Page 20 of Handcuffed to the Bear

“Oh God,” she whispered fervently as the echoes died away. “Oh God. How far away was that?”

“It wasn’t right on top of us, even though it sounds like it,” Jack reassured her, but he was whispering, too. “Maybe a couple of miles.”

“We should run.” Her heart was beating so hard it felt like it would pound out of her chest.

“No. That’s what they want. You’ve hunted as a lynx, haven’t you? Panicked prey gets careless. That’s exactly what we can’t let ourselves do.”

But she didn’t object when Jack hustled them to a faster pace. The creek was wider here, the banks less steep and further apart. This allowed more sunlight to get down to them, dappling the water and warming Casey’s shoulders. But it also meant they were more exposed. And she feltveryexposed. The back of her neck itched; the hairs prickled on her arms.

Without warning, Jack stopped and she almost bumped into him. “What?” she asked, heart pounding.

He crouched and plunged his hands into the water almost up to the elbows, dragging Casey’s arm along for the ride. Through the clear water, she saw what he’d seen: a big chunk of waterlogged wood, polished by ancient floods and half-buried in rocks. She helped Jack pry it out. It was a hefty log, bigger around than Jack’s wrist and about three feet long. One end was crudely sharpened as if a kid had tried to whittle a toy spear. It came to a pretty good point.

“Now we’re armed,” Jack said with a fierce grin.

“Did the water do this?” Casey asked.

“No. Beavers. Look.” He pointed up the bank. It took Casey a minute to figure out what he was pointing at—she was looking for beavers, but didn’t see any. Then she noticed a scattering of stumps among the trees where beavers had nibbled them off, leaving stumps that tapered to sharp upright points.

“How nice of them. Thank you, beavers! Do you think you can actually spear something with that?”

“With enough strength behind it.” Jack’s voice rumbled in something that was almost a growl.

“I’d feel better if I had something too. Do you think you could find a beaver spear for me?”

He didn’t, but a few steps farther along he located a hefty chunk of fallen deadwood that fit in her hands well. She tried a couple of experimental swings. Her first try went wild; her second almost clocked Jack in the head. He caught it before it could hit him.

“Sorry.”

“With the cuffs on, we’re going to get in each other’s way. We need to account for that. Are you right- or left-handed?”

“Right,” she said.

“Me too. Which means my left is the one I have to work with. You get to use your dominant hand.” Jack clasped their cuffed hands together again, and pushed her behind him. “Put your back to mine.”

This, she could see, would work much better. She was shorter, but with their bare backs pressed together, she had a full half-circle to swing her club without hitting him. She assumed Jack had his spear in a ready position behind her; she felt his elbow jostle against her side. And they could see in every direction. She kept scanning the woods like Jack had been doing, her lynx instincts coming to the fore.

“How’s it feel?” Jack asked.

“Like I’m ready to take out a lion.” Actually, she was so nervous she felt sick, but she was willing to try the false-bravado thing and see if it helped.

“If we get attacked, we need to fall into this position automatically. It’s the best way to cover our backs and keep from hitting each other by accident.” Jack took a couple of sideways steps, so they were both facing forward again. “Okay, we’re going to start walking, and when I say ‘now’, we both stop and I’ll turn around to face behind us.”

“Why not me?” she asked. Her heart was tripping rapidly again.

“Because if it comes, it’ll probably come from behind. You cover my back while I try to stab it.”

She swallowed. “Okay.”

On their first try, she didn’t stop in time and yanked him off balance. On their second, they got their legs tangled together. The third time, though, they fell into position as if they’d been practicing for years. Casey swung her club, letting the momentum carry her arm around. Jack was wielding his spear; she could tell by the feeling of his back muscles flexing.

“Like that?” she asked.

“Exactly like that.” He swung around to face her, grinning, and squeezed her hand. “You’re good at this.”

She had to look away from the pride on his face. “I used to daydream about adventure, you know. I wanted to have some kind of job where I helped people by performing acts of heroism, like a cop or a wild-country firefighter.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jack asked. “I think you’d be good at it.”

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