The pastures around the house had devolved into areas of dense bush with the occasional clearing, a haven for wildlife. I headed down a familiar trail that would take me on a three-mile loop. Some practical-minded planner had long ago devised a grid system for the prairies, an effort that had chopped Manitoba’s rural land into mile squares. It destroyed the natural drainage in many places, but the marsh behind Peter’s property was untouched. My trails meandered without interruption, albeit a little damply.
The moment I stepped into the bush, I breathed in crisp night air, and the day’s troubles dropped a notch. The slight breeze smelled of the spring melt, of the damp, rotting refuse of winter—too early yet for the scents of rebirth. My breath coalesced in a plume as I watched Keen bound along the trail, her spotted coat blending into the dappled shadows cast by the moonlight. Even though I didn’t trust the light enough to run, I set a brisk pace, using the walking stick in rhythm with my strides.
We’d covered the first mile when something howled. Keen froze in her tracks ahead of me, body stiff and ears erect. I stopped to listen, frowning. Coyotes frequented this area—big, healthy ones. I ran alongside their footprints all winter and they often howled at night. At this time of year, pairs were attending to pups in their dens, emerging to express their love to the moon. Later in the summer, the youngsters would join with their shrill voices.
This sounded deeper and hoarser than a coyote. And when Keen came to me with her tail hanging low and her gaze uncertain, I snapped on her leash. She rarely left my side, but those tricksters excelled at luring dogs to their deaths.
Another howl—this one closer to us. Again, subtly not a coyote. Wolves? My thoughts slid to the torn bison, and my heart picked up rhythm. Maybe it hadn’t been humans that killed them.
I told myself I wasn’t worried, but I couldn’t help but react to a third cry from yet another direction. Lonely, wild, savage—I shivered and sensed the fine hairs of my arms and neck stand on end. Keen cowered against my knee, and I could feel her trembling. Just like she had in that bison field . . .
I paused and considered turning around, when all hell broke loose.
Something big moved toward us—the crashing and cracking of branches made it sound as large as an elephant. Bear? As I backed away, a move supported by a frightened Keen, a form leaped from the dense bush and barreled straight into me.
It sent me flying as though I weighed nothing. Somewhere in the confused thrashing of limbs and frantic snorting, I identified my attacker as a deer—a buck, with the twin fuzzy buds of new antler growth. I don’t know if he outweighed me, but his adrenaline ran high enough to negate any margin of advantage.
Eyes bulging and nostrils flared wide in terror, the buck thrashed to disentangle himself, his razor-sharp hooves narrowly missing my face. I rolled beneath and away, hearing Keen’s shrill bark somewhere above me. With a final punch of a hoof in my gut, the animal launched itself back into the air and disappeared.
Panting, curled up in pain, my only thought was for Keen. As I became aware of the various places that hurt, I uncurled enough to look around. Keen crouched near my feet, facing away. She growled. My gaze slid past her, and my heart stopped.
A creature stood on the path about twenty feet from Keen’s nose. My brain noted the pricked ears and pointed snout and tried to place the silhouette. I first thought coyote, but as I acknowledged the color and the scale, that idea flew out the window. The animal was huge and black, and as I watched, it bared its long, gleaming teeth.
Wolf, my brain said. Yet something about it wrestled with that identification. Fresh out of school, I’d helped a colleague at a game farm and handled wolves up close. The proportions seemed off in this animal. The slant of its eyes and high forehead didn’t mesh with what I knew. From the heavy bones of the face and legs, I was sure it was male, and by the set of its ears and the glaring eyes, it looked royally pissed to have lost its dinner.
It snarled and stepped closer. Keen made a strange half yip, half growl. From where I lay, I could see her hind legs trembling and her posture crouched low. But flat on the ground I was defenseless, and she refused to desert me.
I had fallen with a leg bent beneath me, and now I used it and both arms to lever myself to a crouch. The wolf animal slid its amber gaze from Keen to me, and the assessment in those eyes kicked my brain back into gear. Down, I was easy prey. I need to get up.
I straightened slowly to prevent triggering an attack. My movement, however, seemed to give Keen the courage to dart ahead, her growl changing to another shrill bark. The animal’s ears, oddly long for a wolf, flattened to its broad skull, and I knew my dog was about to die.
I flung myself forward to bury Keen beneath my body and threw an arm up between me and the four hundred pounds of muscle and fangs coming at us. At least, I figured that was what the bastard weighed when he hit me like a freight train. Teeth slashed at my arm, but before the powerful jaws could close, something else clobbered the enormous wolf from the side, hard enough to drive all the air from its lungs in a rasping grunt.
With an arm around Keen, I
