37. Rue
rue
. . .
the crisis point
My eyes open to darkness and a soothing song of crickets, frogs, and trickling water. A hint of silvery moonlight breaches the nylon walls of the tent, illuminating River’s face just inches from mine. He’s passed out, the hood of his sleeping bag framing his face, eyelashes fluttering with dreams.
I fell asleep with him against my back, as close as possible with the insulation between us. At some point, I rolled away and ended up near a wall. He must have followed me, and I smile as I picture him wriggling after me like a worm.
The longer I stare at his peaceful face, the heavier my eyelids grow. Yawning, I snuggle closer to him and begin drifting back to sleep.
Then an internal alarm blares, jacking my heart rate and wrenching me to fully alert. Fine hairs lift all over my body when I realize what triggered the alarm: complete silence. The crickets and frogs have stopped singing.
Utterly still, I focus beyond the gurgle of the creek and the soft rush of River’s exhales. I listen so hard the silence begins to breathe.
No.
Something else, something big, is breathing outside the tent.
Whatever it is moves in near-silence, but the closer it comes, the more I discern. Shuffling. Scraping. Dry sweeping. The muted crunch of pine needles and dirt. A muffled grunt and a heavy snort.
The picture builds, little by little, until there’s no room for doubt.
Terror floods me, momentarily whitening my vision. It tells me I’m prey, that I need to run run run, but a deeper, more primal instinct demands I stay unmoving and quiet.
A twig snaps close enough it might as well be a gunshot.
I flinch hard, coppery fear spreading across my tongue.
Beside me, River stirs. A new level of panic unlocks, spurring me into action.
I shift toward him as fast as I can without making any noise, privately cursing the mummy bag I was so grateful for hours ago.
Right now, I’d rather be freezing and free than toasty warm and trapped, but I can’t risk pulling the loud-as-hell zipper.
My heartbeat pulses in my eardrums as I move in tiny increments. When my face is finally aligned with River’s, I cover his mouth with mine CPR-style. His brows furrow, lips parting slightly. But he doesn’t wake until I exhale into his mouth.
As his eyes fly open, I draw back and shake my head fast, mouthing, “Bear.”
He stiffens, nodding quickly.
Something blunt moves across the wall behind me, the swishing sound dominated by heavy puffs of breath. I bite my lip so I don’t cry out.
River mouths, “No food. It’s okay.”
Then a low growl assaults my eardrums, and there’s nothing remotely okay about the aggression in it. Icy-hot panic crawls over my scalp and down my spine. I bite my lip harder, the need to flee so visceral my bones burn with it.
River’s eyes flicker to the nearest backpack, a shadowed lump several feet from our heads. He’s thinking about the bear spray, and I have no way to tell him that’s the wrong backpack—his is in the corner farthest away from us.
Fabric screeches as something a lot harder than a nose drags over it. Claws. I picture them shredding through the nylon, shredding through us. My ears buzz. The walls close in, strangling me.
A scream builds in my throat.
At the next high-pitched whine of fabric, River rips down the zipper of his sleeping bag and yanks me across him.
As I land, the collar of my bag opens several inches.
Cold air rushes across my chest. My lungs fill, then solidify as a thump vibrates the ground, followed by chilling, bass intonation.
River dives for the wrong backpack. Instantly torn from my paralysis, I scramble out of my sleeping bag and dive for the other, then tear into it blindly.
A piercing, rapid clacking fills the air. The side of the tent where I was sleeping bows inward, poles squeaking in protest.
River grabs my upper arm, clamping his other hand over my mouth just in time to muffle my involuntary scream.
“Forget the spray. We have to get out of here.” He breathes the words into my ear. I nod, flinching as the tent shakes violently.
River takes my hand in a grip of steel, his other fumbling for the zipper pull at the base of the door.
The tent stops moving.
We freeze, neither of us breathing as we listen for a clue to the bear’s location.
A new chorus of sounds erupts outside. Snarls, growls, and sharp, rapid barks. The bear huffs and makes that awful clacking sound again. It’s petrifying, right out of a horror movie, but it also means we can hear as they move away from the tent.
River crouches, pulling me into the cradle of his body. We tremble together as the snarls and barks reach an ear-splitting crescendo. The bear releases a bellow that reverberates in my teeth.
Savage canine growls clash with a disturbing, pulsing moan. There’s another heavy thud. Brush rustles, the sound fading as the bear moves back into the forest.
Just outside the tent door, smaller claws scratch at the dirt. A snarl is cut off by a yip. A familiar yip.
