Healing of the Wolf Page 16

  “The bones would have to be rebroken—basically shattered. At that point, I could cut the ankle open, reassemble the jigsaw puzzle, encourage extra bone tissue to fill in the gaps, and fuse it all back together the way it should be.”

  A shudder ran through her. Shifters didn’t get sedatives. The pain would be horrendous.

  Tynan tensed. “She’d not have to be awake for that, would she?”

  “That’s the catch.” Donal’s gaze met hers. “You’d have to be asleep for the breaking and reassembling. No one could hold still with that much pain.”

  However, there was a reason that shifters weren’t sedated. “I’d trawsfur to wolf the minute I started to rouse.”

  “Exactly. You’d panic, attack anyone in the room, and mess up all my work.” He sounded more displeased about getting his work ruined than the thought of being attacked.

  “Then there’s no way it’ll happen.” Her momentary hope burst like a pin-pricked balloon.

  “Just one—and only because you’re a wolf. Because your animal will submit to your leaders. If someday, you come to trust your pack alpha and betas enough that they can keep you calm, then it can be done.”

  Trust the alpha and beta? She didn’t really know Shay and Zeb, and the wolf inside her didn’t trust them—not enough. After what she’d been through, well, the level of trust needed might never happen. She blew out a breath. “Got it. If I get to that point, I’ll let you know.”

  Acceptance—and respect—was in his nod.

  Tynan frowned. “Shay is a good—"

  “Trust comes or it doesn’t,” Donal said.

  “By the Gods, I wanted an easy fix.” With a disgusted sigh, Tynan tucked an arm around her and pulled her closer. “Guess easy isn’t in the works.”

  Her smile came easier than she thought it would. “Easy is over-rated. I’m alive to feel my ankle hurting. That’s a win in my mind.”

  “So it is.” Donal rose and picked up a stack of DVDs. “After much argument, Tynan and I agreed we would enjoy seeing any of these.”

  Tynan’s low chuckle was a relief. He’d moved on. “Donal prefers fantasy and science fiction or animated. I like horror, action, or mystery. We both like historicals.”

  “It’s a wonder you two don’t kill each other.” After a moment’s consideration, she lifted one—Heather had said something about eye-candy. “How about this one? 300?”

  “You got it.” Donal went to start the movie.

  “I’ll get the chicken.” Tynan gave her a squeeze.

  Margery leaned forward. “What can I—”

  “You can stay put.”

  She sat back at the snap in the healer’s words.

  He turned a dark look on his brother. “As can you. For tonight, I’ll be the house brownie. Do not get used to it.”

  “Um. Right.” She added an extremely polite and subdued, “Thank you, Donal,” and got an approving smirk back.

  “Aye, thank you, Donal.” Tynan winked at her and pulled her closer, nuzzling her hair. “We’ll let him take all the time he needs to get things together.”

  And he took her mouth in a slow deep kiss that swept away every thought in her head.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory - waxing gibbous moon

  * * *

  The shrieks coming from his waiting area were appallingly high-pitched. Although Donal’s heart ached for the cublings’ pain, his sensitive ears protested.

  “Easy, little one,” he murmured to the nine-year-old girl on his table as he squirted saline over the long scrape on her shin. Birghitta bore it silently although her fair face was whiter than her platinum-colored hair. A courageous one, she was. “Almost done.”

  Unfortunately, the two young males in the other room were yet to come. Hissing under his breath, he turned to the open door and addressed one of the mothers who’d been unable to quiet her offspring. “Go next door and see if Margery is willing to help out.”

  Maybe the banfasa would have more luck. Even if she couldn’t do anything about the wailing children, she’d improve his mood. Aye, she really would.

  Tynan had been right when he asked Donal to give her a chance. She was gentle, peaceful, kind—and had forgiven him with a generosity of spirit that he knew he lacked.

  Two nights ago, as he and Tynan watched the 300 movie with her tucked between them, he’d felt as if he’d found a sunny rock in a snowstorm.

  Had he ever felt such contentment?

