Only the moon overhead casts any light onto the homestead, but I keep to the shadows, working my way across the clearing toward my favorite weapon.
Because something tells me I’m going to need it.
It wouldn’t be unusual for one of the black bears to get near the homestead, but they’re typically bedded down for the night by now. Rarely seen after dusk. And a coyote or bobcat wouldn’t have been big enough to make that sound, plus they move far too stealthily to alert anyone that they’re near.
Which leaves one other predator I can think of that exists on McBride Mountain that could be in the trees…
The worst kind.
And the hardest to best.
The closer I move to the barn, the harder my heart thunders under my ribcage.
Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Thud. Thud.
I step backward through the still-open doors and snag my axe from where it leans against the wall, then cautiously make my way toward the fire pit and the direction of the noise.
Step by deliberately slow step.
Circling to the east along the treeline to remain in the deepest shadows and away from where the moonlight might reveal my location.
Something rustles in the darkest part of the forest.
The easiest place to conceal your presence if you were trying.
But whatever is back there, it doesn’t sound big enough to be a bear.
They lumber.
They often crash through things.
This is more deliberate.
Intentional.
Almost as if something wants us to know it is there while remaining hidden.
Come out and play.
My hand flexes on the axe handle, the familiar weight helping to calm my heart rate and smooth out my breathing. But it can’t prevent the churning in my gut, the feeling I’ve had that there’s something worse than black bears on McBride Mountain. Something far more dangerous. Something that could hurt her and take her away from me again. Something we have to be prepared for.
I freeze and listen, waiting again for any sound that doesn’t fit the normal nightly chorus on the homestead.
Only dead silence greets me, as if whatever is there has frozen in place, too, waiting for me to make a move. Time ticks by as I loosen and tighten my grip on the axe in anticipation. The worn shaft and heavy head comfort me with the knowledge that I can decimate anything that comes at me with one swing.
Seconds become minutes.
I don’t know how long I stand staring into the trees, scanning, watching, and listening. Long enough that it seems as though the shadows stretch differently in the moonlight as it makes its way across the sky.
Shit.
And Willow’s in the cabin alone, probably terrified with me out here.
The longer I stand still, listening and waiting, the more it becomes clear that whatever is in the trees has no intention of being caught tonight. If it weren’t for Willow, I could stay out here until sunrise, waiting for whatever—or whoever—it is to make a move, to make one wrong decision so I can act.
