Heart of the Winter Wolf

by Heart of the Winter Wolf (pdf) (lit)

  "It's not for Connor, hon. I planted these especially for you. Don't you know what it means? You used to know a lot about flowers and their language. You said your grandmother taught you."

  "She did." In fact, he had used that long-ago knowledge to compose the bouquet for Jillian. He searched his mind and came up blank. "I can't seem to remember this one."

  "Lily-of-the-Valley means the return of happiness. That's why I picked it for you, James. It's time. Your time."

  "Evelyn, I--"

  He awakened then, to find the morning sun gilding the stones on the cold fireplace and his face wet. God. Dear God. He felt off-balance, both comforted and shaken. Part of him wanted to linger in the glow of the dream, and the other part wanted to get to work on something, anything, that would help ground him. Eventually the desire for solid reality won out, and James forced himself to get up and get moving.

  Still, the effects of the dream lingered. He had to run a hand over his eyes frequently throughout the day. It had been so good, so damn good to see Evelyn, to see her whole and smiling. To see her long dark hair glinting in the sunshine, see her in her favorite gardening clothes--faded jeans and one of his shirts with the sleeves rolled up a half dozen times. A smudge of dirt on her face and laughter in her dark eyes. Just hearing her voice had eased something inside him.

  Later, when the initial glow had worn off, he remembered that she'd spoken about Jillian and a terrible suspicion formed. Christ, please don't let the goddamn wolf have anything to do with this. That's all he needed was to have his furry alter ego try to further its goals by invading his dreams, by planting images of the one person he was most likely to listen to. Please God, it couldn't do that, could it?

  He was getting paranoid again. It was just a dream. A really great dream, but not real. But it had felt real... "It doesn't mean anything," he said aloud, furious that the comforting dream, in which Evelyn was so vital and alive, might be tainted-fixed-nothing more than wolf propaganda. "Goddammit!"

  Thankfully there was no lack of farm work to bury himself in, no lack of tasks big and small to occupy his time and his thoughts. He spent most of the day plowing under the entire section of old alfalfa to enrich the soil, and had only passed Connor's house briefly, hadn't noticed anything different. But late in the afternoon, after he brought grain to the horses in the front paddock, he caught a glimpse of something white in the gardens flanking Connor's steps. Mounds of white, low to the ground, almost like snow heaped amongst the sword-like iris leaves and the clusters of yellow daylilies. What the hell? Furious that his black-thumbed brother had carelessly dumped something on the garden, James stalked over to see--and suddenly the empty feed buckets dropped from his hands.

  Lily-of-the-Valley was everywhere. Tiny white bells on delicate stems were massed above broad emerald leaves, crowding every square inch of ground between the irises and the daylilies, spilling out of the garden in such abundance that the little plants were even coming up through the cracks in the walkway, pushing through the gravel driveway, marching across the lawn. Lily-of-the-Valley was a spring flower and preferred shade--yet the tiny plants sat in the hot June sun looking fresh and dewy, as out of place as roses in a desert.

  Stunned, James sank to his knees between the forgotten buckets. He had worked the soil between the neglected daylilies and irises by hand, knew for a fact, knew, there were no other bulbs of any kind in the garden. He had weeded only two days ago. The rich dark earth had been bare when he was done. There had been nothing there, nothing at all.

  Evelyn.

  He remained motionless for a long time, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe, in case the beautiful apparition vanished. It wasn't until a breeze picked up and wafted among the blossoms, making them bob and sway, that James ventured to touch one. He could feel the tiny stalk with its bell-like blooms, cool and fresh. Real. Suddenly he leaned into the flowers, gathering a great armful of them. Clutching them to his chest, he bent his head and inhaled great lungfuls of the scent again and again. He crushed great handfuls of the delicate bells to his face where their essence mingled with tears. The delicate sweet scent seemed to intensify and wrapped itself around his aching heart like a healing balm, bringing a powerful peace. James sat amidst the blossoms for a long, long time. Calm. Clear-headed. And thankful beyond all words. Thankful for the affirmation of his dream, grateful to have seen Evelyn whole and happy. Thankful to know that his rebellious wolfen side could not possibly have conjured this.

