The transition from "lovers" back to "partners" is smoother than I expected, but different. As we dress, there's no modesty, but there is a lingering electricity. When I hand her the fleece, my fingers brush her arm, and she leans into the touch. When she passes me the thermos, she holds my gaze a second longer than necessary.
It's distracting. It's dangerous. And I love it.
We move outside. The air is crisp, biting, but the sky is that merciless winter blue.
Aris sets up the telemetry receiver on one of the cases we saved. She connects the Frankenstein antenna, the ugly, taped-up thing we pieced back together yesterday. Her hands are steady.
"Powering up," she announces.
She flips the switch. Static.
I hold my breath, pouring the coffee.
Ping.
It's faint, but it's there.
Ping.
"He's moved," she says, her eyes glued to the signal strength meter. "The signal is weaker than yesterday. He's heading north, toward the jagged peaks."
"The High Basin," I say, handing her a mug. "That's rough country. Steep. Lots of scree."
"Why would he go there?" She takes the coffee, blowing on the steam. "The grazing is terrible up there."
"Security," I say, scanning the tree line. "He knows the wolves are in the valley. He's taking the herd to high ground where they can see threats coming."
"Strategist," she murmurs. "He really is."
"We need to move," I say. "If he gets into the rocks, we can't take the snowmobile. We'll be on snowshoes. It'll take us half the day just to get to the base."
"Okay," she says. "I'll pack the optics."
We break camp with an efficiency we didn't have a week ago. We don't need to talk; we just move around each other, striking the tent, lashing the sled.
I'm tightening the straps on the fuel canister when I see it.
At the edge of our campsite, maybe twenty feet from where the tent stood, the snow is disturbed.
I walk over, my boots crunching in the crust.
Tracks, large and distinct, are stamped into the snow.
I crouch down. They aren't yesterday's tracks. The edges are sharp, not softened by the wind or the sun. These were made last night. Or early this morning.
"Nash?" Aris calls from the sled. "Ready?"
"One second."
I follow the tracks. They circle the camp. They stop behind the spruce tree where we hung our food bag (high up, out of reach). Then they move closer.
They lead right up to the spot where I pissed before bed.
There's a yellow stain in the snow where the wolf marked over my scent.
It's a message, loud and clear. This isn't your territory. It's mine.
I stand up, looking into the dense timber. I don't see anything. No gray shapes. No yellow eyes. The hair on my arms stands up under my layers.
