Wolf, WY [Wolf 1]

Chapter 1: October-1

Chapter 1: OctoberIt knew it was dreaming even though it didn’t usually carry the shape into slumber—the ground felt too springy, the grasses whisking past didn’t sting its muzzle or whip its eyes as they tended to do in reality. It gave into the sensation of running, anyway, enjoying the briskness of the wind and the luring scent of something warm and frightened. Rabbit, its mind knew, and the memory of taste and hunt spurred powerful legs into more focused movement. The little animal would be no match for it, no matter how quick or agile the rabbit could be, and the chase just made the end result more delightful.

Veering, in desperate plunges, from one side to the next, they ran faster, harder, closer, until a stretch in the ground cover grew sparse, and the moonlight above offered the perfect illumination. Instinct pushed the rabbit into a jump, and that was the second it all came together: the fear, the panic, the need, the hunger, the effort, and this—the reward. The wolf leapt with claws clutching, its teeth bared and mouth salivating…and twisted in the air at the last second, huffing in confusion and whining with alarm.

In a tangle of fur and limbs, he rolled on to his side to avoid the man that had somehow appeared in place of his prey.

* * * *

There had to be a reasonable explanation for the painfully loud, throbbingly intense racket that was roaring through his bedroom windows at such an ungodly hour, and when Randy opened his eyes to offer a bleary, one-eyed glare to his alarm clock and confirmed that it was almost noon, he understood what that reason was. The morning was not too early; the night had been too long.

With a growl, he yanked his pillow from underneath him and shoved it over his head, holding it against his face with both arms. Usually he could tolerate the father and son team that never seemed to stop making noise: broken engines sputtering back to life in that cough-hiccup-belch they always seemed to make, various off-road vehicles obnoxiously beep-beep-beeping that they were backing up (a sound that Randy would have insisted be disabled the moment he took ownership), or the screeching distress of a power tool in the midst of performing its job. For some reason, though, the demon-like howl of whatever this particular power tool seemed alarmingly close.

Randy pulled the pillow away, frowned, and c****d his head to listen closer. Yes, too close.

He slipped his legs out from under the covers and over the side of the bed and cringed when his bare feet touched the cold floor. He kicked his favorite slippers into position and nudged his toes in. Then he spent too many seconds scrabbling along the end of his bed to find his robe before realizing it had dropped to the floor sometime during the night. He considered starting the furnace, and then shut down the idea. The wood stove would do for now. He’d just have to get a fire started. If he was lucky, there’d still be embers. If he wasn’t, well, he’d work it out. Again.

First, there were priorities to attend to. Like figuring out why a chainsaw sounded like it was running in his backyard. Ten acres might not be a lot of property—not as far as properties in this part of the country went, anyway—but it was enough that he shouldn’t have been hearing the roar to the degree that he was.

The irritation Randy felt grew exponentially when he stepped through his front door and on to his porch. While he recognized the fact that a normal human being wouldn’t have found the chill quite so annoying, his recognition did nothing to pacify the emotion. It was a beautiful day, but for the cold—peaceful, even, in between the roars of the chainsaw, and sunshiny bright. It was the kind of day that should have been inspiring Randy out of the house and into the yard to rake up leaves or sweep off the porch. Yet even if he dismissed the fact that gooseflesh was lifting on the bare bits of his arms and that the cold was stealing in under the robe from the neckline down and the knees up, the unnatural quiet would have been enough to set him off. Everything seemed to have stopped: trees, birds, chipmunks. Even the clouds looked like they’d frozen in the sky. It was a startling change from the ever-moving landscape and the normal cacophony of chatty birds. At this moment he was convinced that somehow the chainsaw (which he’d decided had to be what he’d heard) had, in fact, the capability to shut down the entirety of nature.

And what kind of an intrusive bastard would even dare?

As if in reply to his unspoken question, the chainsaw screamed back into life, driving several birds into flight and shoving the last of Randy’s restraint over the edge. Frowning, mumbling, and with both fists clutching his robe, he stalked across his front lawn and looked toward the only other property on the road—the sprawling ranch that, had he been able to see it from the angle he was at, Randy just knew would be smirking at him.

While reasoning argued with Randy that it took a strange person indeed to believe that a house could smirk and that said owners of that house were making noise for no other reason but to aggravate him, it didn’t stop Randy’s frown from deepening.

“It’s possible,” Randy mumbled. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine the process as clear as day—Evil Neighbor happened to catch sight of him stumbling to bed too late the night before or too early that morning, whichever way the jerk had wanted to read it. Concluding that being up until that hour was too obnoxious to tolerate, and probably muttering something about Randy’s ‘goddamn city morals’, Evil Neighbor decided to come out and shatter the peace with the worst, and most intrusive device known to the handyman/farmer/carpenter regime—the eardrum-defying, gas-guzzling, smoke-billowing offense known, in layman’s terms, as a chainsaw.

“Yep,” Randy said, nodding. “It could happen. It totally could.”

He was playing the scene out in his mind when a tree toppled across the road, and for a second he was sure he’d jumped high enough to touch Heaven. He gaped at the downed monster, still twitching in the throes of its catastrophic and sudden demise, stretching, it seemed, towards him, wheezing, and staring right back.