  A return to happiness. Evelyn said she had chosen these flowers to convey that message to him. As he contemplated that, a number of ideas suddenly fell together in ordered sequence like tumblers in a lock about to open. James thought of the wolf, his wolf, and its efforts to embrace survival whether he wanted to or not. Remembered Birkie's words, that survival meant going on with life in all ways. Recalled Connor's certainty that it was too late to turn back, to turn away from being human. James had been so angry, so frustrated with all of them. So resistant to everyone and everything.

  Worst of all, he had resisted the one person, right in front of him, who had been courageous enough to move forward with her life and make something of it after a terrible and traumatic ordeal. Jillian was not just surviving, but thriving. How could he do less? A return to happiness. James knew suddenly, clearly, that it was time for him to fully return to life and embrace all that it meant.

  He had to find Jillian, had to find a way to undo the damage he'd done.

  * * * *

  "The doctor said four weeks of rest. You've barely had one."

  "I can't see myself missing four weeks of work. That's too much."

  "That's the verdict, hon. You heard it yourself after the CAT scan." Birkie put a fragrant cup of herbal tea on the bedside table. "Nothing but a lot of rest is going to improve that noggin of yours. And even when you start to get better, any overexertion is going to bring the symptoms back full force."

  Jillian sighed. "I know the drill. I've had a concussion before, a few years ago, from the attack."

  "And you also know that having a concussion before is exactly why you can't expect to bounce back in a couple of days from this one."

  "It's just so darn hard to do nothing. Lying here, lying still, my mind works just fine. I feel fine and think I should get up and do something."

  "You are doing something--you're whining." Birkie grinned. "First time in over a week. That tells me you're starting to heal. But you were paper-white and sweating after the ride over here yesterday. I'm still not convinced you should have left my place just yet."

  Jillian had had her own doubts about her decision. She'd traveled by ambulance to the city for the CAT scan, sleeping through most of the ride there and back. A little dizzy, a little headache, but not too bad. After that, she'd expected riding over to the clinic in Birkie's truck would be a snap, but she hadn't taken into account the fact that she would be sitting up. The dizziness and nausea were so intense she'd had to close her eyes for most of the way. And once at the clinic, she'd been forced to head straight to her bed to sleep it off. "You've been wonderful to me, but I really wanted to be here. It's home now."

  "Well, I understand that a person needs to be in their own familiar surroundings with their own stuff. And at least I can look in on you while I'm here during the day. I admit I worry about you at night, though."

  "All I'm going to do is snore, I promise. You won't be missing anything but having to wait on me."

  "Ha. There was a real burden. You didn't need any watching after that first night, and you slept most of the whole first week. It's not like you demanded heated towels and chocolates on your pillow."

  "Chocolates on my pillow was an option? I wish I'd known."

  "Drink your tea, hon, and we'll see about the chocolate. By the way, I've been putting your mail on the table. You have quite a stack built up."

  "Bless you and thank you. I'd forgotten all about it. Although I imagine it's mostly bills." Jillian sat up carefully, sipped at the
tea. "You know what really bothers me? I still can't figure out how I managed to get a stupid concussion. Believe me, the airbag went off. I didn't hit anything."

  "Maybe not, but the airbag certainly hit you. You know, I'll bet you drive with your hands high on the wheel, don't you?"

  "What?"

  "Say, about two and ten o'clock. Add to that the fact that you're on the short side like me. Bang, the airbag goes off and the impact probably drove your wrist right to your head. Broke the wrist, nearly cracked the skull."

  "Have you been watching reruns of CSI again?"

  "You bet. But the Millers said so, too. And we found out later that there was a recall notice for that particular year and model of truck because the air bag was discovered to be too powerful. Let me tell you, Connor had that truck over to the dealership the next day to have that bag ripped out and replaced. He feels terrible that this happened to you."

  "I'm sure being hit by the airbag was better than hitting the tree. I should feel bad about Connor's truck. I must have banged it up pretty good."

