Forever Wild(2)

“It’s on your desk.”

“Stick to it.” My voice takes on a now-familiar warning tone. While Jonah’s been much better about keeping schedules and calling in, he still gets caught up sometimes and forgets.

“Yeah, boss.” He gives my backside a firm squeeze before marching for the front door.

“That’s workplace harassment!” I holler after him.

He pauses to offer a sly smile over his shoulder. “And what do you call what you did to me in the office yesterday?”

“Your Christmas bonus.”

His deep, grating chuckle warms my heart.





Oscar and Gus charge for my Jeep, their tails wagging, barks wild with excitement. Oscar’s limp from his bear-trap injury is still pronounced, but it doesn’t seem to slow him down much. He reaches me as my boots hit the snow only a second later than Gus, both wolf dogs sniffing my mitten in greeting.

I give them each a head scratch. “Where’s Roy, huh? In the shop?” I don’t need an answer from them—not that I would get one. The curl of dark smoke from the chimney pipe is answer enough. If the sixty-something-year-old man isn’t tending to the animals, he’s in there, sawing and hammering and sanding wood with the deftness of a true craftsman.

The chickens cluck noisily inside their warm coop as I pass, reminding me that I need to add eggs to my grocery list. We’re running low and Roy’s hens aren’t producing much these days, with the long nights and cold days of the Alaskan winter.

I yank open the sliding barn door, quickly closing it behind me to trap the warmth.

“You didn’t tell me you were comin’!” Roy’s Texan drawl is gruff as he hastily drapes a sheet over his woodworking creation, fussing with a corner to cover it completely.

“When do I ever?” Whatever he’s building, he doesn’t want me to see it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it might be a Christmas present. I stifle my smile and inhale the familiar smell—a blend of wood shavings and goats, infused with lingering smoke from the blazing fire in the small black stove—as I wave the envelope in my hand. “Your check came.” It was waiting in our mailbox, along with a small stack of Christmas cards—mostly from customers of The Yeti—and a package from Diana.

His frown is deep, bordering on a scowl. “What check?”

“Remember? Liz sold the octopus a few weeks ago. I told you about it.” The elaborate wood carving—one of countless Roy has carved over the years of living his best hermit life—was the last one on consignment at the Anchorage art shop. It fetched a mint, too. The owner is already asking me for more pieces.

His frown somehow grows deeper, his steel-gray eyes drifting over the plastic bag dangling from my fingertips. An extra loaf of banana bread I made during my baking frenzy. “Right.”

“The woman who bought it is looking for a dolphin sculpture. She asked if you’d consider carving one for her. I guess she has a thing for marine animals? Anyway, she offered to pay half down in a deposit.”

I expect Roy’s usual refusal, his bark of “I don’t do custom!” But he shakes his head and says, “I can’t remember what’s on the shelf. I might have one already. I’ll take a look later.”

It’s my turn to frown. “You feeling all right?”

“Yeah. Fine. Why?”

“You seem … distracted.”

“Just busy,” he mutters, rubbing his brow before looking at his soiled hands and then at the clutter of tools and dust, as if searching for something.

“Okay. Well, I’ll leave the check on your counter. I’m heading into town for some last-minute groceries. You need me to pick anything up for you while I’m there?”

“No. Thank you.”

Roy uses that word sparingly and always as an afterthought, as if he has to prompt himself to remember his manners. He’s definitely off today.

I’m at the door when I decide to give it another shot. “You sure you don’t want to come to Christmas—”

“No.”

It’s not the first time I’ve invited Roy to Christmas Day dinner over the last few weeks. The answer is always the same. I don’t let that deter me. “We have plenty of room and food. And a huge turkey. I told Jonah twenty pounds, tops, and he went and ordered a twenty-five pounder. And you’d get to see us try out that table you built.” A true piece of live-edge art that competes with the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace as the focal point of our main floor.

Roy rifles through his toolbox but doesn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular. “I’m good here.”

“Alone?”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got the goats and the chickens, and the hounds. They’re all the company I need.” He pauses in his tinkering to cast a cutting look my way. “At least they won’t talk my ear off.”

I make sure he sees me rolling my eyes. “Suit yourself.”

“Don’t let the cold in behind you!”

I use all my strength to pull the barn door closed, hoping it’ll shut with a bang, but the door isn’t built for theatrics and it glides smoothly into place. I settle for stomping up the porch steps, pausing only long enough to fish out the miniature potted Christmas tree from my Jeep.