White Wolf 2: The Call of a Soul

by Jianne Carlo

  “For chrissake. Answer me.” The outraged roar demanded her attention.

  She returned the phone to her ear. “I’m sorry. There’s a ton of background noise. I didn’t catch what you said.”

  Melanie scowled at Doc G., who grinned like a beaver, showing the perfect smile that dazzled all the over-forty females in Mackinac County, even the happily married ones.

  “I said I need Doc G. right away.” Sheriff Pincer had the voice of a radio announcer—smooth, silky, and creepy-crawly. To Melanie, anyway. “Jump to it, girl. This is an emergency.”

  Melanie choked back the need to shove the word girl down Pincer’s throat and handed the phone to Doc G. “Pincer.”

  Glad for any excuse to get out of Mike’s presence, she hurried to the examination room. Stooping, she took a deep breath, then opened the cabinet in front of her and removed a lab coat and a box of gloves. She smelled him the minute he entered the room, and choked back a groan. Why had he followed her?

  Trying to ignore the tantalizing scent of Mike’s I’m-fantastic-in-bed-and-will-give-you-screaming-multiple-orgasms aftershave, she stood, reached for the duffel bag on the counter, and placed the supplies inside. He crowded her, so big, and so, so—so much man, damn it.

  Lean and rangy and made of whipcord, irresistible testosterone, that was Mike Dorland. To all women. She tiptoed to get a couple extra bottles of alcohol. Not that they needed them—Doc G.’s truck was more than amply supplied—but to give her nervous fingers something to do and to keep her brain from fast-forwarding into full-fledged panic.

  “I’ll get that.”

  Mike’s breath, warm and feathery, sailed across her exposed nape. Oh hell, he was right behind her. The urge to relax into his chest, to arch her neck, and invite a bite—a claiming bite—had her seeing stars. Melanie dug both elbows into his belly and winced when she encountered steel instead of mere flesh. Those ridges had to form a six-pack, maybe even an eight. Her mouth watered, and she went so wet down there that her cheeks ignited in embarrassment. Thank the Lord Mike Dorland didn’t have X-ray vision or a wolf’s heightened sense of smell. “I…don’t…need…your…help.”

  “Oh yeah you do. You just don’t know it yet.” His low rumble had a fudge-velvet edge. Her favorite fantasy—him painting her body with smooth, warm chocolate and then licking her clean—had her nipples on fire. “You’re creaming for me.”

  A bucket of frigid water couldn’t have pulled her back from the brink better. How could he have known?

  She peeked at Doc G. talking on the reception desk phone, and had to lock her knees so as not to crumple. The vet hadn’t even glanced in their direction. Though the rooms were separate, with the door open, sound carried. But Doc G. wore a frown, and he had his gaze fixed on the desk.

  Why was Mike Dorland trying to flirt with her? After putting a ring on another woman’s finger? The news of his engagement had been a Mack Truck hit.

  Her birthday resolution—five months earlier—had been to get on with her life. Forget dreams of a future with Mike. Forget the stupid notion that he was the only man she’d ever love. Forget the past and live in the present. She’d made a ritual out of it—gone to the cabin that the Dorlands owned, sat in the middle of the fairy-tale gazebo overlooking the lake, and sobbed her heart out.

  Well, heck, he was engaged, and she was so going to get over him.

  Melanie pivoted, crossed her arms, and met his stare, refusing to be intimidated by the fact that if he leaned a mere inch closer, his rib cage would brush her saluting-at-attention nipples. “How’s Valérie? Heard she’s sporting a rock the size of Fiesta Square.”

  He rolled a shoulder and set his hands on the counter, caging her in. “Not interested. It’s not my ring she’s wearing.”

  Melanie glanced down and studied the floor tiles, noting a brown stain that hadn’t been there before.

  How could that be?

  Valérie had flaunted the ring not three nights ago when she’d been dilly-dallying over a slice of cherry pie and a cup of coffee at the Caboose. Not once in the eight years she’d worked at the diner had Melanie ever waited on Valérie, no matter what section she sat in. The other waitresses had protected Melanie in some sort of unspoken diner-women bond. So she hadn’t seen the ring up close, but it would’ve been hard not to notice the diamond glinting under the Caboose’s track lights.

