Shame the Devil (Portland Devils #3) - Rosalind James Page 0,18

she couldn’t. Not on skis.

Dyma said, “What? It’s OK, Mom. I’m glad you told me. I mean, good riddance, if you don’t—”

Somehow, Jennifer got her skis out of the tracks without falling over and shuffled forward in the deep powder. She did grab Dyma’s sleeve, then, and said, “Stop.” And pointed.

Her hand was shaking. Her heart was pounding right out of her chest. What did they do now? You were supposed to make yourself big for cougars, stand still for black bears, and if you had to, play dead for grizzlies. She knew that. She was from Idaho. What did you do for wolves, though? She couldn’t think. The blood was hammering in her ears, and she was breathing too fast.

Dyma whispered, “What do we do?” Like Jennifer was the mother. Like she’d damn well better think of something, because there was nobody else to protect her daughter but her.

“Wait.” That was the best she could think of. “Stand still.” That was what you did for dogs, and wolves were dogs, right?

The two animals were on the opposite bank of the narrow river, which was more like a creek here, tugging at a carcass at the edge of the swift-flowing water. Like coyotes with a deer, but this was no deer. This was an elk, its rack four feet across, and they were no coyotes.

They were gray wolves, except they weren’t gray. A big brown one, and another one that was almost pure white, barely visible against the snow. As she stood there, frozen, the white one turned its head to look at them, and after a minute, the brown one did, too.

Her heart felt like it was coming out of her throat, and she tightened her grip on Dyma as the white wolf left the elk, took a few paces into the swift-flowing water, and stopped there. Alert. Assured, like it knew exactly what it was doing. The brown wolf stood behind it and waited. It was huge.

Jennifer said, her voice low, “Dyma. Back up. Keep going. Back up.”

She could hear Dyma doing it. She tried to do it herself, but she couldn’t, because she wasn’t in the ski tracks anymore.

Never mind. She’d stand here. Dyma had better be backing up. She’d better be going.

The wolves didn’t move, and they didn’t growl. They just stood there, heads high, ears pricked. Absolute focus.

The white wolf was still in front. Its eyes looked bright, not dark, and they were staring straight at her. Could a wolf have blue eyes? That was what they looked like, and they were fixed on her face.

The hair stood up on her arms, the back of her neck. She stopped breathing.

Five or six seconds more, and the white wolf turned and went back to the elk. And the spell was broken.

Dyma said, “Mom?” Her voice was small, and she was too close. She hadn’t backed up nearly far enough. “We should get out of here.”

“Yes,” Jennifer said. “Go. I’ll be right behind you, but don’t wait for me. If anything happens, don’t wait. Keep going.” Her whole body was shaking, and at the same time, she felt like she could do anything. She got herself turned around and into the tracks again, and she didn’t fall down. She didn’t look back, and she kept up with Dyma. Around the corner. Out of sight of the wolves. She was trembling, wondering if she’d hear the pad of their paws, knowing that she wouldn’t. Not on the snow. They’d be silent. She wouldn’t know until the wolf was on her.

She didn’t turn around to look, because she’d fall if she did, and anyway, what good would it do? If they came for her, though, she’d fight. She’d distract them, keep them focused on her. She skied on and on, breathing hard, her thighs burning, and thought, Thank God Dyma’s ahead of me. Keep skiing, baby girl. Keep skiing..

She didn’t draw an easy breath until they were back on the main trail. And then she didn’t draw it for long.

6

Failing at Flowing

The shadows were getting longer and the air was getting colder, if that was even possible, but Harlan was still skiing. He’d fallen on his ass a few times, sure, trying the steep stuff with the quick turns and all, possibly at an earlier point along his learning curve than was wise, but balance was his life. Now, the sky was clouding over, the first tiny specks of dry snow were falling, and he was following Owen, who