Heart of the Winter Wolf

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

  By the time she climbed back into bed, she was resigned to staying there for the rest of the day. Jillian hoped Birkie would stop by in the afternoon. It would be good to have a friend to talk to, although she might not mention that part about the ladder. Please God, let her bring ice cream. Suddenly, she moaned aloud as she remembered all the stuff piled in front of her door. "Dear God, skip the ice cream. Please let her bring a forklift."

  * * * *

  Roderick Harrison was just as Douglas remembered him. Just as devoted to the Pine Point Ranch as ever. Just as hardworking and active as always. Just as bullheaded and bossy, too. But gradually it became apparent that Roderick was also as fixated as ever on something Douglas would rather forget.

  It began as a stray comment over dinner. "Wolf tracks in the northwest pasture, Dougie. We've got to keep an eye on the stock."

  It probably didn't mean anything more than that, Douglas told himself sternly, but still, his stomach clenched and he found himself unable to finish the meal. Retreating to his room, it took a tall glass of Jack Daniels to help him calm down. More to ensure he didn't dream that night.

  It was mid-morning before Douglas finally made his way downstairs again. He was on his way to the kitchen, intent on putting something gentle in his stomach, maybe poached eggs and toast. Maybe just toast. Something to soak up the acid so he could have a drink to start the day.

  "Dad?" He was startled to find his father still in the house. Shouldn't he be out riding the goddamn range or something? Roderick didn't appear to notice him though. He was standing in the living room, staring at the collection of family photos on the stone mantel. There was still a photo of Douglas' mother there, a tall, pretty woman, her hair red and curly like her son's. Douglas had always liked the picture but suddenly wished he'd followed his instincts months ago and put it away. He took a careful step backward, then another, hoping to exit the room, but it was too late.

  "Corena was a good woman." Roderick continued to stare at her photo. He was still as stone with his hands at his sides, but they were clenched hard enough to make the veins stand out. "It wasn't her fault, not really. Damn werewolves, they laid claim to her. I fought to keep her with me, but they claimed her and in the end, they got her. I should never have listened to her. I should've shot every damn one of them when I had the chance. She'd still be alive if I'd done that."

  "Dad, I--"

  "They're back, you know. We didn't finish the job and now they're back."

  "Goddammit, Dad, give it up already," Douglas burst out. The fleeting thought crossed his mind that if he'd had that drink, he would have been mellow enough to keep his mouth shut, but maybe he'd been silent too long, much too long. "I'm sick of hearing about your fucking werewolves. You already shot two people that I know of, and God only knows how many others." He was shouting now.

  Roderick roared back. "I was protecting this family. I tried to protect your mother, even after she had you, and then I tried to protect you, too."

  "Protect me? You took a fourteen-year-old kid to a fucking murder. What kind of protection was that?" Douglas paused and sucked in air. It was enough time for something his father said to sink in. "What do you mean, even after she had me?"

  "I raised you as my own. I didn't ask any questions. We couldn't have kids and God help me, I wanted a son, someone I could leave the ranch to."

  He stared at his father for several seconds. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the man must be having a relapse. He walked over and took his father's arm, and when he spoke, it was with lowered voice. "Dad, it's me, Douglas. Your son. And I have a sister, remember? Rosa."

  "We adopted Rosa. Corena had a young niece out east that got herself in trouble, so we took on the baby, pretended she was ours. It was easy enough. She had red hair like your mother. No one was ever supposed to know. Even Rosa doesn't know. Then a few years later your mother came up pregnant with you." Roderick shook his head from side to side, still staring at the photo. "It was a damn hard pill to swallow. God, I didn't talk to her, couldn't even look at her. But after you were born, I thought maybe we could work things out."

  Douglas let go of his father's arm then. This wasn't sounding like a recurrence of the Alzheimer's, not at all. In fact, it didn't sound like any episode his father had ever had. "What are you saying here? That I'm not your son? Are you trying to make me believe my mother was a cheat?"

