Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

Tension skitters down my spine.

“Nah. He ain’t good for nothin’.”

“He’s a male goat. I can think of one thing he’s good for.” Jonah looks pointedly at the animal pen. “You’ve gotta have some females in there?”

“They’re all females.” Roy chuckles darkly. “And he ain’t even good for that.”

“Shit,” Jonah mutters.

“Maybe you can find some fool who don’t know nothing about goats to take him off your hands. Or someone who likes the taste of old meat. I don’t.”

“Thanks for your time,” Jonah says, not hiding the annoyance from his tone. He marches toward me.

“Tell you what … bring him on over.”

Jonah stalls. “Really? I appreciate it—”

“The hounds have gotten fat and lazy over the winter. Figure a good chase an’ kill ahead of the summer might do ’em some good. Though I doubt he’ll give them much of a chase.”

I grimace. I may not like goats but the picture Roy just painted is far more disturbing than creepy pupils and unpleasant childhood memories.

Jonah’s jaw hangs in a rare moment of speechlessness before he regains his composure. “Good to meet ya, Roy.” His brow is furrowed as he trudges back to take his seat and start the engine.

The black wolf dog slinks away as if nervous by the hum, but the gray one hasn’t so much as twitched. It’s unnerving how it watches us. Me.

r /> Curling my arms around Jonah’s torso, I steal a glance Roy’s way in time to catch the knowing smirk on his tight, thin lips before Jonah squeezes the throttle.

“You’re gonna have to get over your goat PTSD because there is no way in hell we’re givin’ Zeke to that asshole!” he hollers over his shoulder as we race back down the long trail toward the road, much faster than we came, Jonah’s body tense beneath my grip.

* * *

“Who greets people with a gun?” I take a healthy sip of chardonnay from an ornate etched-crystal glass I found in the cupboard and then drop to my knees to finish scrubbing the fridge. After our meet and greet with the neighborhood lunatic, we took our new old truck—that smells of motor oil and is plastered with silver duct tape to keep the worn leather on the seats in place—to Wasilla for a few groceries and a mattress.

“He’s just an old man trying to intimidate us.” Jonah gives the logs in the fieldstone fireplace a stab with the cast-iron poker. Of the two of us, he’s certainly handling today’s unpleasant surprises with more grace than I am.

“Well, it worked because we’re never stepping foot on his property again. Especially not with those wolves. You can’t keep wolves for pets. We should report him.”

“They’re not wolves. Hybrids, maybe, though I haven’t heard of any trained to listen like that. But sendin’ the cops to our neighbor on our first day probably isn’t the best way to start out here.” Jonah eases away from the fireplace. “Whatever. That’s another plus to living where we are. If you hate your neighbors, you don’t have to see ’em.”

Finally satisfied with the interior of the fridge after having worked on it for the past hour, I peel the rubber gloves off with a sigh. “That’s one thing done.” Only a million more to go.

I catch the telltale whir of speeding snow machine engines. Jonah wanders over to the big bay window to peer out on the frozen clearing as several race past, their headlights dull beams in the evening’s dusk.

“Isn’t this our private lake?”

“Yup.” He sucks back a sip from his bottle of beer. “Phil probably didn’t care, though.”

“Phil was probably already unconscious from whiskey by now.” My focus trails the departing taillights. “Wonder if they trespass on Roy’s property, too.”

“I hope so. Screw Roy.” He frowns as he inspects the sliver in his index finger, earned while fussing with the gate into the animal pen earlier.

“How’s Bandit doing out there with his new friend?”

Jonah chuckles. “He’s confused. I cleaned out the chicken coop and locked him in there for the night so they can see each other but they’re separated.” He drags his index finger along a row of book spines on the bookshelf tucked beneath the stairs. It’s stuffed with dust-covered books, magazines, and board games.

Much like every other corner of this house, stuffed with one thing or another. I opened a closet earlier and was assaulted by an avalanche of mismatched Tupperware containers.

“I don’t know where to start,” I admit, fumbling with the stack of black garbage bags, my gaze drifting to the garish five-light chandelier hanging above. It’s too small for the double-story room, and three of its bulbs have burned out. “Did you see a ladder anywhere?” Phil has left everything else. He must have left a ladder, too.