“Holy fuck,” whispers River. “Is that…”
My breath catches between a laugh and a sob. “Lenny. It’s Lenny.”
I reach for the zipper on the flap.
“Rue, wait. She’s obviously not alone. We don’t know if it’s safe.”
But I feel it—I know.
I find the glimmer of his eyes in the dark. “I can’t explain it, but we’re safe. I promise.”
He stares at me for a beat, then cups my chin and brushes his mouth over mine.
“You don’t have to explain. Animals are your weather.”
I grab the back of his neck and give him a brief, hard kiss, then turn and find the zipper.
As much as I believe there’s no danger, I still lift it slowly.
River hovers behind me, ready to pull me backward—not because he doesn’t trust me, but because he understands.
Like storms, animal behavior is only predictable to a point.
Forces of nature can never be truly understood or tamed.
More moonlight filters through the growing gap. A sniffing nose pokes into the tent, giving me a glimpse of a scarred snout before it withdraws. I pull the zipper over the curve and back down, and the nylon sags open.
Lenny sits outside, her tongue lolling in a doggie grin. I cautiously extend my hand. She sniffs my fingers and whines happily before scooting back a few feet.
I blink back tears. “Hey there, Lenny girl. Thank you so much.”
River’s shoulder brushes mine. “You’re the best, Lenny. You can pee on my leg whenever you want.”
She makes another happy sound and looks over her shoulder. I follow her gaze, and it finally sinks in.
She’s not alone.
She’s not alone.
The five coyotes blend so seamlessly into the shadows near the creek, it takes me a few seconds to spot them. They’re still and alert. The biggest, unquestionably a male, is positioned slightly ahead of four smaller animals.
“Is that your family, girl? They’re so beautiful.” My voice wavers, and River presses a steadying hand to my back.
Lenny stands and pads toward us. A low, warning growl sounds from the creek. Her chin jerks, but she otherwise ignores her mate. When she’s close enough to touch, she tilts her head expectantly. River and I share a grin, then reach out together to scratch her head and chin.
“I swear she rolled her eyes when he growled,” River whispers.
“Of course she did,” I murmur. “Who’s the boss, Lenny girl? That’s right, you are.”
River chuckles.
We pet and scratch Lenny until she signals her satisfaction by licking our fingers.
With a soft yip, she turns and trots toward the creek.
Her family greets her with whines and sniffs.
As she leads the way toward the forest, the male hesitates and looks back at us.
He squats, then shakes out his coat and follows his family.
“He just took a shit, didn’t he?” asks River.
“That he did. Payback for flirting with his woman.” Movement in the forest catches my eye, and I pick out dark shapes moving around the campsite, pausing intermittently. “They’re marking all around us. Protecting us.” I turn to River with a smile. “At least there’s no wind, right?”
He nods, his eyes wide with wonder, and starts to drag a hand through his loose hair. With a sniff and a grimace, he aborts the movement. “Gross. Antibacterial wipes immediately.”
I don’t bother smelling my own hand. Lenny licked our fingers, which guarantees they smell nasty.
We move back into the tent, leaving the door flap open to welcome moonlight, and I grab the wipes I stashed in a mesh pocket. We clean our hands in silence. Mine are still trembling in the aftermath of the second-most harrowing experience of my life.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Think so. Just rattled.” I tuck the used wipe into the pocket. “I swear I put all the food away.”
River takes my hands between his. “There could be a dozen reasons the bear felt aggressive, none of which are your fault.”
I avoid his eyes. “What if it was my fault? What if they… sensed me somehow? I’ve never understood this part of me. I was so scared. If I hadn’t been, maybe I could have—”
“No, Rue,” he interjects. “Don’t do that to yourself. Besides, you’re nuts if you think I would’ve let you hug a fucking bear.”
I crack a smile. “That would be pretty crazy, even for me.”
He tugs me sideways into his lap, strong arms encircling me. I tuck my face into his neck, breathe him in, and release a shaky sigh.
“I’m really glad we didn’t die.” My lips move against his skin. He shifts beneath me, one hand stroking down my back.
“Same.”
There’s a depth to his voice that makes me aware of the stiffening length beneath my thigh.
“Is that because of me or the near-death experience?”
He exhales a laugh. “You. One of those long-term, ongoing problems.”
My breath catches, then goes shallow. An inferno roars to life inside me.
“River?”
His hand pauses. “Hmm?”
I lick his throat, then trail kisses up to his ear. He grunts, his arms tightening. Another small shift brings him closer to where I need him.
I bite his earlobe.