She uncovers the basket. Inside are scones. Huge, golden-brown scones studded with blueberries and cranberries. The smell hits me—butter, vanilla, baked flour—and my stomach gives another rumble, completely betraying the fact that I just ate a bowl of oatmeal.
"Blueberry and cranberry," May says, handing me one. "Eat. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over. Nash likes 'em sturdy, but he doesn't know how to feed 'em."
"I am right here," Nash says.
"I know," May says without looking at him. "Eat the scone, Doctor."
I take a bite. It's heaven—buttery and crumbly and sweet, the berries bursting with tart flavor.
"Oh my god," I moan around a mouthful of pastry. "May, I love you. I don't even know you, but I love you."
May grins, the lines of decades pulling up with her mouth. "See? She's got sense. Unlike some people." She jerks her head toward Nash. "Stop by the diner when you get back. I'll make you sourdough pancakes. My starter is older than you are. It came over the pass in '98. It'll change your life. Or at least your cholesterol."
She turns back to Nash, and her expression sobers instantly. The banter vanishes, replaced by something sharper. Harder.
"Lars says the pack is moving, Nash," she says quietly. "He saw signs in the lower valley this morning. Big tracks. Bold behavior. They took a dog from the Miller place last night. Right off the porch."
Nash goes still. The playfulness drops off him like a shed coat. He is suddenly the guide again, alert, dangerous, focused.
"The Black Rock pack?" he asks.
"Looks like it. The big gray male is leading them. He's pushing into new territory."
"We know," Nash says. "We saw signs yesterday. We'll be careful."
"You be extra deliberate," May warns. She steps closer to him, lowering her voice, but in the crisp air, I can still hear every word. "And watch yourself with this one, Nash."
She jerks her head toward me. I freeze, mid-scone, crumbs falling onto my glove.
"What do you mean?" Nash asks, frowning.
"She's got the look," May says cryptically.
"What look?"
"The look of someone who stays," May says. "Don't get used to it. Scientists migrate, Nash. Just like the caribou. They come for the season, they take what they need, and then they follow the funding south."
Nash looks at me then. He really looks at me. For a second, I see the conflict behind his eyes, the warning May gave him hanging in the cold air between us.
Scientists migrate.
"I know the drill, May," Nash says. He yanks the strap he already tightened. "She's a client. That's all."
"Uh-huh," May says. She doesn't sound convinced. She walks back to her snowmobile and swings a leg over the seat. "Just remember, honey: you can't domesticate a wild thing. And you can't keep a bird that wants to fly."
She fires up the engine, the roar shattering the moment. She raises a hand in farewell, spins the machine around, and tears off across the lake, leaving us standing in the exhaust fumes and the silence.
Nash stands there for a long moment, watching her go. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
"She's … intense," I venture, brushing crumbs from my gloves, feeling like I just witnessed a scolding and a blessing all at once.
"She's the closest thing to a mother I have left," Nash says quietly. "And she's usually right."
He turns to me. The warmth is gone from his face, replaced by the professional mask. The guide is back.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say.
