Witching Moon

by Rebecca York

  SARA BLINKED AS details resolved themselves into a recognizable figure. She was staring at the person she now thought of as the blackberry man, poking around in the bushes. He had his basket with him, but he kept glancing toward the cabin, like he was hoping she would come out. Or that she wouldn’t! She couldn’t tell which.

  Maybe this was his regular berry picking area. He hadn’t spoken to her since their first encounter, but she’d seen him lurking in the underbrush several times. What was he doing here? Watching out for her? Or looking for trouble?

  She wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans, glad to have something besides the rippling water or Adam Marshall to occupy her mind. Purposefully, she crossed the small living room, then stepped outside and strode toward the man.

  He went still for a moment as he saw her, then pulled himself up straighter. The basket in his hand bobbled. He steadied it, before holding it out toward her. “I brought you a present,” he said.

  She goggled at him, then shifted her gaze to the plants. She saw hairy, divided leaves, long stems, and knobby rhizomes.

  “Cranebill or wild geranium,” he said. “The leaves are used as a mild astringent, but it’s the rhizomes that have the most potency.”

  “I know,” she murmured, wondering how he had come by the knowledge.

  “I thought you might want to use it in your project. And you’d have to go wading through the swamp to get to where it grows.”

  “I appreciate your bringing it to me,” she said, thinking that the words weren’t exactly true. This guy made her nervous.

  He gave her a small nod. “I can bring you other stuff. Like mock pennyroyal.”

  She called up her mental files on that member of the mint family. “I thought that only grew in dry soil.”

  “That’s right. So you might not be looking for it around here. But it grows on higher patches, where the water can’t reach it.”

  She nodded, thinking that the stuff was supposed to be good for digestion and headache, although she’d never actually used it.

  He thrust the basket toward her, and she took it to prevent an awkward moment.

  “How did you get interested in medicinal herbs?” he asked.

  She cast her thoughts back, carefully considered the question. Actually, she couldn’t remember when plants hadn’t been part of her life. Mom had loved gardening, and she’d asked if they could have some herbs. They’d planted them together. Mom had used them for cooking.

  And she’d treated her dolls with the medicinal ones. Somehow she’d always known that foxglove was for heart problems, and witch hazel was good for insect bites.

  Now she shrugged. “I guess I’ve been interested in them since I was a little girl. Then when I was old enough, I got books out of the library.”

  He nodded.

  “What about you?”

  “What do you mean, what about me?”

  “You seem to know something about the subject.”

  “I studied up on them.”

  He looked like he might say something else. But she heard the sound of a car engine.

  Again she thought of the night before. The guy in the pickup had missed her last time, and now he was back. She whirled to see a large black limousine coming majestically up the road.

  A limo. Along the edge of the swamp? Some rich guy out slumming? Or picking blackberries?

  The windows were dark, and she had no idea who was inside looking out at her.

  She expected the vehicle to go on by her modest cabin. But it glided smoothly to a halt.

  “Who could that be?” she asked the man she’d been talking to. When he didn’t answer, she swivelled to look at him. But he’d slipped silently away.

  She scanned the underbrush and thought she caught a flash of his yellow shirt. But it disappeared almost as soon as she saw it.

  Behind her, the limo door opened, and she whirled toward the sound.

  The driver had gotten out. He was a black man, dressed in a white shirt and a dark suit.

  “Dr. Weston?” he asked politely.

  “I’m Sara Weston.”

  “My name is James. I work for Mr. Barnette.”

  The owner of Nature’s Refuge. “What does he want?” she asked.

  “He wishes to speak to you,” the driver said. He looked pressed and polished, while she was dressed in dirt-streaked jeans and a limp T-shirt.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Her hands fluttered at her sides. “I can’t go like this.”

  “Mr. Barnette said for me to fetch you.”

  She glanced back toward the house. “Well, he should have given me some warning.”

  James shrugged. “Mr. Barnette is used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.”

