Winter of the Wolf Page 5

  He folded his arms over his chest and studied her. The roled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt displayed wrists as thick as her upper arms. “Little female, if you are bothered by a male, tel me. I’l take care of him for you.” His cheek male, tel me. I’l take care of him for you.” His cheek creased. “Part of the Wildwood service.”

  He was serious. He was realy serious. How could a man scare her spitless and make her feel safe at the same time?

  But he smeled of clean pine forests and nothing like the monster. She managed almost a smile. “Um. Right. Thank you.”

  He nodded and moved back into the forest. Silently.

  * * *

  Zeb walked into the lodge and sniffed. The scent of beef and onion filing the air was enough to make a hungry wolf howl. He found Shay in the kitchen, stirring something in a Crockpot. Every counter was covered with vegetable peelings, meat, and dirty dishes.

  Zeb tried not to wince. “Supper?”

  “Aye. I found the grocery store. Tiny place in the center of town. And you’re cooking tomorrow, a mhac.” Zeb growled. Shay’d grown up in one of the more isolated Daonain vilages that stil clung to the older ways and languages. Over the last two years, Zeb had learned a few words. “I’m not your fucking son.”

  Son, my ass. Typical dominant wolf, going al paternalistic.

  He needed a pack to babysit, not a partner. “You’re not even ten years older than me.”

  even ten years older than me.”

  Shay snorted. “I feel older. By the way, I rented out the next-door cabin.”

  “Met her. Pretty little human. Scared though.” She’d triggered every protective instinct in his body—only it had been him she was afraid of. Zeb checked the fridge. Shay had bought dark and light beer. Good male. He grabbed one of each and took a chair at the kitchen table, pushing away the scattered newspapers. Beer or not, having a person in his living space was weird. And this messy mongrel? Fuck.

  “Definitely scared.” After putting the lid on the pot, Shay sat down and rested his injured leg on an adjacent chair.

  “She acted like a trapped mouse when I blocked a door in the cabin.”

  The dark malty beer was cold with a smooth bite. “Huh.

  Figured it was me. I told her that.”

  “Zeb, you have al the tact of a dwarf.”

  Now that hurt. Dwarves were the rudest of al the OtherFolk, even worse than gnomes. “She said I was big and that the cabin was isolated. At least she didn’t run away screaming.” Zeb sipped his beer. Yeah, he’d seen terror in those big blue eyes, but she’d stood her ground. She’d even raised those little fists. Admirable.

  Shay’s brows drew together. “Isolated? Could she be afraid of males?”

  “Maybe. She moved as if she was damaged, smeled of

  “Maybe. She moved as if she was damaged, smeled of fresh blood, and not the moon cycle type. Then again, she’s female—they’re not designed to be understood.” He never spent time with females outside of Gathering night.

  “Aye. And human. Their mating patterns are strange.” Shay rubbed his chin. “We should find out if she has a reason to worry. Wouldn’t want some asshole coming here and bothering our first renter.”

  “You do the finding out. I’l instruct the male on manners.”

  “I’l talk, and we both beat the shit out of him.” Zeb scowled. Shrugged. Whatever. As long as he didn’t have to try to quiz her. Tact wasn’t on his short list of talents.

  Shay set his drink down. “Supper’s stil got a while to cook. Let’s do some scouting.”

  Be good to know what to expect before the next new moon. Most of the snow was gone, but tracks might remain in the wet dirt. Helhounds were heavy. “Your leg up for it?”

  “By Herne’s hooves, do I look like I need a momma?” They stripped and went out the side door into an area concealed by trees and bushes. The previous owner had been a careful Daonain.

  The first quarter moon was high in the black sky. Carrying the chil of snow-capped peaks, the wind swirled the brush and made the bare tree limbs clatter. Zeb trawsfurred to his animal form, feeling the gift of the Mother’s love run through him, hearing the siren song of the wild. He flicked his ears him, hearing the siren song of the wild. He flicked his ears forward to catch the rustling of tiny animals in the dead grass, the slow flapping of an owl overhead. Shay’s scent mingled with the fainter ones of deer and cougar drifting down from the mountain.

