Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“Anyway, it took them a good five years to get it to size. Every year they’d clear and churn more. So much hard work put into it. That’s why it needs to continue being used.” Muriel straps her gun onto the rack and climbs back on her ATV. “Okay. You’ll want me to lead again so I’m gonna go around you and cut back onto the path—”

A loud metal snapping sound followed by a howl of pain cuts through the silent forest, the echo sending countless birds from their perches, flapping into the air.

“What was that?” I ask in a rushed voice.

“Shhh!” Muriel holds a hand up to silence me, her head cocked in the general direction of where the noise came from.

A second howl, less piercing but full of agony, carries moments later. It’s to our right, and it’s close. Too close.

“Somethin’ got caught in a trap. Probably a wolf.”

My stomach drops at the idea that there was a wolf lurking that close to us and we had no idea.

“Okay, come on,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Let’s go and deal with it.” She cranks her engine and takes off in the direction of the wounded animal, forcing me to hurry to follow.

* * *

Muriel’s already off her ATV and heading toward a pile of fallen trees when I pull up and cut my engine.

“A leg-hold trap! Big enough for a bear!” she announces, nodding to herself, as if she’s delighted for having guessed correctly. “Got ’im good, too.”

I spot the mound of mottled, tawny-gray fur. With trepidation, I close the distance. “Oh my God.” I wince at the jagged metal teeth that dig into the wolf’s hind leg.

“I heard

you’ve already had the pleasure of meetin’ your next-door neighbor?” she says, her tone grim.

“Who, Roy? Yeah. Why …” My question fades as I take in the poor creature’s face, sharp, fear- and pain-laden eyes intent on our every move as it whimpers. “That’s Roy’s dog.” The one that seemed to be sizing up my jugular that day.

She snorts. “Dog, my ass. He’ll swear up and down that he’s got malamutes, but he ain’t foolin’ nobody, includin’ himself. Lucky for him neither of ’em have caused any trouble that needed reportin’.” She shakes her head with dismay. “Roy ain’t gonna be too happy about this. Those hounds are like his kin.” She glances around. “Wonder where the other one went to. They’re usually a combo deal.” Branches crack beneath her footfalls as she heads toward her ATV, leaving me with the wounded animal.

As little as I cared for Roy’s threatening beasts, the sound of it in agony stirs a natural response to end its misery somehow. “Is there a way we can pry this thing off?”

“Not without you needin’ a few dozen stitches in that pretty skin of yours. That there ain’t no friendly mutt. Besides, even if we could get the trap off, that leg is so mangled, I doubt he could keep it.”

I study the trap again, meant for an animal at least twice the size—its giant metal teeth gripping flesh without mercy, cutting through tendon and muscle, anchoring into bone. I cringe with the thought of it clamped over my own leg. “What the hell is a bear trap doing out here, anyway? A person could have stepped in this!”

“Who knows how long it’s been there. I remember Phil havin’ a bear issue a few years back, so maybe this was him. I don’t see any fresh bait anywhere.”

I crouch, and with a tentative hand, reach for the nearby chain. The dog bares its teeth and emits a grating growl, warning me back. Muriel’s right—I’ll only end up getting hurt trying to help it.

I stand, sighing with frustration. “So, what do we do?”

A click sounds that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. It’s a sound I’ve heard only a handful of times, when Jonah loads his rifle.

“What are you doing?” I ask warily, cold dread seeping into my stomach as I watch Muriel approaching with her gun. I know exactly what she’s about to do.

She gives me a blank look. “I’m puttin’ the thing out of its misery.”

“You can’t just shoot it!”

She shakes her head at me in disbelief. I’m sure my face is painted with horror. “We can’t leave it here. It’ll gnaw its damn leg off to get out of that thing and then bleed out in the bush! This is the humane thing to do, Calla!”

“Well …” I stall, looking for an answer that doesn’t involve a bullet in this poor dog’s head in the next five seconds. “Shouldn’t we go and tell Roy? It’s his dog.”

“And what do you think Roy’s gonna do for the wretched creature? Sing it lullabies?” She snorts. “This is a kindness. Now go on and get out of the way.” The gun is gripped within her rough, calloused hands, ready to point, aim, and fire.

“No.” The word comes out before I can even think about it. My feet are rooted in place.