Who the hell comes to Alaska in the winter?
I kicked at the bent metal post, the fifth one I’d ruined since trying to set up my parameter half an hour ago. “Go to hell, Alaska!” I screamed into the air. My fingers were frozen, my toes hurt like a mother, and I still had four more quadrats to set up today. Plus, the sun was already waning in the sky and I knew I had maybe another hour max before I’d have to set up camp and try to figure out a way not to freeze to death while I slept.
Looked like it was going to be day two of sleeping in my truck.
Fucking Alaska in the winter.
I plopped down in a snow drift, barely able to even bend over because of the sheer number of layers I was wearing. Layers that did absolutely nothing to protect my appendages, until I took off my gloves and tucked my hands under my jacket. My ice-cold digits burned my stomach with the chill, but having skin on skin really did help get them warmed up rather quickly. Next trip into town, I would buy a ton of handwarmers.
Glancing at the vast landscape before me, I tried not to cry. My life had sucked ass the last five years, and I was determined to turn that around. That was why I decided to go back to school for my doctorate. That was why I was sitting in the snow in the middle of Nowhere, Alaska wondering why I’d chosen my research topic. How did climate change affect the migrating ungulates of central Alaska? Well, I didn’t freakin’ know and if I didn’t figure out how to pound a metal stick into the frozen ground, I wouldn’t be able to answer that question and finish my research.
I felt the darkness starting to swallow me again. I’d let it have me for years. The sadness consuming me until I was nothing but a shell walking through life. I hadn’t turned to drugs or alcohol, I’d just simply died inside. Withered away until there was nothing left. It had taken five years for me to dig out of that hole, but there were days when I fought the urge to return. It was easier being dead than to embrace living.
Especially when suffering from a loss so great.
I let the tears fall down my cheeks and pulled my hands out from under my jacket. Digging deep into the layers, I grabbed the chain that held the locket I never took off. Kissing the gold oval, I pressed it against my lips until the sadness passed. Well, in truth, the sadness never fully went away. But I was doing better at remembering the good and remembering his smile, instead of remembering the day he died.
“I’m doing this for you, Brady,” I whispered into the air.
Swallowing the giant lump in my throat, I watched as an eagle soared overhead. He called out to another one hidden somewhere behind the surrounding forest, but I pretended he was talking only to me. That he was a message from my Brady, telling me that I was strong enough to survive this.
I needed those messages to keep breathing each day. And whether they were real or not, I needed them to comfort me and tell me I wasn’t alone in my grief and my pain and that someday, someday I would find normalcy again. Maybe even some version of happiness.
No one could argue that Alaska wasn’t absolutely beautiful. I smiled when I thought about how much Brady would have loved to run here. The meadow I’d started marking today was surrounded by pine forests on three sides and a short cliff on the other. Right now, I stared out over that edge, looking at the vast views of the distant mountains, Denali making an appearance through the clouds right as I swung my gaze south.
Thanks, Brady, I thought to myself.
Pushing to my feet, I pulled on my gloves and grabbed another metal post that would mark the corner of my plot. I should have started in the summer, but the school had taken too long to approve my research. And by the time I finally had the grant money and the approval to travel, we had hit winter. Several of my committee members argued that I could do the same study in Wyoming, closer to school and much cheaper to get to. But they didn’t understand how much I needed to get away. Not just for the research, but for my sanity. I couldn’t be in that place anymore. Not after what happened, and especially not while I was being hunted.
A chill ran down my spine and I had that instinctual feeling that someone was watching me. I sucked in a breath and spun in a circle, scanning the edges of the meadow for something. Holding the metal sledgehammer in my hand like a weapon, I held it up in warning. Closing my eyes, I listened. But when only the distant cry of the eagle pierced my senses, I let out my breath and focused on the metal stake again.
“You are going in the ground, sucker.” Lifting my hand up high, I brought the hammer down on the tip and smiled when I finally felt it slide into the ground. Two minutes later, I had the second corner of my half acre quadrat marked. Two down, two to go.
I grabbed my supplies and counted the steps needed to mark the next corner. I really hoped I picked a good area to study. The research had told me that moose and elk liked the plant life found in this area, so I chose this meadow to give me some baseline data. What did they eat? How much? Was the plant life changing due to warmer summers and shorter winters? Were the elk and moose changing their eating habits in response?
Thinking about all the possible questions and answers I might be able to tease out of this research helped keep me focus. And happy. Organizing thoughts had once been a fascination of mine. Before I lost Brady, I was constantly making lists that had lists—always organizing our schedule in my head. I’d been curious and energetic and willing to question the world if it didn’t make sense. And now, being out here, conducting research and collecting data that would need to be organized and analyzed, well, that made me smile. Not as much as Brady had, but just a little bit.
