Those bear shifters will probably shoot me on sight. Probably. But maybe they'll grant sanctuary to Junior, despite everything.
Daniel cast a glance at his passenger. Chris had fallen asleep soon after leaving Albuquerque's city limits, but despite the lack of sleep, Daniel knew he was in no danger of nodding off himself. His arm and side throbbed with searing flashes of pain every time he took a breath, and he thought that Officer Gonzales had been right about that broken rib.
Should I find someplace else to go?
Maybe. But right now, Daniel couldn't think of a big city without a resident sabertooth shifter pride. And he didn't want to go to any old small town, where he'd be on his own without anyone to watch his back and with Messerzahn on the hunt. Pete might be relatively safe in prison, but his son was clearly a target.
There was a long tradition of valuing and protecting sabertooth shifter children, which made Messerzahn's actions tonight all the more shocking.
Even if Justin Long doesn't want to help me, maybe he'll help Junior.
Daniel kept driving north. All he could do was hope for the best once he arrived in Bearpaw Ridge.
* * *
"That's it! We're here! I see the sign!" Chris announced triumphantly fifteen hours later.
Daniel saw it, too. It was a big wooden sign in the shape of a grizzly bear silhouette, with the words "Grizzly Creek Ranch, est. 1871" written in big white letters on the bear's body. Underneath, in smaller letters, hung a smaller sign saying "Bed and Breakfast." Below it, a smaller square sign announced, "We proudly raise organic grass-fed beef."
"Finally," Daniel said with a sigh of relief. He added, "Good job, Junior. Thanks for being my navigator."
Chris beamed at him. Not surprisingly, the boy had been extremely subdued in the wake of the early morning home invasion. He had finally perked up a little when Daniel asked him to do a search on his phone during their dinner stop somewhere in Utah.
It had only taken Chris a couple of minutes to find out that Justin Long lived on this ranch. He had then helped a fatigued Daniel navigate the last few hours of the long drive.
Daniel had been glad of his nephew's presence, and the boy's stream of questions about where they were headed, and why. It had kept Daniel from nodding off and drifting off the road.
The last time he'd felt this kind of bone-deep fatigue was during his final deployment in Afghanistan. Daniel tried to slap a lid on the memories welling up like a polluted spring from the depths of his mind, but he knew that he'd probably be back on that dusty, endless road to FOB Shukvani in his nightmares tonight.
"Sure thing, Uncle Dan," Chris said, then glanced down at his phone and added in an anxious tone, "Um, their website says 'No Vacancy.' They're not going to make us go somewhere else, are they?"
"I sure hope not," Daniel said, wearily. "But let's see what happens."
He knew he should try to sound more optimistic, but he didn't want to give his nephew false hope, either. His entire body hurt, with waves of deep, throbbing pain radiating outward from his wounds. His head was pounding and his thoughts felt like struggling insects trapped in honey, slowly drowning in a thick, sticky river of fatigue.
From experience, Daniel knew that a few hours of deep sleep would go a long way towards healing his wounds. But he was pretty sure he wouldn't be getting that kind of rest anytime soon.
First, he had to convince a stranger to grant him sanctuary in a place where folks likely still held a grudge against the Sandia Mountain Pride.
And if that didn't work, he'd have to keep on driving until they found a motel with rooms still available. It was hunting season up here, and there weren't many vacancies.
And once he'd actually gotten some sleep, he would have to figure out where to go next to keep Chris safe.
Pete would probably go nuts with worry when the news about last night's murders reached him, and Daniel had no way of communicating with his brother that wouldn't allow their enemies to locate them. Prisoners were not permitted private phone calls and letters from friends and family members were always opened and read by prison staff before being passed on to the prison.
One crisis at a time, Daniel reminded himself. First priority is finding a safe place to sleep tonight. Everything else can wait until tomorrow morning.
Daniel slowed down, then turned off the highway and drove through the tall iron gates of the Grizzly Creek Ranch.
His Jeep bounced up the unlit, uneven, unpaved gravel road, each bump jarring his injuries and sending explosions of white-hot pain through his left arm and his side.
Above them, the moonless night sky was thick with stars of the kind perpetually hidden by Albuquerque's well-lit cityscape. The cool air blowing through the Jeep's vents smelled of sagebrush and cattle, mingled with the muskier notes of deer and bear. And all around them, the shadowed landscape was devoid of streetlights and houses as far as Daniel could see.
His wild side stirred and wakened. The cat who shared his skin liked what it saw, and longed to stretch its legs and explore this place despite the pain and fatigue currently weighing Daniel down.
The gravel road climbed and wound through low, rolling hills for another mile or so before a cluster of lights came into view and he spotted a cluster of six houses set like a miniature neighborhood on either side of the unpaved road. The houses ranged in building style from gingerbread Victorian to a modern log cabin with huge floor-to-ceiling picture windows and a wide deck.