  "It wasn't her fault, not really. It was the damn werewolves. She couldn't help herself, couldn't resist them." The old man turned and faced his son, his eyes sad but steady. "Corena ignored them for years, but we had an argument one night, and she went out. Started running with a pack of them at nights. I knew it would end badly."

  "What? What?" Douglas sank into a chair then, his legs rubbery and his heart beating against his ribs like an animal trying to escape a cage. It was possible that his father had slipped into some bizarre hallucination, some new neurosis. Not just possible, but plausible, even probable. Maybe an aneurysm, a stroke? Yet Rod appeared calm, his color good and his breathing steady. His words were clear, distinguishable. Douglas looked for some clue in his father's eyes, some subtle tip-off that Rod had regressed or fallen prey to some new ailment. Found none. "What are you saying?"

  "She was one of them, Dougie."

  * * * *

  "Don't hang up." He'd given up on any kind of traditional greeting. A couple dozen calls in a week had netted him nothing more than the click of the receiver on Jillian's end. "We need to talk."

  "Please stop calling me."

  The connection went dead. Again. James swore and nearly threw the cell phone out the window of the tractor cab, but at the last moment jammed it into his shirt pocket instead. He'd gotten the phone from Culley the day after the accident, resolving to be more prepared to protect Jillian in the future. After all, what if Birkie hadn't tuned in to his mental calls for help? What would he have done? Yet the cell phone sure wasn't helping him much now. Culley had regaled James with a mind-numbing array of available models and features. But what he really needed was a phone that could say the right words for him, words that would persuade Jillian to listen.

  Were there any? Her fine features made her look faery-like, but Jillian Descharme was tough and strong and smart. He couldn't blame her for shutting him out. He'd been a complete moron and he'd hurt her. It was unforgivable, and yet he had to find a way to persuade her to give him a chance. Somehow.

  He'd tried going in person. So far, knocking on her door hadn't yielded any better results than calling her. After the first time, the door no longer opened. She was ignoring him, and while that normally would have pissed him off, he was having a hard time holding onto his anger for more than a moment. In fact, what he felt was lonely. Sad. He missed her, so much so that he'd gone out running as the wolf a few nights ago. Initially he'd intended to distract himself, but instead, he ended up at the clinic. He'd lain outside her door for a very long time, with his head on his paws. Knowing she'd embrace the wolf if she saw it, but wanting her to welcome the man.

  He hadn't Changed since.

  James made a point of talking with Connor and Birkie frequently. He always started out with farm topics--Any clinic suppliers offer organic products? Anyone got Angus heifers for sale right now?--and then eventually worked in questions about Jillian. How's her progress? How's she coping? He could see in their eyes that neither Birkie nor his brother were fooled by his casual act, but thankfully they played along and didn't ask questions or, worse yet, offer sympathy.

  He was pleased to learn that Jillian was up and around, and active again, although it concerned him that her version of being active meant walking the perimeter of the clinic's ten-acre property. Birkie had assured him that Jillian stopped to rest frequently, but James knew full well the small blonde woman would push herself to go the distance, every day. She was already campaigning to return to work, but Connor hadn't relented yet. James could well imagine she'd be frustrated by that--after all, she lived and ate and slept and breathed her
work--but privately he sided with his brother. Birkie had let slip however, that she and Caroline were passing Jillian small projects, not so much because they needed the help but to keep Jillian from going stir-crazy and to help her feel connected to the work she loved.

  He could relate to that. Wasn't he doing almost the same thing? Making up excuses to go to the clinic, seeking small tidbits of information just so he could keep from going crazy, so he could feel some kind of connection to the woman he loved?

