Running Wild (Wild 3)

I can’t say whether my not-so-secret feelings for Jonah were the linchpin in her distrust, or if she would’ve felt that way about me regardless, since I had something with Jonah that she didn’t: a past.

I suspect they fought over me, but Jonah never revealed it.

I have no doubt he defended me; it’s just who he is.

But there was a stretch there where I held my breath, expecting her to give Jonah an ultimatum, and I was terrified of what his answer would be. I’m still afraid because I know who Jonah would choose.

But things have shifted since last summer, with Calla finding her own way in Alaska. The two of them are married, and she seems to have made peace with my existence in his life. Maybe one day we’ll consider each other friends. Until then, I’m not about to poke a charred log to see if it still smolders by bringing up memories of her husband and me sharing a tent.

“Hey, babe!” she hollers after Jonah. “Did you mention Bandit already?”

“He’s fine,” comes his gruff response while securing my luggage into the plane.

“Why? What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“He’s been sleeping a lot more than usual and eating less.”

“It is winter still.” Not that raccoons hibernate, but they do tend to hide in their hovels during the colder temperatures. I’m no expert on raccoons. I know they don’t tend to live more than a few years in the wild, but Bandit leads a cushy life, complete with daily feedings and a well-insulated chicken coop that their neighbor recently built for them.

“Yeah, maybe. He just seems … I don’t know, depressed.”

Jonah snorts. “A depressed raccoon?”

“I think he needs a friend.”

“He has a friend. Zeke.”

Calla glares at Jonah. “I mean another raccoon. I was hoping he’d find one when we moved here, but I haven’t seen any around.” To me, she asks, “Does anyone ever bring strays in to you?”

I falter. “Stray raccoons? Well, no. There really aren’t any in Alaska.” There’s the odd rumor that they lurk in the southwest and on the islands, but the rest of the state is inhospitable.

“What do you mean?” she says slowly, genuine confusion furrowing her brow. “What about Bandit?”

It dawns on me then. I look to Jonah’s broad back, incredulity in my voice when I ask, “You never told her?”

“It never came up.”

“What never came up?” Calla looks from Jonah to me.

I shake my head at my friend. “We flew down to Port Angeles for the weekend to pick up some equipment I needed for the clinic, and you know how Jonah never closes his duffel bag all the way? He always leaves it open, like, six inches?”

“Yeah …” I can see the wheels turning in Calla’s mind. Maybe she hasn’t ever noticed that little habit of his.

“Well, Bandit crawled in when we were loading the plane to come home.” He didn’t make a sound the entire trip, not once during any of the fuel pit stops. He must’ve slept the whole way. I chuckle as I recall the moment we discovered him. “We were back at my place, and Jonah was dumping his clothes onto the floor. You should have heard him scream when the little black-and-gray furball tumbled out.”

Calla still looks confused. “But my dad said you found him under your porch …” She scowls as her voice trails off.

“’Cause that’s what I told him,” Jonah says.

I laugh. “Wren knew you were lying!”

His eyes shine with amusement. “He told you that?”

“Yes! He let you stick to that story so Max and the other pilots wouldn’t tease you, and because he knew you were terrified that you’d be the guy who brought a plague of raccoons to the state.” People have tried to import the creatures here, but they’ve never flourished. Jonah was convinced that this time, they’d succeed in becoming a regular nuisance. As if Bandit would somehow multiply like a gremlin when wet.

“He always was good at coverin’ my ass for me.” A wistful smile touches Jonah’s lips, as it always does when we reminisce about his old boss. His would-be father-in-law now.

“You should’ve seen him, though, Calla. Jonah was so afraid Bandit wouldn’t survive, and he didn’t want to leave him, so he spent an entire week at my place, feeding him with this tiny little baby bottle.” I hold my hand out in front of me in a cup, mimicking how Jonah held him. “And he’d wake me five times a night so I could check on Bandit—”

“All right, all right, story time’s over.” Jonah smirks.

“I wanted to murder him, I lost so much sleep that week.” The truth is, being shaken awake at three a.m. by a panicked Jonah was not enjoyable, but I didn’t want to murder him. Quite the opposite. Watching him fawn over a tiny, helpless animal like that? The whole experience only made me love him more.