Regan Wolfrom - Coyote

“You seem to know me pretty well,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean it to come out like that. It’s not your fault… well, it’s not all your fault. It is what it is, I guess.”

“It’s a bad situation.”

“It doesn’t have to be like this. Why do you think my father asked for your guys’ help on this?”

“I assumed we were working up to a bromance.”

“It’s time to get things back on track. We need to work together.”

That sounded strange, considering the dump Dave Walker had taken all over the Supply Partnership. Maybe I was just pissed that he was the first to kick it when it was down.

I gave her a smile. “I’m willing to try,” I said.

She smiled back. “I believe you.” She laughed. “See? Now there’s one Walker who’s starting to trust you.”

“I want to trust you, too, Katie.”

“That’s good.”

“I just need you to tell me the truth.”

“The truth?”

“You know… did Livingston screw us over? Did he poach some of the supplies before we got here?”

She turned her head towards the camper. “There’s no right way for me to answer that.”

At least she wasn’t lying to me.

I dropped the subject right there, and we spent the rest of the day talking about anything else, from my stories about Toronto and the glamour of being a community safety consultant, to her descriptions of what things were like in Cochrane before I got here. It’s funny how little I know about the way things used to be up here.

I’ve never really talked about Cochrane with anyone, since I’ve always felt like it’s a first class ticket to a depressive episode. But Katie was different… she seemed detached as she talked. She didn’t seem the least bit emotional as she told me about her time waiting tables at the one and only fancy restaurant, or about how the first boy she ever kissed was the first man to be killed by marauders. It was like she was describing a movie to me, like it was all from a life that had happened to someone else.

By the time the other two trucks came rolling up behind us, I was pretty sure I’d made a friend. That sounds pretty trite, but I don’t make a lot of new ones these days.

Today is Wednesday, December 19th.

This year’s snow finally came, starting last night just after dinner.

It’s lasted all through the day today. By noon we were up to around twenty five centimeters, with no end in sight.

It’s always like pulling teeth to get Graham and Matt outside when it’s cold or snowing, so Kayla, Lisa and I did the chores, with Lisa giving me a quick lesson in milking the goats, and Kayla running off the names and laying habits of each hen; I’m pretty sure she was rounding up the egg count in an attempt to keep some of the stragglers from finding their way into Fiona’s stewing pot.

I went down to the Tremblays’ with Lisa to raise the Walkers on the UHF rig, and they made it clear that the snow would keep them away from Silver Queen for at least a day, since they’d have to make sure they had enough trucks to plow closer to home. I don’t see why they think that’s more important, but I knew we’d have trouble getting up there ourselves. We agreed to talk again tomorrow morning.

We had a few days like this last winter, so I already have a good idea of just how long we can put up with each other in a confined space. Last March saw a spring blizzard that kept us inside for two days straight and resulted in no less than three physical altercations; the fact that all three were between Kayla and Fiona didn’t ease the tension as much as you’d think.

This time around, Sara decided to use up the day in baking, which kept Fiona occupied as well. I sat in the kitchen with them for over an hour just after lunch, listening to their conversation and generally just enjoying the warmth of the oven and the smell of sugar and caramel.

But I knew I couldn’t sit around all day; snow means that our little island has become less safe. The Abitibi isn’t frozen yet, but soon it will be, but even before that we’ll need to start worrying about snowmobiles.

Snowmobiles.

Starting today.

Last winter there wasn’t much snow compared to most years, but there was still enough to make our original roadblock on Nelson Road (a wood fence with two rickety gates) pretty much useless. Anyone who had a snowmobile or a tracked ATV could come up on us from any direction.

And they did.

The first time was last December, before Ant had come along and long before the Porters or Tremblays, back when the seven of us were just getting used to working together.

Lisa and Graham were stringing up a makeshift extension on the fencing around the goats, since the snow was already banking high enough that any of the more enterprising animals would be able to find their way out.

The goat pen is across the driveway, probably about as far from the cottage as you can get and still consider yourself on the homestead. I guess that’ll change if we ever plant those crops.

I heard the snowmobiles from right by the cottage, where I was splitting firewood with Matt. For a moment the sound didn’t even register as anything I needed to worry about.

By the time I realized that I needed to check it out, I could see them coming, two machines heading up the unplowed driveway.

They were moving toward our two people working on the fence; I guess they had it in their heads that they were dealing with a solitary couple.

Lisa had noticed them, too, and as she hadn’t worried about bringing a rifle out with her, she hustled Graham toward the trees at the far end of the clearing.

She was counting on me to take the heat.

I grabbed my gun belt and strapped it on, and debated running into the cottage to grab my armour. I turned to Matt instead.

“Go inside and put on the body armour,” I told him. “Helmet, too.”

He nodded and started toward the front door.

I grabbed his arm.

“Other door,” I said.

He went around back while I walked out onto the driveway.

The snowmobiles slowed. If they were armed, they’d have little chance of getting a good shot off while moving. They were wearing balaclavas, but since one had a scarf on as well, I couldn’t be sure they were trying to hide their faces from anything other than the cold.

“Private property,” I shouted.

“Don’t shoot,” one of the snowmobilers said.

He turned off his machine and climbed off, pulling up his balaclava to reveal his face.

I didn’t know him.

“You have any guns?” I asked.

“Yes,” the man said. “Handgun in my saddlebags. My wife has a knife, but it’s none too hazardous.”

I nodded to Graham.

He and Lisa walked back and Graham checked both sets of bags. One pistol and one knife. No surprises.

Lisa took the gun from him and checked it over.

“I guess you can see this land is occupied,” I said. “I should tell you… next time you come to a homestead and find it’s not empty, you’d be better off just turning around. People have been shot for less.”

“You’ve shot people for less?” the man asked. He seemed to be sizing me up.

“Where are you from?”

“Hibbing, Minnesota… originally. You know… Bob Dylan. My family comes from Kapuskasing, though.” He stepped toward me.

I let him.

He held out his hand and I shook it.

“I’m Ryan,” he said, “and this is my wife, Juliette.”

She waved but didn’t come closer.

“You’re headed the wrong way,” I said.