Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

Zeke keeps bleating and running and keeling over, clearly aware of the potential danger an animal like Oscar presents. If Oscar wasn’t making me so nervous, I would be laughing and recording Zeke’s fainting spells on my phone to play for Jonah later. But right now, I need to get the goat back into his pen where he’s protected by electric wire, and I’m too afraid to turn my back on Oscar.

He’s a dog. He’s just a dog, I remind myself. And I did save his life.

“Go home!” I say loudly, attempting authority.

The dog merely blinks.

“Go home!” I yell. I’m sure I don’t sound nearly as threatening as Roy does.

After a fifteen-second staring contest, Oscar turns and slowly limps off, disappearing into the trees.

With a sigh of relief, I collect my bag of garden supplies and lead our fainting goat back to his pen, checking over my shoulder frequently.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Some towns have a main street for events. This is the hub for Trapper’s Crossing,” Muriel explains, charging toward the double doors of the blue-gray community center, a blue folder stuffed with paperwork tucked beneath her arm. “We run pretty much everything out of here. The Carnival in December, which runs over two weekends and includes our annual holiday bazaar and Christmas dinner. We had locals camped out in here during the fires three years ago, when they had to evacuate their homes. People even rent it out for weddings.” She waggles her finger at me. “You know … you and Jonah should think about that when the time comes. With the lake behind, it’s quite nice. And, if we can make enough money at this year’s carnival, we should have upgraded restroom facilities by next year.”

“That’s … something to think about.” I school my expression—and my horror at the idea of having my wedding reception in the Trapper’s Crossing community center. Meanwhile, I can’t ignore the nervous stir in my stomach at the mention of marriage. It reminds me that there is a ring hidden somewhere in our house, meant for me. When I’ll see it again, though … who knows.

“That there is our new covered ice rink.” She nods toward a pavilion-like structure on the other side of the enormous dusty gravel parking lot. “Cost us almost half a million dollars and five years of groveling to the Mat-Su Borough to get that put in. Poor kids finally don’t have to spend half their hockey practices shoveling snow off the ice. Anyway, it’s where we hold our market every Friday afternoon, come end of June through till mid-September, and I’ll tell ya, it’s been a blessin’ on those rainy days.”

Inside the center is a long, simple corridor with a few empty folding tables, waiting to be used. To the right is the town’s library, a brown-and-beige room with dim lights and only a handful of bookshelf aisles. One lonely woman sits behind a desk, staring at her computer screen. To the left are double doors that, I assume, lead into the community hall. It reminds me of an elementary school—speckled gray flooring, white ceiling tiles, dim fluorescent lighting, and walls lined with team pictures and painted an unflattering lemon-yellow, a color meant to inspire cheeriness but rarely does. It even smells faintly like school—a mix of musty books, white craft glue, and industrial floor cleaner lingering in the air.

The lights flicker overhead. “The money we earn from the carnival each year goes toward upkeep of this building, and we are in desperate need of improvements.” A worried frown mars Muriel’s face “This is the fiftieth year and, to be honest, attendance hasn’t been great lately. We’ve got to find a way to draw more people out.”

“So … who does the marketing?” I ask casually. I don’t want to step on any toes.

“Emily. Remember her? You went out runnin’ with her that one time.”

The super quiet woman with zero personality? Vaguely.

“She’s workin’ on something special for this year’s poster.”

“A poster.” Tell me that’s not the extent of their marketing campaign?

“Yes! We put them up all over the Mat-Su Borough. Gets people excited.”

Right.

“What if I helped her? I think you could use a new website and a social media campaign and …” My words fade as Muriel waves me off with a doubtful expression.

“Emily’s got all that covered. Besides, have you ever been to a winter carnival in Alaska?”

“Well, no. But there’s this Christmas market in Toronto—”

“How are you supposed to convince people to come when you’ve never even been?” She shakes her head but then offers me a reassuring smile. “That social media may have worked where you come from, but none of that stuff works on people around here. Don’t worry. We’ll keep you busy.”

I struggle to smooth the sour look from my face and trail her through another set of doors and into the hall—a dull, sterile, windowless rectangular room. A group of nine women of varying ages and one gray-haired man chatter while rearranging long tables into a horseshoe. One of them—Candace, from the Trading Post—I recognize.

“Lift those legs, ladies!” Muriel croons in a singsong voice, as if to mask that she’s giving them an order. “Remember when Sally gouged the floor last year dragging a table? The town council was not happy about that.”

“You’re on the council, Muriel,” Candace says with a chuckle. She’s wearing the same pale blue floral-embroidered cardigan and Crocs that she always wears at her store.

“Exactly! And I was not happy about wastin’ money to fix it.” Muriel slaps her folder on the table—in the center of the horseshoe, I note. “Go on and grab yourself a chair, Calla, and come sit next to me.”

Several women—including Emily—offer me polite smiles as I pass, heading for a stack of chairs off to the side.

“I found a church pew the other day and I thought of you,” Candace says, trailing after me.