That Picture Made My Daddy Smile; It Made My Momma Cry
There's a soft warm breeze upon the air,
'Tis moaning soft and low,
'Tis cold and chill upon the hill,
Yet it's melting all the snow."
—"The Chinook Wind" by James W. Whilt
Hota could feel the stirrings of a storm. He carefully picked up the boy's father. "Grab what you can, but only what's necessary."
Peter nodded. He jumped into the ransack tent and returned carrying a wooden box.
They walked in silence for a moment.
"Are you taking us back to your tribe?" Peter asked.
Hota chuckled. "No."
The village was too far.
Instead, Hota was taking them to the hunting caves.
"Is my da going to die?" Peter asked.
"Not if I can help it," Hota promised.
Peter didn't look convinced. "It's just us. What happens to me if he dies?"
"You shouldn't worry about that," Hota said.
When they finally reached the mouth of the cave, Hota's back was aching from the weight of the Alpha.
"Wow!" Peter exclaimed.
Hota lay the Alpha on the furs. "We'll need to start another fire."
"I can do it," Peter said.
Hota looked through the stores in the cave.
The hunters often stayed in the caves for weeks so they were well stocked.
Hota found willow bark and witch hazel easily. He even found aloe vera paste. Once Peter started the fire, he started brewing the willow bark.
"What are you making?" Peter asked.
"I need to cauterize your father's wound and bandage it," Hota explained. "It's not something you need to see."
"I'm not a pup," Peter growled.
"I know that," Hota said. "But I don't want you to see it."
Peter's lip trembled. "W-What if he dies?"
Hota knelt so that they were eye to eye. "You don't want your last memory to be of that."
"H-How do you know?" Peter asked.
Hota took a deep breath. "My last memory of my ma is her death."
Unexpectantly, Peter threw his arms around Hota.
Hota held the boy close. "Trust me."
Peter sighed. "O-Ok."
It was a blessing that Peter's father was unconscious.
This next part would be painful.
Hota breathed deeply.
Omegas were usually squeamish around blood.
But Hota had seen enough blood to paint the sky red. He worked quickly not wanting Peter to be out of the cave when the sun fell.
Cauterizing the wound was the worst part.
The stench of burning flesh made his stomach roll.
He covered the wound with the aloe vera paste before wrapping it in bandages.
Hota sagged with relief. He had done all that he could.
Now, it was up to the Alpha.
He called the boy back into the cave.
Peter stared at his father. He only relaxed when his father breathed deeply.
Hota found himself making a nest. He had not made one since he was a boy, but his instincts were urging him to comfort the pup.
"I-Is he going to live?" Peter asked.
"It's up to him now," Steve whispered.
The pup whined. "B-But all he has is me. W-What if he'd r-rather go with my ma?"
Hota sighed. He wrapped his arms around the pup. "If he has a choice, he would choose you."
"B-But my ma?" The pup asked.
"I'm sure he loves her and misses her very much. But she would never take him from you," Hota said.
"How could you know?" Peter asked.
Hota blinked back tears. "Because your ma would never leave you alone."
Peter sniffled. "But I wouldn't be alone; I'd be with you."
"Yes, you would. But it's not the same," Steve's voice cracked.
Peter cried against his shoulder.
Hota carried the boy to the nest.
Peter wouldn’t let go of him so he lay next to him.
Humming a song his mother used to sing to him, Hota felt as the pup’s grip relaxed.
Small snores filled the cave.
Hota’s heart squeezed with a strange longing. How long had he yearned for a pup of his own?
***
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