Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

Chapter Ten

“This has to be it.” Jonah slows at the end of the road where a rustic wooden sign with R. Donovan carved into it is nailed to a tree. It’s a good thing he suggested we take one of Phil’s old snow machines because the path ahead looks more like a hiking trail than a driveway, unfit for any full-sized vehicle. A trail that’s not in use. It hasn’t snowed in almost a week, according to the local weather reports, and yet there isn’t a hint of tracks in or out of the property from this direction.

My arms are roped tightly around Jonah’s waist as we coast down the lane, deeper and deeper into the woods, passing two neon yellow No Trespassing signs. A little farther ahead is yet another sign, this one wooden with carved letters painted black, that reads, “I support the right to stand my ground.”

“What does that mean?” I holler over the low, rugged hum of the engine.

“Different things to different people,” Jonah answers cryptically, rounding a bend of trees, only to discover that the trail continues.

“I don’t think this is the right way!”

Jonah points at a spot above the trees, and I see the haze of smoke that sails upward, countering my worries. The snow machine’s engine whirs as he speeds up.

The forest finally thins, revealing a tiny weathered one-story cabin with a screened-in porch off the front, missing a porch door. Beyond it is a barn at least three times the size of the home and several smaller shacks and lean-tos. In between is a whole lot of everything. Barrels, pails, used tires, gas cans and propane tanks, wood in various states—from fallen trees to neatly chopped kindling. Three old trucks sit off to one side, two of them rusted and missing parts.

It looks like a junkyard.

Jonah cuts the engine as two enormous dogs round the corner of the barn, charging toward us, their growl-barks unsettling. The closer they get, the less they look like dogs and the more they look like wolves.

“Jonah?” I call out, lifting my left leg, readying to kick in defense as the black one moves in, teeth bared.

The front door of the cabin opens with a loud creak, and a man emerges. “Oscar! Gus! Heel!” His harsh tone cuts through the chaos.

The wolf dogs quiet instantly and settle back on their haunches, licking their maws. The mottled-gray one—the seemingly calmer of the two—locks its sharp yellow gaze on me. As if waiting for a twitch, a cough—some reason to lunge.

Chickens cluck frantically from the coop nearby, stirred by all the commotion.

“You Roy?” Jonah calls out.

The man, who has moved to the opening at the top of the porch steps where a door belongs, stares hard at Jonah for a minute, as if considering his answer. He’s in his fifties, at least—maybe older—and weathered looking, either by age or hardship or both, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly off his face much darker than the scruffy solid-gray beard that covers his jaw. Sawdust clings to his blue jeans and heavy flannel jacket. “Who’s askin’?” he demands, in an accent that belongs somewhere in the Deep South.

With a wary glance at the wolf dogs and a comforting squeeze of my thigh, Jonah climbs off the snow machine and strolls over to the front porch. He slides off his right glove as he eases up the three steps. “I’m Jonah Riggs.”

Roy studies Jonah’s proffered hand for a long moment before accepting it in a single up-and-down handshake.

“We moved in next door. Bought Phil’s place.”

Next door is a stretch. We’re miles away from this guy. At least, it feels like it, with the two lengthy driveways.

“Right.” Roy sniffs. “The pilot who wants to fly his goddamn planes over my head all the livelong day.” There’s no small amount of bitterness in his tone, nor in the steely glare he settles on Jonah. A challenge, perhaps. To what, I don’t know. Jonah is a physically intimidating man—well over six feet tall and broad shouldered. It’s hard to compare Roy, standing several steps above, his shoulders hunched, but I’d bet money Jonah has as many pounds on Roy as Roy has years on Jonah. And yet, if Roy is the least bit intimidated by his visitor, he doesn’t show it.

Jonah eases back down the porch steps, glancing over his shoulder, to give me a look—part amused, part “can you believe this guy?”—before facing our friendly neighbor again. “Phil said you were plannin’ on takin’ his goat. We thought we’d check to see if you’re still interested.”

Roy’s attention swings to the barn where five goats of varying size mill along the fence line, curious of the newcomers. A large clearing stretches out beyond the barn. “Got enough goats.”

“I see that.” Jonah nods slowly. “So, what’s one more, then? Looks like you’ve got a big barn there. And you obviously know what you’re doin’. I’ll even throw in some hay and grain. Enough to get you through till spring.”

“Why don’t you want him?”

“We’re not in a place to take on livestock right now. We’re just startin’ out.”

“Huh. Just starting out.” Roy smirks. “All you outsiders, coming here to ‘just start out.’” Again, that bitter tone laces his words.

I may be an outsider, but Jonah certainly is not. I feel the urge to point out that Jonah grew up in the Anchorage area, that’s he’s as Alaskan as they come, but Jonah speaks before I get a chance to decide if I should.

“It’d be a big favor to us if you took him off our hands, added him to your herd.” I hear the strain in Jonah’s voice. He doesn’t have patience in the face of attitude.

Roy shifts on his boots, moving out from behind the porch post and into full view. It’s only then that I see the gun propped against the floor in his left hand.