  Mike and Valérie had been prom king and queen, had been hot and heavy in high school, and every time he came back to Chabegawn, photos of the couple had been splashed across the front page of the Spectator—the county’s newspaper. Melanie had read the caption under each and every picture, and she could probably regurgitate them verbatim by now. Heck, she’d read every single article published about Mike Dorland since the day he and his brother picked up and left town all those years ago. Spent hours at the library using the computers to track him. Felt inordinate pride the day he’d won his first poker tournament and the media dubbed him “Mike the Machine.”

  “Why are you flirting with me?” she blurted.

  “Ask me why I’ve come back to Chabegawn, Melanie Frances White.”

  Lordy, that boyish grin made her mind go blank and fried her vocal cords. Not for nothing could she break away from his hot stare, those amazing silver-rimmed eyes. Blood crashed like storm waves in her ears, and she couldn’t formulate a single thought.

  “Well that’s that.” Doc G.’s booming bass reverberated across the room.

  Mike held her gaze for a second and then whispered, “We’ll finish this later.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Problem, Season?”

  “Looks like we’ll all be missing Whisper’s foal.” Doc G. set the phone back on its base. “There’s been a murder out near the reservation. Sheriff Pincer wants me to take a look at the body. The coroner’s on the other side of the county. Mel, call Jim and tell him he’ll need to get young Fitzwilliam to come out for Whisper. I won’t need to be at the crime site for long, so I’ll drop you home afterward and then I’ll head up to Jim’s.”

  A kind, merciful Lord did exist.

  Melanie repressed a long sigh, ducked around Mike, and near ran to the reception desk. “Do you want me to call Dr. Fitzwilliam as well?”

  “Good idea. Call him first; then call Jim.” Doc G. did that man-back-slap-brotherhood thing. “How long you been back, Mike?”

  If Mike felt the impact, he didn’t show it. His stare never strayed from her.

  The cotton neck of the uniform rasped her skin, and only by grabbing the phone did she refrain from tugging at the fabric. Trying not to be too obvious about eavesdropping, she punched out Dr. Fitzwilliam’s number, got voice mail, and left a message.

  Mike had got into town the day before. Why was he here now? He and his brother had rarely come back to Chabegawn after his father’s death and his mother’s commitment to a mental institution. She could count on one hand the number of times they’d visited since their abrupt departure in 1994. Eight years ago. But then again, his mother had returned to town recently and even bought a house in the country club development on the east side.

  Even more important—why did he want her to ask him why he’d come back?

  Don’t go there. She punched in the Baldens’ number. That phone also went straight to a recording, so she left another message. Doc G. and Mike were deep in a murmured conversation Melanie couldn’t decipher, and she had a few moments to study him unobserved.

  If anything, he had grown more handsome over the years. The grooved lines around his eyes gave him a brooding air, his full lips, once always curved in a ready smile, had taken on a grim cant, and he wore not an ounce of spare flesh. The bulging muscles of his biceps challenged the sleeves of the black T-shirt clinging to his powerful arms. He was her every fantasy, her only fantasy, and had been from the get-go.

  A burst of anger tore through her.

  Every time Mike came to town, the mere knowledge she could bump into him rattled her composure. The Melanie who reput
edly possessed nerves of steel, the one everyone counted on to be calm in a panic. The practical Melanie who never lost track of reality, never daydreamed, never protested, but knuckled under and did what had to be done. The agreeable, always smiling Melanie Frances White who had a hard time saying no to anyone.

  That Melanie warped into a frazzled idiot who snuck about trying to catch glimpses of her Prince Charming. And then relived every stolen moment long into the wee hours of the morning. That Melanie was never going to resurface. No siree.

  “I’ll get my purse.” She threw open the desk drawer, grabbed her keys, and propelled herself out of the chair. The two men didn’t even flick an eyelid her way. She banged the drawer shut.

  Both men shot her what’s-with-the-attitude puzzled frowns. Doc G. sent her a narrow-eyed glance. “Something wrong, hon?”

