“But you won’t talk to me.” Real disappointment entered her eyes, infused her scent.
“Not about this.”
“So what will you do? Go to bed and dream about it?”
“Go for a long walk in the woods, and if I’m wide awake when I get back, read until dawn.” He gave her the best grin he could muster. “And as long as I don’t do that for multiple nights, I’ll be fine.”
Her grimace didn’t soften, but she gave a nod.
“Will Quinn need anything while you’re gone? Or is there anything I should look out for?”
“Not really. He’ll sleep and wake up better in the morning.”
“I’d ask for your cell number just in case, but my signal comes and goes here, and I haven’t seen you touch a phone yet.”
He chuckled, but his feet were restless. He needed to get out into wide open spaces and breathe for a while. “I do own a phone. I’ll take it with me if you want.”
“Never mind.” She rolled her eyes, but a smirk gave her away. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
Then blessed escape. He strode out of the house and down the hill with measured steps for about fifty feet, and then he broke into a run. His legs pumped. His lungs drew long draughts of muggy night air that smelled alive with soil and creek water and a variety of foliage, with birds and small animals that scattered before him.
Another memory unearthed alongside those disturbed by Quinn’s questions—a walk in woods less wild than these, his hand nestled in his mother’s, a doe and her fawns stepping out on the path in front of them and stopping to stare. He and Mom had stood still together, not even whispering, until the deer moved on. He had marveled at their nearness, their lack of fear. Sometimes he wished he could do that again—come upon an animal in the forest that would look him in the eye, take his measure, and deem itself safe enough to step away at a leisurely pace.
He jumped the creek and set out into the forest. He would go far, maybe all the way to Malachi’s. He’d know property landmarks even at midnight. He couldn’t remember how good or bad his eyesight had been before the age of fifteen, but no doubt the night vision of the wolf beat that of any human. His feet were sure over the uneven ground. He’d never known one of the pack to roll an ankle.
He moved through the darkness, stars bright above him, and stretched out his senses as far as he could. He settled deep into his body and slowly pushed aside the memories. In an hour or two, he’d be able to close his eyes without the assault of bloody images.
Halfway to the edge of his land, a musky odor came to him. An animal, closer than usual and shrinking the distance between them. Large, lumbering, snapping twigs without regard… His brain identified it as a bear, but he had to be mistaken. Tennessee had no wild grizzlies, and the black bear that ranged in this region had vacated Lunar Lane decades ago when the original wolf pack moved in. Well, even if it were a bear, it would avoid him. He pressed on.
Ten minutes later, the odor began to grow thicker. The bear wasn’t avoiding him. In fact it was approaching him. Fast.
Aaron’s pulse notched up. His strength and agility versus the claws and teeth and body weight of the bear. It would be a vigorous fight, but he wouldn’t lose. He angled his path back toward the cabin and began to run. The animal wouldn’t follow him into the clearing, up the hill to the house. If he emerged from the woods before it caught up, he wouldn’t have to kill it.
Seconds after he increased his pace, the bear did the same. It wasn’t lasered in on him as precisely as he’d thought. It was plowing straight for his cabin instead, and its trajectory was about to send it nearer home than he was. Aaron’s heart pounded.
Ember. Quinn. His home. In the path of a mad bear.
Protective rage gripped his body, rose in his chest until his throat released a howling roar. The bear heard it, veered off course, and Aaron charged with all his speed. They would collide in less than ten seconds—
The bear barreled from among the trees on his right, crashing through underbrush, and rammed him full-force. He kept his footing, sprang back from the reach of its paws as it roared, fetid breath and saliva striking Aaron’s face. He leaped onto its back and brought it down to the forest floor. One blow to its skull was all he needed.
It was frothing and slavering, its growl an unnatural groan. And it didn’t retreat as it should have from an apex. It rolled from under him and bellowed. It swiped one massive paw up at him with surprising speed. The tree that provided a momentary shield also hindered his ability to maneuver. He jumped up onto a fallen trunk and sprang again. He brought back his fist as his body hurtled toward the bear, and as he landed on its belly, it kicked out toward him with both hind legs.
Pain tore down his leg, and his blow glanced off the bear’s shoulder. He jumped to his feet, and his leg buckled. The bear came at him, jaws open and greedy.
In the space of a heartbeat he saw himself dying alone in his woods, mauled to pieces, his blood spilled all over the ground he loved so much. Never to see his pack again. Friends. Best friend. The pup given into his care. And the woman he longed to love, to touch. He saw the pack searching for his remains, whatever the bear didn’t consume. They would track down the scent even if only a few blood drops lingered.
No.
Aaron’s hands shot up and grabbed onto the snout and jaw, one hand on top and one beneath, and a growl ripped from his chest as he applied every ounce of force in his body. The mouth snapped shut, and then cartilage yielded with a crack.
The bear made a sound that wasn’t a roar, wasn’t a whimper. Holding on meant death by the claws. Aaron let go. He tried to launch himself at the animal again, but his leg gave out. Still moaning from its shattered face, the bear fled. Aaron scrambled to give chase. Fell to his knees.
He huddled on the ground for long minutes, trying to think, until the searing pain in his leg burned away the stunned fog. Pushing to his feet required great effort. Hot blood ran down his leg into his hiking boot. Cold all over, hot all over, both at the same time.
He took a moment to reorient himself. The cabin seemed such a distance, but he had to get there. In the direction the bear had retreated, he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
