Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“For safety.”

“Me with a gun does not sound safe.”

“For me, probably not.” Flopping down, he pulls me onto his lap, guiding my thighs around the outsides of his. He sweeps my hair off my shoulders and grips it at my nape with one hand. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” I ask, narrowing my gaze to try to read him. As Agnes once said, Jonah likes to play little games. I’ll never forget the time he made me believe he might cut off my hair in retaliation for the night I groomed his bushy face. So I can’t help but wonder what game Jonah has in mind.

“Christ. Would you humor me? For once. Please.”

The exasperation in his tone convinces me to follow directions. I bite my bottom lip as I wait impatiently for whatever he has planned, willing myself to keep from stealing a peek at the sound of crisp tissue paper unraveling.

Calloused fingers slide over the back of my neck where they fumble. I sense a cool chain trail against my skin, and something weighted settles against my chest. His fleeting touch straightens it. “There. You can look now.”

“What is it?” I ask, reaching for the object, my fingers grasping cool metal as I lift it into view. A dainty plane dangles from a chain, its white gold glimmering from polish.

“That’s your real Christmas present. The guy making it took longer than expected.”

“Oh my God … it’s …” It’s so delicate and detailed, right down to the windows and doors, the propeller blades, the wheels. Tiny diamonds cover the wings, winking at me as their facets catch the late-afternoon sunlight that invades the living room through the bay window.

But the detail on the tail, the minuscule replica of the Alaska Wild logo, is where my attention locks and my emotions swirl. “It’s beautiful.”

“Something you’ll actually wear?”

“Yes! Absolutely.” I’ll wear it with nothing but pride.

“Is it better than the hunting jacket you hated?” The corners of his mouth betray him.

“That was a joke?”

“Of course, it was a joke.” He grins. “And so worth it. Man, you are a shitty actor.”

“God, you are such a jerk sometimes!” I let go of the pendant to smack my palms hard against Jonah’s chest. Beneath my fingertips, I feel the vibrations of his low chuckle, as his hands settle on my hips, warming my body even through two layers of clothes.

“Thank you for this,” I offer, more contritely. “It’s beautiful, Jonah. Seriously. It’s the nicest piece of jewelry I own.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Jonah has good taste, something I discovered when I first walked into his house, expecting a dingy bachelor pad complete with pork-chop bones and empty beer cans.

He inhales deeply, his smile fading. “I can’t take all the credit.” He holds the small gold plane between his thumb and index finger. “This necklace, it’s not only from me.” His pale blue eyes dart upward to meet mine. He swallows hard. “About a week before he died, Wren asked me to get in touch with this friend of his, up in Nome.”

The lump in my throat inflates.

“He wanted you to have something to remember him by. Something you could open on Christmas morning.” Jonah clears his throat. “For a while there, he was hoping he’d last this long.”

I clasp my hand over my mouth to muffle my sob. Tears blur my vision, slipping down my cheek in a steady, hot stream. It’s been months since my father’s death and just like that, again, it feels like he died yesterday.

Jonah’s jaw tenses. “He was hell-bent on getting you something you’d wanna wear. I never saw him like that before, so determined. But he knew how you are, with your clothes and stuff. Anyway, the plane was his idea.” Jonah finally meets my eyes again and I note their glossy sheen, the gruffness in his voice. “I added the diamonds ’cause I know you like sparkly things.”

It takes me a moment to find my words and when I do, they’re barely a whisper. “It’s the most perfect thing anyone has ever given me. I’ll never take it off. Never.”

Jonah simply nods and then pulls me into him, his hairy face tickling the crook of my neck as I cry.

Chapter Six

The hollow thump of heavy boots against the porch steps announces Jonah’s return a moment before the kitchen door creaks open. I steal a glance at the clock as my heart skips a beat. It’s almost nine p.m. Jonah was supposed to be home hours ago.

“Calla?” comes his deep, raspy voice, carrying through the unnervingly silent house. That’s one of the most jarring differences between here and back home. In Toronto, I’d be lying in bed, listening to the blare of horns and the scrape of metal against pavement as the snowplows cleared the streets. Here, in this little house surrounded by a vast expanse of land and little else, nothing but the fridge’s odd and intermittent rattle-and-hum makes a sound. During the day, I’ve taken to leaving the television on to drown out the silence.

“In the bedroom,” I holler back, hitting the Save button on my laptop.

The floorboards groan beneath Jonah’s heavy footfalls. He rounds the corner, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, his ash-blond hair standing on end, mussed from a day under a knit hat. I’d laugh if he didn’t look so tired.