The silence stretched to an uncomfortable length. Daniel made one last attempt. "I know I'm asking for a lot, given what my pride did to your family, but I'm not asking for me. I'm asking for Chris. He wasn't even born yet when all that sh—uh, stuff with Philippe Bertrand went down."
Margaret studied Chris, and Daniel could see that she was conflicted about whether to grant his request.
"I'll leave, if you think my being here will cause trouble," he said, and they were some of the most difficult words he'd ever had to say. "But if you can find it in your heart to grant Chris sanctuary, I'd like enough time to find a foster family for—"
"NO!" Chris lunged and grabbed Daniel's uninjured arm. His fingers dug in painfully. Young as he was, he already had a shifter's strength. "I want to stay with you, Uncle Dan. If you go, I'm going with you!"
Margaret's eyes flared full gold.
"No one's going anywhere," she said, her voice suddenly husky. "I'm granting you both sanctuary. As of tonight, you're both officially members of the Swanson clan for as long as you need protection."
Relief swept through Daniel, leaving him feeling hot and little dizzy, as if he'd just knocked back several shots of whiskey. And his injuries suddenly didn't hurt so badly anymore. "Thank you."
Margaret sat back in her chair, and took a long pull from her bottle of ale.
"Now that we've settled things," she announced, "I want to know whether you've had a doctor look at that gunshot wound."
Bear shifter women had a reputation for being bossy. Daniel decided that it was a good look on Margaret. He admired competence and confidence, and she radiated both.
"No, but like I said, one of the police officers patched me up," he replied. "I think he did a pretty good job. I just need food and good night's sleep, and thanks to you, I'll get both."
He grinned at her, and she produced that interesting blush again.
However, appealing as it was, it had no effect on her air of command.
"Shifter or not, what you need is a doctor," she said firmly. "And Bearpaw Ridge happens to have the only shifter medical clinic in the state. My nephew's mate Veronika is one of the doctors there, and she lives here on the ranch."
Margaret smiled at him, and Daniel felt like he'd just stepped from the shadows into a patch of summer sunshine, pure and hot against his skin.
"I think I may be able to convince her to make a house call."
* * *
Group text message from Margaret Swanson to the various members of the Swanson clan:
Hi everyone,
Just wanted to let you know that in Elle's absence, I've granted Daniel Langlais and his nephew Christopher Langlais sanctuary at the Grizzly Creek Ranch. They are currently staying in my guest rooms. You all know the drill—please welcome Daniel and Chris to the ranch and treat them like members of our clan while they are under our protection.
* * *
Dr. Veronika Medved-Swanson (or Dr. Nika, as Margaret introduced her) turned out to be young and very pretty in a Snow White kind of way, with flawless pale skin, thick black hair, and vivid red lipstick. She was also a bear shifter, and every bit as bossy as Margaret in her own way.
"You know I'm obligated to report gunshot wound to the police," she said, as she put her medical bag on the kitchen island.
Daniel nodded and touched the bandage taped to his forehead. "Oh, they know all about it back home. It was a cop in Albuquerque who patched me up."
Dr. Nika nodded. "I'll still have to report it to Sheriff Jacobsen here. Now, take off your shirt and tell me how you were injured," she ordered.
He tried, but between the wound in his left arm and the one in his side, it proved impossible to pull his t-shirt over his head.
Margaret came to his aid, her movements gentle but efficient. The brush of her fingertips across his skin left tingles and pleasant warmth in their wake, and he had to fight the urge to lean into her touch. He craved to feel her hands on him, sliding across his skin, stroking his belly...
He was interested to see her cheeks going pink again as she stepped back.
"So, how did you get shot?" Dr. Nika prompted, her gray eyes suddenly sparkling with mischief.
It looked like she hadn't missed either Daniel's reaction to Margaret's help, or Margaret's blush.
"Uh." With an effort, Daniel tore his attention away from his sweetly curvy host. "Last night, a trio of goons broke down my door..."
Dr. Nika listened gravely to his account of how he'd received his wounds, took his pulse and his temperature, and after some painful probing, confirmed that yes, his ribs were probably cracked.
She re-bandaged his head wound but left it alone otherwise. His left forearm arm needed stitches. As she injected a local anesthetic in preparation for sewing him up, she assured him that he'd been lucky that the bones hadn't been shattered, or any of the tendons severed.
Once Dr. Nika had finished suturing his wound and departed, cheerfully dismissing his offer of payment, Daniel and Chris headed upstairs to Paradise.
Chris disappeared into the Tower Room. Daniel spent a few minutes luxuriating in a hot shower, courtesy of the waterproof bandage that Dr. Nika had slapped over the fresh stitches on his arm, before collapsing gratefully into the clean, comfortable bed in the adjoining room.