An assortment of vehicles ranging from a small blue Prius to giant white pickup trucks were parked along the side of the narrow road and in front of the various houses. Most of the vehicles had Idaho license plates, but Daniel saw a scattering of out-of-state plates and even a couple of Alberta and British Columbia plates.
Relief flooded Daniel's system. He had started wondering if anyone lived on this ranch, despite the signs out by the highway.
His headlights caught a Guest Check In sign hanging from a graceful wrought-iron stand in front of the biggest house, a grand two-story Victorian.
Relieved that the long ordeal of this road trip might be coming to an end, Daniel parked in front of the house. It was painted a cheery yellow, with white gingerbread eaves and beautiful bay windows fronted by a small garden colorful with autumn flowers and a big crabapple tree heavy with fruit.
"It doesn't look like anyone's home," Chris said, sounding worried.
He was right. Though it wasn't that late yet, barely 8:00 p.m., all of the house's windows were dark.
Chris added, "Maybe the website is right, and they don't want any more guests."
Daniel sighed, unbuckled his seatbelt, and opened his door. Just my luck. Isn't this place supposed to be some kind of dude ranch or hotel or something?
"Wait here," he told his nephew. "I'll see if I can find someone."
Fresh air, refreshingly brisk, washed over him like a cold shower, rinsing away some of his mental fuzziness.
Daniel walked up to the house, feeling stiff and sore and about ninety years old as he climbed the short flight of stairs that led up to the big roofed wraparound porch.
He couldn't hear anyone moving around inside the house, and his heart sank. Still, he raised his hand and knocked loudly.
There was no reply. No lights came on and no sounds of anyone stirring inside the darkened house.
Dammit. What am I going to do now?
Chapter Five – Unexpected Guests
Did I just drive nine hundred miles for nothing? Daniel asked himself, trying to fight the despair borne of his bone-deep fatigue.
And now you'll just have to drive a little longer to find a motel. Suck it up, buttercup. You've had to do worse. At least you have a working car and no one's shooting at you.
Except for the fact, added a pessimistic voice in his head, that you're a sabertooth shifter male arriving uninvited on another shifter clan's territory.
One crisis at a time, Daniel reminded himself, and knocked again. He was already sure that no on
e was home, but repeating the knock gave him a few more seconds to consider what to do next.
He heard a door open somewhere in the cluster of houses on the other side of the road.
"Hello?" called a female voice.
Daniel turned, and saw a woman standing in a spill of golden porch light on the front stoop of the house directly across the road from the Victorian.
She was dressed in comfortably-worn jeans and a flannel shirt, and had short, curly brown hair and an appealingly curvy figure to go along with her friendly smile.
The breeze carried her scent to Daniel's nose. She was an Ordinary, but her scent was overlaid with that of a bear shifter.
Probably mated to one. Huh. I wonder if she knows about shifters? Some shifters mated to Ordinaries never revealed their secrets.
"Hi, were you looking to rent a room?" she asked, as she closed the door behind her and began to cross the road.
Daniel saw Chris look up from his phone, his sharp features bathed in the bluish glow from his screen, and watch the woman walk in front of the Jeep.
She gave his nephew a friendly wave as she passed. Chris smiled for the first time since the events that had forced them to flee Albuquerque.
He feels it, too. That this is a safe place.
Daniel desperately hoped his gut instinct was right. That he hadn't made a huge mistake driving all this way.
"I don't have a reservation," he answered, picking his words carefully, because he didn't know whether this Ordinary woman knew about shifters, "but I was hoping I could talk to Justin Long about something important. Do you know him?"
"Oh sure," she said. The spark of hope in Daniel's chest was crushed by her next words. "But he and Elle went out of town for a few days. They won't be back until next week."
"Oh," Daniel said numbly.
He suddenly had no idea what to do next.
We have to find a way to stay here, his cat whispered urgently. This is the right place for us. We can't leave, not until we've talked to Justin.
"Hey, are you okay?" asked the woman.
She looked Daniel up and down, her gaze lingering on his forehead, which had a large patch of gauze taped to it, and his bandaged left arm, which was currently supported in a sling that Officer Gonzales had jury-rigged.
"I had an accident," Daniel said wearily. "I'll live."
She gave him another assessing look, then nodded. "There's a medical clinic in town that's open on the weekends, if you need a follow-up appointment."
"Do you have any space available, just for tonight?" he asked.
The woman grimaced. "I'm sorry, we're completely booked at the moment. Elle and Justin had to close the big house to guests last week because of emergency plumbing repairs." She shook her head ruefully. "The timing was good because of Justin's firefighting classes, but we're in the middle of having to re-plumb all of the upstairs bathrooms this week...hundred-year-old pipes, you know how it goes."
"I feel ya," said Daniel. "My place was built in the 1930s. Three bedrooms, but only one bathroom. Something gets clogged up, it's a real disaster." He looked around again. "Could you recommend a motel or something nearby? My nephew and I have driven a long way today to get here."
