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The brothers disperse, heading out to do whatever chores must be done for the day. While there’s no shortage of work, no one can be bothered to give me instructions or point me toward high-priority tasks. So I spend the first half of the day fending for myself. House-cleaning, laundry, gardening in the greenhouse—it’s all self-explanatory.
Five weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine doing anything beyond planning an escape.
Look at me now, fertilizing potato seedlings without being asked. It’s only because, deep down, I know I’ll be eating these when they’re fully grown.
Like it or not, I’m spending the winter in Hoss.
It frightens me to no end, but the sooner I accept it, the better. The only way I’m leaving is on that plane, and that requires me—or one of his sons—to learn aviation.
Denver will die before he allows that to happen. Literally, if I hold a gun to his head and order him to take me home, he would choose the bullet.
Could I shoot him? I think so. But that would be suicide. We would have no pilot. No way out. And not enough perishable food to last the winter.
Are the stores of grains and rice in the pantry enough to keep a person alive for six months? I really don’t know. My survival skills are embarrassing.
Guess I should read those Foxfire books in the library. When I came across them a few days ago, they looked dreadfully dull. Who wants to read a twelve-book series on hide tanning, soap making, bear hunting, cabin building, butter churning, moonshining, berry buckets, and other assorted nonsense?
Well, I’m certain the Hoss men have committed every page of those texts to memory. And put it all into practice, too.
Last thing I want is to be reliant on them. If I have any hope of pulling my weight around here, I’ll have to read the books.
Nevertheless, I won’t deviate from my plan. I’ll spend the winter acquainting myself with the bush plane and make my escape when the snow melts. Denver’s sons are either with me, or they’re not.
With a basket full of lush green herbs—none of which I know how to use—I slip out of the greenhouse.
Schhwaff!
The whistling sound torpedoes past my head, and I freeze—breath, heart, bones.
Icy wind slaps my face as I spin to find an arrow protruding from the wall of the building beside me.
My mouth dries, and my body twists back, following the trajectory of the projectile to its source.
Across the yard, Kodiak stands with his legs shoulder-width apart, chin to his chest, and savage eyes locked on me. He holds a crossbow in his uninjured hand.
“Y-you were trying to hit me?” I choke.
“My aim is off.”
“You were trying to hit me?” I repeat, rubbing my neck and checking for cuts.
“No.” His brows lower as he directs his glare over my shoulder.
I pivot in that direction and gasp at the aluminum cans lined up on a bench off to the right.
Waaaay off to the right.
“You were aiming for that?” Jesus. I clutch the basket of greens, unable to quell the trembling in my bones. “You almost hit me. Pretty sure you ripped out my hair, and I’m not anywhere near your target.”
“Hard to do this one-handed.”
“Then don’t. You’ll end up killing someone. Wait until you’re healed.”
“I can’t.” With a snarl, he swipes his bandaged hand across his mouth and storms toward me. “I have to leave to go hunting in a few days.”
“Leave?” I pause, heart racing. “Where? How?”
“South. On foot.”
“For how long?”
“Two weeks. Must be done before the herds migrate.”
“You go alone?”
“Yes.” He rolls his shoulders and lifts the crossbow, training it awkwardly at the cans with one arm. A heartbeat and a huff later, he lowers the weapon. “I’m the best hunter.”
“Not right now, you’re not. One of your brothers will have to go instead.”
“They won’t bring back enough meat.” He frowns. “We won’t make it through the winter.”
I look back at the tin targets. “Wouldn’t a rifle be better?”
“I’m more comfortable with the bow. My accuracy is better. It’s quieter, lighter, and the ammo is reusable. Less to carry on the long hike.”
“How long?”
“Long.”
“Can you give me more than that?”
“Nope.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, knowing an argument will get me nowhere. “Can you delay? Give yourself more time to heal?”
“With the first snow comes the cessation of life and calories.” He looks down his nose at me. “You’ll be the first to die.”
“So I’ve heard.” I cross my arms, fed up with their constant threats. “Your odds aren’t looking so great, either, buddy.”
“Thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome.” I take a slow breath and back off the urge to pick a fight. “Why would Denver create this problem? Why injure you and risk starvation?”
He stares at the cabin for long seconds, his forehead creasing in contemplation. Then his jaw turns to granite, and he looks away.
