by Rebecca York
Finally he decided not to delay leaving. Opening his medical kit, he reached for a small pill bottle with some emergency doses of amphetamine. He knew that taking one in his condition was risky. But if he couldn’t function well enough to get them out of here, the game was up. They’d be in jail trying to explain to the cops why he’d had to shoot Tuckerman in self-defense. And the cops would tell him a home invader couldn’t claim he had to shoot to keep from getting killed.
Clicking on the secure communications system, he sent a message to Decorah explaining briefly what had happened. Then he headed for the helm.
Francesca turned around as he came up the stairs, trying to look like he was steady on his feet and fit to pilot a cabin cruiser.
“You see anything?” he asked.
“A pickup truck stopped on the access road. Do you think they’re looking for us?”
“I hope not.”
He wished he could ask someone else to cast off. Or do it himself. But in his current condition, he lacked the agility to get off, untie the boat, and scramble back on. He’d probably fall into the gap between the boat and the dock.
Giving Francesca a direct look, he said, “You’ll have to get off and undo the lines. Do the one at the bow first and toss it onto the front decking. Then do the stern, and hold the rope while you climb back aboard—quickly. The lines are secured to cleats. There’s a loop at the end. Undo it and then unwind the rest of the rope.
She looked uncertain but said, “Now?”
“Yes. When you’re aboard, toss the lines onto the decks. And also unplug the electrical connection to the marina. Leave the cord on the deck.”
His heart raced as he watched her climb off and felt the boat rock while she fumbled with the electric line and then the cleat and the rope at the bow. Then came the harder part. From the pilot’s seat, he couldn’t see her detaching the aft rope. But he felt the cruiser dip to the side as she plopped onto the rear deck. Thank God she’d made it.
“Okay, he called out?”
“Yes.”
He swivelled around to see her hurrying into the main cabin, limping slightly.
His breath caught when he saw her. “What happened?”
“I banged my shin getting back on.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I should have done it.”
“Not when you were shot yesterday.”
He sighed. “Right. Keep a lookout while I get us out of here.”
It was years since he’d actually piloted a boat. And in truth, the one he’d lived on while going after the smugglers was a lot smaller than the Lady Slipper. But he got the craft out of the slip and started down the river, heading away from the Gulf.
Francesca was in the cabin in back of him.
“You see anymore activity up on the road?” he called.
“No. Just the one pickup.
That was something, anyway. And there was more good news. The cops were looking for a couple. Nobody had seen him at the grocery store. And nobody had seen her at the marina office. Plus, she’d made up a story about being here with their kids. If they were lucky, nobody would realize they were the man and woman involved in last night’s armed robbery and murder. He winced as he put it that way, but that was the way the cops would see it—until he could prove otherwise. And while he was trying to do it, Francesca would be in danger. There were too many cases where bad guys had used a jail inmate to murder a fellow prisoner.
There was one more fact he couldn’t work his way around. The car with the telltale license plate was in the marina lot. Probably it was only a matter of time before someone discovered it. But all he could do about that was put as much distance as he could between themselves and the car.
The river was maybe seventy-five yards wide, with tropical vegetation on either side. Ordinarily he would have appreciated the greenery and the water birds roosting in the trees. Now it was all he could do to stay on the right side of the waterway and not hit the bank or any of the docks sticking into the water. Many had boats moored to the pilings or to cleats like the ones which had kept the Lady Slipper tied up at the marina. Houses peeked from the greenery beyond the docks. None looked like a luxury residence—just the homes of ordinary people who’d bought property on the river when it was affordable.
Occasionally they passed another craft on the water, most of them small speedboats.
After a few hours, Zane could feel the amphetamine wearing off, but he knew he’d be crazy to take another one. He gritted his teeth, wondering how long he could sit here piloting the boat. When Francesca came up behind him and rubbed his shoulders, he leaned into the caress.
“What can I do? Can I take your place at the wheel?”
He considered the offer. “Have you ever steered a boat?”
“No.”
“Better let me do it.”
She came around and looked into his eyes. “I think you can’t push yourself much farther.”
“I think you’re right,” he answered wearily, considering their next move. Consulting the computer map, he saw that they were skirting the edge of a wildlife area. If they took one of the tributaries that appeared from time to time, they’d move into the nature preserve. Once away from civilization, they could pull up under vegetation overhanging the river.
Previously he’d thought about tying up at an unoccupied dock, but he knew he could still run into the homeowners. Now he liked the idea of getting away from civilization.
With that in mind, he took the next tributary he encountered. It was only about fifty yards wide and narrowed as they rode upriver. There were no houses here, and the vegetation on either side of the water looked a lot like untamed jungle. When he came to a spot where overhanging branches of a mangrove would partially hide the Lady Slipper, he cut the engine and sagged back into his seat.
Turning to Francesca, he asked, “Could you tie us up? She climbed out onto the front deck and threw the rope over a tree branch, pulling the end back to the Lady Slipper and knotting it. It wasn’t a very seamanlike job, but what did it matter?
She did the same with the rope in the stern, then came back to him, obviously evaluating his condition.
