8

She stared at the rifle. He wouldn’t shoot. Would he? Were the rumors Ann heard true? He was crazy. Shell-shocked. Bright spiraling lights like the wave of centipede legs blurred her vision, casting a halo around Geoff, the chair, but not the rifle. The barrel remained a vivid bronzed-black vision.

“Now, Jo.”

The tuning fork hum in her ears distorted his voice. Scrambled eggs from breakfast scorched her throat. Gagging, she covered her mouth and forced herself to swallow.

The huckleberry bush rustled.

An animal became visible. Was it a wolf? It looked like a wolf, but it had auburn streaks in its pewter mane, a leather band around its neck, and no fierce growl.

She stepped toward Geoff, never losing eye contact with the animal.

“Hurry, I’ve got a clean shot.”

Her knees were limp as cooked dumplings. She imagined fangs ripping into her flesh.

Step toward Geoff.

The beast continued its approach. It stopped and sat on its haunches.

“Shift to your left. I don’t want to hit you.” Geoff’s voice was eerily calm.

She pictured the wolf’s carcass and the blood and the scavengers.

“Do any of our neighbors have a dog?” she half-whispered.

“Neighbors? Are you insane? We have no neighbors. Listen to me.”

“Don’t shoot it. I think it lives here.”

“There are a lot of animals that live here. We don’t need any pets. That beast could devour a runt like you in no time.” The echo off the rock cliff agreed with his arguments.

“Please Geoff. If I walk back to you, and it doesn’t follow, don’t shoot it.” She met his stare, and it faltered for a second. “Please?”

“Start walking.”

She moved, slow as a Sunday stroll, to his side and gripped the arm of his wheelchair.

The beast stayed put. Its tail whacked the bush, back and forth, knocking a few berries to the ground.

Geoff raised the rifle to his cheek. His finger squeezed the trigger.

“Don’t,” she screamed, knocking the stock against his face.

A shot rang out.

The animal scurried into the woods.

He thrust the butt of the rifle into the foam cushion. “Why did you do that?” he shouted, swinging his fist in the air.

She ducked even though his knuckles didn’t come close to hitting her. She’d had plenty of practice dodging Ivan’s outbursts.

“I could have shot you by accident.” He rubbed his reddening cheek. “What would I tell Tubby?” He slumped in the chair and winced. “Huh? What would I say when I handed him your rotting corpse?”

He didn’t have to say you idiot. Her chest cramped as if Geoff’s fist had struck its target.

She tapped her boot heel into the ground. “You promised if it stayed in the woods you wouldn’t shoot it.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Maybe it’s Mr. Gilbertsen’s dog?”

“Old man Gilbertsen was a hunter. He didn’t take care of predators. I should have shot that half-breed.”

“Then we’d have to fend off all the bears and wolves coming for the carcass. Whatever it is, at least it’s not aggressive.”

“I don’t care. Next time I’m shooting it. I can’t afford to lose any more limbs. Or blood.”

His last remark hurt more than if that wolf dog had bit through her bone. She gripped the handles of his wheelchair and started pushing him down the trail.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“No.” She pushed his hand away. “Stand watch with the gun.”

He turned and gave her a that-isn’t-funny glare.

“I’ll push. I won’t shoot.” She steered around a rock embedded in the path.

“Get the basket. You owe me muffins for this bruised face.”

“It doesn’t look bruised.” She leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look at the damage.

“It sure feels bruised.” His fingers prodded his cheekbone. “I should demand a refund. How many mistakes is this?” He began counting on his hand. “Three, four…”

“Stop that.” She pushed his chair with a little more force to stop his joking. As she retraced their trail, she scanned the forest floor for any movement. The area should have been cleared of game by the gunshot.

Nearing the lodge, she jogged to build up steam and push his chair up the back porch ramp. “You should go lay on the couch. You’ve been sitting for a while. Flip sides.”

He gave a disgruntled sigh and wheeled himself into the living room.

“Do you mind if we eat an early dinner and skip lunch? We’ll conserve food that way and do our part for the troops.”

“Sure, knock a barrel into my face and starve me. This is why I pay you?” He wheeled into the kitchen and through the dining room. “I need morphine.”

“It’s early. If I use too much, the count will be off. You said the doctor—”

“I lied.” He flashed a satisfied grin. “Doc Miller wants a pain-free patient. Morphine keeps me happy and quiet.”

