“Even though I’m a pretty good handyman, I won’t be around forever,” he continues. “Better hook yourself a man to help you with this place if you can find one that won’t write you a ticket.”
The joke lands, but it also makes me reflect a moment. The one man who caught my attention had an attitude a mile wide and a lust for writing people up. I don’t respond, and George doesn’t ask me to.
“If nothing else, invite that nice new gal from the market over sometime. A young gal like you isn’t meant to be holed up here alone.” He stops at the small entry table and picks up a framed photo that has lived in that spot for as long as I can remember.
I don’t join him in looking, as I’ve already got the picture memorized. A teenage girl sits on the edge of a picnic table, her head tilted to the side so her brown ponytail dangles in the background. Her smile is coy and a little unsure, as if she’s trying to show the photographer she can act happy. It’s the only photo of my mother my grandparents kept on display, though I’m sure others are hiding somewhere. It’s like they wanted to hold onto this photo with the hope it could occasionally shine a tiny flash of light, one indicative of a life they created that didn’t completely go to waste.
“You look a lot like her,” is all George offers before setting the frame back down and pulling open the door. “Don’t be a stranger, kiddo.” He pulls me in for a gentle side hug and drops a kiss to the top of my head.
After closing the door behind him, I realize I haven’t been hugged in ages, and I’ve unknowingly been going through withdrawals all this time.
5
WOLF
Five fucking days later, I’m back on that same part of Forest’s terrain along the river. Ever since I met that little sharp-tongued, rule-breaking vixen, I’ve gone back at the tail end of my shift, even though I know Forest has already cleared it.
I tell myself lots of stories. I’m following up to make sure she’s abiding by the regulations today so I don’t have to report her. Or I’m making sure there’s no one else pulling any stunts like she did. Or I’m scoping the place out for a future fishing spot for myself. They’re bullshit—all of them.
The truth is, she’s left some kind of mark on me, a lasting impression that no other girl has been able to accomplish. Not in school, not at the bar. Nowhere.
Fuck, she was beautiful. Those hazel eyes were full of smart mischief that could shift to deep, emotional knowledge in a blink. Her T-shirt and jeans hugged her little body just right; as if they’d settled right in on it and made it their home. The few strands of her golden brown hair that didn’t make it into theback of her ball cap tempted me to the smooth plane of her neck and her defined jawline.
But so many women can pull off the natural look, so it’s not only that. It’s her attitude, her personality, at least the side she showed me that day. That one interaction revealed how well rounded she is, what with her mad fishing skills and her knowledge of wildlife, but she wasn’t out to prove anything. Most women around here, tourists and locals alike, seem to have the common goal of finding male company, whether for the night or for a lifetime. Seems they can’t stand the idea of being on their own or not having a man’s attention.
Plenty of women have caught my eye, but none of them have been compelling enough to make me look a second time. This girl has me wanting to do nothing but stare at her all day. Add that to the fact she had no interest in sticking around after I handed her the citation (it’s happened before, believe it or not) has me riveted.
As I approach that same eddy, I see the old rowboat docked on the shore and gently bobbing in the water. The small and distant hum of Frank Karas’s motorboat prompts me to tip my chin and send him a wave, both of which he returns as he pulls up anchor. Conceding that there’s nothing for me here, I head back in the direction of my truck, which is parked on the nearest turnout of the dirt road. The good quarter-mile trek doesn’t bother me. My favorite part about my job is walking through the woods. The calm and solace it provides is something I crave so deeply it should be a daily prescription.
But when I reach my vehicle, I hear it, a sound so faint I have to hold still to hear it again. But there it is: a high-pitched growl, an animal in distress. It’s coming from the north, and I quickly hop in my truck, starting it up and immediately putting the window down. I’m already facing the direction of the noise, so I put the truck in drive to creep slowly forward on idle. Withmy elbow draped out the window, I listen hard against the drone of my engine, hoping the closer proximity will allow me to follow the animal’s call.
I barely pick it up again and keep moving slowly north. Fuck, I can’t hear it now, but I know something’s out there. Too long goes by where I don’t hear the animal’s growl, so I shut off the engine and wait. I make a mental note to alert my brothers if I turn up empty. We don’t give a shit what time it is when it comes to wildlife; we come together when an animal is in some kind of trouble other than the kind it’s supposed to be in. In other words, when it’s at the hands of humans. I don’t know if that’s what’s happening here yet, but my gut is rarely wrong.
It takes several moments, but then I hear it, and I don’t like it one bit. The animal is closer, but its growl is weak. Grabbing my utility pack, I jump out of the truck, slamming the door. The abrupt sound leads to a minor rustling in the grass. Traipsing in that direction, I try to step lightly, listening hard. Another low, feral growl meets my ears, and I know I’m close. I grab the flashlight out of the front pocket of my pack, click it on, and sweep the beam through the grass in front of me. I almost miss the animal—its fur blending in with the light brown of the grass—but when my eyes are able to settle on it long enough, there’s no mistaking it’s a bobcat caught in a foothold trap.
Fuck.
The state of this animal is all kinds of wrong and points to a fucked-up situation. His lack of movement says he’s been here for a while, and I can see that this is no regular foothold.
Some asshole made one at home from what looks like a dog’s choke collar with metal spikes.
“What in the sick fuck…” I can’t help but exclaim out loud to myself as I crouch low. Setting the flashlight down while keeping my gaze trained on the animal, I rifle through the pack for a thick pair of gloves, my hunting blade, and some pliers. This likelywon’t be as simple as cutting him loose, but I’ll see what I can do before calling my brothers in.
Moving slowly and steady, I creep toward the animal. It’s on its side, facing me with eyes half closed in defeat. I gently take hold of its hind ankle, and it growls but does nothing else.
Goddammit. He’s not fighting me, which is a bad sign. Normally, when you approach a wounded animal like this, you can expect a fight. But this thing is so weak it’s not even trying to bare its teeth. The screaming growl I first heard must’ve been the last he had in him.
The humane thing would be to show him mercy right here and now, but something about the situation doesn’t sit right with me. A malicious son of a bitch thought this kind of trap was a good idea, and I can’t let them win. I’m going to give this bobcat the best possible chance it has, find the fucker who did this, and track them down.
I growl out my frustrations, letting the cat be my listening ear.
“Whoever did this is not going to like what will happen when I find them,” I assure the bobcat as I grab the pliers and carefully wedge them between the wire and his fur.
Though it’s weak, the scariest hiss I’ve ever heard comes puffing from its mouth. “Good boy,” I encourage as I try to make quicker work of cutting him free. “You keep up that fight.” The wire snaps between the hooked sheers, but he’s not loose yet. He growls as I work at another strand. “That’s right, when I find the motherfucker, I’ll let you deal with him.” I’d pay for front row seats to see the scumbag alone with this bobcat when he’s well and able bodied.
The animal is starting to pull, clearly rallying, and when I cut the last piece of wire, he springs up and tries to make a run for it. An acutely pronounced limp catches up with him, and he staggers, flopping back down a few yards away. He scrambles abit as I reach him but seems to realize it’s futile when I come to stand over him.
“Shit.” I squat down and look at the stream of dark liquid coming from the leg I just freed. The animal’s brief bout of excitement got his blood pumping right out of his wound. After a few minutes of scrambling for my kit and finding a tourniquet and a few vicious protests from the cat, I’ve got him sprawled in the back seat of my truck. Hopping behind the wheel, I know he has a chance, but only if I get him help right now.