When I reached the far corner of the plot, I dropped my stuff and grabbed the post. Using my shoe to dig through the snow, I kicked it out of the way until I could see the dark, frozen ground. Something cracked in the woods and I sucked in a breath and waited. That had been a large branch, which meant something large had stepped on it. I knew I was in grizzly territory. Well, grizzly and shifters. I think that was part of the reason my advisor wanted me to stay out of Alaska. He wasn’t a fan of shifters and didn’t understand their culture. I never told him about my past, so when he warned me about how violent and blood-thirsty they were, I simple nodded and told him that I would be okay. They weren’t all bad. In fact, most weren’t.
And considering my own experience with them, I figured I could handle myself just fine.
I hadn’t heard any other movement in the distance, but didn’t like how dark it was getting already. I needed to hurry and get these last two markers in before I couldn’t see anymore. And then I needed to find a place to set up camp for the night—or at least park my truck somewhere without a warden or state trooper giving me a hard time.
Holding the post with my left hand, I raised the hammer with my right and slammed it down on top. The metal gave under my hit, but the frozen ground stayed obstinate. The post bent like a fragile nail and I cursed under my breath at the stupid icy earth. No, I would not let Alaska beat me. Steadying the pole the best I could, I took another giant swing—and immediately smashed my hand.
“Son of a bitch!” I cried out, cradling my left hand and waiting for the agony. Sure enough, a few seconds later, my fingers pulsed with fire and it felt like someone was ripping my fingernails off with a hot poker. Tears blurred my eyes, but I was too angry to cry. Too fucking angry at the world to let it see my pain. I stumbled backward only to trip on a rock covered with snow. In slow motion, I fell to the ground—right hand waving off to the slide, left one clutched tightly against my chest. I saw the snow coming closer to my face, yet I could do nothing about the odd way I twisted in the air. With a grunt and another curse, I fell on my side. My face buried in the snow, I screamed again. And again.
Why couldn’t I get a break?
Just one fucking break.
The lump in my throat returned and this time I allowed the sobs. Crying like a child, I sat there, buried in the snow with my left hand throbbing, wondering where I’d gone wrong. Was it when I ran away from home at sixteen? Was it when I hooked up with Brady’s father and stumbled into the world of shifters? Or was is when Brady’s little hands slipped out of mine as he was swept away in a riptide?
Heavy sobs ached in my chest and it seemed like I couldn’t get them out before they would rip me apart from the inside. Brady’s smile. His tiny teeth. His little hands. His beautiful laugh. I missed it all.
I missed him so damn much.
And the only way I could feel at all was to feel pain. I wiped at my eyes, unable to fully stop the tears as I looked down at my left hand. Every time my heart beat, another round of pain pulsed into my fingers. I’d broken something. I knew it. I had the sick feeling in my gut that I only got when I’d hurt myself really bad.
Now was one of those times.
I slowly tried to pull off the gloves, biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut with the pain. Pain. It was real and it was all I deserved to feel after I lost my child. I had killed him. It was my fault. And I needed to suffer for that. Sure enough, I was. Screaming into the air, I yanked on the fabric when it wouldn’t break free and ripped the glove off my injured hand. There was blood, and bruising, and now I needed to get myself to a doctor.
“Ahhh,” I shouted once more. The tears froze against my cheeks. The sun started to set. And that familiar darkness began to take hold again.
“Are you all right?”
I screamed and scrambled sideways when I heard the voice and say a man standing about twenty feet away in jeans and a flannel. As though it wasn’t zero degrees and falling right now.
“Where did you come from?” My voice squeaked with fear and I hated that I sounded so weak. I quickly dabbed at my eyes, pushing my hair out of my face and wondering just how much this stranger had seen.
“I smell blood. Are you injured?”
I looked at the man—tall, lean, dark hair hanging down to his chin, and not wearing any winter gear. Shit. A shifter. “I’m fine,” I grumbled, dropping my gaze so he wouldn’t think I was challenging him.
“You don’t smell fine.”
“Who says that?” I spat before thinking about my words. Scrambling up to my feet, I did my best to hide my pain when I accidentally smacked my left hand against my leg. The man stayed put, watching me, eyes drifting to my bloody fingers and back to my face. “I think I need a doctor,” I finally said when I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
He stalked forward and picked up my injured hand, examining it closely. He smelled good—wild and manly. His hair hung freely, covering his forehead and eyes as I stared at them while he took care of me. Yellow-green eyes with a ring of grey that circled the iris.
“You broke two fingers but I think the main part of your hand was spared.” He glanced up at me and I sucked in a breath at the intensity of his gaze. “Do you want me to set them for you?”
“You can do that?” I breathed.
“Yes. Back at my house.”
I huffed a laugh and pulled my hand away, cursing in my head at the immense pain that movement just caused. “Nice try, buddy.”
He looked at me in confusion. “What?”
“I’m not following some stranger back to his weirdo house. Please, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Crossing his arms, he flipped his hair away from his face and narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to lure you,” he grumbled.
“Really?” I hated how mean I sounded but I couldn’t give him the wrong idea. Even if he was handsome and rugged. “Then what are you doing out here?”