The woman tilted her head. "Where are you coming from?"
Daniel hesitated briefly about telling her the truth, then figured it probably didn't matter. "Albuquerque."
He saw the woman's sudden smile flash in the darkness. "Hey, one of my sisters-in-law comes from Albuquerque!"
She hesitated, and Daniel saw her studying him again, her brows drawn together in thought. Then she glanced back at the Jeep, where Chris was still intent on his phone.
He stiffened as a sudden, horrible thought crossed his mind. Is this the woman that Pete tried to kill? Does she know that I'm Pete's brother?
A moment later, she dispelled his worries. "Look," she said, "I think Aunt Margaret mentioned that she had a family cancel on short notice this afternoon because they decided to spend a few extra days in Yellowstone. You could try her place."
Daniel looked around, hoping that this Aunt Margaret lived somewhere close by. "Which of these houses is hers?"
"Oh, she doesn't live here," the young woman said.
Shit. Every fiber of Daniel's being rebelled against the idea of climbing back in his Jeep and driving somewhere else.
"But it's not far," she assured him. "Just on the other side of the hill. Maybe a ten-minute drive." She pointed up the road. "Just follow that road until you see another Victorian house. Tell her that Steffi sent you."
"Thank you," Daniel said, relieved beyond words to know that he and Chris might have a place to sleep tonight, after all. He began to make his painful way down the porch steps back to his Jeep. "I'll do that."
* * *
It's just as well that Tony and Linda Markley decided to cancel, Margaret told herself. It's been a while since I had a quiet evening to myself. Maybe I'll finally have a chance to finish reading this book. And I'll be able to sleep a little longer tomorrow morning, since I won't have to get up early to cook breakfast.
Margaret settled herself into her favorite armchair with her paperback and her reading glasses, a mug of hot peppermint tea set next to the reading lamp on the antique side table.
She tried to concentrate on the details of an elaborate con game set in Victorian England, but the truth was, the normally-comfortable silence felt oppressive tonight.
Normally, just the presence of other people in the house, sleeping or quietly watching television in their guest bedrooms, made her home feel less lonely.
The Grizzly Creek Ranch's bed-and-breakfast operation was usually busy from the first day of the steelhead fishing season just after New Year's through the end of elk hunting season around Thanksgiving, and the ranch's guests brought in more money these days than the beef cattle did.
Those guests also provided a number of jobs for the residents of Bearpaw Ridge—fishing and hunting guides were always in demand, and lately, Margaret had been advertising bird-watching tours and photography safaris on the ranch's website.
That had been her nephew Evan's idea—he was a wildlife biologist, working for the state's Department of Fish & Game—and it was turning out to be a very successful side business. And no wonder. Bearpaw Ridge was located in one of the most scenic parts of the country, and there was abundant wildlife: bears, cougars, moose, elk, deer, big horn sheep, eagles, osprey, sandhill cranes, and many other species of birds.
Now that Margaret's children were all grown and living on their own, she had three spare bedrooms that she rented out to B&B guests.
Her home was a beautiful Queen Anne-style Victorian that had been built about twenty years after the original ranch house. Family history had it that Jacob Swanson's strong-willed bride Emmaline hadn't gotten along with Jacob's mother, the equally strong-willed Swanson clan matriarch, and so to keep the peace, Jacob had built his home on the other side of the hill, out of sight if not quite out of mind.
As the younger son, Margaret's husband Ryan had inherited this house, while his older brother Ashton had gotten the big yellow Victorian after his marriage to Elle.
Margaret's parents-in-law had then retired to one of the smaller houses on the estate, and lived there comfortably until their deaths. Elle had once speculated that Ashton and Ryan's untimely deaths had robbed their parents of the will to live, and Margaret had to agree. Bear shifters were a hardy group, and usually lived to a ripe old age if they didn't die in an accident.
And now here she was thinking about Ryan again, about all of the could-have-beens while her book perched on her lap, temporarily forgotten.
She had always thought that grief was supposed to fade away over time, not ambush you at intervals and strike you with renewed pain like a porcupine's quills penetrating your soul. The only difference she had noticed in the long years since Ryan's death was that the ambushes were spaced further apart than they'd been in the beginning.
In the beginning,
it was every night, just as she was trying to fall asleep in her lonely bed. Then, gradually, it went to once a week, then once a month, and then, just a few times a year.
But Ryan had been on her mind since the anniversary of his death yesterday, and last night, she had dreamed that he was in a car, alive but wounded, driving. On his way home at last. To her.
In her dream, Ryan was older. He was as handsome as ever, with laugh lines around his mouth and his dark hair gone an attractive shade of silver.
Patrick had been in the dream, too, a boy once more sitting next to his father in the passenger seat, holding a map and asking how much longer the trip would take.
Margaret's face had been wet with tears when her alarm awakened her, and for the rest of the day she had never quite managed to shake off the feeling that Ryan really was out there somewhere, making his way back to her.
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