“It’s a long story,” he says, “and we don’t have that long to hike.”
“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, Carrots. I’ll tell you about it someday. But not now.”
Then he starts to whistle and we stop talking. Which seems to suit us both fine, bears or not.
After a few more minutes of hard climbing, we come out on a clearing at the top of a small rise. The sky’s bathed in a mix of gray and pale yellow, with a tangle of bright pink clouds hanging right above where the Tetons jut into the sky, pure purple mountain majesty, standing like kings on the edge of the horizon. Below them is Jackson Lake, so clear it looks like two sets of mountains and two skies, perfectly replicated.
Tucker checks his watch. “Sixty seconds. We’re right on time.”
I can’t look away from the mountains. I’ve never seen anything so formidably beautiful. I feel connected to them in a way I’ve never felt anywhere else. It’s like I can feel their presence. Just looking at the jagged peaks against the sky makes peace wash over me like the waves lapping on the shore of the lake below us.
Angela has a theory that angel-kind are attracted to mountains, that somehow the separation between heaven and earth is thinner here, just as the air is thinner. I don’t know. I only know that looking at them fills me with the yearning to fly, to see the earth from above.
“This way.” Tucker turns me to face the opposite direction, where across the valley the sun’s coming up over a distant, less familiar set of mountains. We’re completely alone. The sun is rising only for us. Once it clears the mountaintops, Tucker takes me gently by the shoulders and turns me again, back toward the Tetons, where now there are a million golden sparkles on the lake.
“Oh,” I gasp.
“Makes you believe in God, doesn’t it?”
I glance over at him, startled. I’ve never heard him talk about God before, even though I know from Wendy that the Averys attend church nearly every Sunday. I would have never pegged him as the religious type.
“Yes,” I agree.
“Their name means ‘breasts,’ you know.” The side of his mouth hitches up in his mischievous smile. “Grand Teton means ‘big breast.’”
“Nice, Tucker,” I scoff. “I know that. Third-year French, remember? I guess the French explorers hadn’t seen a woman in a really long time.”
“I think they just wanted a good laugh.”
For a long while we stand side by side and watch the light stretch and dance with the mountains in complete silence. A light breeze picks up, blows my hair to the side where it catches against Tucker’s shoulder. He looks over at me. He swallows. He seems like he’s about to say something important. My heart jumps to my throat.
“I think you’re—” he begins.
We both hear the noise in the brush behind us at the same moment. We turn.
A bear has just come onto the trail. I know immediately that it’s a grizzly. Its massive shoulders glow in the rays of the rising sun as it stops to look at us. Behind it two cubs tumble out of the bushes.
This is bad.
“Don’t run,” warns Tucker. Not a possibility. My feet are frozen to the ground. In my peripheral vision I see him slide his backpack from his shoulder. The bear lowers her head and makes a snuffling sound.
“Don’t run,” says Tucker again, loudly this time. I hear him fumbling with something.
Maybe he’s going to hit her with an object of some kind. The bear looks right at him.
Her shoulders tense as she prepares to charge.
“No,” I murmur in Angelic, holding up my hand as if I could hold her back by the force of my will alone. “No.”
The bear pauses. Her gaze swings to my face, her eyes a light brown, absolutely empty of any feeling or understanding. Sheer animal. She looks intently at my hand, then rises to stand on her hind legs, huffing.
“We won’t harm you,” I say in Angelic, trying to keep my voice low. I don’t know how it will sound to Tucker. I don’t know if the bear will understand. I don’t have time to think. But I have to try.
The bear makes a noise that’s half roar, half bark. I stand my ground. I look into her eyes.
“Leave this place,” I say firmly. I feel a strange power moving through me, making me light-headed. When I look at my outstretched hand I see a faint glow rising under my skin.
The bear drops to all fours. She lowers her head again, woofs at her cubs.
“Go,” I whisper.
She does. She turns and crashes back into the brush, her cubs falling in behind her.
She’s gone as suddenly as she appeared.
My knees give out. Tucker’s arms come around me. For a minute he crushes me to him, one hand on the small of my back, supporting me, the other on the back of my neck. He pulls my head to his chest. His heart is pounding, his breath coming in panicked shudders.
“Oh my God,” he breathes.
He has something in one of his hands. I pull away to investigate. It’s a long, silver canister that looks vaguely like a fire extinguisher, only smaller and lighter.
“Bear repellent,” says Tucker. His face is pale, his blue eyes wild with alarm.
“Oh. So you could have handled it.”
