Page 17 of Seeking Shelter

I stop just inside the door with Jonah at my back.

The dingy window allows in minimal light. I clear my throat. “On the plus side, it’s dry, so the roof doesn’t leak. And there’s a wood burner.”

Jonah points. “With wood in that crate.”

There are a couple chairs but no table, and the bed is a wide plywood platform with no mattress. A long shelf holds a large container with a spigot for water, bins that look like they’ve been here a decade, and a couple dusty lanterns.

Hands on my shoulders, Jonah moves me aside. He lowers his backpack to the bed platform and opens it. Rummaging inside, he pulls out a plastic bag and hands it to me. “I packed these this morning. You get the fire started, I’ll get the water.”

“You brought matches?” I hold up the bag to inspect the contents. “And purification tablets? Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You got us to a safe place for tonight. I brought supplies just in case.” He pauses. “We make a good team.”

He heads out with the water jug and I set to work. My fingers are numb with cold, but a few broken matchsticks later, I hold the tiny flame to the kindling. It catches, and in minutes the small blaze is growing.

I glance out the window, trying to spot Jonah. He’s been gone longer than it takes to fill the water jug. Maybe he had trouble finding the spring.

An uneasy feeling has me grabbing the rifle and moving to the door.

The spring is near a clump of aspen trees and that’s where I go. The rain has eased and everything is wet and dripping. I’m cautious and don’t call out.

I find the water jug lying beside a small pond. The spring box made of roughhewn lumber houses the water source. Jonah’s standing in the doorway, a finger to his lips. He lifts his chin toward the trees.

A black bear peers through the gray trunks of aspens. It circles the pond, stopping to lap water, then lumbers across the open space between us. My hand rests on the bear spray canister attached to my belt. It squats and pees, which identifies her as female, and this time of year she’ll likely have cubs. I remain still, knowing Jonah will do the same. I’m positive the sow smells us. Hopefully, she won’t see us as a threat. Black bears aren’t aggressive, except for mamas protecting their young.

A rustling from the undergrowth tells me we’re not in the clear yet. Sure enough, two cubs, I estimate they’re about four months old, chase each other into the open.

They make a beeline for the blue water jug. One cub jumps on it and the other joins in. They play until the jug ends up bobbing in the pond.

Mama bear grunts, the sound she makes holding a universal mother “I’ve had enough, kids” tone. But a splash is followed by another and both cubs are in the water, playing with their floating toy. Climbing on it, rolling it, batting at it. Jonah catches my eye and the corner of his mouth tilts up.

With a huff every mom understands, the sow wades into the pond and grabs a cub by the scruff and hauls it out. As soon as she turns her back to retrieve her other baby, the first cub charges back into the water.

The process plays out twice more before the frustrated mama convinces her babies to follow her and they disappear into the trees.

I take a few minutes to make sure they’re gone before moving toward Jonah.

His eyes are bright with laughter as I approach. “I swear that bear was just as exasperated as my mom when she couldn’t get me and my sisters out of the creek. They’re fucking cute.”

“We have a pond at the ranch. Brooks used to—” I catch sight of his hand. “Jonah, you’re bleeding.”

Blood is dripping from his hand and onto the ground. I swear my heart stops when I grab his wrist. A diagonal gash about an inch long on the heel of his left palm oozes blood. Cradling his hand, I inspect the wound. “How’d you do this?”

“You don’t want to know. It’s stupid.”

I look up and raise a brow. “I grew up with four brothers. I know stupid. Tell me.”

He gestures to the door behind him. “I pushed against the door and didn’t see this piece of metal sticking out. I think it’s from an old hinge. It cut right through the skin.”

“First-aid kit’s in the cabin. Your tetanus shot up to date?”

“Not due for another couple years.”

“Let’s go. This needs to be cleaned or it’ll get infected.” I take his uninjured hand and try pulling him in the direction of the cabin. He doesn’t budge, and his raised eyebrow brings a flush of warmth to my cheeks.

“What?”

“You’re worried about me.”