  And if he’d read her correctly—after being blind as a drunken dwarf at dawn—she’d not refuse a request for her help.

  A couple of minutes passed, and Margery’s soft voice came from the waiting area.

  The screeching stopped.

  After finishing healing the girl-cub, he took her hand and walked her to the hallway. In the doorway, he breathed in the quiet.

  Margery had a boy cuddled up against her on her left. To her right, a lad sprawled over her lap as she cleaned the scrape on his arm. Towels under his arm caught the water.

  Donal almost purred. Cleaning wounds was often the most painful part of treatment.

  “Birghitta, are you all right?” The girl’s mother rushed over. She dropped to her knees and held her child by the arms. “Urbain said the tree you were in fell down.” She was patting her child, looking for the damage, finding the bloodstains.

  “All healed. She only had a bunch of scrapes.” Donal didn’t mention he’d had to repair her eyelid and the scrape on her cornea. No need to give a mother nightmares. The child could share if she wanted.

  From Birghitta’s grateful glance, they’d both agreed on silence.

  “Who’s next?” Donal asked.

  When both boys’ mothers started to talk, Margery spoke up. “Take Urbain. They’re both equally gashed, but I don’t like the way he’s guarding his stomach. He says he hit a branch—belly-first—on the way down.”

  Shifters were sturdy creatures, but spleens damaged easily.

  “Come, Urbain.” He motioned to the cubling.

  “What in the world? Jonty’s bleeding!” Lottie, the other child’s mother scowled, standing over Margery in a threatening posture. “Why are you taking her word for anything? She’s no healer. She doesn’t know—”

  “She’s a banfasa, a very skilled one.” He looked at Jonty who was cuddled against Margery. The banfasa hadn’t moved, but her shoulders hunched. “If she wasn’t here, your cub would still be screaming—and bleeding from dirty wounds.”

  Lottie flinched. “I—”

  Turning his back on her before he spoke too harshly—something he really did try to avoid—Donal led Urbain into his healing room.

  * * *

  With a sigh, Margery tried to wiggle out from under Jonty. Time to go home. Apparently, Cold Creek didn’t respect a banfasa much better than Ailill Ridge.

  The cub gripped her shirt looking up with pleading brown eyes.

  “Oh, someone should rip my tail off and use it to gag my stupid mouth.” The mother dropped down beside Margery on the bench. “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem.” Margery tried to ease her shirt out of the child’s grip.

  “Donal sent me to get you, but he didn’t say you were a banfasa. Just get Margery.” Lottie touched her son’s cheek. “I panic easily.”

  There was more to the story. Margery waited.

  “Jonty had two littermates, but one went on a trip with his sire, who was visiting. They were in a car crash and....” The mother shook her head.

  Oh Goddess, to lose a cub? Margery reached out and took her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” Lottie pulled in a shuddering breath. “My cubs are my heart, but when they get hurt now, I overreact. I know it. Please forgive me for being so rude.”

  “Of course. Forgiven and forgotten.”

  No, the Cold Creek shifters aren’t like Ailill Ridge’s at all.

  When it was Jonty’s turn, at Lottie’s pleading, Margery went in to help Don
al tend to the child.

  An hour later, the clinic room was empty—and she had to laugh because little Jonty had bounced out of the place as if he’d never been hurt. Cubs were so cute.

  “I’ll get these to the laundry room.” Donal motioned to the dirty towels, then obviously noticed his flannel shirt and T-shirt were bloody as well. Shaking his head, he pulled off the shirts and dropped them on the pile.

  “Do you need me to wash anything for you?” He turned—and caught her with her mouth open.

  Because…well…all that tanned skin over rippling muscles. He was sleek as a feline—and a tensile work of art.

  Staring, Margery. Oops.

  His lips curved in a very masculine smile.

  “My clothes stayed clean, thanks,” she said, embarrassed at the breathless sound of her voice. Oh, she hated the awkwardness of male-female stuff. “I should get going.”

  “Stay for a while. We both deserve lemonade and some time in the sun.”