  The shadows were long when he finally finished in the fields. He shut down the equipment and climbed down from the tractor, deciding to leave it where it stood. He was a long way from the main farmyard, but he wanted to stretch his legs. And think. The scent of alfalfa and earth rose to meet him as he walked across the fields. The sun was low in the sky and golden--and James thought immediately of how it had glinted in Jillian's hair. Automatically he looked over towards the forested coulees and remembered his night with her. There had been passion, but the experience had also touched him deep inside, some essence of Jillian had moved him. And the next day he had ruined everything.

  Ah, hell. He had to try again. And this time he'd damn well camp out on her doorstep. If he could just persuade her to listen. He didn't dare think past that.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I can't believe I've done this again. What was I thinking? She should have known better, definitely should have known better. But she had been so tired of lying around. Birkie had left for the day, and Jillian had just wanted to get a little exercise, stretch her muscles, just plain move. Except for the minor relapse the night she'd followed an imaginary white wolf, she was making tremendous progress. Her wrist had healed quickly, and the itchy cast was finally gone. The concussion was healing, too, and she actually had bursts of energy at times. Small bursts, but enough to give her hope that life would get back to normal eventually. She was walking every day, but she had other muscles that needed a workout. The doctors had encouraged her to engage in mild activity, but maybe martial arts weren't quite mild enough.

  The result was that she was lying on the concrete floor of the livestock wing, weak, dizzy and trying desperately not to throw up. The floor was still soaked from being hosed down earlier, but then, she hadn't expected to be lying on it. Especially not in an exercise bra and spandex bike shorts. She curled into a fetal position as she began to shiver, yet her head spun horribly every time she tried to get up. Could she possibly feel any worse?

  "Jillian!" James was suddenly kneeling beside her. "Christ, are you all right? What happened?"

  For one fraction of a second, Jillian's heart thrilled traitorously at the sound of his voice. Then her brain kicked in, and her spirits sank like a lead weight in a pond. Things were, indeed, worse. Of all the gin joints in all the world ....

  He was feeling her forehead, and she swatted at his hand. She swore as the sudden movement nearly caused the nausea to break free.

  "Talk to me, dammit! Tell me where you're hurt," he ordered, grabbing her flailing hand and checking her pulse.

  "I'm trying not to puke. That's what's wrong," she said through gritted teeth. "Leave me alone."

  "No. Now what happened?"

  She drew a long shaky breath. Two. "I was doing a few simple exercises, running through some basic Tae Kwon Do patterns. I just overdid it, that's all. Got a little dizzy. I'll be fine."

  "Overdid it. You mean you pushed yourself too hard. Dammit, it hasn't even been a month yet since the accident. And here I thought you were a pretty good doctor."

  "Well, so I'm a lousy patient, okay? I feel stupid enough without an audience, thank you. Now go away-- Stop! Stop that!" He had slid his hands beneath her and turned her into him, was carefully gathering her up. "Put me down, you jerk."

  "You're right, you are a lousy patient. But you can't stay here on this cold, wet floor. Your teeth are chattering, for Christ's sake."

  "Oh God, please put me down, I'm going to--" She did. Again and again, even when it seemed there couldn't possibly be anything left. Through it all, James held her steady. Warmth surrounded her, calming and soothing her until the terrible nausea subsided. Jillian lay limp and exhausted in James' arms, certain that there was nothing left of her but a thin outer shell. "I told you I was gonna puke."

  "So you did. Better now?"

  "A little maybe. God, I made such a mess. Get any on you?"

  "Naw. Missed us both. And I'm sure this room has seen worse messes than this. I'll hose it down later." He eased her around so her head was resting on his shoulder. Held perfectly still for a moment, to give her dizziness a chance to pass. "Let's get you to bed."

  "No." She gripped his shirt as he began heading for the door. "Don't move. What if I throw up again?"

  "Well, if you do, you do. We're both washable. But you need to lie down."

