Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

Her eyebrows arch. “What do ya mean, no?”

“I’m not letting you shoot the poor dog without first giving it a chance!”

She sighs heavily. “Look, Calla, I know this might seem cruel to a girl like you, but what else are we gonna do? How are we gonna help it, all the way out here?” She waves a hand around us, emphasizing the fact that we’re deep in the bush. “Can’t even get it out of that trap without tranquilizing it first. I don’t have a tranquilizer. Do you?” She snorts derisively.

A tranquilizer.

Of course. I dig out my phone. I have one bar of reception. It might just be enough. “Yes. Actually. I do.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Jonah slows the ATV to a stop. Ahead of us, the ruts stretch beyond the bend in the trees. Someone’s been driving along Roy’s laneway with big tires, tearing up the soggy ground, churning the mud into a mess.

“Tell me again why we’re goin’ to all this trouble for this asshole?” Jonah yells over the hum of the idling engine.

I huddle within my jacket, chilled within the shade of the forest. “It’s not for him.”

Jonah peers over his shoulder at me, takes in my grim, weary face, and his blue eyes soften. He gives one of my hands clasped around his waist a squeeze and then hollers, “Hold on!”

I cling to Jonah’s body as we bump and jostle and dip through the trenches, my teeth rattling, tiny specks of mud splattering the back of my clothes like raindrops. A feel some land on my neck.

And I remind myself that this is the right thing to do, even as my anxiety over telling this foul old man that his beloved dog is probably going to die twists my stomach into knots.

Marie answered her phone on the third ring and, when I rushed to explain the situation, said she was hopping in her truck straight away. Muriel, who couldn’t stop shaking her head at me every time our gazes met, got hold of Toby, gave him an explicit “two hundred yards southwest of the old homesteader cabin” location, and told him to be waiting for Marie at our place with a trailer.

It took almost half an hour before we heard the familiar hum of an approaching ATV engine in the woods. It was the longest half hour of my life, with the poor dog taking turns whimpering in pain and baring its fangs every time Muriel tried to get anywhere near the trap. Marie got to work immediately, sinking a dart between the dog’s shoulders and, as soon as his lids shuttered, releasing the metal teeth with deft skill. Toby and I helped lift the unconscious dog—who Toby put at a hundred twenty pounds—onto an old bedsheet that Marie brought, and then she wrapped his mangled leg, wearing a furrowed brow the entire time.

Our convoy of ATVs emerged from the woods as Jonah was landing, Marie sitting cross-legged in the trailer, cradling the animal’s head in her arms as best she could, a grim mask of determination on her pretty face.

She never complained once through all of it. Not as the wagon hit bone-jarring bump after bump, not as the dog’s blood seeped through the gauze and blanket, staining her jeans, not even as Muriel attempted to instruct her about where she should put the tranquilizer, on how best to release the trap, and how tight to bandage the wounds.

The woman who still secretly pines over Jonah was, for lack of a better word, inspiring. Also, incredibly intimidating for her even temper and skill.

The least I can do is deal with this asshole while Marie tries to save a life.

Roy is outside when we approach the cabin, removing slabs of wood from the back of his pickup truck. The barn’s door is propped open, giving me a glimpse of the many tools and work benches inside.

His truck is caked with dried mud, its sides wearing countless scratches in the paint. From the tree branches along his narrow driveway, I surmise. The oversized tires are likely what tore up the ground.

The enormous black wolf dog is nearby, growl-barking.

“Settle down!” Roy yells. The wolf dog instantly quiets and sits on his haunches. I wonder if it’s the words or his tone that get such an immediate response. Is the dog as daunted by Roy as I am?

I steel my spine as Jonah cuts the engine. “Hey, Roy. How’s it goin’?” He doesn’t bother climbing off to shake the man’s hand this time.

Roy makes a grunting sound that might be a greeting. His old worn blue jeans and checkered jacket—possibly the same outfit he was wearing last time we came here—are covered in sawdust again. The rifle is nowhere in sight, thankfully.

“Listen, we found your dog caught in a bear trap, out in the woods. We called a good friend who’s a veterinarian to help. She took it to her clinic to see if anything can be done,” Jonah says, cutting all pretenses of small talk.

“Damn animal … He’s been wandering off for weeks.” Roy’s tense jaw the only sign that the grim news has any impact on him. “He gonna lose his leg? ’Cause I got no use for a lame dog.”

Jonah sighs heavily. “I don’t know

, Roy.” He slips Marie’s business card out of his shirt pocket. “Here’s my friend’s number. She’ll give you an update, and you can decide what to do.”

Wait a minute. “What does that mean? Decide what to do?” I whisper.

Jonah shoots a pointed look over his shoulder at me that tells me it’s exactly what I think it means.