  It would be easier to talk if she didn’t keep noticing how his dark lashes and brows made his silvery-gray eyes even more potent. “Thanks, but—”

  “Don’t flee, banfasa. I need to talk to you.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “About healing stuff.” He was using that…that voice on her, the one that sounded as dark and rich as molasses. The one that could make a female’s knees weaken.

  Not fair. But she was better than this. Medicine. Right. And if her insides quivered a bit at the thought of talking to him, he’d never need to know.

  Although it’d almost been easier to deal with him when he’d been rude to her. This was a total case of be careful what you wish for, wasn’t it? “Of course. All right.”

  “Good. Go sit.” He pointed her toward the front door while he turned toward the kitchen.

  As she settled onto a chair, he returned with glasses of lemonade. And—good for her peace of mind—he’d donned a shirt.

  Before he could speak, a young boy trotted up onto the porch with a basket in each hand. “Healer, Mama sent cookies.”

  “Enzo.” Donal grinned and accepted a basket. “I love cookies. Tell her thank you.”

  The boy turned to Margery, and his brow crinkled with worry. He whispered to Donal, “Is she the banfasa?”

  “She is.”

  With an adorable grin—and familiar big brown eyes—Enzo deposited the other basket in her lap. “Mama says thank you.”

  Before she could respond, the boy jumped off the porch, not bothering to use the steps, and headed down the street at a speedy run.

  She stared after him. “Is he, perhaps, a littermate to Jonty, cub of Lottie?”

  “Very good.” Donal took the other chair and investigated his gift. “Oatmeal cookies. My favorite.”

  Cookies. Mouth watering, Margery pulled away the pretty cloth napkin covering her basket and stared. “I have lots of cookies.”

  Picking up the note, she read the careful writing.

  “By the Law of Reciprocity, you were owed for my poor behavior. The cookies are sent in balance—and with gratitude for the way you eased a cubling’s pain and a mother’s worry. Thank you, banfasa.”

  As Margery’s eyes stung with tears, Donal plucked the note from her hand.

  “Ah, good. Lottie is a fine female. We all mourned her cub.” He handed the note back and leaned over to check her basket. “A variety, eh? Once she knows what you like, you’ll get those instead.”

  Margery nibbled on a peanut butter cookie. Yum. “You, healer, are a tad spoiled.”

  He chuckled. “I’m very spoiled, aye.”

  She studied him as he leaned back and rested his long, lean legs on the railing. During the healing, he’d worn his hair tied severely back in a leather band. Now the black waves covered his blue flannel shirt to mid-chest. He looked younger, closer to her age.

  Although his head was back as he soaked up the late afternoon sun, the sharp edge to him hadn’t disappeared. He seemed very much the feline who could purr…and then slash a person to shreds.

  But he’d wanted to talk. This was her chance to ask questions. “As a child, I heard stories of healers. But you don’t match my mental image of them.”

  Without opening his eyes, he smiled slightly. “Mother was a very conservative healer. And my attire and attitude began as typical adolescent defiance. But I discovered I’m far more comfortable in flannel shirts and jeans than in a suit.”

  Huh. “My grandmother wore calf-length denim dresses, partly because the material was strong enough to let her keep supplies in her pockets. But I hate skirts.”

  “It’s good to examine what we unthinkingly absorb from our teachers and to decide what we wish to retain.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Your grandmother was a banfasa?”

  “Yes. Dogwood didn’t have a healer. Everyone went to her, and from the time I could walk, I helped her every day.” Margery set her basket down and sipped her lemonade.

  “I know how that goes. My mother yanked me into her clinic the minute I showed power. There’s nothing like starting early.” Donal pinned her with a keen look. “Did you tend to your villagers in the Scythe compound?”

  “As much as I was allowed.” The Scythe. Appetite gone, she set her cookie back in the basket. “Their nurse practitioner got permission from the Director to use me as her assistant. We cared for shifters and humans.”

  “You picked up human techniques then. Did you use any when you were the banfasa in Ailill Ridge?”

