Page 39 of To Keep A Wolf
Emotion bubbles up in my throat, but I shove it down again. I’ve lived through torture and certain death. I can get through this. Clearing my throat, I pretend this is just another day and force out the words I never thought I’d say aloud.
“Hi, Dad.”
CHAPTER11
Robert Mackenzie hardly looks a day older than he did in the photo I once swiped from my mother; a snapshot of the two of them with me as an infant cradled between them. She swiped it back when she realized it was missing from her nightstand—and I never saw it again. Or him. In fact, I gave up even asking about him when all it ever earned me were curt replies or angry retorts. I never thought I would actually meet him in person. And now…
He's standing in the doorway of what appears to be his house.
It’s surreal.
More unsettling than learning Jadick intends to kill me. That was, at least, expected of someone so obviously dark and uncaring. But this—seeing my own father in the flesh living less than a day’s drive from where I grew up—is enough to make my stomach churn.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he says, still shocked at the sight of me.
That makes two of us, dude.
There’s zero weirdness in his expression, considering the fact that I just called him ‘Dad’ when he so obviously hasn’t been one.
Still, now that I’ve spoken the words and he hasn’t proved himself a figment of my imagination, I don’t know what to do next.
And it’s that uncertainty that has me whirling on my heel and stomping back to the van. I rip the sliding door open and climb inside then slam it closed again.
My breath comes in short bursts, and I can’t bring myself to look out the front windshield, so instead, I drop my face into my hands, elbows braced on my knees as I struggle to figure out how to handle this.
Basically, I panic.
I’m a little surprised when no one comes after me. My solitude—and the roaring silence—go on so long that I finally take a deep breath and lift my head again.
Levi, Tripp, and my father are gone from the front stoop.
Casting outward with my senses, I can’t find a trace of them anywhere in the yard.
I wait another moment and then warily venture out again. The van door slides closed behind me, and I pause, waiting to see who the noise will bring first.
Still, no one appears.
I debate the idea of going to the front door. My emotions are still a hot, swirling mess and my nerves are frayed from that single moment earlier. Instead of initiating what promises to be a repeat of that, I decide to explore the grounds.
Inhaling the fresh air, I round the house and make my way toward the backyard.
A small garden sits off to one side that looks well-tended. Squash, zucchini, beans, lettuce. Opposite that is a wide tree stump with an axe buried in its center. Against the house, underneath a short overhang, logs are stacked neatly.
He’s homesteading. It makes sense considering the closest grocery store is probably miles out. As my thoughts race through what I assume is his life here, a scent reaches me.
Woodsmoke and … rabbit?
I turn toward the smell and note a smoker set up opposite the garden. Hot coals line the bed beneath it. Above, a self-turning spit revolves slowly. Thin plumes of cooking smoke waft lazily into the afternoon sky.
My stomach grumbles hungrily, but as much as I want to hate this man, I won’t take what’s his. Or maybe that’s my stubborn pride talking.
“You’re welcome to help yourself.”
His voice startles me, and I bite off a gasp as I turn to see my father standing near the edge of the wood pile. He pauses there as if waiting for me to acclimate to his very presence—which isn’t off the mark.
A couple of steadying breaths later from me, he pushes off the wooden stake he’s leaning on and strides over. I force my feet to remain planted. Mostly because I can’t decide if I want to run toward him or away.
“Rabbit?” I hear myself ask.
