the creaking of the shed’s door just now. Since I don’t consciously remember anything like that, I’ve decided they’re probably sounds from the emergency vehicles.

I take a few more deep breaths and close my eyes. “I’m right here, and I’m completely fine.”

I open the freezer and pull out an ice block of berry mash and vitamins, then pull a wood box off the nearest shelf, lift the lid, and drop the ice block in.

Keeping track of supplies and food is one of the most boring aspects of my job, so I try to liven it up with music. I pull the iPhone band off my upper arm and search my song list for one that fits my mood.

Jason Isbell, “24 Frames.” I try to let the singer’s voice blot out my troubles while my hands get busy fastening my work belt around my hips and grabbing my clipboard off a nail in the wall.

According to my log, I need to spread some cedar shavings near the pond, sink a box of frozen treats, and toss four vitamin ball bombs into the trees.

I tap my foot against the cement floor and sing along with Jason while I slip the vitamin bombs into the pockets of my belt and pile cedar shavings in the middle of a canvas blanket. I shake my ass as I knot the blanket’s four corners, creating a big pouch I sling over my shoulder. Finally I mute my music, tuck the treat box under my arm, and step outside into the filmy morning light.

It’s cold today; colder than yesterday, I note, as I trudge toward the pond’s edge. I look at the leaves spread over the damp ground, papery jewels of gold, red, orange, and brown. My gaze wanders the dense treeline. Spindly branches and barren-looking trunks, crooked tree fingers curled between the tall, green pines. Autumn’s cloak is spread around me. Soon the leaves will rot. It will be winter.

Shut up, Gwen, and focus on the present time.

I kneel beside the pond’s soggy fringes, set the box down, and shift the woodchip pouch down to the ground. It feels good to throw the treat-filled box at the water. It lands with a splashy slap and bobs a second before sinking. Soon the bears will smell it and come poke around. Whoever gets it first will enjoy the challenge of opening the lid.

I try to focus on my hands as I spread the woodchips along the water’s edge. Black bears love to roll in cedar chips.

When I’m finished, I pull out my phone and check the bears’ locations. Hmm, so I’ve been scented.

I toss a vitamin ball bomb into the trees and exhale slowly as Aimee and Cinnamon stroll out of the woods. Even though I don’t come at the same times or on the same days of the week, even though their enclosure is vast, sometimes they still scent me. Which, given that a black bear’s nose is seven times more powerful than a bloodhound’s, shouldn’t surprise me but still does.

I toss two more vitamin ball bombs and am turning to go when I hear the well-timed crunch of leaves. Papa Bear. He stops between a pine tree and a big, old oak and blinks in my direction.

“Hey there, Papa.”

Glee spreads through me.

As if he knows, Papa Bear’s big, black body shuffles closer to me. He lifts his head, his black eyes peering up at me. I give him a reassuring smile.

“Hey, handsome.”