  Shay shifted as wel, turning into a big-boned, heavy wolf with light silver-gray fur.

  Zeb glimpsed yelow light through the bushes, showing the little human was stil awake. Good thing he’d barred her cabin windows. She’d be safe. Then again, helhounds preferred shifters to humans, so she’d be ignored as long as it caught a shifter scent first.

  Shay barked, getting his attention, and loped into the forest. Zeb folowed.

  * * *

  On Monday, Bree sat on a bench and scoped out Cold Creek. The mountain town was a friendly little place, she decided. The traffic lanes were separated by fancifuly landscaped islands that ran down the center of each street.

  The iron benches, antique streetlights, and tal trees on the rectangular, plaza-like spaces gave the town a sit-down-and-stay-awhile atmosphere.

  Life was slower here. No one rushed—they stroled and stopped to chat with friends. And apparently, they walked, since only two or three cars were parked on each block. She shook her head, feeling like a foreigner.

  Last night the lack of traffic noise had unsettled her more than the owl hooting and rustling noises outside her window.

  Then her cabin had been freezing when she got up, even colder than the time it had snowed in the city.

  She bit her lip as a solid lump of homesickness settled in her stomach. I want my apartment with my own stuff—my cooking things, my books, my comfy bed piled high with bright pillows and soft, soft sheets. And I want to go to work and create pies and cakes that make people happy.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she rocked back and forth. I want Ashley. I want my friends. Eric would miss her

  —she always babysat him on Sunday afternoons. Would he think she’d forgotten him?

  Under one of the leafless trees, two toddlers were ignoring their mother to play in a puddle of melted snow. Bree sighed, her heart aching, wishing she had a couple like them. Like little Eric. But the chances for that were slim and getting slimmer. No man had interested her—ever—and now just the thought of having sex gave her the shakes.

  Wasn’t being scared fun?

  With a sigh, she straightened her spine, recognizing the cold feeling deep inside her. That and the headaches, the weird bursts of tears and laughter, and the sudden fears were uncomfortable, but she’d experienced the feelings before and uncomfortable, but she’d experienced the feelings before and knew they’d eventualy fade. She’d survived an almost-rape as a teen; she’d survive now and be al the stronger for it.

  One more verse; same as the first.

  As part of her cure back then, Sensei had taught her to defend herself. Time to do the same now, only she needed something more effective than fists. Ignoring the throbbing in her leg, she headed across the street.

  Old-fashioned with a wood floor and redolent with the scents of metal and oil, the smal hardware store could have fit into a corner of a Wal-Mart. A counter on one side held sporting goods and weapons, and she bent over it, trying to figure out what to get.

  The young clerk edged closer, obviously itching to help, and she appealed to him. “I want a pistol. Something big that could stop a”— monster—“bear.”

  “You want a weapon?” His eyes widened before he caught himself. “Oh. Right. Let me show you what we’ve got.” He lined up pistols on the countertop, and she settled on a

  .50 cal Desert Eagle. It was impressively huge.

  “There’s a five day waiting period before you can take it home.” He tucked the pistol back in the box.

  “I know.” Or she’d have bought a
pistol in Seattle. “Um.” She glanced at his name badge. “Warren, I don’t know anything about shooting. Is there a gun range where I could learn?”

  learn?”

  “Not in Cold Creek. People around here use rifles, not pistols. Wel, the sheriff carries a handgun.” She shook her head. She’d had her fil of law enforcement buttheads.

  He brightened. “Hey, there’s the two new ca—um, two new men who just moved here. Both of them use pistols for hunting…stuff. They’re good from what I hear. Realy good.” Wel, that was a glowing recommendation. “Wonderful.

  What’re their names?”

  “Shay and Zack or Z…Z-something. They run the Wildwood Lodge.”

  Bree gulped, and her anticipation flattened as if Mr. Z-something had put his oversized boot on it.

  Chapter Five

  A good night’s sleep and a day of lounging about had done wonders for Bree. Her iPod and Elvis kept her company as she dusted and cleaned to the bouncy refrain of

  “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”

  But the cabin wasn’t big, and now she was bored out of her mind. No friends, no job. She couldn’t even exercise until she healed some more. Pfft.

  she healed some more. Pfft.