  “All right. Give me twenty minutes.” She didn’t wait for permission. Instead she dashed into the house and skidded to a stop in the bedroom. After grimacing at her reflection, she settled for the fastest shower on record, then gave her naturally wavy hair a quick blow dry before pulling on one of the few dresses she’d brought to Wayland. It was a simple, black, sleeveless cotton knit, which she topped with a black-and-white camp shirt. She hesitated over panty hose, then shrugged and shoved her feet into a decent pair of sandals. A little lipstick and blusher completed her preparations. In twenty minutes she hadn’t exactly turned herself into someone who looked like a Ph.D. botanist. But it was the best she could do.

  James was waiting in one of the rustic porch chairs that had come with the house. He climbed quickly to his feet when she came back out. She had her briefcase with her and some of the notes she’d been taking, so at least she could talk about some of the plants she’d started testing.

  She’d never ridden in the back seat of a limousine. But she tried to relax as James turned the car around and retraced his path up the narrow road.

  Now she was wondering if she should she have paid her respects to Barnette when she first arrived in Wayland.

  But she hadn’t thought he’d necessarily want to be involved with her.

  They swung in between brick gateposts and rode up a curving drive through manicured green lawns toward an enormous red brick mansion with a two-story portico.

  It was strange to think that one person lived in a house this big. From the driveway, it looked like her parents’ entire house could fit inside the detached four-car garage with room to spare.

  The interior was dimly lit and opulent. She didn’t know much about fine furniture and fabric, but she suspected that everything here had been purchased with no regard to cost.

  James led her down a hall to the back of the house, into a conservatory that would have done the Czar of Russia proud. The floor was flagstones. And the roof was high enough to accommodate several thirty-foot palm and ficus trees.

  They crossed a small stream bordered by more tropical foliage and flowering plants to a round patio nestled among pots of blooming azaleas. She’d never seen anything like it except in the Botanical Gardens in Washington, D.C.

  If Barnette was trying to impress her with his wealth, he’d done it.

  The man himself sat in an old-fashioned wicker rocking chair. She would have guessed his age at somewhere between sixty-five and seventy. He had salt-and-pepper hair, wrinkled skin, and piercing blue eyes. He wore a rust-colored sports coat, a beige button down shirt, khaki slacks, and old-fashioned brown-and-white saddle shoes.

  “Forgive me for not getting up,” he said, as she stepped onto the patio. “My doctor told me I need a couple of knee replacements, but I figure I can get along with the knees God gave me, if I use them judiciously.” He looked her up and down. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I’m Austen Barnette.”

  “Sara Weston,” she replied automatically, although he obviously knew who she was. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by when I got to town,” she murmured.

  “No need. I wanted to wait a few days before we chatted.” He gestured toward the chair that sat across a round table from his
own. “Make yourself comfortable. James can bring us some iced tea.”

  She took the seat opposite the old man, trying not to look overwhelmed.

  “How are you settling in?” Barnette asked.

  “Very well, thanks,” she answered automatically, waiting for a question about her work and wondering what she was going to say.

  There must have been a serving area near the conservatory. Before the small talk could continue, James was back carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of tea, glasses, and a plate of cookies.

  “Molasses cookies,” Barnette said. “My weakness.”

  “I love them, too. My mother used to make them.”

  He raised his eyes slowly and looked at her. “Which mother?”

  She went very still. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You were adopted. Are you referring to your birth mother or the mother who raised you?”

  Her heart had suddenly started to pound. “How do you know I’m adopted?” she demanded. “And how could that possibly be relevant to…to…anything?”

  Barnette answered calmly. “Everything is relevant in the grand scheme of things. You joined your family when you were four, I believe.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you remember anything about your life before coming to live with the Westons?”

  “No.” She took a quick swallow of tea. She’d thought the cookies looked good. Now the smell of them made her stomach turn because she realized that Barnette had brought her here to ask nosy questions.

  “I can see you bonded with your new parents. Your loyalty to them is commendable. But I wouldn’t have approved you to work in Nature’s Refuge unless I knew your background. I wanted to make sure you were a responsible person who wouldn’t go around destroying my property.”

  She struggled to keep her voice level, but she could hear it rising. “You don’t think my educational record was indicative? The references from my professors? The reports from my internships?”