  “Course not. Are we ready?” She busied herself, putting the keys into a pocket of the purse, then reorganized her wallet, the two extra hair clips, and the carefully clipped stack of coupons from Sunday’s newspaper. As soon as Doc G. locked the front door, she moved out from behind the desk.

  “Mind going out the back, Mike? Easier that way.”

  “Makes no difference to me.” One second Mike faced Doc G., the next he’d grabbed her coat from the stand and held it open for her.

  All she needed. More up close and personal time with the man of her fantasies. The man whose mother detested every single member of the White family.

  Melanie tried to keep as far away as possible. To not be aware of that sexy smell of his, to not feel the palpable heat radiating from him, to not shiver when his hand brushed her nape as he flicked the collar of her coat after she’d shrugged into the arms. Every nerve in her body crackled like a live electric wire.

  Taking two hurried steps, she put Doc G. between them.

  “Great seeing you again, Mike. Now that you’re back for good, there’re a few things I want to discuss with you.” Doc draped an arm around Mike’s shoulder, and both men headed for the back doorway. Neither man noticed Melanie picking her jaw up from the floor.

  God definitely had gone on a hiatus. Mike Dorland was back in town for good. She’d just made the biggest ass out of herself in forever. And somehow he knew her most dangerous secrets.

  Chapter Two

  “Why’re you home so late?”

  Melanie straightened from her bent-over tiptoe creep. Even in the dark, she could make out her sister, sitting against the headboard. Melanie heard a soft click and blinked when a muted stream of light illuminated Susie’s high cheekbones. The bulb in the lamp between the two twin beds didn’t quite have the wattage to reach the shadowed corners.

  The room smelled of chocolate. Both sisters had serious chocolate issues. But because Susie had actually grown instead of remaining short like Melanie, the fattening delicacy didn’t sit on her hips and thighs. Susie was also the star of the local community college’s track team, and that meant she could eat a dozen chocolate bars and never gain a pound. “How many bars did you eat?”

  Susie had the grace to blush. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “What’re you doing up so late?” Melanie closed the door and set her shoes down at the foot of her bed. She stretched, arms high above her head, and arched her back.

  “Started that journal I found at the bottom of Mama’s trunk yesterday. I couldn’t put it down.” Susie switched on the alarm clock radio. Classical music filled the cozy room like a murmur of rippling water. Melanie recognized the tinkling melody of Vivaldi’s “Spring.” The cottage’s thin walls afforded little privacy, but the two sisters had learned that once a constant background played, their brother, Gray, and their mother, Kitchi, would sleep through the sisters talking into the wee hours of the morning.

  “Susie, I told you to put that back. It’s not right to invade Mama’s privacy like that.” Melanie dropped her purse on the dresser and then set her cell phone to charge. The phone was her prized possession given to her and paid for by her brother, Gray, who had provided phones for all of them out of his first paycheck. It had galled Gray to no end when Shuman, the reservation’s chief, had refused to allow them a landline.

  “It’s not Mama’s journal. I think it might’ve belonged to our great-great-great-great-great-grandmother on Papa’s side.”

  Susie grinned when Melanie did a double take.

  “No way. Let me see it.” She walked over to Susie’s bed, sat on the mattress, and held out a hand.

  Susie shook her head. “Sorry. No go. I hid it in the laundry hamper. I was going to put it back when Mama was having her shower, but I got so engrossed that I didn’t have time.”

  “I’ll put it back when I get home from work tomorrow—I mean this morning—after reading it first, of course. Are there any dates? Names?” A burst of excitement lifted her exhaustion. Maybe there would be a clue about how to develop her maggishahwi healing skills. She knew hearing the last call of a soul shouldn’t be the extent of her capabilities.

  “No dates, but I think it must be very old. As far as I can figure, it’s the legends of the Cwaatchii. How we came about. The writing’s difficult to read. I don’t understand half the words. If only…”

  Melanie filled in Susie’s unsaid words. If only Papa hadn’t been injured. If only the doctors hadn’t given him addictive-to-the-max pain pills. If only when the doctors stopped prescribing the drug, he hadn’t turned to alcohol to alleviate his debilitating agony. If only one of their parents had taught them about their heritage. If only Gramps and Papa hadn’t died and Mama and Jack Daniels hadn’t become best friends. So many if onlys. She sighed.