“I’ve got the groceries I picked up at the store. You need to eat. I’ll heat up chicken soup for you. And if that agrees with you, I bought a bunch of lunch meat.”
“Thanks.” Too bad he wasn’t in shape to go hunting.
Francesca brought him a mug of soup. It was the last thing he wanted to eat, but he dutifully swallowed most of it.
Probably he should lie down, but it was too much trouble to get up. He slumped down in the chair, and closed his eyes—just for a few minutes.
He wasn’t sure how much later he was awakened by a feeling that something was wrong. Struggling to clear his mind, he dragged in a breath, taking in the humid air of the river, trying to figure out what had triggered his unease. Did he hear something in the darkness? A stealthy movement?
Could someone have followed the Lady Slipper from the marina—or figured out where they’d gone? In the next moment he snapped to attention when he heard the sound of a heavy body hitting the back deck. It sounded like a large animal that had leaped from the tree where they were tied up.
Instantly on alert, but still shaky, he reached for the gun he remembered setting on the floor beside his chair.
The weapon wasn’t there. Francesca must have taken it for defense when she saw he was asleep.
Moving slowly, he swivelled the pilot’s chair around to face the open doorway at the back of the cabin. As he stared into the darkness, he saw a long, lean, light-colored shape glide across the deck. In a flicker of movement, a pair of glowing green eyes zeroed in on him.
From the eyes and the predatory way the beast moved, he knew it was a big cat. It must have come out of the natural area, started sniffing around the boat, and jumped down from a tree branch for a closer look.
He studied the creature. It was perhaps five feet long, excluding the tail, and something over a hund
red pounds. As he watched, it took a cautious step toward the open door of the cabin. When it hissed, Zane wondered what he was going to do now—without a weapon.
But even if he’d had the gun, he didn’t want to shoot this animal whose territory he’d invaded. It looked like a Florida panther, and from his reading he know there were only about three hundred of them left in the wild.
Although his thinking processes were muzzy from sleep and his recent wound, he knew one thing. A man would be no match for the big cat’s teeth and claws. But a wolf could intimidate this animal.
With no other choice for self-defense, he glanced over his shoulder, satisfied that the animal’s arrival hadn’t awakened Francesca. Praying she’d stay in her cabin, he softly began the chant of transformation. At the same time, he pulled off his shirt, then his pants and finally his underwear, tossing the clothing onto the deck.
As he began to make the change from man to wolf, his bandage dropped to the varnished board, and the wound in his arm twanged. He came down on all fours, feeling the freedom of his hidden self.
The panther was standing stock-still on the deck, probably confounded by what it had just witnessed. But when the wolf took a slow step forward, the cat’s fur fluffed up, and its tail swished. Making a hissing sound, it backed up.
Zane’s bold posture was a bluff. He was in no shape to tangle with the cat’s sharp teeth and claws, but he hoped his aggressive behavior would be deterrent enough.
They faced each other across the deck, Zane slowly padding forward and the cat backing up.
Zane growled deep in his throat, warning the invader that this boat was his domain and he would defend it.
The cat was almost to the back of the deck. What now? When Zane took another step forward, the panther leaped. The wolf tensed, but instead of landing on him, it sprang into the tree, shaking the branches as it scrambled into the darkness.
Zane breathed out a sigh of relief. His total focus had been on the cat. Now that the danger was over, he heard a sound behind him. Hairs bristling on his back, he slowly turned to find Francesca standing inside the cabin, the gun in her hand, pointed at him.
Chapter Sixteen
Other than the bristling hairs, Zane stood frozen in place, staring at the wide-eyed woman with the gun. His life mate. Or was she going to put a swift end to the relationship?
It flashed through his mind that his own decisions had catapulted him into this mess. Like, maybe he should have come clean with her about the rescue on the beach. Now she didn’t know Zane Marshall was the dangerous-looking wolf standing on the deck facing her. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t tell her it would be a bad mistake to shoot him. And the idea of transforming in front of her made his stomach tie itself into knots.
He looked into her eyes, trying to read what she might be thinking. Did he detect a glimmer of understanding? On some unconscious level, did she recognize him? And was that good or bad?
What if he dropped to the deck and rolled over like a big old dog? Would that demonstrate that the wolf was no threat?
That image made him cringe.
With the river behind him and Francesca with a gun in front of him, he did the only realistic thing he could think of at the moment. He leaped over the side, hitting the water with a tremendous splash.
He went down like a rock, sinking down, down below the surface into the murky depths where he struggled to hold his breath. Finally to his relief, he began to come up again.
Was Francesca looking over the side, trying to spot him? He struggled not to break the surface until he had swum to the prow. The wolf couldn’t grab onto anything. All he could do was lean against the wooden hull, dragging in air and silently saying the chant that would change him back into a man.
When he was human again, he dragged in a breath and called out. “Don’t shoot. I’m coming around to the deck.”
He swam back and reached to grab hold of the gunwale. With an effort he hauled himself aboard and sat dripping like a wet fish on one the cushions.