  She couldn't think of an argument to that, just closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth in anticipation of the trip. Was surprised at how smoothly he moved, how little motion she felt. Instead, her senses were almost totally preoccupied with the dependable strength of his muscled arms. Even the scent of his shirt, his scent, calmed her. She relaxed in spite of herself, and her eyes stayed closed.

  I missed you. I'm so glad you came back. Jillian stroked the great animal's head, ran a hand over the long white fur, marveled at the silky texture of it. The doctors kept trying to tell me you weren't real, that my mind made you up. But I knew you existed, that you were real. I knew it inside. I knew it. She knew this feeling too--there was nothing like it. Radiant warmth emanated from the giant wolf, like the physical heat from a glowing campfire enhanced with a reassuring emotional warmth. Smiling, she opened her eyes--

  --and found herself looking at a broad heavily muscled chest. Slowly she lifted her gaze to a shadowed but familiar face. Stared at the overlong white-blond hair her fingers were presently stroking. What the hell was James Macleod doing here? What was she doing here? His brilliant blue eyes were closed, his breathing deep and regular.

  Stunned, Jillian yanked her hand back just as it started to shake and hastily tried to tuck her arm beside her. It wasn't possible though, not with the man's powerful arms wrapped around her. She could feel his big hands on her back, gentle, protective. The heat from his body was soothing, like basking in front of an open fire. The unique scent of him surrounded her. She couldn't breathe without inhaling the intoxicating blend of powerful male and something else, something both familiar and wild. She puzzled it out until she realized it was the forest she smelled. No, more specifically, the forest at night ....

  This is crazy. I'm dreaming, right? I dreamed about the wolf and now I'm dreaming about this man. Somebody please tell me I'm dreaming. She was in her own bed. She could figure that much out. The light from the clinic's parking lot shed an amber glow through the window blinds, brushed the shadows in the room with bronze. A hundred thoughts whirled through her head and none of them made any sense, especially when the wolf-dream was so fresh in her mind, the pleasant emotions lingering, her body comfortable, her heart content.

  The contentment was the most baffling thing of all. Why wasn't she hollering the place down? She should be furious, shouldn't she? She'd been trying so damn hard to never see James again and here he was. In the flesh. Very hot sexy male flesh. It was getting hard to breathe, not because he was holding her tightly, but because she couldn't help but be aroused. Thank God he's only naked to the waist. Her body was definitely on James' side. Her heart was on his side. All she had left with which to resist James Macleod was her brain and it was starting to fog over, too.

  "Feeling better?"

  God, his eyes were so blue, even in the dim light. "Yes. No. What the hell are you doing in my bed, Macleod?"

  "You were ice-cold and white as a sheet. You needed to get warm. It was this or build a bonfire with your couch."

  "Okay, well, I'm fine now. Thanks. You can go home now."

  "I'm not leaving until I think you're fine. And then, not until w
e talk."

  "No talking. No way. No fair." Jillian shoved at him, struggled out of his arms, and lurched out of bed, feeling as graceful as Frankenstein's monster. Dizziness rose in a wave, with nausea close behind it, but she choked them both down as she turned to face James-and immediately lost her breath. Did he have to look so damn sexy? He was resting on his elbow, looking at her with those intense Viking eyes. The over-long hair, the close-cropped beard, even the crinkling of hair on his broad chest gleamed gold in the amber light. She wanted him, badly, wanted to touch him and smell him and taste him. Her whole body suddenly clenched-hard-which only added to her aggravation.

  "Jeez, will you settle down? You're going to make yourself sick again. I only wanted you to hear my side of the story."

  She latched on to her anger as if to a life raft. "Your side? Look here, James Macleod. You have no right to ask me to listen to anything. Besides that, I can't discuss a relationship right now. I can't think about it. I can't focus on it. I have no time right now to think about you and me. I'm concentrating on trying to get better--"

  "Bullshit!"

  "What?" She gaped at him. She hadn't seen him move, yet he was suddenly standing in front of her, looming over her, his features as fierce as they were sexy.