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“Any chance Penny or Bruno took a bell?” I ask as I retrieve my own clothing from the floor.
“Let’s hope so.”
CHAPTER TEN
As we head out, Dalton tells me that he had bear bells on the stock list and told Yolanda to have everyone use them whenever they go in the forest, even as part of a group. Bells aren’t really his thing, but they’re one more safety measure for the inexperienced. At the very least, the bells remind people that they are in a forest with bears.
There’s no path leading from our house into the forest. We’ll need to figure out what to do about that. Obviously we want one, but we don’t really want residents seeing our house as a potential landmark to visit on their hikes. All the paths will need to be planned, staked, and watched for a year to be sure they don’t flood or cross sensitive areas. That was why we hoped to have a year up here before taking residents. We’ll work it out. For now, Dalton finds the best route into the forest, heading in the direction of the bells.
We’ve only gone a few steps when he pauses.
“Is the sound receding?” I whisper.
“Think so.”
Earlier, I’d only heard the occasional jingle, as if someone had been moving erratically, stopping and starting. Now it’s steady, as they walk away from town.
I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad. Bad if it’s Penny or Bruno, and they got this close, only to wander away. And if it’s a stranger? Then it’s good if the person had accidentally been close to Haven’s Rock, and they’ve moved on. Bad if they’d been there intentionally, and are now moving on before we can get a look at them.
Either way, we break into a faster walk. We’ve gone maybe twenty paces when Storm freezes. Her nose lifts to catch the breeze, and every hair on her body seems to rise as her head lowers, a growl vibrating through her.
We turn in the direction she’s looking. It’s ahead to the right. In the direction of the retreating figure? It’s hard to tell from here.
Dalton peers into the forest. Then he takes out his gun, and I do the same. Dalton motions for Storm to lead the way. She does, and I fall in behind her, Dalton behind me. We brought a flashlight, but the night is bright enough and our route is clear enough that we don’t need to risk alerting whoever’s out here to our presence.
Storm walks maybe twenty feet. Then she stops, planting her bulk in my path as she growls.
Something growls back.
Dalton slides up beside me. When his hand lifts, I go to raise my gun. Then I realize he’s lifting the flashlight. He hits the button. One second before that light turns on, I see what’s ahead. A ghostly gray four-legged beast, ten feet away.
“Wolf,” I whisper.
The light comes on, and there it is. A gray wolf.
The wild canine is as tall as Storm, but it’s all long legs andlean muscle to her mastiff bulk. I grew up seeing animals like this in zoos, and that was nothing like seeing them in their natural environment. What has always struck me most is howhealthythese wolves look. Of course, I’ve seen sick and elderly animals in the wild, but one like this, in its prime, looks like it’s ready for a dog show, all gleaming coat and rippling muscles and sharp eyes. While there’s a scar under one eye and one ear tip is ragged, it is still a magnificent beast.
Magnificent and dangerous, because it’s a lone wolf who isn’t backing down from a bigger canine and two humans. Most wolf encounters I’ve had up here have been fleeting glimpses. The only exception was when Storm was in heat, but that’s not the issue now. The issue now is that we’ve come upon it while it’s eating. It’s standing in front of its prey and—
My gaze drops, and I suck in a breath. I’d briefly noted a shape on the ground. Large and light brown in color, like a caribou. Now I see the head. A head with black hair—human hair.
The wolf is standing over a person wearing deerskin clothing.
No, I realize with a blink. The person isn’t wearing clothing. They’re wrapped in skins. It’s a grown man wrapped like a swaddled baby, only his head protruding. The man has been laid on his back, his face up, and when Dalton’s light moves, I can make out his face. It’s a man with light brown skin and a beard.
“Bruno,” I whisper.
At the sound, the wolf looks up at me. It’s a mild look, only vague curiosity. Then it turns its attention back to Storm and laser-focuses on her.
“I think that’s Bruno,” I say.
“Matches the description, anyway.”
“Is he wrapped up? Like in a cocoon? Or am I seeing things?”
“You’re not seeing things.”
“I can’t tell if he’s alive.”