  She glanced at the photo and bracelet on the coffee table.

  Time to go on a parental search.

  After a shower—her third of the day—Bree puled on a sweatshirt and tucked the picture into her jeans. Smoke from the woodstove stil wafted from the chimney as she stepped outside. After a glance at her car, she headed down the snowy dirt road on foot. The walk would do her leg good, and it was a pretty day. A gentle snowfal had stopped mid-afternoon, leaving the sky a wondrous blue and the air crisp.

  The trees swayed in the light wind. Snow dusted from the taler drifts, tickling her cheeks with cold kisses.

  When she reached the end of the short Wildwood road, her injured thigh had started to burn. She slowed her pace, grinning as she spotted a wingless fairy peeking at her from a tree hole. The forest had a whole bunch more of them than Seattle did.

  To the right, a bird screeched in alarm and whirred out of a tal oak. Bree spun around and froze.

  A giant dog stepped out of the bushes onto the road.

  When the beast’s jaws opened, displaying long, sharp fangs, her skin went cold. No no no, not again. She took a step back, her heart thudding against her ribcage.

  It stopped, and its plumy tail waved.

  Fear sweat roled down Bree’s back as she stared at the animal. Then she let out a sigh. It had fur. A dog’s face. Way animal. Then she let out a sigh. It had fur. A dog’s face. Way to panic, idiot. This wasn’t any horrendous bony-plated monster, but just a dog with fluffy fur, pretty yelow-brown eyes, and a waving tail. A wagging tail was good, even she knew that. Not that she’d met many big dogs in apartment complex-land.

  Maybe I can pet it. She held her hand out. “Look at you.

  Aren’t you pretty?”

  The thick silver-gray fur down its back shaded to tawny on the sides and… Oh, it was holding one leg up. “Are you hurt, baby?” She knelt in the road. “Can I see?” He—and he was definitely a he, she noticed—whined slightly and padded over to her. Criminy, he was realy big.

  Big and shaggy, but anyone could see he was giving her a distinctive doggy smile.

  She petted him, ruffled his fur, and scratched under his chin until silvery dog hair covered her dark blue sweatshirt.

  Gradualy, she eased him around until she could assess his leg. The fur there was etched with puckered red lines, but nothing was open. “Bet that hurt, but I guess it’s too late to haul you to a vet to get looked at, huh, buddy.” He shoved his nose under her arm, demanding more petting. She laughed and complied. “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, al right. And a sweetie. None of my foster homes had dogs.” After that, living on the streets and then an apartment meant no furbabies for her. “So, Elvis.” She apartment meant no furbabies for her. “So, Elvis.” She grinned at him, pleased with giving him a name. “Come by my cabin tonight, and I’l share some steak with you.” To her startled delight, his tail whipped back and forth, and he barked once before trotting into the forest.

  A few minutes later, she stood in the parking lot for the Wild Hunt. She puled the old photo from her pocket and held it up. The two-story log-style building hadn’t changed a bit in twenty-some years. A thril ran through her. Her mom and dad stood right there, holding her. For a moment, they seemed very real.

  She pushed the feeling aside. Over the years, their importance had diminished. More than anything, she just wanted to fit in somewhere. Have a home. Not be a weird person who saw invisible creatures.

  The door of the tavern was heavy and took an effort to open. As she stepped inside, her shoulder and arm ached in time with her leg, and al of her was exhausted. Only twenty-six years old, and she was already over the hil.

  Taking a moment, she glanced around. The round oak tables were spotlessly clean; the sconces gleamed, as did the long mirror on the far wal. Popcorn and roasted peanuts provided a comforting fragrance, and the country twang wafting from the jukebox completed the picture. Two thumbs up for the perfect tavern ambiance.

  Even better, the people matched the decor. T-shirts, Even better, the people matched the decor. T-shirts, flannel shirts, jeans, down vests. Definitely more casual than the city, but not in a bad way, and far more pleasant than a Seattle meat market. So, where to start asking questions?

