Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“Can you get me a cowbell?”

“Sure. I’ll also tell you where you can shove it.” My gaze trails the gash above his left eyebrow.

“How many stitches?”

I count them. “Six, I think?” I smooth my palm over his beard. It needs a trim. “At least it’s smaller than the last one.”

He laces his fingers through mine. “Am I still pretty enough for you?”

Chapter Forty

December

The cold bites my cheeks as I sail across the frozen lake on the snow machine, and for a moment, I regret mocking the neoprene face mask Jonah brought home for me ahead of this cold spell. I complained that I would look like a criminal.

But at least I’d look like a criminal without frostbite.

I pull up next to the other snow machine parked at the edge of the shoreline. Oscar and Gus catch up, their tails wagging. “I win!” I tease, giving Oscar a head scratch as I climb off my seat. Lately, the wolf dogs spend more time here than at their home.

I march up the cleared path, marveling at the winter wonderland before me. It snowed for the last four days straight before the drastic temperature drop, blanketing the earth in white. The tree branches sag beneath the weight of their snow coats, sprinkling me with snowflakes as I brush past.

Ahead, the small log cabin sits nestled within the forest, soft light filling the two new windows we cut into the lakeside wall for more light and a view. A steady stream of smoke curls up into the frosty air above it. All around, the trees have been trimmed back to allow for light while also respecting nature.

Behind the cabin, on the narrow laneway we put in last August, sits the scratched-up black truck, with its tires chained and its bed loaded with carpentry tools.

“You two stay here,” I order as I kick off the snow from my boots, leaving the hounds on the porch. Warmth envelops me the moment I push through the new red door. “It’s so damn cold out there.” I shudder for emphasis, inhaling the scent of fresh-cut wood as I do every time I come here. While the cabin was in good shape, I wanted a bright, clean feel inside. Everything has been clad with new wood, with a rolling barn-door-type wall to separate the bedroom from the living space and a tiny bathroom in the far right corner, behind the compact kitchen that Roy is putting finishing touches on.

“Too bad you don’t have anything to protect your face,” Jonah says, shoving another log into the woodstove in the corner.

I smirk at his sarcasm as I haul the basket of lunch onto a small folding table that the guys have been using for meals. “The soup was hot when I packed it, but I don’t know how old this thermos is, so don’t let it sit too long. There’s also roast beef on whole-grain buns—store-bought,” I confirm with annoyance, when I see the wary look Jonah and Roy share. I’ve

been testing out recipes with Colette’s bread machine and, let’s just say I have a ways to go before I’m serving the results to guests. I certainly won’t be feeding any of it to Jonah’s mom and stepfather when they arrive next week.

Jonah hauls himself to his feet and wanders over to root through the basket, pausing long enough to plant a kiss on my lips.

“Yours is waiting for you at home,” I scold, playfully slapping his hand away before I smooth mine over his forearm. It’s noticeably thinner, but growing stronger every day. Of all Jonah’s injuries, his arm took the longest to heal—almost three months. He was stuck on the ground and grumpy for most of it, and supervising Steve and his crew so intently that they finished ahead of schedule, likely to get away. But he’s been cast-free and in the air for the past month, his mood back to normal.

“How long before you have to leave?” I ask. Archie is sitting on his skis at the end of the airstrip, waiting for takeoff. We’re down to one plane while Toby overhauls Phil’s old plane—it doesn’t even have seats anymore—and Jonah decides what he wants to do with the insurance money collected from Veronica.

Jonah checks his watch. “An hour.”

“Same here. I promised Muriel I’d be at the Christmas bazaar to make sure everything’s running smoothly.” We’re on the second weekend of the Winter Carnival. Last weekend brought record attendance. I’d like to think it had something to do with the marketing campaign Emily and I launched, targeting radio and news stations between here and Anchorage, tourist companies, schools, markets—basically everyone. We even rallied local celebrities and politicians who were more than happy to attend last weekend’s fireworks display and a fun airshow that Sam’s Fire Boss planes put on, as a tribute to all the hard work of the firefighters this past summer.

Muriel has already confirmed with glee that the community center is getting its new restrooms in the spring. The library may even get the face-lift it so desperately needs.

She also informed me that the head of the planning committee for Anchorage’s Farmers’ Market contacted her to find out which brilliant firm they hired to do their marketing because they want to revamp their summer-long program.

“Mabel say how she’s doin’?” Jonah reaches for his jacket on the hook by the door.

“Yeah. Sales have been steady.” I say this to Jonah but I mean it more for Roy to hear. Mabel and Agnes flew in yesterday to help out. Mabel’s been running the table for Roy’s carvings at the bazaar. “People keep asking her who The Curmudgeon is.”

Roy takes a break from glaring at the level on the countertop to glare at me, before shifting back. “I wish I’d made the bases smaller, so you wouldn’t have any room to sign ’em.”

“Oh, I’d find a way to make it happen.” I wink. “And your website is getting a lot of hits.” I launched The Curmudgeon Carvings without asking a month ago, mainly to showcase his work and to take online orders. Since last weekend, three customers have made purchases. “Someone asked for a custom carving—”

“No custom!” He steps back from the counter, level in hand, seemingly satisfied with his work. As with everything wood-related, Roy has been meticulous with each cut and angle of this interior. I knew he would be when I rolled up to his place a week after Jonah’s crash to ask if he’d be interested in refinishing the inside of his family’s cabin. It was a job I was going to task Steve and his crew with, but my gut told me that given the years of effort and care Roy had secretly put into the place, he might appreciate being the one to help bring it new life.

He seemed surprised to see me that day, and doubtful that I’d actually want to work with him. I assume that’s because of the confession he made on what I can only hope will remain the darkest day of my life.