Page 18 of Rootbound
Henry
Growing up in Wyoming, before my dad’s drinking got away from him, we spent a great deal of time outdoors. He used to say to me, “Stay close to nature, and nature will stay close to you,” before promptly dropping me off somewhere in the woods and challenging me to find my way back on my own. His intentions were good, even if the execution was lacking in fatherly warmth.
He meant that spending time in nature kept your instincts on. We get so clouded by our reliance on our devices and convenience now, that as a species we’ve lost some of our wilder intuition. I suppose since I continue to spend as much time as I can in nature, that’s why I’m able to still hear some of mine.
Which is also why, when I wake up a little after midnight with my hackles raised, I know something is wrong. We’ve had a slew of paps break into the ranch, crazed fans who are mostly harmless, andthree different stalkers who were most definitely not. And since most of the actors have their own personal security when they’re staying here on location, the real risk is that any one of these idiots could end up hurting themselves and try to hold Logan Range liable. They’re all from cities, of course, and don’t take the perils of nature seriously. One girl, a determined nineteen-year-old from San Diego, said that she knew that if she “could just meet Duke Wade, he’d see how great we could be together.” This particular girl hiked for two days during winter. We found her nearly frozen only about two miles away from the main ranch, just over a ridge. She later admitted that she’d walked along that ridge for hours before collapsing. If she had just gone up top, she’d have seen our valley. That’s Idaho country for you, though. The steepest and most dramatic ridge lines that break even the most seasoned hikers and hunters. I think she ended up losing a toe or two.…
Belle is already on point at the door. She’s a Queensland Heeler, so not exactly a pointing breed, but her body language is obvious. I throw my boots on over my sweats and a jacket, and grab my pistol. September might still be warm during the days, but the temperatures usually make a dramatic drop at night.
It’s just shy of a full moon, and I know the surrounding landscape like the back of my hand, so I don’t need a flashlight. I follow Belle through the meadow a ways and down toward the bottom of the same ridge that the lovesick teenager got stuck behind.…
I think I see movement in the tree line, but can’t be too certain. I make a sound to get Belle over to my side and we make our way through some of the outlying brush. I don’t want whatever it is to see me coming and hide—if it’sanother one of these crazy fuckers we will absolutely press charges.
We make our way around and catch up enough that I can make the shape out of the thing.…
It’s moving on two legs—I think? But, there’s a huge hump where it’s back should be and I can’t make out the legs. It’s obviously a human of some kind. It’s huddled around something, taking short steps here and there. What the fuck? What the hell is it? A wendigo?
Christ, Henry. You’re a thirty-one-year-old man, don’t go getting yourself worked up thinking it’s some made-up creature.
The moon is shining in the clearing to our left, but through the trees it’s too hard to discern the thing. I take the pistol out of my jacket pocket and lay it down on the ground, deciding that there’s only one way to find out. I’ve got thoughts of killers and stalkers in ghillie suits running through my mind, and I refuse to make myself liable to some sue-happy asshole.
Before I can change my mind, I launch out after it, Belle at my heels. She passes me as the thing turns and tries to lunge away. Belle knocks it halfway down and I hurl my body to tackle it the rest of the way, hearing the air whoosh out and a strangled noise escape. Definitely human.
I wrap my arms around it as its limbs flail. My hand closes around something and it slightly gives under my touch—squishy?
“What”—a strangled gasp—“the”—more of the noise—“fuck?!!” it says. “That’s my BOOB!” the voice manages to push out while trying to swallow back air.
I run my hands down and sure as shit, I feel how the body tapers in at the middle, and back up and out where boobs would, in fact, be…
Fuck. Recognition surfaces …
“Tait?!!”
Tait
Anyone who’s had the wind knocked out of them knows those noises that you make. The angry noises coming out of me sound… hideous. They’re weird, strangled moans—way more akin to a terrible bout of diarrhea than sexual. He’s got his hands on either side of my waist, his legs wrapped and locked around mine, with my ass smashed against his lap. Being wrapped up in his big limbs has me flustered and pissed off enough to hiss and writhe, but my backpack separates my back from his chest and is making it even harder for me to breathe.
“Yes—you”—gasp—“dick!”
He comes to and lifts his hands and feet straight into the air like a fainted goat. I, in turn, struggle like a turtle caught on its shell and try to right myself. I’m seeing spots, and as I roll back and forth against him, my ass comes into contact, repeatedly, with himthere,and he lets out a little grunt that flusters me even more. After what feels like the longest ten seconds of my life, he grabs under my armpits from behind, and rights us both to standing in one swift motion.
I whip around, ready to tear him to shreds, but my vision swims. I groan, and sit down.
“What are you doing out here?” he says accusingly.
I hold up a finger and he seems to remember that he tackled me like a defensive lineman.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”
The finger remains up and I work to get my breath steady again.
He’s shifting from foot to foot with his hands on his hips. The bastardshouldbe nervous—as soon as I catch my breath it’s over for him.
“What on earth are you wearing?” he asks.
Thenerveof this guy.
“You better hope you didn’t break any of my equipment!” I snarl as I take off my parka and open up my backpack with my camera equipment.