Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Luna
Icrouch beside the wolf enclosure as I check the healing wound on Willie’s leg. The large gray wolf, brought in a few days ago after his leg got caught in a trap, watches me with wary yellow eyes. But he’s grown to trust me. His gaze follows my every movement, alert but no longer defensive.
“How’s our boy doing?” Maren stands at the gate, her body blocking the exit as she keeps watch. Not that she’ll be able to stop him if Willie decides to make a break for it, but she’s a deterrent.
Shadow and Ghost both lie on the ground beside her, casual but alert to Willie’s demeanor, watching over me as I treat him.
Since Ghost left recovery, Shadow has taken the hybrid under his wing.
Right from the start, there was no aggression or competition between them.
I think Shadow sees the same thing I do in him.
A creature that’s a blend of two species, never belonging to either.
Shadow’s imprinting on me and the way I raised him makes him similar.
He’s neither completely wild nor truly domesticated.
“The infection’s just about cleared up.” I probe the area around the wound, finding that the swelling has reduced. “Another few days of antibiotics and he should be good to release.”
Willie gives a low rumble—not quite a growl, more like a grumble of protest at being handled. Shadow responds in kind. A warning. I respect Willie’s tolerance. Wild wolves don’t typically allow this kind of examination without sedation.
Sometimes it seems like I treat more wolves than any other animal, but I’ve always felt a deep connection to them. Though they were extinct in Colorado for decades, a formal reintroduction program a few years ago has brought them back.
But Shadow started it all seven years ago.
His mother carried him down the ancient migration routes from Wyoming when he was still nursing and into the crosshairs of poachers.
Other wolves followed, periodically trickling down from the north, until three years ago, when a breeding pair slipped across the border and gave the state its first wild-born pups in generations.
They’ve become my specialty. Word travels fast in the wildlife community, and when a wolf needs help anywhere in Colorado or the surrounding states, the call comes to me.
“You’re being so good.” I scratch behind Wille’s ear in the spot I know he likes. “Almost done, handsome.”
Maren snorts. “You and your wolf-whispering. It’s honestly freaky how they all just submit to you.”
“Not all of them.”
I think of the masked wolf I take inside me. Like he promised, or threatened, he comes back every night, has for the last two weeks, and I submit to him, not the other way around.
He was right. I never called Karen. One day, I might regret it, but right now, even though I know he’s a killer whose actions go against everything I stand for, I can’t stop myself from hungering for his touch.
I finish my examination and back away from Willie, maintaining eye contact until I’m beside Maren. We exit the enclosure together, securing the double-gate system that prevents escapes.
“So, I got confirmation that three families are bringing their kids to our Elk Fest booth. The Kellermans, the Yamadas, and the new family that just moved here from Denver.”
“That’s great!” I smile, my mood lifting. Elk Fest is one of my favorite events. It’s a chance to introduce children to wildlife conservation in a fun, educational way. “Which animals are we taking?”
“I was thinking Flower and Honey for sure,” Maren says, referring to our two most social rabbits. “Maybe that new barn owl, if she’s ready for a controlled introduction to crowds? And definitely Gertie.”
“What about Winston? Kids love him.” Tate’s voice drifts over from the paddock, where he’s brushing the horses.
I laugh. “Winston, the one-eyed opossum who hisses at his own shadow? That Winston?”
“Hey, he’s got character.” Tate leans over Patches’ back, and his glasses slide down his nose. He shrugs his shoulder up to push them back into place. “And he’s a great teaching opportunity about how even ‘ugly’ animals deserve protection and respect.”
“He’s not ugly, just unique.” I crouch to give both Shadow and Ghost scratches. “Let’s see how he does with our test run this week. If he can handle Maren in a good mood, he might be ready for actual children.”
“I’m delightful!” Maren protests, but she’s grinning. “Ask JT. He thinks I’m absolutely charming.”
“We don’t need to know why.” I motion towards Tate. “There are young ones present.”
“But Tate’s almost old enough to drink now. He’s twenty.”
“Tate’s been drinking since he was a freshman in high school,” he says, but he’s laughing. “And Maren’s lack of filter is nothing compared to the house full of frat boys I live with now.”
“I can’t believe you’re in a frat, Tate. That you pledged. How did you even make it through rush? You’re…” Maren gestures with her hand, searching for words without saying what she means.