Despite his fatigue, he didn't fall asleep immediately. He lay staring up at the ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of Margaret moving around downstairs, the gentle creaks of an old house settling for the night, and occasional hoot of an owl somewhere outside. That wasn't unusual because he usually had trouble relaxing in a strange place. Plus, his ribs and head still hurt despite the pills Dr. Nika had given him. At least her injection had numbed his arm, which was a relief.
Chris and me are safe. For now, at least.
Time passed, and Daniel finally began to drift into a doze. He started awake when he heard the bathroom door opening to his bedroom. His preternaturally sharp senses picked up on a wildly beating heart, and the sharp scent of terror.
Adrenaline jolted through him, and all his senses went to high alert.
He rolled out of bed, his injuries making his feel stiff and clumsy. Ignoring the deep stab of pain from his ribs, he landed in a half-crouch on the floor next to his bed. His skin prickled as his cat rose to the surface. He strained to detect any sign of danger.
"Uncle Dan, it's me," Chris said in a whisper.
He stood in the bathroom doorway, framed by the dim glow from a night light plugged in next to the sink, looking very young with his sleep-rumpled hair and pajamas.
Daniel rose to his feet and squinted at his nephew. "Something wrong?" he asked, also in a whisper. " Are you okay?"
Chris looked at his bare feet, clearly embarrassed. But when he spoke, his voice was still only barely audible. "I, uh, thought I heard someone trying to get into my room."
Chapter Eight – Connection
"Wait here," Daniel whispered. He padded silently to the door leading out to the landing, and eased it open, praying that the hinges wouldn't squeak.
Then he listened intently, extending his senses to the house's entire interior, as well as its surroundings.
Had Messerzahn's goons managed to track him here somehow? Or was someone here on the ranch angry about the presence of Pete Langlais' son and brother?
But the old house was quiet, except for the soft sounds of Margaret's breathing coming from the bedroom on the other side of the landing.
Daniel stood there for a long time on high alert, listening to the minute creaks and sighs of an old building settling. Outside, there was only the gentle brush of the wind against the house's walls and roof, and the distant yips of coyotes. Missing were the background sounds of suburban Albuquerque: the ever-present hum of traffic on I-40, located only a few blocks from his home; car alarms; police and fire engine sirens; barking dogs; airplanes; and the other assorted din of city life.
"I think it was just a nightmare," Daniel said eventually. He closed his bedro
om door and turned to his nephew, who hadn't moved from the bathroom doorway. "Not surprising, considering everything that's happened to us in the last twenty-four hours."
"Are you sure?" Chris asked, and Daniel saw how tightly the boy was gripping the white-painted door frame.
"Yeah. None of those guys have a clue where we went, Junior," he said in his most reassuring tone. "And it's so quiet here, I could hear anyone coming from a mile away."
"I'm sorry if I woke you." Chris paused, bit his lower lip, and cast a glance backwards through the connecting door to his tower room. "C-can I stay here? With you?"
In the beginning, right after Jenny had left her son, Chris had slept in Daniel's room every night. But it that had been a long time ago, when Chris was still a toddler and Daniel was still renting a one-bedroom apartment. Daniel had bought his house about the time that Chris had started kindergarten, and Chris had proudly moved into his "big boy room."
But that was before last night. Before Messerzahn's goons had managed to shatter Chris's sense of security. Maybe the intruders hadn't managed to kill Daniel and Chris like they'd intended, but they'd certainly managed to destroy the illusion of a safe space that Daniel had nurtured so carefully over the years.
"Sure," Daniel said. "Just don't snore too loudly, okay?"
That finally got Chris to smile. "I don't snore!"
"Well, don't drool on Mrs. Swanson's nice pillows, then."
Chris rolled his eyes as he climbed into the untouched side of the big bed. He curled on his side, his back to Daniel, and quickly fell asleep.
Daniel stared up at the shadows hiding the plaster ceiling and felt his arm and his side throb with a dull ache in time with his pulse.
I know I'm never going to be able to go to sleep now, he thought. I'm just going to lie here until breakfast...
He closed his eyes, and that was the last thing he remembered for a good long time.
* * *
Margaret rose before dawn, as always, and stepped into her shower.
She'd had a restless night, her thoughts constantly circling back around to Daniel. And now, surrounded by warm clouds of steam, she couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have a certain tall, silver-haired and devastatingly attractive man sharing this shower with her. She had a vivid fantasy of his muscular, tattooed body sliding against hers, her back and shoulders pressing against the cool, slick tiles as hot water poured over them both...
Margaret Einarsson Swanson, you're too old for this kind of daydream, she scolded herself. And you're just going to embarrass yourself if you can't get yourself under control.
During the years of numbness following Ryan's death, she had been convinced that the loss of her mate meant the loss of sexual desire forever. Last night had proved her wrong. She had lain awake for a long time after going to bed, replaying every word she and Daniel had exchanged, the quiet rumble of his voice, the air of calm competency that radiated from him.
