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Wolf’s mother, Gretchen, stabbed Leonid when he was fifteen. She didn’t survive. Leonid just turned thirty and was born in Fairbanks. Different mother.
Is she still alive? Is Denver his biological father? Or was Leonid kidnapped?
The child-size holster was his, and he said Hoss is all he knows. So he’s been here since he was a child?
Then there’s Denver’s confession.
I would’ve loved that child as if it were my own. And when you get pregnant again, I’ll be overjoyed.
He wants children. Is that his intent with me? Or is there something else going on? Something worse?
What’s worse than becoming pregnant without my consent by a man who isn’t my husband?
I stop and pivot toward the northern hills. Both Wolf and Leonid warned me away from that direction. Because of wolves? Or something else?
I still think about her hot, sucking cunt. Every. Single. Night.
Leonid’s vulgar statement does precisely what he intended. It fills me with horror and dread.
Did he rape Gretchen when he was fifteen? Is that why she stabbed him? Except he didn’t say he had sex with her. He just said he thinks about her that way.
So much for imagining him vulnerable.
What do they have planned for me?
I need to investigate the north side and the river that runs through it. But if they’re not lying about the wolves, I can’t just wander into that area unprepared.
I’ve never shot a gun.
Removing it from the holster, I count six rounds. If I fire off a practice shot, that leaves five chances to aim true.
Twenty feet away, a boulder stands out amid a cluster of smaller rocks. Squinting at it, I hold up the gun with both hands and breathe in and out until my fingers stop shaking.
I squeeze the trigger.
The boom ricochets in my skull. My arms jerk back, and dirt sprays several feet away from the boulder.
Well, that wasn’t so bad. But my aim is shit.
If I’m scared or taken by surprise, my accuracy will be worse.
I only have five rounds to get it right.
This is a terrible idea.
For long minutes, I don’t move, listening with my entire body. Did they hear the gunshot? Would they come if they think I’m in trouble?
The longer I stall, the clearer my situation becomes.
They’re not heroes. I already know this. If I’m attacked by wolves, no one is coming to save me.
I should turn back, but I can’t. I need to know what lies beyond those hills.
Curiosity killed the cat.
“But satisfaction brought it back,” I whisper.
Satisfaction in finding the truth.
That’s what propels me forward. Several miles into my jog toward the river that unnerving feeling invades again. The niggling sense of something lurking out of view. Flickering shadows. A blur of movement at the edge of my vision.
Probably just strands of my hair blowing free. Or an eyelash floating across my eye.
Then I see it again and whirl around. Is something following me?
My palms dampen, and a dangerous arrhythmia fucks with my heart.
The landscape doesn’t stir. No shadows. Not a single tree. There’s nothing out here that can even rustle in the cold breeze.
It’s just nerves. Brewing tension. The threat of the unknown, of what I might find over the next hill. I’m making myself crazy.
I resume jogging, picking along the talus slopes.
Until something skitters out from a rocky outcrop.
I yelp and stumble on an incline, righting myself as a large, heavy-bodied rodent climbs a boulder and stares back at me.
A marmot.
I’ve seen Denver’s sons return with dead ones from the traps. How could anyone kill something so cute for its pelts? They’re like oversized squirrels.
“I won’t hurt you.”
It scurries out of sight.
With each mile I tread north, I see more of them. In the distance, I even spot a herd of majestic muskoxen moving south.
Wow. The scenery is incomparable. Unearthly. And the quiet? I don’t hate it. It’s weird, but out here, I feel peaceful. Untroubled. For a moment, I almost forget how I got here.
Almost.
Eventually, the silence gives way to the din of rushing water.
The river.
As I near it, the terrain grows rockier, the pebbles smoother, rounder, shaped and eroded by water. They form a trail through the tundra, like a small riverbed that grows wider as the sloping ground rises into cliffs.
I slow around the next steep ridge and take my eyes off my feet.
What the—?
Is that a fire pit?
Erected several feet from the river sits an outdoor fireplace with a chimney and hearth made of smooth stacked boulders.
Strange to see a man-made structure out here. What purpose does it serve? I doubt they hike this far to roast marshmallows.
I approach it slowly, my senses stretched on maximum alert in every direction.
Why does it feel so ominous? It’s just a fireplace. Denver probably burns unused animal parts here, drawing bears and other predators away from the cabin.
When I reach the hearth, I crawl onto it, craning my neck to peer into the cavernous interior. This may be a good place to hide if I’m running for my life.