  The muscles tightened in Margery’s jaw. The conversation had certainly taken a downward turn. The Scythe, then Ailill Ridge. But the healer was right to ask the questions. “Humans do have useful equipment and supplies, but the Cosantir wouldn’t purchase them.”

  Donal gave her a quizzical stare. “That’s why we’re given a general fund in addition to the stipend. Budgeting for the larger items can be—”

  She growled.

  “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

  “There was no general fund, healer.” Because she wasn’t one of the God-touched. “There was no money at all. Someone else stocked the medical bag and with only the very basics. Nothing else. I did not get paid; I got room and board, for which I also had to do all the cleaning in the communal house as well as being a banfasa. Apparently, banfasas aren’t worth much.”

  “Penny-pinching Pete.” Donal’s lips formed a straight line of disgust. “Your grandmother probably didn’t tell you, but banfasas receive a stipend—like healers. The amount is negotiated depending on the time the clan requires and the kinds of injuries and treatments routinely needed.”

  “I should have gotten money?” She knew it.

  “Aye. Each clan maintains a fund to pay for healers and banfasas, bards, soulweavers, blademages—all those—and for things like communal houses, Gathering supplies. Whatever is needed for the well-being of the Daonain in the territory.” He grinned. “Calum is considering subsidizing a hacker and document forger.”

  “I should have gotten real money,” she repeated, refusing to be sidetracked.

  “Aye, banfasa, you should have.” Donal shook his head. “At one time, Pete wasn’t a bad Cosantir, but he’s grown short-sighted and penurious. I don’t think he spends money on himself—just piles it into the bank.”

  “Older folk do that sometimes when they start losing control of their lives and fear for the future.” Margery eyed the tidy, well-maintained houses on the block. Like a house, a clan required constant upkeep. Fixing things. Investing in preventative care. “Pete’s territory isn’t doing well. Can’t Calum do something about that?”

  “No. Cosantirs are limited to their own territory. If the Rainier clan wants change—or for the God to call a different Cosantir—they’ll have to bestir themselves. The shifters in that territory could fix things if they got their paws moving.”

  They weren’t moving. They just did what Pete wanted. She looked down at her hands. “They made me feel like I wasn’t worth paying. But it was a trick. I heard Roger and his be
ta say the lack of money would keep me from leaving.”

  “That’s a vile thing to do to anyone, especially someone putting her life back together after being a captive.”

  His anger at how she’d been treated was…heartening. Wonderful. She found a smile. “Thanks to Heather, I did manage to leave.”

  “She’s a feisty wolf.” Donal took Margery’s hand.

  Touching. He was touching her. His fingers were lean, the warmth seeping into her skin, making her aware of the rest of his body, of—

  She shook her head. Focus, female.

  “Speaking of your leaving Rainier Territory…” He gave her fingers a squeeze. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but if ’twere me, I’d want to know.”

  This what? The way his mouth turned down in a sour grimace was a warning, and she braced herself. “You’d better tell me, then.”

  “At the Gathering last moon, I talked with two shifters from Ailill Ridge and was told you were…” He paused, considered, then said simply, “Basically that you weren’t a good banfasa.”

  “What?” Although Pete and others had whined that she wasn’t a healer, only a banfasa, they’d never complained about her skill.

  Anger roused like a wakening bear, and her words came out clipped. “I worked with my Grandmama from the time I could walk—and in those years, I met a lot of banfasas who visited her. Not to sound conceited, but I am a good banfasa. A very good one. The years picking up human techniques only made me better.”

  “I’d agree, just from the little I’ve seen.” He leaned back.

  “So why would they come here and lie about me?” The ugliness that was Rainier Territory swept over her like dirty floodwaters. “Why?”

  “I’m guessing it was to prevent your finding work elsewhere. To force you to return to Ailill Ridge.”

  By the Gods’ forests and hills.

  Unable to sit with the rage inside her, she rose and paced up and down the porch, stomping hard enough the wood reverberated like a drum under her feet.

  “Wait…” Stopping, she pointed at the healer. “That’s why you were rude to me. Why you told Calum you didn’t need help.”