I started piling up the junk near the door, found a half-full bottle of whiskey for my trouble, and discovered the chain that was supposed to be attached to the pull-down ladder to the little sleeping loft. I was looking around for something I could stand on to reattach it when I heard the scratching and growling at the door.
Crap. I knew I was going to get eaten by a wild animal.
No, no. Calm down. Maybe it’s just a squirrel, or a raccoon. I wanted to make animal friends. I’d just go peek out the window and see what had come to visit. Granted, I could barely see out of the dirt crusting the panes, but that meant whatever was out there wouldn’t be able to see me either.
Still, I bent over and sneaky-style creeped to the window and peeked over the ledge.
Oh my gawd. There was something big and brown and furry sniffing around the door.
A bear. There was a freaking bear trying to get into my cabin. A freaking bear.
I dropped down to my knees so it couldn’t see me. Maybe if I stayed very quiet, it would go away. But wait, didn’t bears have an excellent sense of smell? Oh no. What if I smelled delicious?
Very carefully, I crawled across the floor to the opposite wall. Geez, the floor was absolutely freezing. Frigid air poured up through the boards. If the air could get in, it meant it could get out, and that meant the bear would smell me anywhere.
Think, April. Think of a solution.
If it can’t be fixed with duct tape, it can’t be fixed.
I crawled over near the stove and pulled the big, silvery roll of tape out, snapped the plastic wrapping open with my teeth and very, very gently pulled an arm’s length off the roll. Any faster, and I risked the bear hearing a sound that could very well be interpreted as a growl, or the cry of an injured... umm, bunny?
The bear scratched at the door again, and I swear I heard snuffling sounds. It took everything I had to hold in my squeaks of fear.
What if I duct taped the door shut? Surely a mass of sticky tape would flummox a wild animal. I put the piece of tape with my teeth and crawled back toward the door. If I paid attention to the cardio workout level of my heartbeat or the tangy taste of fear in the back of my throat, I wouldn’t get this done.
Carefully I laid the tape across the bottom of the door—where I could literally see his feet moving around in the gap—and pressed the edges to get it to stick. This piece was only long enough to go halfway.
Before I got another piece started, the bear jumped up on the door and the whole cabin rattled, the door quaking on its hinges. I couldn’t help it this time, the scream just popped out of me. In response I heard a horrible woofing sound. I didn’t know bears sounded like dogs.
“Go away. I’m sure I’m not delicious to eat.” Which was a lie. I had plenty of fat stores that I’m sure a bear would relish. Wasn’t he supposed to be hibernating?
“Bear, you get back down here, you naughty thing. Just because you’re cute, doesn’t mean you can—” A grouchy, deep, manly voice yelled at the animal from somewhere near the cabin. I was saved.
Wait a minute. Bears don’t talk. And who talks to bears? Especially like that? I knew just the grumpity grump who had the balls to yell at a bear.
“Help. I’m being attacked by a wild animal!” Oh geez, I hoped that didn’t anger the beast and have it knocking down my door to eat my face.
“Down, Bear. Sit.”
I listened close to try and see what in the world would happen next. Surely a bear doesn’t follow commands. Then I heard the slurping and chomping sounds. Crunch, cronch, crack.
Oh no. Oh, no no no no no. The bear was eating Bridger and it was all my fault.
“Good boy. That’s a good boy, you’re the best boy, aren’t you, Bear? Yes, you are.” The sweetest ooey gooey voice praised the bear.
Like... what?
First of all, Bridger Kingman didn’t know how to be sweet, and second, did he have a trained bear? This wasn’t the eighteenth-century Russian court for goodness’ sake, it was a small mountain town in Colorado.
Someone, or something, knocked on the door, practically rattling it right off the hinges. “April? It’s Bridger Kingman. We met at the hardware store. You’re okay now. Come on out. No one’s going to eat you.”
Swear to God, I heard him mumble something more that sounded like, “Unless you ask me too.”
I crawled back across the floor and peeked over the windowsill. Yep. That was Bridger Kingman, petting the fluffy, brown, furry head of his... dog.
His. Big ass, brown, fluffy, furry dog.
I slipped down the wall and hung my head for a full three breaths while I made faces at myself. It took me a couple more to tell my heart to stop freaking out. No bears were going to eat me. But maybe a hot defensive linebacker was?
