Page 77 of Wanting a Family Man

This is how humans turned from seeing forest creatures as friendly companions to brunch, she thought ironically. Was that how the wolf would regard her? Was he hungry enough to take down something that would put up a fight?

Exactly how much fight could she put up when she couldn’t take two steps in a row?

She’d rather not test it. She began to sing, catching at whatever verse or chorus or spoken rhyme came to mind. Hip hop had been the anthem of her high school years. Tiff had been a fan of top forty and their mother had made them question whether “greatest hits of the eighties and nineties” was actually an oxymoron. The car dealership had played a relentless loop of yacht rock so she had lots to choose from in her mental playlist.

While she sang, she fiddled with trying to make her own crutch, but wound up breaking off one arm of the Y, which was disheartening.

More firewood, she reasoned and turned her attention to sorting the pebbles beside her into colors and sizes. She had never looked closely enough to realize there were mint greens and pastel pinks and ambient blues mingled with the slate grays and stark whites.

She was soothing herself with The Weeknd’s “Can’t Feel My Face,” reminding herself not to worry…“a-bout it”… She hummed the next line because she didn’t remember it, then something-something, “Ne-ver be alo-oh-ohne… Woo!”

She absently lifted her gaze and there he was, sitting like any house dog near the top of the waterfall.

Her voice, breath, heart all lurched to a halt. A zing of alarm went through her whole body, stinging her limbs so hard she was immobilized. It was the frozen bunny syndrome she had heard of, but never experienced, not like this.

She was terrified, but oddly, not afraid at all because her brain got busy trying to convince her it was a domestic husky or a German shepherd, but no. It was definitely a wolf.

He was twenty yards or so away up there. His black and gray and brown coloring blended into the wet rocks and striations in the bark of the nearby trees. He could lope down to her a lot quicker than she could get away, but as long as they were looking at each other, she figured she was okay.

Her ears stung, though, trying to hear any crack in the brush that might indicate there was a pack making its way to attack her.

“Did you have any requests?” she called up as she reached for the bear spray and stuck the end of her crutch into the fire. “‘Werewolf in London,’ maybe?” She didn’t actually know that song beyond the title. She only knew it existed because it was on every Halloween playlist with that other classic “Monster Mash.”

As time seemed to stretch out into a thin strand, the raven came back. Its wings made theswoop-swoop-swoopnoise as it tilted through the branches and landed above her. It let out one of its rasping squawks.

After a moment, the wolf pushed himself to turn away in what seemed like contemptuous boredom. He melted into the woods, leaving her stomach in knots.

Cloe listened hard, trying to convince herself he had decided she was neither a threat nor easy prey. When she glanced up, she genuinely expected the raven to poop on her, but it gave another squawk and hopped off its branch, disappearing into the upper boughs of the trees.

Suddenly there was a loud crack behind her. Still holding the bear spray, Cloe whipped onto her knees and pointed—

*

“Don’t spray me!”Trystan hung back, even though he wanted to rush toward her and scoop her up, he was so relieved to see she was perfectly fine.

Cloe frowned with confusion and looked back at the waterfall before she sank onto her hip. “I didn’t realize you were so close by.”

“I told you I can move fast when I’m on my own.” He unhooked the radio from his belt and clicked it. “Office, I’ve got Cloe.”

A second later, Logan’s voice replied, “Received. What’s her condition?”

“How’s your ankle?” Trystan asked her. “I brought crutches.” He pointed to where they were duct-taped to the SAR bag he wore. “Can we limp you to the beach and leave by boat? Or do you want an airlift?”

“God, no! I can’t afford that. No, it’s swollen, but it only hurts if I put weight on it. I can make it to the beach.” That statement was mostly bravado, he suspected, but he nodded.

He didn’t bother explaining that she wouldn’t be charged for her rescue. Even if she was, it was his fault she was out here so he’d take care of it.

He relayed that a water extraction would be fine.

“Coast guard says high winds are forecast for tomorrow. They can be in the cove in an hour,” Logan said. “Can you get to the beach before dark?”

“We’ll do our best. Over and out.” Trystan ended the transmission and lowered the volume, then clipped the radio back onto his belt.

As he slipped off the bag, he took in the fire in its neat circle of rocks. Her clothes were staked out beside it, drying while also providing a screen to trap the heat. She had extra wood handy along with the bear spray and had amused herself by arranging colored pebbles into a crude mandala. The extra gear he’d left with her was either in use or stowed in the pack. She wasn’t a messy camper. Her foot was wrapped and her cheek was clean.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I would have erected a cabin, but I realized that was perpetuating the colonial mindset. It’s too bad I can’t stay. I’ve already met the neighbors. They seem nice.”

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