She rubbed the slat of a dining room chair while her mind paged through the instructions she had received her first day on the job. She certainly had enough vials and syringes. Weren’t those for an emergency or delay?

“Don’t make me butt-sit every one of those steps to your room.” He stiff-armed the sofa and lay on the cushions. “If you think I can’t get up those stairs to the supply, you’re wrong.”

“Fine.” She could use a restful afternoon. Her bath tumble and wolf encounter had her shaken like a woven rug on a windy day.

She gave him a shot of morphine—against her better judgment. Peace-filled hours were her reward.

After supper, she sat in the high-backed chair near the couch and worked on needlepoint. With every change of colored thread, she glanced at Geoff who seemed to be memorizing a page in his book.

Lightning flashed.

The bay window behind the couch illuminated like the flicker of a motion picture. Geoff received the best possible reading light.

Oh, no.

Her threaded needle poked through the wrong square.

A drawn-out rumble threatened in the distance.

“Storm’s coming.” She licked her lips hoping the moisture would stay. Nope. Gone.

He repositioned his left stump. “Great, something else to keep me up at night.”

Shushing wind played with the trees.

Bright flash.

Number two.

“I don’t like storms.” Dropping her needlepoint, she pulled her legs in close to her chest and hugged her knees.

“Judging from the seeding fireweed out back, you only have about six weeks until this rain turns to snow. I’ll take the rain.”

In. Out. She concentrated on her breathing. In. Not too fast. Out. In.

“Jo?”

The wheelchair parked beside her.

“I’m turning in.” The back of his hand brushed her forehead, hesitated, then dropped to the arm rest. “With that inlet out there, it’s only going to get worse before it gets better.”

She nodded. “I’ll check on you before I turn in.”

Who was she bluffing? When Geoff fell asleep, she ran upstairs, grabbed the white afghan from her bed, and dashed into his room. What a good plan putting the extra couch near his bed. She wasn’t going to sleep alone. Not alone on the second floor.

During the night, she listened to Geoff’s occasional groans. The rain’s assault on the roof muted some of his grunts.

The thunder retreated down the channel.

Finally.

She snuggled into the afghan, curling into a ball, and into her own personal incubator.

“Over the top. Now. Now. Now!”

She bolted off the couch, arms flailing under white yarn.

Geoff shouted again, less intense, but shrill enough to cause her to panic.

Her heart raced, pounding in her throat as she freed herself from the bedspread. Its warmth fell to her feet.

“Geoff. It’s me. We’re at the lodge,” she said, arms crossed and gripping her shoulders to keep her skeleton in one piece.

He sat up and turned on the light by his bed. “What are you doing in here?” His chest heaved as if he had run a sprint.

“I don’t like thunder.”

“Then warn me.” He gazed around the room. “I thought you were a ghost.”

“Ghost? Why would you think I was a ghost?” She picked up the afghan and wrapped it around her shoulders. “You don’t believe in them, do you?”

“I usually don’t have white blankets dancing about my room. I almost had a heart attack thinking you were Mr. Gilbertsen.”

“He’s not here. He’s dead.”

“Haunted.” Geoff’s voice was whisper soft, like he was slipping into a dream.

“By our Mr. Gilbertsen? The former owner?” she asked. “I took care of him. He’s in glory.”

Geoff’s head whipped to the side. His lips puckered. A scowl wrinkled his face.

“I can’t go on patrol. Not tonight.”

She shivered as if thunder had rattled the wall behind her. Geoff acted as if someone else was in the room.

“Tell him, Jo.” Geoff’s gaze turned to her. “No sentry duty.”

No one was there to tell.

“Do it.”

Should she talk to the air? She didn’t sign up for this—the physical care yes—but the mental? How could she heal someone whose nightmares grew flesh?

“I told you.” Geoff held onto every vowel.

Was he talking to her or the man? Wait. No one else existed.

Flinging off the afghan, she balled it up in front of her chest. She could do this. Boss a ghost.

Staring at the closet doors, she cleared her throat and said in her calmest voice, “Please leave. Geoff Chambers is unable to assist you.”

There. Done. Then, why was she still looking at the invisible intruder?

Geoff settled into his covers.

She turned to leave, but then she heard a real voice.

“I need more morphine.”

And that was the scariest voice of all.