Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

He eases in next to where I’m sitting on the seat of my snow machine, hugging my precious find. He cuts the loud, rumbling diesel engine and hops out, his boots landing heavy on the ground.

“Hey. Thank you so much for coming. And so quickly.”

“Yeah. No problem. That engine can wait.” He scratches the scruff on his chin—it’s grown even longer in the weeks since I first met him—as he surveys the coffee table on my lap curiously. “You said you needed my help with something important?”

I pat the surface and drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This table is worth a shit ton of money and I scored it for fifty bucks, which is insane, but I can’t get it back on my own and I don’t trust that lady in there not to change her mind about selling it to me.”

“Moving a coffee table. That’s what you needed help with,” he says slowly.

“Yeah.” I wince sheepishly and wait for annoyance to appear on his face.

But he only shakes his head. “Why didn’t you bring your truck?”

I groan. “Because I backed into a moose while parallel parking and failed my road test and, I swear to God, if you tell anyone, we are no longer friends!” Which would be more a punishment to me than him, I suspect, given he’s my only friend in Trapper’s Crossing and he’s barely more than an acquaintance.

“You backed into a moose.” His voice drifts as his features transform with a grin. “Hey, have you ever watched Schitt’s Creek?”

“No? Is that a TV show?” The name does sound vaguely familiar. “Does someone hit a mo

ose during their road test on it? Please tell me someone does.”

“No. Nothing like that. This entire moment reminds me of that show for some strange reason.” He shifts his attention back to the table. “Can I throw that thing in the truck bed, or do you need it Bubble-Wrapped and swaddled in blankets?”

“Do you have Bubble Wrap and blankets?” I’m only half joking.

He chuckles. “No. But maybe Candace does? She’s the lady who runs the store.”

“Why don’t we try sliding it into the backseat?” Because my guilt over my lie is beginning to fester, especially now that I know her name.

He pops open the door and heaves the table off my lap. “Did you carry this out?” When I nod, he frowns curiously. “You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“More like highly motivated. There’s a table like this for a grand online that I’ve been dying to buy, but Jonah was giving me grief.”

He lets out a long, slow whistle. “Don’t blame him. Especially since someone probably donated it to her. That, or she found it in the trash.”

I gasp, which earns his laugh.

Toby eases the table in carefully, whether to protect the table or his truck, I can’t be sure. The table just fits. “Candace gave me my first pair of skates when I was nine. Found them out in a dump, good as new. Then every year after that, she’d show up at my door in October with a pair one size bigger. She did that right up till I was like seventeen. She’s always been good to me.”

“Well, I feel like a real asshole,” I mutter.

Toby slams the door shut. “Why?”

I pull on my helmet. “Never mind.”

He reaches for the driver’s-side door handle. “Meet you back at your place?”

“Go slow!”

* * *

Toby is sitting on our front steps when I speed up the driveway a few minutes after him, the table already unloaded and waiting by the front door.

Zeke stands about twenty feet away, eying Toby, shifting on his hooves as if ready to bolt at any sudden movement.

I groan as I cut the engine. Jonah must have forgotten to coil the wire around the latch this morning when he went to feed them. It’s the only thing Bandit can’t figure out.

The second I slide my helmet off, the old goat trots toward me, bleating noisily.