Winter of the Wolf

by Cherise Sinclair

  Zeb trailed the other vehicle to the road. Less than a tenth of a mile farther out of town, they turned left at a sign indicating “WILDWOOD LODGE” and headed straight into indicating “WILDWOOD LODGE” and headed straight into the pine forest.

  The dirt road was poorly kept with foot-deep ruts. As the truck bounced, he caught the scent of pain.

  Shay had turned pale and was bracing his injured leg.

  Zeb slowed, easing around the potholes.

  “I’m good.” Although tendons stood out on his square jaw, Shay jerked his chin at Alec’s disappearing pickup.

  “Keep going.”

  Hel would freeze over before the idiot complained of pain.

  Zeb scowled. It sucked that Ailil Ridge hadn’t had a healer. Instead, their wounds had had to close up the slow way. Zeb was doing al right, but Shay’s injuries had been ugly. Unfortunately, even if a healer lived in Cold Creek, it was too late now.

  A massive two-story log cabin—the design much like that of the tavern—came into sight, and Zeb parked beside Alec’s vehicle. Just past the building, the road narrowed, and tiny lanes branched off to smal rustic cabins. The Wildwood Lodge. Good name.

  Zeb jumped from the pickup. He hauled in a breath, letting the crisp pine air erase the stench of truck fumes and Shay’s pain-filed sweat. Cold Creek was definitely deeper in the wilderness than Ailil Ridge. Turning in a circle, he caught whiffs of deer and fox and the bitter mineral scent of dwarves. “Your mountains smel good.”

  dwarves. “Your mountains smel good.”

  Alec’s voice drifted out the front door of the building.

  “They’re your mountains now too. Get your asses in here and tel me what you think.”

  Zeb slammed the truck door shut, trying to control his temper. He’d liked the werecat when they’d met at a Gather last fal. But the scent of Shay’s pain had abraded his nerves, his arm hurt, and, fuck it, knowing he’d have to live with someone made him feel like cornered prey.

  If McGregor wasn’t careful, he was going to get his face smashed in. Back stiff, Zeb folowed Shay into the lodge.

  Alec glanced at Zeb, then moved away to lean against a wal.

  Puling in a slow breath, Zeb looked around. Stale air indicated the place had been closed for a time. The lower floor was mostly open with wel-polished hardwood floors and large windows. To the left was a smal reception desk with an office behind it. Farther down was a sitting area around a glass-fronted fireplace. On the right was another space with couches and game tables and books.

  He trailed Alec and Shay to the back. A TV room and a weight room were on the left. The center of the rear was a dining area with assorted tables—obviously, the place could be used as a bed and breakfast. The right held a country kitchen with a round oak table. The scent of lemon and soap indicated someone had cleaned recently, but he spotted no signs of a resident brownie, so the task had been done by human or shifter.

  The place felt…good. The muscles in Zeb’s chest loosened, letting him breathe deeper.

  Speaking for the first time, Alec said, “The second floor has six bedrooms and three baths.” He pointed to the wide stairs dividing the front from the back.

  “Big place,” Shay grunted. His color hadn’t improved, and Zeb took a step toward him.

  Alec’s gaze drifted from Shay’s face to his leg, and then the cahir dropped into a leather chair beside the fireplace.

  “Let me tel you what we were thinking.” He paused, obviously not going to continue until they were seated. Until Shay was seated.

  Manipulative werecat. Zeb was starting to like him. He chose one of the couches.

  Shay frowned before taking the other couch. His muffled sigh of relief was folowed by a scowl at his own weakness.

  “Talk,” he said to Alec.

  “We heard you two managed a smal fishing camp for the Rainier clan. Reports are it had lost money until you arrived.” Zeb nodded. And that asshole Pete had decreased the clan income by closing it down.

  Alec continued, “This place made money when it was open. Almost a hundred percent occupancy during the summer. In winter, there are always a few diehard fishermen, summer. In winter, there are always a few diehard fishermen, and shifters book a day or two when they come into town each month for the Gatherings.”

  The Cosantir wanted them to run the place? Zeb could get his teeth into that idea.