  "James says you banged yourself up pretty good on the undercarriage. Lowen says that could account for the concussion, as well, plus you've got nine stitches in three places to show for it."

  "Nine? Huh, I thought I counted seven." She fingered gingerly through her hair.

  "You can count again this afternoon when Bev comes by to take them out."

  Jillian closed her eyes and eased back down on the bed. The urge to get up and do something had abruptly passed. Not only was all her energy gone, but she suddenly couldn't remember what it was like to have any. Her collarbone was throbbing again, too, but she reminded herself to be thankful it was just bruised and not broken, although it was tough to remember that when pain woke her in the night. "I feel really bad that Connor's going to be short-handed."

  "You're the one that's short-handed. That cast still itching?"

  Jillian surveyed her wrist and its fluorescent-pink casing. "Nope, not today. At least not yet."

  "Good. Don't worry about Connor, he'll be just fine. He managed for several years before you showed up. Ran full tilt, but managed. Besides, it won't hurt for him to gain a renewed appreciation for you. We're finished with calving season until January rolls around, so that takes a lot of the pressure off. And James has been riding along to assist with big projects like herd checks and such. Speaking of James, he asked about you again this morning. He still wants to see you."

  Jillian knew he had gone to Birkie's house at least once a day, sometimes twice. What was it going to take for him to get the message? And how long could she hold out? She opened her eyes and looked at her friend. "I don't want to see him, Birkie. I just can't. It's hard enough to be firm about this. You don't know how hard it is."

  "I think I have a pretty good idea, hon." She sat on the edge of the bed and seemed to consider something. "You know, I haven't said anything to you before, but perhaps I should have. James cares about you a lot, much more than you know. Much more than he knows, I suspect."

  Jillian automatically shook her head and was instantly sorry. She froze in place until the wave of nausea subsided and the pounding in her skull faded. "I gotta quit doing that," she squeaked.

  "Here, let me help you with the tea. It'll help settle things."

  The tea soothed her stomach immediately, which didn't surprise her. Birkie's concoctions were always effective, although Jillian had given up asking what was in them. The older woman rattled off Latin plant names as easily as if they were ordinary baking ingredients.

  "James will be back you know, hon. He's not a man to give up once he knows what he wants."

  "And you think he wants me." She didn't dare entertain the notion that it might be true. She had closed that particular door, locked it and piled mental furniture against it, didn't want to open it again. "Dammit, he dumped me, Birkie, dumped me and didn't even tell me why. It hurt a helluva lot. It still hurts. Why would I want to give him the chance to do that again?"

  "Men are funny creatures. They do the most ridiculous things sometimes for the most noble of reasons. He might have been trying to let you go because he believed it would be better for you, even though he wanted you very much, being protective."

  Jillian stared. "You've got to be kidding. Protective? What is this, the Middle Ages? No wonder he sent such a strange bunch of flowers to do his talking for him." Her voice rose enough to send nail-like spikes of pain through her head, but the surge of anger wouldn't let her stop. "And protect me from what? I should have been protected from him. Why didn't he tell me to my face that he didn't want a relationship? And he sure could have mentioned it before I slept with him." She swore then, both from fury and pain. "If James really had some stupid archaic notion of protecting me, he could have brought up his concerns and discussed them with me so I could make my own damn decision." Jillian sank back on the bed, utterly spent and unable to tell which hurt more, her heart or her head. Her stomach roiled treacherously.

  "Easy there, hon. It's all true, every word of it. Now don't you think you'd feel better if you told him exactly what you just told me?"

  Yeah. Yeah, she probably would. She'd tried to be firm and reasonable at the doctors' office. Even with her heart in tatters, she'd tried to walk away--okay, more like limp away--with some dignity. It was obvious now that it wasn't going to be enough. James refused to stay away. Still, she was far from ready for a confrontation. "Can't it wait until I'm vertical? I might want to punch him out and I just can't manage a proper Tae Kwon Do position lying down."

  "You just let me know when you're ready. I'll try to hold him off until then, but I confess it hasn't been easy for me to shoo him away. He's hurting too."

