Alaskan Sanctuary

“My field notes.” She held the book tighter to her chest. “A written record of the daily behavior patterns of my subject. In this case, the wolves.”

“I know what a field notebook is. Does that surprise you?” He planted his hands on his hips, and Piper vowed not to look at his arms again.

Half a second later, her gaze zeroed in on his forearms. She cleared her throat. “Actually, it does surprise me. Quite a bit.”

“May I have a look?” he asked, gesturing to her notebook.

“Certainly.” She offered it to him. Maybe if he realized how seriously she took her work with the wolves, he’d relent and give her at least an ounce of respect.

He flipped through the pages and glanced up only when he’d reached the end. “Impressive.”

“Thank you.” Heat rose to her cheeks. One kind word from Ethan Hale, wolf hater extraordinaire, and she was blushing like a schoolgirl. She’d never hated herself more in her entire life.

“Is this part of your paperwork for the NNC grant?”

“Yes, it is.” How in the world could he possibly know that? Why would he be familiar with NNC grant requirements?

“I see,” he said, cryptic as always. Good grief, he could be annoying.

She held out her hand. “Now give it back, please. I have a tour to conduct, and you have work to do.”

Field notes back in hand, she turned, stomped through the snow toward the wheelbarrow that was propped beside the log cabin, and wheeled it back toward him to park it at his immaculate feet.

He eyed it with trepidation. “What’s this?”

“It’s your first assignment.” She smiled. She was enjoying herself. Too much, probably. But she couldn’t help it. “I’d like you to clean up Tundra’s enclosure. The pitchfork is leaning against the fence. And don’t worry. I’ve relocated her to a different pen for the time being so you can move about without fear of being eaten alive.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You want me to clean a wolf pen.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I want you to clean all the wolf pens.”

Ethan narrowed his gaze and released a controlled breath. “All of them?”

“They’re not going to clean themselves, are they?” She was fully aware he would write about this. And she didn’t care. Anyone who’d read his less-than-flattering portrayal of her life’s work would understand. “Start with Tundra’s enclosure. Just remove the dirty straw and replace it with fresh. New bales are piled behind the cabin. Your main job is to remove all of the soiled material.”

“Soiled material,” he repeated. He didn’t sound the least bit amused anymore. In fact, he sounded angry.

Good.

“I’m referring to animal waste.” She smiled sweetly.

He glared at her. Hard. “Believe me. I know exactly what you’re referring to, Piper.”

“Excellent. I’m so glad we understand one another.” Since we’re going to be spending so much time together...

The flicker in his gaze told her that he was thinking about the same thing she was—hours, days, weeks in one another’s company. She already felt distinctly ill at ease after little more than three minutes.

“Piper...” His voice grew soft, almost tender.

If she listened closely, she could almost hear an unspoken apology. Almost.

She wanted to tell him not to bother. It was too little, too late. The damage had been done. Words had created this mess. Words could fix it...maybe...but those words were going to have to be addressed to a bigger audience.

Besides, she didn’t like hearing him say her name like that, as if he knew her. As if he cared. It was confusing. And she’d had more than enough confusion in her life.

“I think it’s best that you go back to calling me Ms. Quinn, since you’re working here now.” Maybe she was pouring it on a little thick. Then again, maybe not.

Ethan’s gaze hardened. “Is that what the kid calls you?” He jerked his head toward Caleb, who was busy filling water buckets. “He works here, too, doesn’t he?”

Ethan sounded almost jealous, which was just plain ludicrous. Almost as ludicrous as the way his potential jealousy made her feel all warm inside, despite the snow flurries enveloping them both.

She squared her shoulders. “Caleb calls me Piper. And yes, he works here. But he’s also managed to refrain from slandering me to the greater Alaskan population.”

She glanced down at the wheelbarrow, then at Ethan’s shiny new boots. Footwear that would likely be unrecognizable by the end of the day. He’d probably also acquire a blister or two. Such a pity.

She beamed up at him. “Enjoy yourself. I have a tour to give.”

* * *

Ethan stood seething as Piper strode through the snow toward a small group that had assembled by the log cabin headquarters while they’d been exchanging pleasantries. Not that their interaction had been entirely pleasant. Or pleasant at all, for that matter.

He wasn’t an idiot. He’d expected Piper to be angry. Just not quite this angry.

He had a diary entry to write at the end of the day. No, not a diary entry. A newspaper article. For all practical purposes, she’d just demanded that he spend the afternoon cleaning a thirty-five-acre litter box. If she thought he wouldn’t write about this, she was fooling herself. How exactly did she expect to gain the respect of his readership when she was behaving this way?

More importantly, how was he supposed to write eight hundred words about such a repugnant task?

