Page 115 of Breeding Clinic

Decision made, I turn the snowmobile around and follow the path I’ve made. The machine struggles to go uphill, nearly stalling on a buried rock or branch. Getting it out sends me right into the path of a tree.

The ground gives way, and my eyes widen as I lose control. The heavy snowmobile makes the snow covering the tree well collapse. Low branches slap at me as I brace for the impact and try to not be impaled. Something wet trickles down the side of my face. Breathing hard, I cut the engine and wipe my face. My glove comes away red with blood where a branch scratched me.

That was close. Way too close. I could have been blinded or killed. Broken my arm or leg. And now the snowmobile is stuck, wedged into a snow trap that forms when thick, loose snow makes an unstable ring around a tree with low branches.

If the snow were deeper, I might be dead now. Skiers get trapped in wells, the snow collapsing on top of them once they’ve broken through. If I’d been thrown and hit my head…

But I didn’t. And now I need to get out. And somehow I have to get the snowmobile out too. I’ll never make it on foot.

A couple of branches are what’s keeping me from riding out of this tree well. I grab the thickest one and lean back on my seat, kicking my foot up to brace against it for leverage. It bends and bends until my muscles strain, my arms and back aching with the effort. Finally, it breaks with a loud crack. I nearly fall off the snow machine into the snow as the branch hangs limp.

One down, two more to go. I channel all of my rage and fear into escaping. Into breaking the branches holding me pinned. If I had an ax, a saw, a knife, anything, this would be easier. But I have nothing. Nothing but my two hands and determination driven by my threatened pregnant mate.

I grit my teeth and growl as I pull on the next branch while kicking it. My boot slips off, so I try again. Putting everything I have into it. It breaks off and I toss it aside, then reach for the final one. There’s something primal and satisfying about ripping a tree apart with your own two hands.

Settling back into my seat, I angle the snowmobile and rev the engine, leaning forward to guide it up the edge of the snow well. It rocks and churns, trying and failing to move up and out. Falling snow pelts my face, my mouth, my lap. I shake it off and clamp down my gritted teeth and rock.

The engine sputters like it’s threatening to die.

“Come on, you bastard,” I growl, pulling the throttle and throwing myself forward. The machine hesitates for a moment, then lurches. It chews its way out of the snow well and I let out a loud whoop of delight as, once more, I’m underway.

My fresh tracks look old. That’s how much snow has fallen. I’m not sure when it picked up again, but it’s practically a blizzard. I can barely see anything but the falling snowflakes illuminated by the snowmobile’s light and my lantern.

The engine rumbles underneath me and I worry about a slipped belt or some other mechanical failure that could leave me stranded. Leave me out here and my mates up at the house, isolated and afraid.

I pat the machine and wipe more snow off it. “You can do it. You hear me? Because we can’t fail.” I don’t know if I’m talking to it or me. Probably both.

Following my old trail and backtracking takes ages. The snow tracks look old. As if they were made hours ago instead of minutes. The wind blows the snow into my face until it feels like stinging little daggers. I squint against the onslaught, but press on, following my old winding tracks through the wind-changed drifts. The battle uphill is rougher. The snowmobile’srumbles get rougher, and I will it to keep going. To not die on me and leave me out here alone and lost to freeze to death.

Am I taking too long? Will the ambulance still be there? Or have they given up and gone home to warm beds to try again tomorrow? There’s no way to call them. To reassure them, I’m still coming. All I can do is keep trying, and hope, and pray. So that’s what I do.

Dear God, don’t let me be too late. I know I haven’t been a very good Catholic. I don’t go to mass or confession as often as I should. But if you see me through this, things will change. Please guide me. Give me the strength to keep going. Don’t let this all be too late, or for nothing. Please save my omega. Please save my baby. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go to mass. Go to confession. I’ll read that damn book. Just give me a sign. Guide me. Please.

A scream in the woods makes me flinch and slow down. My heart pounds in my chest and adrenaline floods my system.Was that a woman screaming?My eyes dart around, looking for its source.What the fuck was that?Every nerve in my body is alight, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck. Fear makes me think it’s Kat. That I’m closer to the house than I thought. Reality tells me it could be a bobcat or mountain lion. Mountain lions are rare up here, but sometimes there are sightings. This mountain is wooded enough. Would I even know if I was being hunted? Would some primal, hidden sense alert me? I scan the tree line for the flash of two reflective eyes and hold my breath.

A flash of movement in the distance makes me flinch. The creature screams again and peers out through its perch in the knot of a tree. An owl?

It should be hunkered down, warm and dry. Not perched at the edge of its nest and making noise. Not during a snowstorm.There’s no easy hunting in a storm. Better to wait it out when the hunt for food isn’t so cold and wet.

The white and gray owl takes flight, and I only hesitate for a moment. What if this is the sign I prayed for? It flies off, moving away from my tracks. Nearly disappearing in the white out between snow-laden trees. My light only penetrates so far in the dark woods. I only have a second to decide. To choose between backtracking along my old paths or to press on toward pristine snow, following it.

It screams again; the sound echoing. And I make my choice. I rev the engine and take off, following it. Barely watching where I’m going as I try to keep it in sight. I avoid the trees, navigating between them and keeping my distance so I don’t get stuck in another tree well.

Instinct tells me that if I get stuck again, I won’t get out so easily next time. It’s a strange thing, relying on instinct instead of reason. Navigating through nature. I’m a pub owner. I’m not the sort of alpha who likes to go on days’ long hunting trips and sleep rough and reconnect with my roots. With my buried, irrelevant instincts.

The owl veers to the left, flying uphill, and my snowmobile cuts through the snow like its butter. It takes the steep incline fast and smooth. Hope buoys me for the first time since I made this crazy decision to come out here and lead the ambulance and plow. Made the crazier decision to follow a damn bird like it’s a burning bush.

My snowmobile levels out, and I notice this stretch of snow is treeless. Is this the road? Did I cut across and find it again? I glance around, squinting to keep snowflakes out of my eyes as I hold up my lantern and peer through the dark.

There, down the incline, are my old tracks. There’s a crack, loud and harrowing. A tree breaks under the weight of the snow. It must be rotted because it splinters apart and falls. It landsacross my old tracks, sending snow flying from its branches and a rough landing.

Icy dread grips me. If I hadn’t followed that owl, I could have been pinned under that. I would have been. Something deep inside me knows it to be the truth. In another lifetime, because of another decision, I could be dead or dying right now.

Follow the road,I remind myself. There’s no time for dwelling on the fears of what might have been or could be still. Not when my family needs me.Pull yourself together.

The owl is gone, lost in the winter storm. Maybe returned, safe and sound, to its nest. Up is the house. Somehow, I know it. As if my instincts recognise something of this landscape. It’s time to listen to that unflexed part of me. To let my alpha nature take over and guide me.

My thighs are numb from having snow dumped in my lap. My face burns with each harsh slap of the wind. Snowflakes coat the hair on my face and cling to my eyelashes and brow.

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