Hitchhikers (Wolf Point #1)

-53-

There's a calendar on the wall open to February, with an old painting of an elk as the illustration. None of the days are marked off. Is it the beginning of February, or the end? Maybe it's March already, if the Whittemores are the types who don't remember to change their calendars over on the first of the month.

The days grow warmer, the sun's rays waking me in the morning. Some days go as high as forty, and Zeke will take off his coat as he splits wood in the yard. I watch from the window as he raises the axe up and brings it down again and again, taking three or four swings to split off each piece. Even though I've taken over the cooking, I feel useless.

At night it's still bitter cold, but as a wolf I don't feel it. I run and work at controlling myself. We've had enough rabbit stew and stuffed rabbit and roasted rabbit and braised rabbit and rabbit jerky (once it was squirrel – I didn't tell them that). I'm getting better. It helps when I'm not hungry. It helps when nothing triggers my wolf instincts that make the wolf lunge forward, leaving me in the dark. It helps when I don't have that weight Kayla put on my shoulders about saving and protecting and fighting. I can run, light as the wind.

Someday, someday soon, I will need to go and take up that mantle again. For now it's good to pretend it isn't there. Maybe I'm Mr. Whittemore's other son, or a nephew, and we're a family living out in the frontier on our own. I've lost both my parents but Mr. Whittemore took me in, and Zeke is my best friend, and this is it. Safe and alone in the wilderness.

Zeke sees me in the window and waves, then jogs over and yells through the glass, "You wanna try it?" He holds up the axe.

"Okay." I look around. "I don't have a coat."

Zeke waves off my concerns. He isn't wearing a coat, and his shirt sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.

I go outside, taking some care with the stairs, and cross my arms over my chest as the cool air hits me.

"You ever split wood before?"

"No." My house when I was growing up had electric heat.

"Here." Zeke pulls off his gloves and hands them to me. "Okay, first you put the log here like this." He sets it on the tree stump. "Now stand like this, then swing and try to get it off to the side like this, not in the middle." I get into position and raise the axe. "You want ta swing as fast an' hard as you can."

I set my sights on the wood, and swing.

"Ho! Beginner's luck." Zeke grins, picking up the two pieces from the ground. He tosses the smaller piece onto the pile at the side of the house and repositions the larger piece back on the stump. I chop that piece in half on my first try as well.

"Well, don't get too hot for yer britches yet," Zeke says, tossing those pieces on the pile. "Dad's the best log-splitter around. You seen those awards on the wall? I figure once I get a bit bigger I'll be some competition for him, but for now, it looks like this is gonna be your job." He salutes me. "I'm gonna go start my lessons."

Splitting wood takes my mind off things. It becomes a steady rhythm, and it isn't so hard as Zeke made it look. The smell of fresh pine takes over my sense of smell, a pleasant change from the strong scent of manure coming from the barn. Time passes along while I'm unawares, until footsteps crunch up behind me.

I whip around, axe at the ready.

My blade points at Mr. Whittemore.

Most people would jump back in surprise or fear if someone had an axe in their face. Not Mr. Whittemore. His brow lowers, his mouth tightens. "Put that down, boy," he growls.

I know I should do what he says. He's been kind to me thus far, and it's not like I mean to hurt him. Yet my fingers curl tighter around the axe handle, and my muscles tense.