Part 3
For a moment Nora thought the cold had made her mishear him. Tom kept his eyes on the welded chain while Deputy Morrow called for more flagging tape.
“How many?” Nora asked.
“Four.”
“Where?”
He pointed uphill, then toward the creek crossing. His directions came fast and exact. One set was less than fifty yards from the route the searchers had taken.
Nora looked at his bare hand on the rail. “Tell Morrow before somebody steps in one.”
Tom’s jaw worked. For one second she saw the choice in him—not whether to lie forever, perhaps, but whether to postpone the truth until it belonged to someone else. Then he put his glove back on and raised his voice.
“Deputy. Hold up. I can show you the rest.”
Morrow turned. Whatever he saw in Tom’s face stopped the question he had been about to ask. He assigned another rescuer to the sled and took Tom aside.
The last Nora saw of him that night, he was leading two headlamps into the storm with his hands visible and empty.
At the hospital in Missoula, warm blood returning to Nora’s fingers hurt worse than the cold had. She had moderate hypothermia, frostnip on two fingertips, a badly bruised knee, and a shallow cut that required six stitches. The emergency physician said she had been lucky.
Nora did not mention the fire, the shelter, or the silver wolf. The birch bark in her pack and Cal’s lessons about fallen-root shelters had mattered, but she saw no reason to give a report while someone was holding a needle.
Rachel arrived before dawn wearing scrub pants under her winter coat and two different shoes. At forty-three she had Cal’s square chin and Nora’s habit of becoming very quiet when anger exceeded what speech could safely carry. She stood at the foot of the bed and inspected Nora the way Nora had once inspected home-health charts—looking for the missing fact that would explain an unacceptable result.
“You turned off the locator,” Rachel said.
Nora looked at her bandaged hand. “I never turned it on.”
“That is not better.”
“No.”
Rachel waited, apparently prepared for Nora to defend the spring box, the forecast, her ownership of the land, and the constitutional rights of stubborn widows. When none came, her mouth trembled.
“I called you three times.”
“I know.”
“I was halfway to Seeley Lake when your text came through. Six words, Mom. Do you know what my mind put around those six words?”
Nora had spent years telling families not to answer a frightened question with reassurance that was not true. She reached toward Rachel, but the IV line tugged and the motion stopped awkwardly in the air.
Rachel noticed. She moved to the chair beside the bed, close enough for Nora’s fingers to touch her sleeve but not her hand.
“I’m sorry,” Nora said.
“For which part?”
There were too many choices. Nora started with the one she could not soften. “For making you come find out whether I was dead.”
Rachel shut her eyes. A breath went out of her, uneven and tired. She covered Nora’s hand with both of hers.
The wildlife center called shortly after eight. Lena had taken radiographs and cleaned the young wolf’s injury. Two small bones in the paw were cracked, but the trap had missed the major tendons and had not cut off circulation long enough to destroy tissue. The wolf was dehydrated and exhausted. Barring infection, Lena thought the leg could heal.
“Can I see her?” Nora asked.
“Not yet.”
“I’m the person she knows.”
Lena was quiet for half a beat. “That is exactly the problem.”
She explained that the wolf had survived one night by tolerating Nora. That did not make tolerance safe for its future. The center would house it away from public areas, use remote feeding, screen human movement, and limit handling to necessary medical care. A wild wolf that began seeking comfort from people could not be returned near homes or livestock.
“I don’t plan to make a pet of her.”
“I believe you. Animals don’t know our plans.”
Nora looked toward the dark hospital window. In it she could see Rachel’s reflection, still holding her hand.
Lena continued more gently. “There’s one thing I need your permission for. The scarf is still with her, and she settles when it’s near. We can use it during the first examinations, then phase it out. Before we wash and return it, I’d like to seal one narrow strip in case familiar scent helps during transport. After that, no visits. No voice recordings. No standing by the enclosure where she can smell you.”
“How long?”
“Six weeks before we know whether release is realistic. Maybe longer.”
The answer landed harder than Nora expected. She had not named the young wolf. She had corrected herself whenever the word mine formed in her thoughts. Still, the animal had slept against her while its family waited beyond the fire, and Nora’s body remembered the quick heart under the red wool.
Rachel’s thumb moved once over Nora’s knuckles.
“If she heals,” Nora said, “you’ll take her back to Willow Draw?”
“If the pack is there, if the site is safe, and if she stays wary of us.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we look at a sanctuary placement. But a wolf raised by wolves belongs with wolves if we can get her there.”
Nora knew the distinction. Knowing did not reduce its cost. Lena’s voice came through the phone, calm but not cold. “Do you want her to remember you, Nora, or do you want her to have a chance to go back…”
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