Massive ones.
"No," Nash whispers.
He steps back out of the smokehouse and crouches in the snow beside a print. He puts his hand next to it. His hand is not small. The print is bigger.
"The gray wolf," I whisper. "The one from the canyon."
"He followed us," Nash says. He stands, scanning the tree line. His face is pale with a cold, hard rage. "He didn't stay in the high country. He followed the trail back."
"But wolves don't attack settlements," I argue, my scientist brain trying to find a logic that fits the data. "Not unless they're starving. And there was plenty of food in the canyon. We saw them kill the bull."
"This isn't about food," Nash says. "Not just food. He knows this is my winter meat. He knows this is my territory. He came to strip it."
A low growl rumbles from the trees.
It's a sound that vibrates in your chest, deeper than any dog. It's primal.
We both spin around.
Standing at the edge of the forest, not twenty yards from the smokehouse, is a wolf.
It's not the big gray male. It's a black one, smaller, leaner, with yellow eyes that lock onto us with terrifying intelligence. It's not running or hiding. It's watching.
"Get back," Nash says, stepping in front of me. "Slowly. Toward the house."
"Nash, look," I whisper, pointing to the right.
Another wolf steps out from behind a spruce tree. Then another.
They are forming a semi-circle. They aren't just in the woods. They're in the yard.
"They're not scared of us," I say, the realization hitting me like a fist. "Nash, they're not scared at all."
"They've lost their fear," Nash agrees. His voice is calm, but it's the terrifying calm of a man calculating his own odds of survival. "We need the rifle."
"It's inside," I say.
"Run," Nash says.
"What?"
"I'll hold them here," he says, grabbing a heavy aluminum snow shovel leaning against the smokehouse wall. "You run to the house. Get the rifle. And the shotgun."
"I'm not leaving you!"
"Aris, go!" he roars. "They're packing up!"
As if on cue, the black wolf takes a step forward. His ears flatten.
I turn and run.
I sprint through the snow, my boots slipping on the icy path. I hear Nash shouting behind me, banging the shovel against the smokehouse wall to make noise. I hear the wolves—one of them yelps in surprise, one of them growls back.
I hit the porch steps and stumble, scraping my shin against the wood, but I scramble up. I burst into the kitchen.
Gun cabinet. Gun cabinet. Gun cabinet.
It's in the mudroom. I yank the handle. Locked. Of course it's locked.