What is it about sabertooth shifters?
Elle was going to laugh herself silly if Margaret ever confessed this sudden infatuation with her guest. The two of them had always shared a similar taste in men, which had resulted in Elle mating Ashton Swanson, followed by Margaret mating Ashton's younger brother Ryan. After Ashton's death in a terrible car accident and Ryan's equally premature death in Iraq, both sisters had raised their children as widows, banding together to keep the Grizzly Creek Ranch running.
Then Elle had met Justin Long at her son Thor's wedding to Justin's daughter Cassie, and the sabertooth Texan had swept her off her feet. Margaret had been happy for her sister, so ridiculously in love with a man who clearly adored her, but it had been bittersweet, too.
Maybe it's my turn now to be swept off my feet.
She shook her head wryly, and turned off the water. She had been young and pretty once. She didn't need to look in the mirror to see what she looked like now, naked and unable to hide the fact that she was a woman of a certain age, with a body that had borne three children.
A man like him wouldn't possibly be attracted to me.
But it's nice to dream about being kissed again. How long has it been? Can it really have so many years?
Margaret sighed and reached for her towel. Time to get herself together, go downstairs, and have her coffee before her unexpected guests awoke and she needed to cook breakfast for them.
She dried herself off and dressed quickly, fighting the urge to linger in the bathroom and put on some of the makeup she usually saved for special occasions.
Curious at the reaction to her text message, she glanced at her phone, which was plugged in and charging on her nightstand.
Four replies so far.
The first was from Elle:
You know I trust you, but I'm dying to hear the details. Justin and I are having a wonderful time in Coeur d'Alene. Shopping is great here—can I bring you anything? Also, do you know if the plumber made it out to the ranch house yet? See you soon! *smooch*
The second, sent at almost the same time, was from Dane:
Steffi says that Chris seems like a nice kid, and Matt thinks it'll be nice to have another boy his own age here at the ranch. Let me know if I can help with anything.
The third reply, just two minutes later, was from her nephew Mark:
Langlais??? Are you kidding me? Any relation to you-know-who?
And finally, a fourth text from her oldest daughter, Kayla, who had recently become a full partner in Dr. Bolton's veterinary practice:
Mom, is it really true that you've granted sanctuary to the guys who tried to hurt Caitlyn?
Oops, thought Margaret. It appeared that there had been a whole lot of back-channel conversations going on while she slept.
She immediately texted replies to Elle and Kayla, but decided that the explanation to Mark would require a face-to-face conversation.
To Elle, she wrote,
Thanks! Re: Daniel and Chris, it's quite a story. Will fill you in when I see you. Steve from Tringstad Plumbing came by on Friday morning. He said that they're almost done replacing all of the galvanized pipes in the house with CPVC, and should be finished by noon on Monday. He swears that you'll come home to toilets that flush and a shower that drains.
Her message to Kayla was much briefer, absent any plumbing disasters.
No, dear. Daniel and his nephew Chris had nothing to do with the attack on the ranch. I don't know what wild rumors are floating around, but you can stop worrying now.
When she emerged from her bedroom, and crossed the landing to the stairs, one of the guest bedroom doors opened.
Margaret's heart leaped and she paused. She was surprised—and a little disappointed—that it wasn't Daniel who poked his head out. Instead, it was his young nephew, dressed in Star Wars pajamas, his reddish-brown hair sleep-tousled and standing up in spiky tufts.
"Good morning," she greeted him. "You're up early. Hungry?"
Chris nodded, then cast an anxious look over his shoulder into the bedroom. "It's Uncle Dan. He won't wake up."
Sudden panic squeezed Margaret's heart. Had Nika misjudged the extent of Daniel's injuries when she examined him?
Had Daniel died during the night? He'd been shot at least twice...
"Is he breathing?" she asked Chris, trying to keep her voice calm.
To her relief, Chris nodded. "Yeah. But he normally wakes up if I talk to him or if there's a loud noise or something." The anxious look returned. "I even poked him, and he just rolled over and kept on sleeping."
Margaret let out a breath. "I think I know what's going on. Do you want me to take a look and find out for sure?"
"Please?" Chris opened the door all the way and stepped back to let her in.
Margaret examined the sleeping man in the bed, keeping a safe distance at first. It was always dangerous to touch a strange shifter while they slept.
Daniel didn't seem to be in any pain. His expression was serene, all the lines and shadows of pain and fatigue she'd seen last night sm
oothed away now. His breathing was deep and regular, and when Margaret concentrated her senses, she heard that his heartbeat was slow and steady.
He smelled of clean male with a tang of antiseptic and a musky note of cat. No stink of infection, but just to make sure, she reached out cautiously and laid her hand against his stubbled cheek, feeling for fever.
Just like last night, she felt an almost electric jolt travel up her arm from the contact.
Stop that, she told herself, and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.
Ember Page 7
