The Wolves of Winter

“My knife.” He pointed to his belt, where a knife—nearly a foot long from blade to hilt—hung in a leather sheath. A good, healthy knife, for skinning and for killing.

“Mom, put the gun down.” She didn’t move an inch. Her gaze was trained on him. I saw her finger hovering over the trigger. She was ready to kill the man, the quiet librarian in her long gone, fire in her eyes.

“You hunt with just a knife?” Mom asked.

Jax shook his head. “Not well. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken your offer for food.”

“Not my offer.” She adjusted the gun against her shoulder.

“Mom, what the hell?” I said.

She glanced at me for half a heartbeat. “This was a stupid, stupid move, Gwendolynn.”

Mom’s boots ground the snow beneath her feet as she backed up a few paces. Wolf was taking a piss on the corner of our cabin.

“Go inside,” Mom said, gesturing with the barrel of the gun toward the door. “Dog stays out here.”

“Dog does what he wants,” Jax said, lowering his hands. I don’t think he meant to sound challenging. I think he was just telling it like it was. But it didn’t do him any favors with Mom.

“As long as what he wants isn’t to come inside.” She looked to the animal shed. “He gonna bug my animals?”

Jax shrugged. “Don’t think so.”

It was then that I realized that Jax wasn’t afraid. Not in the least. You learn how to spot fear when you hunt. You can see it in an animal’s posture, in their ears, the tensing of their muscles. You know when they’re about to bolt. Jax seemed completely relaxed, tired even.

“Get in,” Mom said. It was a command.

Jax obeyed. Slowly.

If I wasn’t so embarrassed by Mom’s paranoia, I probably would have thought the sight of her cooking food with a shotgun in her hand was hilarious. I helped build the fire, set the pots, even retrieved the deer meat and vegetables from the freeze out back. She spilled hot water, nearly dropped the meat, but the whole time, she kept an eye on Jax.

“Where you from, Jax?” she asked.

“The States.”

“Where?”

Pause. “Montana.” Was he lying again? Damn. You’re not helping your case, Jax.

“You walked all this way?” Mom asked, stirring the pot and sticking the meat on a grill that Jeryl had mounted over the fireplace when we first built the cabin.

“Had a horse for a while.”

“What happened to it?”

He frowned, like he was taken aback by the question. “Went lame.”

“You eat it?”

“Jesus, Mom.”

“Language, Gwendolynn.”

Jax watched. Mom stirred the pot.

“Yes, I did. Ate what I could, packed what I could carry.”

When the food was served, Jax dove in without saying grace. Mom took up her shotgun again and aimed it at him while he ate. He didn’t seem to mind. There was something gratifying about watching him eat. Something about seeing him enjoy the food, the fact that I knew he desperately needed it and that I’d helped provide it. When there was just a little meat left, he stopped, lifted his head, and eyed the last bit.

“Full?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Eh, stupid dog,” he said, rising. The wooden chair grated against the floor.

Mom lifted the shotgun to her cheek. “What’re you doing?”

Jax picked up the meat. He didn’t say anything else. He walked to the door, opened it, and tossed the hunk of meat outside. Before he closed the door, I saw Wolf dive onto the scrap.

“You feed them once,” Jax said, “and suddenly they’re your responsibility.”

“Not how it works in my house,” Mom said.

Jax laughed, a warm sound but with a hint of sadness in it. “Don’t worry about me, ma’am. I’ll be on my way. As long as you aren’t going to shoot me in the back.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“Thank you for the food,” Jax said, then turned to me. “Nice to meet you, Gwen.”

“Lynn,” I said.

He stepped toward the door. Mom aimed.

“Wait,” I said. “Mom, Jeryl will want to meet him.”

“Ha. Jeryl will be annoyed we let a stranger in while he was out,” she replied.

“He’s the first person we’ve seen in years. Ever, unless you count Conrad. Jeryl will want to trade news, hear his story.” Long pause. Mom’s hands dipped, the barrel of the gun dropping ever so slightly. Her arm was getting tired. She eyed Jax with suspicion. Something else in her eyes too. I decided not to ask. “You know I’m right,” I said.

Mom lowered the gun, spun a chair around, and straddled it. She rested the barrel on the back of the chair, pointing it at Jax.

“Sit,” she said.

“The gun isn’t necessary, ma’am.”

“Sit.”

He sat.

“You’re limping. Why?”