me ever since.”
I looked down at the husky trotting by my side. “You know he’s not, right?”
“Not what?”
“A wolf.”
The man’s eyes dropped to the dog.
“He’s a Siberian husky. Probably a sled dog,” I said.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing and the dog’s feet puncturing the snow. The man mumbled something, I wasn’t sure what, but it sounded like: “Looked like a wolf to me.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
Long pause like he was thinking about it. “Jax,” he said. Seemed like a lie, but why would he lie about his name? Something was off about this man. I knew the potential danger I was in. Alone with a strange man, in the middle of nowhere, too far away to call for help. What a stupid idea it was to invite him back to the cabins. Why had I done that? God, it was so exciting.
“Lynn,” I said, not that he’d bothered to ask my name. He still didn’t say anything. “Short for Gwendolynn. Gwendolynn McBride. It’s Scottish.” Why was I still talking? Maybe because he wasn’t.
“It’s a nice name,” he said.
We continued the rest of the way in silence, the sun a ball of flame beneath cotton clouds.
Ken, Jeryl, and Ramsey were all out when we made it to the cabins. Probably hunting, or fishing, in Ramsey’s case. Mom was coming from the animal pens, with a feed bucket for Hector, Helen, and Stankbutt in her arms. She took one look at the man and his dog and her body went stiff, her face as blank as I’d ever seen. She was wearing her brown Carhartts, black gloves, and heavy blue jacket with the fake fur lining. Her hood was pulled up, and her freckled cheeks were red.
“Lynn,” she said. The word froze in the air. I once saw a video of a woman tossing scalding-hot coffee out of her window in winter in northern Alaska. Minus-whatever temperatures. As the liquid hit the air, it puffed into white mist. The sound of my name on Mom’s lips was something like that. Lynn—puff.
“Mom, this is Jax. Found him by the river. Told him that we could spare a bite to eat.”
There was panic in her eyes as she turned to our cabin and rushed through the door, not bothering to close it behind her.
“Mom?”
I looked back at Jax. He didn’t look surprised.
“Maybe I should go,” he said. “Don’t want to upset anyone.”
Then Mom came bursting through the wooden door, shotgun in hand, pointing at Jax. Jax raised his hands.
“Mom!”
“You sick? Any fever, sniffles, cough?” Mom asked.
“Mom, he’s fine,” I said at the same time that Jax said, “No, ma’am.”
“Any weapons on you?”
He shook his head. “Had a bow. It broke when I took a spill in the snow a few days ago.”
“What do you do for food?”
“My knife.” He pointed to his belt, where a knife—nearly a foot long from blade to hilt—hung in a leather sheath. A good, healthy knife, for skinning and for killing.
“Mom, put the gun down.” She didn’t move an inch. Her gaze was trained on him. I saw her finger hovering over the trigger. She was ready to kill the man, the quiet librarian in her long gone, fire in her eyes.
“You hunt with just a knife?” Mom asked.
Jax shook his head. “Not well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken your offer for food.”
“Not my offer.” She adjusted the gun against her shoulder.
“Mom, what the hell?” I said.
She glanced at me for half a heartbeat. “This was a stupid, stupid move, Gwendolynn.”
Mom’s boots ground the snow beneath her feet as she backed up a few paces. Wolf was taking a piss on the corner of our cabin.
“Go inside,” Mom said, gesturing with the barrel of the gun toward the door. “Dog stays out here.”
“Dog does what he wants,” Jax said, lowering his hands. I don’t think he meant to sound challenging. I think he was just telling it like it was. But it didn’t do him any favors with Mom.
“As long as what he wants isn’t to come inside.” She looked to the animal shed. “He gonna bug my animals?”
Jax shrugged. “Don’t think so.”
It was then that I realized that Jax wasn’t afraid. Not in the least. You learn how to spot fear when you hunt. You can see it in an animal’s posture, in their ears, the tensing of their muscles. You know when they’re about to bolt. Jax seemed completely relaxed, tired even.
“Get in,” Mom said. It was a command.
Jax obeyed. Slowly.
If I wasn’t so embarrassed by Mom’s paranoia, I probably would have thought the sight of her cooking food with a shotgun in her hand was hilarious. I helped build the fire, set the pots, even retrieved the deer meat and vegetables from the freeze out back. She spilled hot water, nearly dropped the meat, but the whole time, she kept an eye on Jax.
“Where you from, Jax?” she asked.
“The States.”
“Where?”
Pause. “Montana.” Was he lying again? Damn. You’re not helping your case, Jax.
“You walked all this way?” Mom asked, stirring the pot and sticking the meat on a grill that Jeryl had mounted over the fireplace when we first built the cabin.
“Had a horse for a while.”
“What happened to it?”
He frowned, like he was taken aback by the question. “Went lame.”
“You eat it?”
“Jesus, Mom.”
“Language, Gwendolynn.”
Jax watched. Mom stirred the pot.
“Yes, I did. Ate what I could, packed what I could carry.”
When the food was served, Jax dove in without saying grace. Mom took up her shotgun again and aimed it at him while he ate. He didn’t seem to mind. There was something gratifying about watching
