Page 21 of Coveted By the Bear

“Do you know how many hours I was out there with that grizzly? Thirteen hours, and most of that time in the pitch black. Think about that, Brian. It was playing with me. Letting me bleed out slowly like it was punishing me. If I moved to try and save myself, it swatted me down like I was nothing and went back to eating my horse. I could hear him crunching its bones, knowing that it would be me next. It would leave for hours only to come back again and again, and each time I thought this is it. He’s going to kill me now. And a part of me was relieved by the end because it hurt so damned bad, I was ready. I owe her.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Brian said quietly.

I puffed air out of my cheeks and started walking again. He wouldn’t get an answer from me. I didn’t even understand the reasons I was here.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone what it was like?” Sadey asked. “You never talk about it. That stuff is poison in your mind, Caleb. You have to get it out.”

Of course Sadey would think that way. She was so like my mother had been. She thought talking about problems solved problems.

“I feel like I’m talking about it all the time. It’s all I ever think about, dream about. And if I have a moment of peace when I’m not thinking about it, someone is staring at my scars and reminding me all over again. Talking about it doesn’t feel better. This doesn’t feel better. The only thing that takes my mind off of everything is thinking about how to fix Mira’s place up for her and pay her back for what she did.”

Mira was an addictive distraction.

Brian clapped me on the back, and I winced in pain. Everything still ached.

“Sorry, man,” he said. “You won’t hear any more complaints from me.” He grinned wickedly. “But if she cooks me for dinner you have to engrave I told you so on my gravestone.”

I ignored him and picked up the pace. We had come to an incline and carrying all of the gear was starting to wear on my legs. I was ready to get over the hill.

“How old is she?” Sadey asked breathlessly, changing the subject.

I had never worried about bringing my sister. She was sensitive and kind and a great buffer.

“She’s around your age. Just turned twenty.”

“Does she know I’m coming?” Sadey sounded nervous.

I almost felt bad for going through with my plan before telling anyone. “No. I didn’t want to stress her out any more than she is already.”

Brian cursed softly when the house came into view. I tried to look at it from new eyes. Maybe I had just become used to its dilapidated appearance in all of my visits here, both human and bear. In all fairness to my brother, it did look like one of the old abandoned shanties off the highway outside of town. They weren’t fit to house livestock, much less serve as a home for someone.

Brian and Sadey followed me up the porch steps. The front door had been propped open with an old chair and the smell of bacon and eggs wafted out, reminding my stomach that my bagel breakfast that morning hadn’t been sufficient.

As I brought my hand up to the door frame to knock, I heard the soft cadence of an old record, more scratch than music, and something more. The sound of Mira’s voice stopped my fist mid-knock.

“I don’t know, Brady. What do you think we should do?” Mira asked in a faraway voice.

She stood over her stove, cooking breakfast and talking to her deceased uncle as if he were in the room, and the realization made my heart slink to my ankles. She wasn’t right. Misfortune had wound itself into every strand of her life, and it had caught up to her. No one could survive what Mira had and come through to the other side undamaged. My siblings leaned over my shoulder to see what held me up.

“Electricity sure would make the winter more bearable up here,” she continued, unaware of our presence. “Maybe you’ll stick around this time, huh?”

The fine hairs on my body stood on end and made my skin feel prickled and raw. Watching madness wasn’t for the weak.

“Settle down,” she said. “No one’s here. You always think someone is watching us.”

Could old Brady Fletcher really see us from the grave? The thought made me fidgety and uncomfortable. “Mira?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

Mira jumped like a frightened jack rabbit and clutched her chest. A squeak escaped her parted lips and her eyebrows drew up in startled fear. A huge dog leaped up from its unseen position beside the stove and let out a menacing growl.

“Brady!” Mira said, recovering enough to wrap her hands through the collar at the dog’s throat.

“You named your dog after your deceased uncle?” I asked, shocked and a little angry, as if I’d been tricked.

The dog was scrabbling toward the door, teeth bared and ready for a fight. Mira was losing the battle. “It’s not my dog. I didn’t name him. It was my uncle’s harebrained idea to name him after himself.”

The relief I felt was tangible. I could almost pluck it out of the air like the tight string of a guitar. Talking to one’s dead relative like they were sitting at the breakfast table? Creepy. Talking to a dog like it could understand you? Not so bad.

I squatted down and offered my knuckles for the mutt to sniff. He growled again, but I lifted my lip and let out a low rumble too low for the others to hear. Brady-the-dog tucked his tail and bolted for the door, then disappeared into the woods out front.