Part 6
The bullet had passed through muscle above Eli’s right shoulder blade, missing the large blood vessels by less than the surgeon liked to discuss. Hypothermia, blood loss, and two frost-damaged fingertips kept him in the hospital longer than the wound itself.
For the first three days, Nate slept badly in a chair and denied sleeping at all.
On the fourth morning, Eli woke to find the real estate agent’s card on his bedside table.
He looked at Nate.
“I found it in your coat,” Nate said. “You took it with you.”
“It was stuck to the napkin.”
“You could’ve thrown it away.”
“I was busy rescuing wildlife.”
Nate did not laugh. “You left my house in a blizzard because I asked you to stay.”
“You put my home up for sale between the potatoes and the pie.”
“I put down a phone number.”
“You’d already decided.”
“So had you.”
Nate stood and walked to the window. Outside, a snowplow cleared the hospital drive for the third time that morning.
“You fell off your porch in November,” he said. “You lay there for an hour.”
Eli looked toward the door.
“Mrs. Kline told me. She brought your mail over and saw blood on the steps.”
“It was a cut.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I got up.”
“That isn’t the same as being all right.”
Eli picked at the edge of the bandage around his hand. He had no defense that did not sound like a weaker version of the ones he had already used.
Nate turned from the window.
“You thought I was trying to steal your life,” he said. “I was trying not to get a call saying somebody found you after the snow melted.”
“I didn’t want you arranging your days around whether I answered a phone.”
“You didn’t spare me that. You just made sure I couldn’t do anything useful.”
Nate’s voice broke on the last word.
Eli looked at his son’s hands. They were June’s hands—long-fingered, restless when frightened. Eli had spent years believing Nate belonged to the city because he worked at a desk and hated sleeping on the ground. He had overlooked the parts that came from the valley.
“I should’ve stayed that night,” Eli said.
Nate sat down.
“I shouldn’t have put the card on your plate.”
“No.”
“I could’ve waited.”
“You’ve been waiting eighteen months.”
They let the silence stand.
Later that day, Officer Lena Ortiz arrived with Dr. Rosa Alvarez, a wildlife biologist who had spent twelve winters studying lynx movement in the northern Rockies. Rosa carried the severed cable in a clear evidence sleeve.
She was careful with her language. The animal’s black coat was probably a rare pigment variation, she said. She had never seen a documented case in that part of Montana, but one extraordinary coat did not make the lynx supernatural.
“The cable and your description are enough to identify an illegal set,” Lena said. “We found more traps along the drainage. None were tagged.”
“Wade?”
“He brought Mason to an emergency clinic south of town. Staff called the sheriff because the injuries matched a wild-animal attack and because Wade had blood on his clothes that wasn’t Mason’s.”
“Did he tell them what happened?”
“Not all of it.”
The investigation would take time. There were firearms questions, trapping violations, and the abandonment of an injured man in dangerous weather. Eli identified both men and gave his statement. He did not ask what sentence they might receive.
Rosa unfolded a map. “I’d like to place remote cameras near Split Rock once access is safe. No bait, no trapping. Just cameras.”
“If you get a picture, the location stays out of the papers.”
“That was going to be my condition.”
“Then we agree.”
She hesitated. “People at the command post are already telling a version where the lynx led rescuers to you.”
“It didn’t.”
“They’ll be disappointed.”
“It bit Mason because he cornered it. It came back because the cabin was warm. Search and Rescue found me because my granddaughter tied an orange cord to a machine I was too proud to carry.”
Rosa smiled. “That version’s better.”
“It’s the one that happened.”
Two weeks later, a discharge coordinator came into the room with a clipboard. Eli could walk short distances, but he could not lift his right arm above his chest. The nerve damage might improve, or it might not. His fingertips would remain numb for months.
“Where will you be staying?” she asked.
Nate waited without answering for him.
Eli looked at the card still lying on the bedside table. He picked it up, tore it once, and dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.
“My son’s house,” he said. “Through mud season.”
Nate released a breath.
“The cabin stays mine,” Eli added.
“I know.”
“And I’m not spending the rest of my life in your guest room.”
“I was hoping you’d make it to spring before complaining about the mattress.”
Eli held out his left hand. “Help me up.” Nate did…
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