Ethan pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’d been nursing a headache since the moment Lou had dumped this crazy assignment on him. Ethan was embedded all right. And now that he’d arrived in enemy territory, the pounding behind his eyes had intensified tenfold.

He huffed out a breath. He needed to forget about trying to write something riveting about cleaning up wolf pens. He just needed to report the sloppy truth. And he really needed to stop worrying about how that truth would make Piper look. Let her shoot herself in the foot. At least her public humiliation wouldn’t be his fault. This time.

He grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and aimed it in the direction of the enclosure. The first gate to the pen stood propped open with a pitchfork. Ethan took it, gripping the handle a little too tightly as he unlatched the second gate and stepped inside. His gaze swept the snow-covered ground, the pale bark of the aspen trees and the silver slate rocks that punctuated the landscape. So much white.

The memory of Tundra’s snowy coat crept into his consciousness. His throat grew tight, and he searched the area for a glimpse of lupine copper eyes. Just in case.

Get on with things. The wolf’s not here.

He thrust the pitchfork into a pile of snow near the fence and went back for the wheelbarrow. As he maneuvered it inside, the gate slammed shut behind him with a clang of finality. Ethan reached again for the pitchfork. If he didn’t get started, he’d be here all night. But before his hand made contact, he heard a rustling in the distance.

He paused.

And waited.

Just when he’d convinced himself that he’d been hearing things, a twig snapped somewhere behind the tree line. His head jerked in the direction of the noise. Another memory washed over him. Not so much a single recollection as a collection of sensations—a stirring in the alder thickets, a dizzying brown blur exploding from the brush, an upturned basket of wild blueberries, the hot breath of the bear on his neck, then the sticky sweet smell of blood. Ethan’s hands balled into fists, his body preparing for battle as he fought against the pictures in his head.

A breeze blew through the enclosure, sending snow tumbling from the boughs of the evergreens. It fell like a heavy, frozen curtain. Ethan saw nothing but white. He blinked against the assault, eyes stinging in the Arctic wind. Shaken by his memories, he couldn’t be certain what was real and what wasn’t. Had he really heard a creature in the enclosure? Was the ghostly shape he thought he saw moving among the trees really the elusive white wolf, Tundra, or was his tortured mind playing tricks on him?

His answer came in the form of a tiny white fluff ball that hopped out from between two hemlocks. A rabbit. Specifically, a snowshoe hare with a winter-white pelt and dark, watchful eyes. It blinked at him, twitched its quivering nose and hopped out of view.

Ethan released the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He felt off-kilter, dizzy. He’d been completely unnerved.

By a bunny.

He glanced over his shoulder in search of Piper. Relief swept over him when he spotted her in the distance, surrounded by a small group of people wearing puffy coats, mittens and rapt expressions. He wondered what she was saying that had them so enamored. Not that it mattered. He was going to be around for a while. Days. Weeks. He’d hear her spiel eventually. In the meantime, he should just say a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn’t witnessed his moment of panic.

Her words from three days ago came back to him.

While wolves are indeed predators, I wouldn’t be so quick to call them dangerous...unless you’re a bunny rabbit.

The sentiment, which he’d merely found annoying at the time, now seemed prophetic. Uncomfortably so. Because in his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined that he himself would be the bunny rabbit in this scenario.

He was afraid.

Of what, he wasn’t even sure. It wasn’t the wolves. His feelings were more complicated than that. It was his past, the memories, the wolves and nature itself all rolled together in a tangle of anger, regret, dread...and loss. Loss of life. Loss of control.

So much loss.

He was broken. Broken and bitter. That much he’d known. But he hadn’t realized that his fury was also suffused with fear. It was a sobering realization. The wind, the snow, the slender pine boughs were all things he’d once loved. Before the bear attack, he’d slept outside during the summer months, under the stars, more often than he’d lain in a bed at night. That’s why he’d come to Alaska all those years ago. He’d wanted to a build a life in the most majestic place on earth. The kid who’d spent his childhood with his face pressed against hotel windows had beaten a trail to the Last Frontier as quickly as he could.

Where had that fearless soul gone?

Ethan stabbed at a pile of straw with the pitchfork and heaved it into the wheelbarrow. Then he did the same thing again, and again. With each jab, he felt the muscles in his arms and back loosen, then begin to burn. But it was a good burn, the kind of sharp ache that came with physical work.

He made short work of cleaning out Tundra’s pen. Piper seemed genuinely surprised, and possibly even a little impressed, when he told her he was ready to move on to the next enclosure. She even smiled as she escorted Tundra back to her pen. And the way she did was altogether different from the sassy grin she’d greeted him with earlier. This was a genuine smile, full of sweetness and light. Looking at it brought about an ache in the center of his chest that made him forget the burn in his biceps.

But Ethan knew better. The smile was for the wolf. Not for him. What he didn’t know was why it made him feel so empty inside.

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