  “The owner made a good living—not fancy, but good,” Alec said. “James died last fal with no heirs, so the lodge went into the Cosantir’s care. He suggests you give it a shot.

  Manage it yourselves. The paperwork for the lodge’s bank account is in the office—there’s enough to get you up and running. When you start making a profit, pay ten percent into the North Cascades funds.”

  Zeb managed to keep his face impassive, but his hand closed on the couch arm. “We wouldn’t work for you?” Alec grinned. “Calum says you’re too independent to make good employees.”

  “Damn,” Shay said. “Is your Cosantir psychic?”

  “Worse,” Alec said soberly. “He was a lawyer.” Zeb let out a laugh before glancing at his patrol-partner and giving a short nod. Despite Pete’s continual orders, Shay had handled the business end at the Rainier camp; the decision would be mostly his.

  “I’m not into long-term arrangements.” Shay frowned, his fingers tracing the scar of the oathbound on his cheek. “I made a vow to Herne to kil helhounds. When He cals, I go.”

  go.”

  “Understood,” Alec said.

  Jaw set, Shay considered. “Fine. We’l take it and see how it goes.”

  “Good.” Alec glanced at his watch and winced. “I’d help you unload, but my shift starts in ten minutes. I’l be back tomorrow to discuss helhounds.”

  He’d reached the entrance when Zeb asked, “What work do you do?”

  Alec’s grin was wicked. “I’m the county sheriff.” He walked out and closed the door.

  Staring at the door, Zeb thought about his bar fight not even two weeks ago. And when he and Shay had brawled through downtown Ailil Ridge, busting a street light and a planter. And when he’d tossed a shifter through a window during a Gathering fracas.

  Any idiot could avoid human law enforcement. But a werecat sheriff who was also a cahir? “We’re screwed.” Chapter Four

  Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory

  Well, I’m here. After deciding to leave Seattle four days Well, I’m here. After deciding to leave Seattle four days ago, Bree had started her search for her parents. After enlarging the photo, she managed to decipher the sign on a building in the background—the “Wild Hunt” tavern. The only bar of that name in the entire United States was in this tiny town nestled deep in the Cascades.

  As she steered her Toyota out of Cold Creek, she stared.

  There was the bar! Her parents had actualy been there. Oh, wow. She braked, then sighed and kept driving. Investigate later. First, she needed a place to stay.

  About a block or so past the tavern, she spotted a sign for the Wildwood Lodge. She’d hoped to stay at the downtown bed and breakfast, but it’d closed for repairs during the off-season. Murphy’s Law strikes again. The B&B’s owner said the lodge was newly reopened, and maybe there’d be a cabin available.

  Maybe. She puled in an exhausted breath. If she didn’t find a place to stay, she’d probably break down and bawl like a baby.

  She turned left onto a tiny dirt road. As the car squeaked and complained about every muddy rut, her hands tightened on the wheel. Gritting her teeth, she tried to dredge up some enthusiasm. Look at me. Miss Never-been-out-of-the-city was going to stay in a wilderness lodge. Woohoo. But it was impossible to ignore the wailing voice inside her: I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.

  want to be here. I want to go home.

  After parking the car in front of the lodge, she crossed her arms on the steering wheel and lay her head down. So tired.

  Her eyes burned. The raw wounds on her arm, back, and leg
ached from the jostling and long hours in the car.

  She slid out and closed the door, feeling as if she were shutting the door on her past as wel. But as she breathed in the icy-scented air and the early afternoon sun warmed her shoulders, her spirits lifted. Patches of snow were melting into miniature streams, as if to please the tiny fairy peeking at her from an overhanging branch. Behind the lodge and the cabins, the slope rose into ever-higher foothils and glacier-covered mountains.

  She climbed the steps to the porch. Unsure whether to enter, she tapped on the closed door.

  “Hold on.” A man’s voice.

  A minute later, the door opened. The guy was huge, wel over six feet tal and built like a footbal player—one who’d taken far too many steroids.

  Feeling the blood drain from her face, Bree hastily took a step back. Her stomach twisted uneasily. Yesterday, when she’d picked up her paycheck at the restaurant, she’d discovered that big men now made her…skittish. Way skittish.