  "He's hurting? What did I ever do to him?" Jillian narrowed her eyes at her friend suddenly. "What is it you know that I don't? Has he been talking to you?"

  "Not a single blessed word, hon. Haven't even seen his handsome face except the night of the accident. However, what I know is that James is a complicated man. There's a tender heart behind the thorny exterior. Things haven't been easy for him since his wife died."

  Jillian was shocked. "She died? You said he had been married, but I just assumed he was divorced. She died--that's awful. Why didn't you tell me that before?"

  "I guess because it was awful. Maybe I hoped it would come up when you and James were talking, that maybe he would say something and I wouldn't have to. Foolish of me, I know. But Evelyn was my niece, you see, and well, I guess I prefer to remember the happier things."

  "Oh Birkie, I'm so sorry."

  The older woman leaned over and squeezed Jillian's hand. "Thanks for that. Actually, I think you would have liked Evelyn. You remind me of her in some ways. It happened several years ago now, and most of us have made peace with it as best we could. Except James, that is. He still blames himself for it."

  "Blames himself? Why? How ... how did she die?"

  "Murdered. Shot by an intruder in her own house. She was pregnant."

  Jillian didn't know what to say. There were no words for such an enormous tragedy, the terrible waste of a life, of two lives. And what had the loss done to James?

  Birkie continued as if she had heard Jillian's thoughts. "James feels it's his fault for not being there. He was out moving cattle and arrived home to find her like that."

  My God, what would that be like? "But how could he think it's his fault? He couldn't have known, couldn't have anticipated. Nobody expects something like that to happen, especially not in their own home. Did they ... did they catch the murderer?"

  "No." The older woman shook her head. "James was shot, too, when he entered the house. Didn't see who it was. Whoever did it walked away. And I think that made it all that much worse, for all of us."

  Jillian fell silent then. The men who attacked her had never been found either. It had taken a lot of counseling, a lot of hard work, to create some kind of closure when closure could not naturally be found. Eventually she had found a measure of peace with
in herself, but there would always be moments that had to be managed, like that flashback on the trail below Elk Point. She found herself wondering what it was like to be James. Were there moments that still haunted him?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Douglas didn't know what to make of his father's sudden improvement, but he was grateful for it. The morning after the episode with the lady vet, Roderick Harrison had awakened in his right mind--and stayed there. He hadn't had an episode since. No dementia, no loss of memory, no cognitive lapses. Nothing. The doctors were extremely impressed, although baffled. Some chalked it up to the new medication. The Alzheimer's seemed to be in some kind of remission, so much so that other doctors questioned the original diagnosis. No one looking at the old man would guess that only the month before he had mistaken his only son for a hired hand.

  Roderick slid easily back into the routine of overseeing the ranch. He spent increasing amounts of time with old Varley Smith, the ranch manager, which wasn't surprising--they'd been friends for as long as Douglas could remember. His father even went to a cattle auction, winning a good-looking group of replacement heifers. He celebrated by joining Varley and a few of the hands at the Shamrock Bar, a place he hadn't gone into in years. Not since the Alzheimer's had begun to take hold. "I'll look out for him," Varley had whispered to Doug before they drove off. And he had, as Douglas knew he would. They'd returned after midnight with Roderick only pleasantly drunk. The next day, he was in a sterling mood, eating a full breakfast with gusto and hurrying out to take delivery of the heifers he'd bought.

  Normal. Ordinary. Everything just as it had always been before Roderick's mind had begun to play tricks on him. The full moon came and went, and the wild episodes that so often accompanied it failed to materialize. Roderick remained himself. Douglas didn't know how long this would last, but he was grateful for the respite. Especially since the mental frenzy that had once so frequently gripped his father seemed to have migrated into his own brain. Even Jack Daniels hadn't been able to keep it at bay. White wolves chased Douglas in his dreams, stalked him from behind hay bales and outbuildings during the day. He'd nearly screamed aloud yesterday afternoon when he caught a glimpse of something white moving behind the house. Turned out to be just sheets on the clothesline, put there by the housekeeper. Douglas had been so unnerved, he'd spent the rest of the day drinking himself into a stupor in his room. Slept like the dead.