The Simple Wild: A Novel(74)

“What?” Frowning, I turn to find him struggling not to laugh. It finally dawns on me that he knew what I was talking about all along. “Oh, shut up. You are so immature.”

He peers down at me, his gaze crawling over my eyes, my cheeks, my mouth. “You looked better yesterday, by the way. Without all that crap on your face.”

I feel my cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and anger. “You look the same as yesterday, with all that crap on your face.”

He reaches up to drag his fingers through his beard. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing, if you’re planning on living alone in the mountains and foraging for food. And not walking quite upright.”

“So you’re saying you don’t like it.” There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice.

“Definitely not.”

He shrugs. “A lot of women like it.”

“No they don’t.”

“It’s my style.”

“No. Hipster is a style. Rockabilly is a style. Yeti is not a style.” I search the mass of wiry hairs for what might be hidden beneath—a hard jaw, cutting cheekbones—but it’s impossible to find. “I have no idea what you look like under all that.”

He pauses in thought. “And that’s important to you? Knowing what I look like?”

“No! It’s just . . . why wouldn’t you want . . .” I stumble over my words, my cheeks heating. Why am I so curious—and hopeful that there’s a handsome face buried beneath that?

The corners of Jonah’s eyes crinkle with his chuckle. “Come on, Calla. Time to get to work.”



The sleepy customer lobby of Wild is gone, replaced instead by a crowd of backpack-clad bodies and a low buzz of excited voices, plus a wailing newborn baby.

“The bears haven’t gotten you yet?” Jonah smiles and reaches toward the tall, slender guy in the army-green jacket holding a clipboard.

“Not yet. Good day for flying, hey?” They clasp hands and jump into easy conversation. I’m guessing this is the group Jonah is taking out and that he knows this guide well.

I make my way toward the back, where a plump, dark-haired receptionist behind the desk gives me a knowing wave while holding a phone receiver to her ear. I’m guessing that’s Maxine.

I mouth a hello to Sharon, who has commandeered a young Alaska Native woman’s mewling baby and is pacing and rocking and shushing the child cradled within her arms. A tall, handsome blond guy with a brush cut stands next to her, his arm casually settled around her shoulders as he watches Sharon with an adoring gaze. That must be Max. Meanwhile, the new mother looks on, a duffel bag by her feet, the heavy bags under her eyes evidence of her sleepless nights.

The noise cuts considerably the moment I push past the door and into the back office. “. . . move this delivery to the afternoon and send Jean up there to get her,” my dad is saying, hovering over a giant paper map that’s stretched out across a desk with Agnes, both with reading glasses perched on their noses. An older man with a handlebar mustache and a small potbelly stands with them. I recognize him as the one standing next to Betty in the hangar the other day.

Dad looks up and his frown of concentration fades instantly. “Morning, Calla.”

Agnes flashes her typical wide smile. “George, this is Wren’s daughter.”

“Hey there.” The man seizes my hand. His is large and sweaty. “It’s good to finally meet you. My wife said you came through the other day, with Jonah. At first she thought he’d gone and gotten himself a beautiful girlfriend.”

The pieces click. “Your wife works at Meyer’s.”

“Yeah. That’s Bobbie.” He chuckles. She was ready to throw a party!” He has a heavy Midwestern American accent. “So, how are you likin’ Alaska so far?”

“It’s great. Different, but great,” I admit.

He belts out a laugh. “Sure is. There ain’t nothin’ like it out there.”

“So? What have you got planned for today?” My dad eyes the laptop poking out of my purse.

“Not much, really. Jonah said he doesn’t have room in the plane to take me out this morning, but he can take me out this afternoon.”

“Why don’t you go out with your old man! Hey? You can take a quick break, can’t you?” George slaps my dad on the shoulder with another barking laugh. “Maybe convince her to take up the family tradition.”

My dad chuckles, but even I can hear the strain in the sound. Agnes said he’s only doing solo flights to ease the guilt that he shouldn’t be flying at all. “Yeah, I’d like that, but I’ve gotta focus on this schedule right now and work in this surprise trip. And figure out what we’re gonna do with all the weekend flights ahead of the storm, and . . .” The excuses tumble out of him like poorly cast die, the truth gripped tightly within his palm.

“And I want to get this website up and running for you guys, stat,” I add.

“You’re more than welcome to park yourself over there.” Agnes points to the desk that James the bookkeeper was at the other day.

“Great. Thanks.” I wander over to set myself up as they refocus their attention on the map.

A thought strikes me. “Hey, Dad . . .”

He falters. “Yeah, kiddo?”