Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

Jonah pats the hard case. “It’s a good cut, too.”

“Yeah, he was braggin’.” Phil chuckles, and it reminds me of an old car engine, struggling to turn. “Well, come on, then. Why don’t I give you a tour around, if you want, and then we can drop that off at the house?”

“We’d love that. Right, babe?” Jonah’s eyes shine with curiosity as they dart about the property before landing on me, an odd, buoyant smile touching his lips.

I can’t help but return it and lean in to whisper, “You have such a hard-on for this guy’s place right now, don’t you?”

He loops an arm around my waist, pulling me in tightly. “I’m about to come in my pants.”

* * *

“Colette and I bought this place back in the ’80s. Spring of ’85, I think it was.” Phil pauses in front of the kitchen sink, scratching his chin in thought. “That’s right, it was my fortieth birthday. We came out this way to fish on the river. If you like fishin’, we have one of the best spots for it. There’s a whole network of rivers, west of us. People come in droves through the summer. Anyway, we fell in love with the area. I remember thinkin’ I was at least halfway to dead and needin’ to make a big move. So we did it. Almost a hundred acres, plenty to live on. Goes way back that way.” He waves a dismissive hand toward the back of the house. “Need snowshoes to get around there this time of year.”

“That’s something I haven’t tried yet,” I admit. I can’t fathom what a hundred acres looks like, but I suspect it would take hours to cross on foot. After the tour of the hangar and workshop, we climbed into a rusty red GMC pickup truck and drove here, the distance to the house too far for Phil to walk.

Phil studies me curiously. “Now that ya mention it, you don’t look like you’re from here.”

“I was born in Alaska, but I’ve lived in Toronto most of my life.”

“Huh. A city girl.” He holds up the bottle of whiskey that was sitting on the counter toward Jonah. “You thirsty?”

Jonah shakes his head. “Better not. I’ve gotta fly.”

Phil waves the bottle my way in a taunting manner. “You’re not flyin’ the plane.”

I school my expression. It’s barely noon and Phil is into the hard liquor. There’s a tumbler sitting next to the bottle and I can’t be sure whether it’s yesterday’s glass or if he’s already imbibed. What must his life be like, all alone out here? Maybe I’d be downing shots of whiskey, too. “Thanks, but we have a long day ahead of us. A glass of water would be great, though.”

“Sure, I think we’ve got a bottle somewhere in here, from when my son was here.” He shuffles over to the fridge to pull out a plastic bottle, his movements every bit that of an elderly man. I haven’t missed his use of “we” and “our” and “us” throughout our tour of his property, as if his late wife is still present. It must take awhile to adjust to the status of widow after being married to a woman for fifty years. That or Phil has no intention of ever adjusting to the idea of her being gone.

I smile in thanks as I accept the water from him.

“Got a nice, big vegetable garden back there. About a quarter acre in size. Big enough to grow a winter’s worth of preserves and all fenced off and electrified to keep the critters away during the growin’ season. You a gardener?” He’s looking directly at me.

“No, that’s more my mother’s forte.” Though she herself admits she finds more enjoyment from her rose bushes and lilacs than carrots and corn.

“Well, anyone’s thumb can turn green if they stick it in the dirt long enough,” he dismisses with a wave. “There’re also the pens where we kept the livestock.”

“Your farm, Barbie,” Jonah murmurs, earning my subtle eye roll.

“’Course, got nothin’ left but a few hens that give me my morning eggs, and Zeke.” Phil slaps that heavy tumbler down on the counter and fills it halfway with whiskey. “That ol’ goat’s nothin’ but a pain in my ass. Doesn’t like men. Has no use for me, now that Colette’s gone. Used to follow her around everywhere.”

Jonah’s face splits with a grin. “What do ya know? Calla loves goats.”

“So, how old is this place?” I ask, spearing Jonah with a warning glare. My gaze drifts over the log cabin’s wooden interior, intentionally skirting the enormous moose head that watches us from its mounted perch between two large windows. A pair of deer heads flank the fireplace. A black fur pelt trimmed with red felt hangs opposite it—I can only assume that’s a bear, because there’s no head to go with it.

I’ll never understand why people feel the need to surround themselves with the things they’ve killed.

“Let’s see … The old owners started buildin’ about ten years before us. Fell on hard times, which is why they had to sell before it was even finished. So, I guess that makes it”—he squints in thought—“close to forty-five years old, now? We’ve updated some. And we did a lot of work to the basement. All that stone was us. Colette thought’d it’d look nice. Break up the wood.”

“She was right. It does.” The log cabin is built into a small incline, allowing for a walk-out basement level with several sizeable windows. The exterior is clad in fieldstone that matches the fireplace.

“’Course there’re small things that need doin’. Trim and closets. The bathrooms could use new faucets and paint.” He takes a swig of his drink, wincing at the first bite. “You know, things you say you’re gonna tackle when you have a free weekend and then before you know it, thirty-five years have passed, your kid is gone, your wife is dead, and you’re still staring at primed drywall.” A forlorn tone lingers in his voice.

I hope I manage to hide the pity from my expression as I say, “You have a lovely home.” In a rustic, cluttered way, where the décor is dated and cobbled together, and yet cozy. Despite all the dead animals watching me.

Phil may be the only one living here—evident by the dirty dishes and empty frozen-dinner packages littering the counter, the clothes strewn over almost every piece of furniture, the visible cobwebs dangling like tinsel from the chandelier—but there’s still evidence of his late wife. The fridge’s surface is plastered with floral magnets that secure pictures of grandchildren splashing in the lake. A calendar pinned to the wall sits on September, a tidy woman’s handwriting marking appointments, a birthday, an anniversary. A hand-painted “Bless this Alaskan home” wooden sign, adorned with purple wildflowers, hangs at the threshold of the side entrance—a long, narrow corridor lined with a dozen hooks housing everything from light sweaters to hip waders. My guess is the medley of pale blue and mauve articles hanging there were Colette’s.

“It’s all hand-hewn logs, you know,” Phil says, his eyebrows arching as if sharing a shocking secret. “Colette insisted that if I was gettin’ a hangar for my toys, she was gettin’ her log house by the lake, with a big fireplace where she could spend the cold winter days. Couldn’t argue with that.” His cloudy gaze reaches the peaked ceiling of the two-story living room where the grand, rustic fieldstone hearth reaches. Cheap, worn, moss-green carpet veils the long, plank-wood floor. “A lot of good memories in that there spot. Anyway, the hangar and the workshop didn’t come for another fifteen years.”