“You’re in my territory.”
“I’m on state lands and I have a permit to do my research here.”
He shrugged. “It’s still my territory.”
“You don’t own state lands,” I said, then dropped my mouth when he simply raised a brow. “No, Alaska owns this land.”
“This land belonged to my people long before Alaska ever existed.”
“Your people?” I spat.
He said nothing.
My fingers throbbed again. “Look, thank you for your concern. But I’m fine. I just have to set my last post and then I’ll leave.” For tonight, I said to myself.
The man shook his head. “I can’t leave you here like this.”
“Like what?”
“Injured and bleeding.”
“Why not?”
He pressed his lips together and said nothing as we stared at each other for what seemed like hours. Then, he bent forward, picked up the bent post and slammed it into the ground—no hammer required.
I watched him closely, understanding exactly why he had that kind of strength and not quite sure how I felt about that. “Are you a grizzly?”
He chuckled but said nothing until he asked, “Where does this last one go?”
I reached for the post. “Here, I’ll do it.”
Yanking it out of my reach, he shook his head. “You can’t. Let me help you so I can take you to see our doctor.”
“Your doctor?” I asked, still wondering exactly what kind of shifter he was.
“Where?” He wiggled the post in front of me, waiting for an answer.
With a sigh, I pulled my gear bag on my shoulder and started counting steps. He followed closely behind, not saying anything yet feeling like a powerful force at the same time. When I reached the spot, I pointed to the ground and said, “Here. But you’ll probably have to—”
He jammed the post into the frozen tundra like it was nothing.
“—clear the snow out of the way first,” I finished. When he looked over at me, I gave him a small grin. It was all I could muster right now. “Thanks.”
“Let’s go,” he said with a jerk of his chin.
Okay, sure. I’ll follow you anywhere. I wanted to say that sarcastically, but here I was, following him to somewhere. Maybe he was planning on killing me and eating me for dinner. Maybe he planned to give me to the other shifters as a chew toy. Maybe he wanted me all to himself.
I pressed my good hand against my chest, right where the locket with Brandy’s picture stayed close to my heart every day. Keep me safe, love.
I followed behind and noticed we were heading for my truck. “How did you get here?” I asked him, trying to keep up and stumbling through the deep snow like an idiot human.
“I ran.”
“From where?”
He paused, turned, and looked at me. “From Nenana.”
“Oh,” I breathed. Nenana. The town full of coyote shifters. So, not a grizzly after all. I exhaled a sigh of relief.
“What?” the man asked, studying me.
“You’re a coyote shifter, right?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s all I was thinking.”
He titled his head and stared some more. “You’re not afraid?”
“Shifters don’t scare me.”
“Why not?”
“Long story,” I grumbled.
“Give me your keys,” he demanded, hand outstretched and a detached coldness settling back over his face.
“Not before I know your name.”
A hint of a grin stretched along the corner of his mouth and a small dimple in his cheek started to appear. “I’m Marcus.”
“Good,” I said, fishing the keys out of my pocket.
“And you are?” he asked lightly.
“Holland.”
“Interesting name.”
“I know.”
He huffed and shook his head, the smile growing larger. Holding open the passenger door, he gestured for me to get inside. When I didn’t move, he raised a brow in question.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked.
“What?”
“I mean, am I safe with you?”
His lips pressed together and his jaw twitched like he was mad. Or offended. “You are safe with me, Holland.”
Hmm, I liked the way my name sounded on his lips. And I didn’t like the way he was making me feel safe right now. I didn’t deserve that kind of attention.
Climbing into the truck, I threw my bag on the floor and looked behind to the mini-back seat. It was filled with camping gear and crates filled with food, field supplies, and extra clothes. Little did Marcus know, but this was pretty much my mobile RV for the next year while I completed my studies. I should be embarrassed at the state of cleanliness in my truck, but I simply couldn’t care right now. My hand hurt like a bitch. I was tired. I was sad. And I stopped caring what people thought about me five years ago.
Marcus gracefully slid into the driver’s seat and started the truck. He turned on the heat and gunned the ignition a few times. When I glanced over, he said, “It helps warm it up a little faster.”
I almost smiled, but when his eyes focused on the photo of Brady I had hanging from my rear-view mirror, I immediately retreated into my dark shell.
“Who is that?” he asked.
I stared out the front window, willing the tears to stay hidden. “My son, Brady.”
Marcus sucked in a breath and I didn’t know why. But I still couldn’t look at him, especially when he asked, “How old is he?”
I wiped the tears that streamed down my cheeks and turned my head away from the coyote shifter studying my every move. They did that. All shifters. They could smell emotions and hear lies. I’d gotten used to that when I lived with Brady’s father, but I’d forgotten how uncomfortable it made me feel. I turned in my seat so I could look out the side window. Cradling my injured hand and swallowing the tears, I answered Marcus just as he put the truck into reverse and started backing out of the tracks I’d created earlier.
“He was four,” I finally whispered into the retreating forest.