Greykin Mountain

| 22 | Appreciation

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Panic ensnared all of Jackson's senses.

          He stood there, legs trembling, his eyes as wide as they'd get. In his chest, his heart beat frantically as the same question raced around inside his head.

          Who had been shot?

          Damon immediately came to mind, which sent a cold shiver of dread down Jackson's spine. Was he hurt? Or...no, he was fine. Damon was an Alpha. Of course he was fine...right?

          Jackson swallowed the saliva which had congealed in his mouth in his moment of fear and took a few steps forward. Standing there was the most useless thing he could be doing right now. He should head back and try to find the others. Or should he head in the direction the gunshot had come from?

          He stared ahead and then looked to his right. Which way?

          The seconds passed, and not another sound came his way—only the whistling wind and the shuffle of frozen leaves. How was he even supposed to find the others? They could be anywhere by now. What if he tried to find the trail back to where the pack were? He looked around desperately, unsure of where that even was.

          What would Damon want him to do? He didn't know the answer to that. If he was an experienced member of the pack, surely the Alpha would expect him to head back, wouldn't he?

          He had no idea if he was going the right way, but he headed to his right, staring down at the ground in search of pawprints in the snow.

          But then a deep, angered voice bellowed through the woods—

          A gunshot, a distorted whine, and the sound of birds fleeing into the sky.

          Jackson stopped in his tracks. Bitter mist spread through the woods, obscuring most of what lay ahead. Angst ensnared him, his legs numbing, his thoughts stumped—he felt like a deer in headlights. And when his eyes located the silhouette of a man through the murk, he knew he should probably turn and bolt, but a horrific stare smacked his face when he saw the guy was dragging something along the snow.

          Something white.

                                                  Something big.

          His racing heart started aching. It couldn't be—he didn't want it to be...it wasn't....

          "Jackson," came a hushed voice.

          He didn't take his eyes off the man, who lugged the white blur further away.

          "Kid!"

          With a breathy, anxious huff, he turned his head.

          Tokala was standing behind the cover of a tree, half his face peering out at Jackson.

          "Come on," the orange wolf said.

          For a moment, Jackson just gawped at Tokala, trying to remember how to use words. And when his jaw started chattering, he managed to utter, "Th-the...who...gunshot."

          "Wesley's been shot," Tokala revealed.

          "B-but—"

          "Come on!" he insisted, backing away from the tree.