“A nerd?” Tate shrugs, eyes warm beneath his glasses.
“Well…”
I smack Maren on the leg with a frown. “You’re not a nerd, Tate. Don’t listen to her.”
“No, she’s right, Luna.” He laughs again, unbothered as he moves to Patches’ other side. “Every frat needs a token nerd. That’s me.”
“Do you have any idea what I used to do with frat boys?”
“Maren!” I slap her leg again. “Boundaries. This is not a workplace conversation. Save the confessions for after hours.”
“What—”
She cuts off at the familiar sound of Roger’s county truck, the engine’s diesel growl growing louder as it reaches the circle drive, kicking up a cloud of dust that makes me squint. I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans.
“Please tell me it’s not another python.” Maren drops her head back. “I can’t handle one more ‘oops, my pet got too big’ situation.”
Roger’s truck door slams shut, and he moves around to the passenger side with slow steps, like he’s carrying something precious. My stomach does that familiar flip it always does when we’re about to get new arrivals. Hope and dread in equal measure.
“Luna!” Roger’s face is serious as he approaches. In his arms is a small carrier, the kind we use for kittens. “Got something special for you here.”
“Define special.” Maren crosses her arms. “Because your last ‘special’ was that skunk family that moved into our storage shed.”
Roger ignores her sarcasm, which is wise. He’s learned over the years that Maren’s bark is worse than her bite, but only just barely.
“Found these little ones on the Lily Lake trail.” Roger lowers the carrier to the ground, both hands steadying it. “Six baby black-footed ferrets. Hikers spotted them yesterday afternoon, probably abandoned. We waited overnight to see if Mama would come back, but she didn’t.”
My heart stops. Black-footed ferrets. One of the most endangered mammals in North America. I drop to my knees beside the carrier, peering through the mesh. Six tiny forms huddle together, unmoving. They’re so small, only a few weeks old at most, their eyes still closed.
“Jesus.” My fingers find the carrier latch, fumbling with the clasp. “How long have they been alone?”
“At least eighteen hours, maybe more. They’re in rough shape.”
“Let’s get them inside.” I stand, lifting the carrier. It weighs almost nothing, which terrifies me. These babies should be heavier. “Maren, grab the small mammal emergency kit.”
We sprint across the driveway, my mind already racing through protocols.
Dehydration will be the first concern, then nutrition.
These little ones need specialized formula, warmth, and round-the-clock care.
My hands shake as I push open the door with my hip.
This building has seen so many arrivals over the years, so many battles fought and won.
And lost. I push that thought away and focus on the task at hand.
We move into the examination room, and I put the carrier down. Maren appears at my elbow with the emergency kit, her movements as efficient as mine.
I open the carrier, and my heart clenches. The babies are so still. Their tiny bodies are dehydrated, skin tenting when I pinch it. But they’re alive. That has to count for something.
“How the hell did they survive out there?” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “Coyotes, hawks, owls… any one of them should have found these babies.”
“Maybe someone was watching over them.” Maren prepares a syringe with electrolyte solution. “Sometimes the universe saves the special ones.”
Roger hovers near the door with Tate. “You think they’ll make it?”
I don’t answer. I’m focused on the smallest one, a little female who’s not responding to my touch. Her breathing is so shallow, I strain to catch the rise and fall of her chest, each breath a whisper of movement.
“We’ll do everything we can.”
It’s what I always say. It’s never a promise, just a commitment to fight.
“I’ll leave you to it then. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
The door closes behind him and Tate with a soft click, leaving Maren and me alone with our six tiny patients. I pick up the smallest one, feeling how light she is in my palm.
Come on, little one. Fight.
For the next two hours, we work in near silence. IV catheters smaller than toothpicks, warmed formula administered drop by drop, and heating pads adjusted to precisely the right temperature. It’s delicate work, the kind that requires steady hands and steadier nerves.
The first five babies respond well. Their breathing strengthens, and their tiny bodies warm under our care. But the smallest one, the little female I noticed first, isn’t rallying the way she should.
“Come on, sweetheart.” I hold her against my chest. “Come on, fight for me.”
Even as I say it, I can feel her slipping away. Her breathing becomes more labored, more erratic. I know this rhythm. I’ve felt it too many times before.
“Luna.” Maren’s voice is gentle and understanding.