  And this guy’s appearance went with his size. He had a lean battered face. A hard jaw with a cleft in it. He practicaly lean battered face. A hard jaw with a cleft in it. He practicaly oozed testosterone. She tensed, waiting for him to advance on her.

  “Can I help you?” He didn’t move.

  Her surge of adrenaline drained away, leaving her exhausted and chiled. “Yes.” She mustered her determination. “I’d like to rent a cabin. Do you have any available, and can I see one?”

  His gaze lingered on her body, and she stiffened, until she noticed his attention was on her white-knuckled hands.

  His eyes narrowed, but he answered easily, “Yes, we have one available and yes, you can see it.” When he smiled, laugh lines crinkled around his blue-gray eyes, and she relaxed.

  He reached back inside the lodge and lifted a key ring off a nail. “The previous owner died a few months ago, and the lodge has been closed. Since we only took over two days ago, we’re not functioning as smoothly as we wil be. I’m Shay O’Donnel.” His deep voice was velvet smooth and oddly calming. He nodded his head at the tiny dirt road continuing past the lodge. “There are cabins al up and down the lane, but we’ve only finished setting the first one to rights.

  How many in your party?”

  “Just me.”

  “That’l work then. It’s a one bedroom.” He limped across the porch and down the steps, obviously trying not to favor his right leg.

  Wel, at least his handicap would slow him down if he tried to grab her. “How’d you get hurt?” She flushed. Nosy. “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem. I had a run-in with something large and fast.

  I lost.” He sounded pretty pissed off about the losing part.

  Her mind immediately jumped to a monster. Ah, no, Bree, don’t be stupid. A bear? She glanced at the trees that could hide about anything. Or maybe he’d just had a nice normal car accident.

  “How about you?” he asked.

  Darn. But fair was fair. “Same thing.” Definitely large and fast; definitely lost the battle. She forced her breathing to stay smooth and ignored his curious look.

  They turned onto the lane off the dirt road. Surrounded by forest, the log cabin appeared tiny under the giant trees.

  “Hansel and Gretel’s place?” she murmured.

  “The hu—the fairy tale, right?” His slow smile erased the lines of pain beside his mouth. How old was he? In his thirties? Shaggy brown hair fel over his forehead and curled along his colar in back, but she didn’t see any gray in it. He was pretty beat-up though. A prizefighter’s face. His nose had been broken at least once. Two blue-tinted scars marked a tanned cheekbone—one shaped like a knife, the other a primitive sketch of antlers. Fine paralel scars ran across his jaw. A quiver of unease ran through her. How had he colected so much damage?

  he colected so much damage?

  He opened the door, motioned her in, and waited as she wandered around.

  The style was rustic. She walked through the “living room” which consisted of a brown and green couch and two worn leather chairs by a glass-fronted woodstove. Near the back was a sorry excuse for a kitchen and a smal round table with three chairs. The bathroom was at the back left, tiny but clean, with dark green towels.

  To the front left, the bedroom had a queen-sized bed with a beautiful handmade quilt, a dresser, and a bedside table.

  There was no closet to search for bogeymen. One less place to worry about.

  The entrance and back doors were heavy oak. The front window was large and…she looked closer. It had metal bars on the inside, hinged so they’d open inward.

  Her mind replayed how easily the monster had come through the glass door. She spun, checked the other windows, then went into the bedroom. Al the windows had bars. Maybe the landlord realy had run into a bear. But she’d prefer bears to monsters any day. She turned. “I’l take

  —”

  He stood inside the bedroom, his big frame blocking the door.

  She choked and backed up so fast her shoulders banged into the wal. Pain flamed across her wounded shoulder and into the wal. Pain flamed across her wounded shoulder and arm, and her legs wobbled. Heart hammering, she raised her fists and squared her stance. Darned if she’d go through life afraid of everything and everyone. Not again. Been there, done that, have the black belt as an answer.

  He breathed in, and his nostrils flared as he studied her.

  “Relax, a leannan. I don’t go around attacking females.” He stepped back and went into the living room.