Human…Two-legs…save me…What have they done? I was still so young…so green…so…

Randy’s imagination paused and searched for the right word. So tree-ey—

He shook his head to dispel the image; perhaps painting instead of writing would be a good plan for the day. Then, as if the angle would help to see the tree in a new light, Randy tilted his head and his frown deepened even more. If he didn’t know better, Randy would almost have said the tree had fallen from his side of the road. That was weird…

He tilted his head to the other side and continued to peer at the tree. It was definitely close enough to be his acreage. But that would be crazy. He hadn’t arranged for anyone to cut—

Realization hit so hard it could have knocked him over. Someone had cut his tree. Right there, in his lot. Right there, at that moment. What the ever-loving hell?

Without considering his attire or the fact that his hair was hanging limp and greasy on his forehead, without pausing to realize that he had not brushed his teeth, washed his face or shaved, Randy marched for the downed tree like a general leading an army. If his tongue had been as liberal as his mind was at that second, he’d have been getting standing ovations from truckers and sailors alike on his cursing skills.

If asked, Randy would have said that he wasn’t thrown into a complete tailspin when he arrived at the tree-massacring worksite. He would have been lying. Walking onto the scene was like coming across a view so fascinating, so intriguing, that one had to stop and stare. If he’d taken a moment for honest consideration, the poet in him would have likened it to being out hiking and running across a waterfall that no one had mapped or spying a pair of deer standing neck to neck in the center of some hidden grove.

Two men stood in a small clearing, and even with their faces turned away, their bodies were instantly recognizable. Randy had, after all, studied them with detail on more than a few occasions, and though he’d had already known his neighbors were hot, he’d never been that up-close-and-personal before.

Evil Neighbor Dad and Man Son stood with their overalls folded down to the waist. They had sleeveless undershirts on underneath, and those clung to the wet Vs that sweat had drawn down their spines. The shiver that tracked head-to-toes down Randy’s body had nothing to do with the cold.

Evil Neighbor Dad managed the chainsaw easily, his stubble-rough face frowning down at the fallen log with one of those I’m-too-sexy-for-my-scowl expressions, and his messy, just-a-little-too-long hair clung to the back of his neck.

However, the catch-me-on-film-and-put-me-in-a-calendar image didn’t end there—because right beside Evil Neighbor Dad, packaged up in a slightly smaller, individually-sized portion that promised all the taste of the original but with half the calories, stood the son, holding an axe as casually as if he were Paul Bunyan himself.

Randy decided right then and there that the visual was a worthy exchange for the tree, even though conscience insisted that Randy discontinue the goggle and lower his eyes. He did his best not to openly gawk at teenagers regardless of the number in front of ‘teen’ or the proximity of their strapping fathers. But it had been four months of self-imposed celibacy, and those months followed a five-month grieving period over the jerk that had walked out on him. Nine months had seemed like an eternity.

That was exactly how Evil Neighbor Dad caught him when the man looked up—with Randy staring, probably a little too interestedly, at the man’s son. He locked Randy’s startled gaze with a pair of light brown eyes that were so full of gold they seemed to provide their own light, his already creased forehead deepened into a full-on frown, and firm lips that could have otherwise been enchantingly delicious curled into a snarl. The chainsaw fell silent. “What in the Sam Hell?”

Man Son glanced up at the sound of his father’s voice and flicked Randy a quick once-over—eyes, mouth, chest, and lower—and Randy watched the young man’s just-like-dear-old-dad’s eyes travel with a sense of pride. That’s right, kid. Not bad for thirty-two, hm?

Randy’s smugness lasted all of about eight seconds—until Man Son’s gaze landed on Randy’s feet and an eyebrow lifted. In hindsight, the slippers might not have been the best selection for a trek through the trees. But they were comfortable, and they were warm, and his mother had given them to him the previous Christmas. Besides, Randy liked them. Who could say no to fuzzy brown slippers with bear claws poking out of the ends of them? Embarrassed and desperately trying not to appear so, Randy arched his own eyebrow right back.

Man Son passed silent judgment to his father; they shared glances, and as if on cue, they both turned their attentions back to the fallen tree.

Speaking in front of people was not something Randy had ever struggled with. He’d have made a piss poor lawyer if that had been the case. Yet even knowing full well that he could rely on his well-honed, confident lawyer’s tone, somehow all he managed to do was squeak out four syllables. “Uh…excuse me.”

He fought the heat he could feel rising in his cheeks, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Pardon me, but may I ask what you think you’re doing?”

Evil Neighbor Dad looked at Man Son, the son at him, and the man nodded towards the road. “Lyle, go on back over to the house and hook up the trailer.”

Without a word, Man Son dropped the axe and began to stride towards daylight. Randy watched him disappear through the trees—long legs striding easily over the litter of the forest floor, thick brown hair getting caught by the wind as soon as it could find him—and all but jumped out of his skin when the chainsaw sputtered and roared again. Randy whirled back to Evil Neighbor Dad, annoyance tightening his face muscles and pursing his lips. It was an expression completely lost on the man, who merely bent down to continue working.