One of them lunged from the shadows of the wood pile. Jonah swung the rifle barrel, clubbing the beast aside, but claws raked across his shoulder, tearing through the wool coat and into the flesh beneath. Jonah grunted, staggering back. He worked the lever of the rifle, chambering another round. He fired again, dropping the attacking wolf in the snow.
The scent of powder and fresh blood filled the air. The remaining wolves, sensing a fight that would cost them too much, turned and vanished into the tree line, melting into the dark. Jonah stood on the porch for a moment, breathing hard, the adrenaline singing in his veins. He grabbed the dead wolf by the scruff of the neck and dragged it onto the porch. A warning to the others.
Jonah. Millie's voice came from inside tight with panic. He knocked on the wood. It is me. Open up.
The bar slid back. Jonah stumbled inside. He kicked the door shut and leaned against it. Blood was soaking the shoulder of his coat. Dark and wet.
"You are hurt," Millie said. She was at his side instantly, her hands fluttering over the tear in the fabric. "It is a scratch," Jonah said, though it burned like fire. "Sit," Millie ordered. She sounded like the doctor she had never been allowed to become.
Jonah sat on the stool. Millie peeled the heavy coat off him, then the flannel shirt beneath. The claws had raked three deep furrows across his deltoid muscle. It was ugly, but not deep enough to sever the muscle. Millie worked quickly.
She poured some of the precious corn whiskey Jonah kept for medicinal purposes onto a clean rag. "This will sting," she warned. "Do it," Jonah said. She pressed the cloth to the wound. Jonah hissed, his hand gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
He did not pull away. Millie cleaned the blood with a gentleness that made Jonah's throat tighten. It had been years, decades, maybe since anyone had touched him with the intent to heal rather than to harm. Her fingers were steady, careful not to press too hard on the raw edges. She fetched a needle and thread from her tin.
I have to stitch it," she said. Jonah nodded. He watched her face as she worked. She was biting her lip in concentration. The fire light caught the hollow of her throat and the loose strands of hair that framed her face.
He felt a strange sensation in his chest, a thawing that was more painful than the freezing had been. He was trusting her. He was sitting here half naked and bleeding, letting this woman sew him back together. Why did you run, Millie? Jonah asked quietly.
The pain of the needle was sharp, but it cleared his head, Millie paused. The needle hovering over his skin. She did not look up. There is a man, she said, a powerful man. He owns the sawmill.
He owns the sheriff. Silas Pritchard, Jonah guessed. He had heard the name in town. The man who owned half the county. Millie nodded.