Francesca still held the gun. He hoped it was to scare away the panther if it came back.
She stood unmoving, staring at him. “Are you going to tell me you were already in the water when that wolf went over the side?”
He kept his gaze steady. “I might have tried that. You’ve just made it clear that wouldn’t do me any good.”
“All that crap you told me about your family. An ancient curse, was it?”
“An ancient bargain with the Druid gods.”
“Oh right.”
“Could I put on some clothes before we have this discussion? You know, before I catch my death of cold.”
She winced, probably remembering that he’d been shot yesterday. “You can get dressed,” she said in a low voice. She looked at his arm which was now oozing blood again. “Wash the river water off your wound and slather some antiseptic on it.”
He crossed the deck, leaving wet footprints on the varnished boards. In the head, he stepped under the shower and quickly washed himself. After drying off, he applied antiseptic, and pulled on a tee shirt and jeans. When he was dressed, he realized he should have cut a couple lengths of bandage before he showered.
Using his other hand and his teeth, he wrapped some gauze around his arm and managed to tie it off. Luckily it was at the end of the roll, and he didn’t have to try and cut it.
He’d delayed as long as he could, but he knew he had to face Francesca. Stiff-legged, he returned to the main cabin where she was sitting at the table. At least she didn’t move when he sat down opposite her. And she had put the gun on the table between them.
The tone of her voice and her next question were less reassuring. “You said you wouldn’t lie to me. What did you tell me that was true?”
He wanted to flinch away, but he kept his own gaze steady. “About us, or about your uncle’s murder?”
“You can start with my uncle.”
The tension buzzing between them made him feel like an animal caught in a net, but there was nothing he could do about it besides give her honesty.
“Everything I said about the case is true—as far as I know. I’ve been trying to protect you and trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s stuff that doesn’t add up. I mean, if you want the truth, I feel like somebody’s playing games with me—with us.”
“What makes you think so?”
“The way Tuckerman confronted me. He was protecting some secret, but I don’t know what. Unfortunately, the other guy came in before I could get any answers. And now we’re prime murder suspects.”
She ignored that last part and asked, “And us?”
He felt as though razor wire were twisting in his guts. But he said only, “The moment I held you in my arms on the beach, I felt . . . connected to you.”
She snorted. “Tell me again about men in your family bonding with their life partner.”
He raised one shoulder. “I suppose it’s to make sure that we find . . .” He almost said mates. “Wives.”
Maybe she caught the slight hesitation, but his only option was to continue. “The Druid gift from the gods is ancient. I imagine that in ages past . . .” He stopped, then forced himself to say, “Werewolf men were pretty savage.”
Her only response was a clenching of her teeth.
“We’re housebroken now.” When she didn’t respond to the joke, he went on, “Every werewolf is an Alpha male, the head of his own pack. Until recently, they didn’t get along with each other, but we’ve learned to work together. Several of us are Decorah Security agents.”
“You’re holding something back,” she bit out. Then with sudden insight she asked, “Do you say some kind of chant to change into a wolf?”
“Yes. An appeal to the Druid gods.”
“Like the other night. Only I stopped you?”
“Yes.”
“Can I hear it?”
He gave her a hard look. “Only if you want to be sitting across from a wolf.”
“No. Te
ll me what else I don’t want to hear.”
He sighed. “There were some . . . bad aspects to our reality. The trait is sex linked, so only male babies lived. And when a youth went through puberty, he’d have to change to wolf form for the first time. About half of them died.”
Her look of horror made him go on quickly, “My cousin Ross is married to a geneticist. She solved the problem of the girl babies. She figured out how to save them, although so far none of them has acquired the ability to change shape.”
Again he left the words hanging between them.
“What the hell do you want me to say?” he challenged.
“I don’t know. No, okay, wait—do I have free will? Can I walk away from you, if I want?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe she could do it. And if she did, it might kill him.
They sat in silence for several more minutes. Finally she asked, “If you’d had the gun, would you have shot the panther?”
“The idea of killing it made me sick. I might have shot into the air to frighten it. Without the gun, I hoped the wolf could scare it off because I wasn’t in any condition to fight.”
Once more, she didn’t respond.
His body felt leaden. It was almost too much effort to keep sitting at the table. Adding to the weight pressing down on him was the knowledge of just what a mess he’d made.
Finally, he simply couldn’t cope with the effort of staying upright in the chair. “I’ve had a rough day and night,” he said. Before she could say the same he turned and headed for his cabin, struggling to stay on his feet. He almost tripped on the stairs and only managed to stay upright by grabbing the railing. It wasn’t just that he’d reached the limit of his physical resources, it was the knowledge that he’d probably driven away the woman who was his mate.
Could a werewolf recover from that? He had no way of knowing. It was another nasty topic that the clan didn’t discuss.
He kept a tight grip on the railing, as much to keep his balance as to anchor himself to reality. When he reached his cabin, he drew the curtain and stopped beside the bunk. Swaying slightly on his feet he pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto the end of the bed. He left his pants on and eased himself onto the bunk, being careful not to put any pressure on his wounded arm.