  She huffed out a shaky breath and sagged against the wal.

  I need a gun. Of course, shooting the landlord would mean no bed tonight, and she realy wanted a place to stay.

  If he’d rent her anything now. He probably thought she was crazy. She walked out of the bedroom and saw him leaning on the far wal. “I’m sorry. Too much caffeine makes me jumpy,” she said.

  “I’ve heard it can do that.” His expression said he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Why do you have metal bars on the windows?”

  “When the cabins are empty, critters can be a problem.” Critters. She shivered.

  Eyes the color of a winter sky studied her. “Too much caffeine, huh,” he said in a dry voice.

  * * *

  She signed the rental papers and handed over a check.

  She signed the rental papers and handed over a check.

  God, three weeks sounded like such a long, long time to be away. After taking an ibuprofen—she’d realy hit that wal hard—she showered and had to force herself to stop scrubbing. Would there ever come a time she didn’t smel that creature’s stench on her skin? Didn’t feel soiled?

  After unpacking, she lay on the bed, trying to relax and failing miserably. This wasn’t her place. It was al wrong. She wanted to go home. Not happening, so get over it, Bree.

  Then again, she’d never had a home as a kid, so maybe she’d skipped the homesick stage and needed to go through it now. Her lips curved in a wry smile. Naptime would be good right about now, too.

  But she couldn’t keep from staring at the metal bars on the window. They looked easy to open from inside, so could someone—something—open one from outside?

  Unable to shake the thought, she raised the window, then went outside. Stretching her arm past the window and bars, she tried to reach the clasp that would let her push the bars open. Couldn’t. She put her face against the glass to check how far her fingers fel short.

  “If you’re breaking in, try the door. It’s open.” The man’s voice sounded like gravel.

  She spun and bumped into the cabin wal. Pain ripped through her shoulder. Darn it. Bracing her feet, she raised her fists and got a look at the person.

  fists and got a look at the person.

  Her spine chiled as if gripped in an icy hand. Wiling her lungs to work again, she stared at him. The man was even taler than her landlord, and one cheek had the same knife-like blue mark. Sinister white scars marked his neck. His forearms. His powerful
hands. His eyes were so dark a brown they were almost black with a terrifying coldness—

  like there was no human home in there.

  The guy looked like he kiled puppies for fun.

  “I’m not breaking in,” she said, trying not to act like a petrified rabbit. Slowly, she eased away from the wal and lowered her fists. “This is my cabin.”

  Straight black hair reached past his shoulders, and he had the dusky complexion of someone of mixed Native American descent. His brows lifted. “We have a renter?” We? Please say this cruel-looking character wasn’t her landlord. He wasn’t anything like Shay. Wel, other than being seriously huge. Shay’d been pretty nice, al in al; this guy looked like he could rip apart a bear. With his bare hands. “Shay rented me this cabin.” Not you.

  “I’m Zeb Damron. Shay and I run this place together.” He loomed over her—far too much like her nightmares—and held out his hand. “You got a name?”

  “Breanne Galagher.” She gritted her teeth. I am fine. I am. I can touch him. She’d been through this fear as a teen after Mr. Harvey tried to force her. She just had to gut it out again. So when his scarred-up, calused hand engulfed hers, she squeezed hard, trying to crush his bones and show him what a tough bitch she was.

  His expression didn’t change. “I make you nervous.” There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in his voice, but no triumph either. Just a flat statement.

  She jerked her hand away. “Wel—”

  “Don’t lie.” His nostrils flared. “Or would terrified be a better word?”

  Definitely. Her teeth gritted together. “Maybe I just don’t like pushy guys.” Oh yeah, Bree, piss off the huge landlord.

  The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Sorry.”

  “I—” How had he gone from scaring her to making her feel rude? “You… There’s no one around—” Good going, dummy, point out how isolated this is. “You’re big. And a guy.”

  “No male would harm a female,” he said, his wording uncannily like Shay’s. His dark brows drew together, his eyes intent. “You don’t believe that.”

  “I know it’s not true.” The weight on her, pinning her down. A shudder ran through her.