  Maybe the bartender? She crossed the room and slid onto a barstool.

  When the bartender walked over, she frowned. Were al the men around here over six feet? Wasn’t the average height supposed to be five-ten? His white shirt showed off a dark complexion and a lean musculature. He wasn’t as huge as her two landlords, but stil… Maybe they al chopped wood in their spare time.

  “What may I get you to drink?” His faint English accent and chiseled features didn’t quite match the country decor, and neither did the shoulder-length black hair tied back with a band.

  “A diet cola, please.”

  A minute later, he set a ful glass in front of her.

  “If you could…” She held out her battered photo. “I think the picture was taken in front of your tavern.” He took the photo, glanced at it, and a black eyebrow quirked up. “This is quite old.”

  “At least twenty-three years, I think.” That had been her best guess, considering her social worker said she was around three when found. “Any chance you recognize the people in it?”

  “I regret not.” He turned the photo over and smiled faintly

  “I regret not.” He turned the photo over and smiled faintly at the purple scribbles on the back. “The child would be you?”

  “Mmmhmm. I’m hoping someone in Cold Creek knows who the adults are.”

  By his sympathetic expression, he understood and was tactful enough not to ask more. “Some people have lived here for forty or fifty years. You might try Joe Thorson at the bookstore or Albert Baty at the grocery.”

  “Thank you. I’l do that.” She took the picture back, feeling deflated. Had she realy thought she could wave it in the air, and someone would rush up saying, my long lost daughter has returned to me. Her parents had probably just stopped for a drink on the way to somewhere else. Stil, it was a starting point. Tomorrow she’d go into Cold Creek.

  “I don’t remember seeing you in here before.” The bartender studied her as he wiped away a spot on the gleaming bartop. “Are you staying in town?”

  “She rented a cabin.” Zeb slid onto a stool beside her.

  She spun around so fast, she almost tipped her cola over.

  With her heart doing a dance inside her ribcage, she edged off her barstool, putting distance between them. And then she planted her feet. “Next time make some noise or something, would you?”

  But she was angrier with herself than him. She had to get over these make-like-a-mouse responses.

  over these make-like-a-mouse responses.
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  “Sorry.” Eyes the color of darkest chocolate studied her.

  “You want me to sit over there?” He jerked his chin at the end of the bar.

  Yes. “No. You’re fine.” She inhaled and started to relax.

  The monster in Seattle had smeled like rotting meat but Zeb had a clean, intriguing scent like the forest behind her cabin.

  She forced herself back onto the stool, carefuly ignoring how wide his shoulders were.

  “Is there a problem?” the bartender asked Zeb, his tone icy. When Zeb didn’t answer, he glanced at her. “Miss?”

  “Why are al the men in this place so darned tal? And big?” she asked without thinking.

  Zeb snorted.

  “I believe there is something in the water,” the bartender said without a trace of a smile. He drew a beer for Zeb, then returned his attention to Bree. “I’m Calum. Please cal me if there is anything I can get you.” He tilted his head toward Zeb and added, “However, I fear I cannot make him shorter.”

  She had to grin. “Thanks.” And wasn’t that a pity? If Zeb was smaler—say about five feet seven—she might find the nerve to request pistol lessons.

  As Calum headed away, a short, brunette walked up to the barmaid station and slapped the bar. “Hey, bartender-person, four darks and a light.”

  person, four darks and a light.”

  Calum turned, his brows drawing together into a daunting expression. “Victoria? What are you doing here? Where’s Rosie?”

  The barmaid didn’t appear intimidated in the least. “Her daughter went into labor. She won’t be in tonight.”

  “You already put in a ful shift as deputy.” She glanced around the room. “No problem. There aren’t many people—” Her gaze lit on Zeb, and she flushed from her low neckline to her forehead.

  * * *

  Zeb’s smile of recognition froze as the little female he’d almost mated at the fal Gathering turned bright red. From behind the bar, a furious snarl came from the Cosantir.

  Oh, fuck. Zeb eased off the stool and backed away. He turned his head. Not good—the Cosantir’s eyes had turned the color of night.