“Tell me what?”

“That there’s been one hangin’ around the past month that could become a problem. A brown bear.”

Icy dread slides down my spine. “No. She didn’t mention that.”

“He gets zapped by the fence every time, but he keeps comin’ back. Been comin’ during the day, too. The hounds chased him away last week after lunch. Another time, I fired a warning shot to scare him off. But he keeps comin’ back.”

I look to the wide-open barn door. When will this bear decide to make another attempt? The dogs would sense a bear nearby, wouldn’t they? “Are you going to shoot him?”

“Why? You gonna try to stop me?”

“Uh … No, actually.”

He smirks. “He hasn’t done anythin’ that warrants a bullet yet. He’s a big boy but young. Probably lost his mama and hasn’t figured out how to forage for food. I figure once the salmon are in full swing, he’ll move on to the river where he’ll be more productive.”

This is what Roy was talking about that night at the Ale House when he asked if there’d been anything sniffing around Zeke. He wasn’t wondering about Oscar. He was wondering if this bear was coming around our place, too.

Has it been?

I feel Roy’s gaze dissecting me. “You know … you don’t belong here, girl.”

His words are blunt and yet delivered with a razor-sharp edge, and they stir the twinge of worry deep inside me—that he’s right, that there are too many things for me to “get used to” to ever truly feel like Alaska is my home.

But I won’t allow Roy to get to me today. I set my jaw stubbornly. “I belong wherever Jonah is.”

“Oh. You’re one of those girls.” There’s no missing the disparaging tone. The judgment. The disdain.

Even injured—gravely, possibly—Roy is caustic, at best.

“You know, I’m so happy Oscar dragged me here today. You’re always such delightful company.”

He grunts in response, though I note how the corners of his mouth curl, ever so slightly. As if my sarcastic retort amuses him.

The dogs suddenly rush out the door, barking. The sound of squeaking brakes announces a vehicle.

“That should be Toby.” Thank God. I climb to my feet and head for the barn door, relieved that help is here and I no longer have to bear Roy’s acerbic personality alone.

“Go on, get back!” Muriel’s commanding voice carries.

I stifle my groan. I’m not sure if having her here will make things better or worse for the man lying on the ground, his body broken.

Toby ignores a barking Gus and slinking Oscar as he strolls toward me, working a dirty rag over his motor-oil-coated hands. “How bad is it?” he asks grimly.

“Not sure yet. An ambulance is on its way.”

“Good luck makin’ it all the way in.” Muriel marches into the barn as if she owns the place. “Well, you gone and buried yourself. How’d you manage that?”

“Dear Lord, end me now,” Roy mutters, closing his eyes.

Muriel ignores him, pointing to the boards I already shifted off. “Let’s get those pieces farther back to give us some room.”

We set to work, dragging the wood away.

Muriel scowls at the beam. “Toby, you help me with this.” They grab hold of it together. “Bend with your knees!” she hollers, earning Toby’s eye roll. Between the two of them and some grunting, they pivot the beam around and off Roy. His arm, which he must have lifted to brace against the wood as it fell, is bent awkwardly and not moving.

Muriel stands over him with her hands on her hips, assessing the situation with a stern expression. “You put too much wood up there.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Can you wiggle your toes?”

“If I can’t, will you shoot me like you tried to shoot my dog?”

“Your right arm’s broken.”

“No shit.”

“What about your left one?”

Roy answers by raising his middle finger on his left arm and waggling it at her.

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Apparently being rescued from a dire situation and in pain hasn’t softened him at all. A quick glance over at Toby confirms he’s struggling not to laugh, too.

Roy shifts as if attempting to sit up, but manages nothing more than a groan. “Think I’ll just stay here for a while, then.”

Muriel notes the empty pens. “Toby, go on and check on the goats. Calla, find some blankets inside so we can cover him up.”

“I don’t need a blanket and she’s not goin’ into my house!” Roy throws back, whatever civility I caught glimpses of earlier gone with Muriel’s presence.

“Yes, you do! Stop bein’ such a damn fool!”

“Come on.” Toby tugs on my sleeve and leads me out the door.

“Do they always fight like that?” The growing tension in the air is palpable.

“Pretty much. It’s like sport for them. You get used to it after a while.”

“I don’t know how.” I eye Roy’s little cabin. How often does he allow anyone inside?

“You’re probably gonna be the first person to step inside that place … ever,” Toby says, as if reading my mind.

I’m certainly not welcome to. “Do you think he has it booby-trapped?”

“Oh. Definitely.” Toby says with a mock-serious face before it splits into a grin. “Holler if you get caught in anything.” He walks toward the gate that leads to the clearing behind the barn where several goats graze.

“Hey, wait! Did you hear about that bear that’s been coming around?” Is it hiding in the tree line, watching us at this very moment?

“Yeah, Mom said something.” He seems unconcerned.

“Shouldn’t you bring a gun with you?” How is he so chill about the possibility of a roaming bear, especially after what happened with his brother?

He throws a thumb at the barn where Muriel continues to berate Roy for being stubborn, and he continues to deny his need for any help, despite him lying on the cold ground with God only knows how many broken bones and, possibly, internal bleeding. “You think any animal is crazy enough to come around with that goin’ on?”

I shake my head as I climb the steps that lead to Roy’s front porch. Oscar slinks behind me, keeping five feet away at all times. With unease, I step inside.

I never put much thought into what the inside of Roy’s cabin might look like. It’s plainly designed as I would expect of a man who lives alone in the woods—the kitchen on the right, the living room off to the left, two doors at the back, which lead to what I’m guessing are his bedroom and a bathroom. If he has a bathroom. There is little in the way of furniture—an old green-and-yellow woven chair that I would bet was rescued from the dump or the side of the road sits next to the woodstove, a small rectangular table for two, but with only one chair, and a gun rack on the wall that holds three guns. I’m sure they’re all loaded.

But, what surprises me are the three full walls of floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcases—all measured and cut and trimmed to perfection. They’re the kind of high-end built-ins I’ve been dreaming about for beneath the stairs at our house. The kind that cost triple what I want to pay.