“Talk to ya later. Keep flaunting that beautiful man.”

I laugh, despite my mood. “You have no shame.”

“No, what I don’t have is a gorgeous naked Viking and a mountainous backdrop to exploit.”

“What the hell am I?” Aaron hollers.

“Not Norwegian!” she throws back, though with that teasing tone reserved for their verbal jabs. ’Kay, gotta go. Love you!”

“Love you, too. Bye, Aar—”

The phone clicks before I finish getting my words out.

I tuck my phone into my pocket and settle back into weeding, trying to smother my letdown. I knew I couldn’t expect my family and friends to fly to Alaska every year—no matter how many times they say they want to come. But what will happen, as my parents get older and Diana is immersed in lawyerly things? How many years will stretch between our visits?

I toss the weed over the fence and Zeke bleats. “Maybe I should tell Jonah I want to fly home for my birthday,” I say out loud. I know what Jonah’s answer will be—he can’t leave for a week in the middle of summer, especially after he signed this contract. I could go on my own. But the truth is, as much as I begrudge Diana for her unwillingness to leave Aaron on his own, the idea of taking off for my birthday without Jonah doesn’t appeal to me much, either.

Zeke bleats again. I’ve grown familiar enough with the noises he makes to know this one sounds distressed.

I look up in time to see him run along the fence line, away from me, toward his pen. And then he suddenly keels over and lays there, in the grass, his legs stiff in front of him.

“Zeke?” I approach the garden gate, watching with a frown as the goat wriggles his body, struggling to stand. By the time I’ve exited the garden pen and made it to him, he’s on his hooves again. An unexpected wave of relief stirs in my gut. I’ve gotten used to having the dumb goat as company, trotting behind the ATV every morning, nibbling on grass and devouring weeds. Where Bandit is off in a tree somewhere half the time, Zeke has become my faithful companion, a sounding board when I babble.

He bleats loudly again—that same distressed sound—and darts forward, only to fall over a second time, this time rolling onto his back, his legs held straight in the air.

It clicks. “Oh my God!” I’ve seen YouTube videos of fainting goats before—compilations of them falling over, temporarily paralyzed, when they’re startled. Diana’s brother was obsessed with them for a time.

This is the first time Zeke has done it since I’ve been around, though.

“What is freaking you out so much that—” My question dies in my throat, replaced by a yelp when I spot the wolf standing no more than twenty feet away, watching us.

No, not a wolf, not exactly.

It’s Oscar, Roy’s dog.

It takes ten seconds for my heart rate to resemble something stable, and then I’m left wondering if I should in fact be worried after all, because in this moment, with his cunning, narrowed eyes and the way his head is bowed forward, Oscar looks every bit the wild animal and not at all domesticated.

But Oscar gives Zeke barely more than a glance as the goat struggles to his hooves again, his keen gaze locked on me. I know for certain now that it’s been him all along, lurking within the trees, scaring me half to death.

Does he recognize me from that day?

Why does he keep coming back?

There are pages in that book Jonah got me about what to do when you encounter wild animals. Yell at some, speak calmly to others; don’t fight back with this one, arm yourself with sticks and rocks for another. Don’t ever run, don’t ever turn your back. Those last two seemed universal.

I don’t recall any advice about dealing with the grouchy neighbor’s wolf dog that repeatedly stalks you on your property.

Oscar hasn’t so much as twitched, and when I venture to take a step forward, he takes a quick hobble-step back, heavily favoring his injured hind leg.

Zeke keeps bleating and running and keeling over, clearly aware of the potential danger an animal like Oscar presents. If Oscar wasn’t making me so nervous, I would be laughing and recording Zeke’s fainting spells on my phone to play for Jonah later. But right now, I need to get the goat back into his pen where he’s protected by electric wire, and I’m too afraid to turn my back on Oscar.

He’s a dog. He’s just a dog, I remind myself. And I did save his life.

“Go home!” I say loudly, attempting authority.

The dog merely blinks.

“Go home!” I yell. I’m sure I don’t sound nearly as threatening as Roy does.

After a fifteen-second staring contest, Oscar turns and slowly limps off, disappearing into the trees.

With a sigh of relief, I collect my bag of garden supplies and lead our fainting goat back to his pen, checking over my shoulder frequently.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Some towns have a main street for events. This is the hub for Trapper’s Crossing,” Muriel explains, charging toward the double doors of the blue-gray community center, a blue folder stuffed with paperwork tucked beneath her arm. “We run pretty much everything out of here. The Carnival in December, which runs over two weekends and includes our annual holiday bazaar and Christmas dinner. We had locals camped out in here during the fires three years ago, when they had to evacuate their homes. People even rent it out for weddings.” She waggles her finger at me. “You know … you and Jonah should think about that when the time comes. With the lake behind, it’s quite nice. And, if we can make enough money at this year’s carnival, we should have upgraded restroom facilities by next year.”

“That’s … something to think about.” I school my expression—and my horror at the idea of having my wedding reception in the Trapper’s Crossing community center. Meanwhile, I can’t ignore the nervous stir in my stomach at the mention of marriage. It reminds me that there is a ring hidden somewhere in our house, meant for me. When I’ll see it again, though … who knows.

“That there is our new covered ice rink.” She nods toward a pavilion-like structure on the other side of the enormous dusty gravel parking lot. “Cost us almost half a million dollars and five years of groveling to the Mat-Su Borough to get that put in. Poor kids finally don’t have to spend half their hockey practices shoveling snow off the ice. Anyway, it’s where we hold our market every Friday afternoon, come end of June through till mid-September, and I’ll tell ya, it’s been a blessin’ on those rainy days.”

Inside the center is a long, simple corridor with a few empty folding tables, waiting to be used. To the right is the town’s library, a brown-and-beige room with dim lights and only a handful of bookshelf aisles. One lonely woman sits behind a desk, staring at her computer screen. To the left are double doors that, I assume, lead into the community hall. It reminds me of an elementary school—speckled gray flooring, white ceiling tiles, dim fluorescent lighting, and walls lined with team pictures and painted an unflattering lemon-yellow, a color meant to inspire cheeriness but rarely does. It even smells faintly like school—a mix of musty books, white craft glue, and industrial floor cleaner lingering in the air.

The lights flicker overhead. “The money we earn from the carnival each year goes toward upkeep of this building, and we are in desperate need of improvements.” A worried frown mars Muriel’s face “This is the fiftieth year and, to be honest, attendance hasn’t been great lately. We’ve got to find a way to draw more people out.”