  “You won’t be able to finish it in one go. I know you understand more than I do, but the ink’s blurred in a lot of places, and it becomes a fill-in-the-blank puzzle.” Susie rolled her eyes. “I swear my head’s spinning trying to figure out all I read.”

  Melanie reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand. “Do you realize what this might mean? If we can figure it out, we all won’t be so in the dark. Especially Gray. He’s had no alpha male model to guide him. I know he’s way past the mentoring age, but it could fill in some blanks for him. He doesn’t complain, but he’s become so reticent.” Secretive was the word Melanie wanted to use, but Gray and Susie had a special bond, and Susie would go all defensive if she voiced her other concerns about their brother.

  “Yeah. I know. I worry too. Lately all he’s done when he comes home is eat and sleep. He doesn’t consider making it into the Arena Football League and then being kept there for three years as a good sign.” Susie drew her knees up and propped her cheek on them.

  “He’s still playing for the Warriors. They haven’t dropped him from the team.”

  “Yeah, but I think his twenty-fifth birthday hit him hard. He figured he would’ve been called up to the NFL by now. He’s depressed about the whole situation.”

  “Oh my goodness, look at the time.”

  Melanie glanced at the clock: 2:37. She yawned.

  “You should go right to bed. You have to be up in two hours.” Susie gave her a gentle push. “Change and tell me why you’re so late. Then we’ll hit the sack.”

  Melanie yawned again and forced herself to stand. She pulled off her uniform as she related Pincer calling Doc G. and then sat on her bed to roll off her socks.

  “Who was killed?”

  “Eddie Mato.”

  All the color drained from her sister’s face. “Eddie Mato?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t expect that one either. But he has been in trouble with the law before.” Though Eddie hadn’t struck her as the violent type.

  “There hasn’t been a murder in Chabegawn since Boyd Dorland was killed all those years ago. And Eddie? Why would anyone kill him?” Susie brows pinched together, and she shuddered.

  Melanie frowned. “Wasn’t he shot a while back trying to escape from some woman’s bedroom when her husband came home unexpectedly?” When her sister’s mouth went slack, she added, “I’m not saying he deserv
ed to get killed, but he wasn’t exactly a role model.”

  “No one deserves to be murdered,” Susie muttered, twisted around, and pummeled her pillow with one fist.

  She studied her sister. Why did Susie look so guilty?

  “How did it happen?”

  Shrugging, she walked around the bed. “Nobody told me and I didn’t ask.”

  But Melanie had seen everything, smelled everything, and the whole scene had disturbed her more than she wanted to admit. Why had she scented the same stench that stuck to the cub’s body at the murder site?

  “Well, it’s sure to be all the buzz tomorrow at the college,” Susie declared and punched the squished pillow again. “Someone will know the details.”

  “When did you become so bloodthirsty?” Melanie shook her head. Why was Susie acting so strangely?

  “I’m just curious. Did you see? The body, I mean.” Susie hopped out of bed, retrieved a cotton nightdress from Melanie’s dresser draw, and threw it to her.

  “Doc G. wouldn’t let me get close, but I saw enough.” Melanie caught the bundled nightie, fought the nausea that welled in her throat, and tried to erase the images that formed in her head. “I doubt you’ll find out much at school. Sheriff Pincer was adamant about that. Lectured me about how sacrosanct a murder scene is.”

  “Is that why you won’t tell me what it was like?”

  Melanie pulled the nightgown over her head and faced Susie. “Okay. But you have to promise not to say a word to anyone.”

  “Does that include Gray and Mama too?”

  “I doubt either will ask, but if they do, you can tell them. The body wasn’t in one piece, and there was a ton of blood. Satisfied?”

  “Not in one—” Susie almost knocked Melanie over in her mad dash to the bathroom.

  “What on earth?”

  The sound of violent retching explained her sister’s actions. Melanie hurried over to the sink and dampened a washcloth. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you the details.”

  Susie puked again.