  He took a swallow of tea and leaned back in his chair. “I took all of those into consideration, of course. But I’ve nurtured Nature’s Refuge for twenty-five years. I wasn’t going to let Granville Pharmaceuticals bring in somebody whose background I didn’t know.”

  Lord, had he sent an investigator to poke into her personal life? She was thinking that he’d given her the perfect excuse to pack up and leave—with the way he’d invaded her privacy. She opened her mouth to say something scathing, then thought better of acting rashly.

  “I thought you were perfect for the job,” he was saying.

  Wondering if she could believe him now, she managed a small nod.

  He made a quick change of subject. “I was distressed to hear that you had a bit of trouble in town last night.”

  “You’re referring to the pickup truck that almost plowed into me on Main Street?”

  “Yes. And it seems that my head ranger saved the day.”

  She nodded. Right. All he knew was what people had seen. He didn’t know about the voices in her head, and she certainly wasn’t going to blab about those.

  Or had Adam told him? Was that the reason for this interview—to evaluate her sanity. She fought off a sudden sick feeling in her throat. She had talked to Adam about the incident in confidence. He wouldn’t have said anything, she assured herself. He wouldn’t go spilling her secrets. Would he? Suddenly, the need to talk to him about her frightened confession last night was like a terrible pressure building up in her chest.

  She wanted to stand up and leave. She wanted to go to Adam. But she couldn’t simply walk out of here. And she couldn’t come across as unstable or impulsive. She reminded herself that Austen Barnette wielded a tremendous amount of power in Wayland. She needed to understand what he wanted from her and deal with it.

  “You think somebody wants me out of town?” she asked, keeping her gaze level.

  “I hope not,” he answered. “Because I’m looking forward to the completion of your research. How is that getting along?

  “Very well,” she told him, “I was so pleased to find Impatiens capensis in the park.” With the introduction of the subject, she launched into a long, boring discussion of how an extract from the plant might be the next great cure for poison ivy.

  She was pleased to see her companion’s eyes glazing over. She loved plants. And she loved nature. But she’d learned in graduate school how to write papers that would satisfy her most pedantic professors. She thought the old man was on the way to falling asleep when he sat up straighter. “I’m glad we had this little chat,” he said.

  “Oh, so am I,” she answered, the words almost sticking in her throat.

  “You probably want to get back to work.”

  “Of course.” Recognizing the tone of dismissal, she rose and picked up her briefcase “Thank you for inviting me to tea.”

  She crossed the conservatory, then walked rapidly into the hall, intending to go straight to Nature’s Refuge. To Adam.

  Then she remembered that she had come here in a large black limo. No, she’d better go home first and get her own car.

  THE day’s attendance had been good, Adam thought as he looked at the pile of entrance receipts. There had been over three hundred admission tickets sold. And thirty boat rides into the swamp.

  Maybe that wasn’t spectacular by Walt Disney standards. But it was quite good for a small natural preserve in rural Georgia.

  The crowds had cleared out, because the park closed early on Wednesday. The staff had left, and Adam was filing some forms when he looked up and saw a woman standing in the doorway.

  She was blond and nicely shaped, and as she stood backlighted by the afternoon sunlight, he felt his heart leap.

  Sara.

  Then she stepped into the room, and he realized she was someone else, wearing shorts that hardly reached her crotch and a skinny little knit top with pencil thin straps and a bottom edge that left three inches of skin exposed around her middle. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her nipples were standing up behind the orange knit fabric.

  She was dressed to attract male attention, and he responded the way his hormones had programed him to respond. He felt his body tighten as he looked from her long legs to her erect nipples to her carefully painted lips.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a gritty voice.

  She slid her own gaze up and down his body with a proprietary air, and he knew she was well aware of the effect she was having on him.

  He closed the file drawer and forced himself not to shift his weight from one foot to the other like a sophomore in high school being eyed by one of the “fast” senior girls.

  “I’m looking for Adam Marshall.”

  “The park is closed. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  “The gate was open.”

  Oh yeah? Someone on the staff was going to explain that to him tomorrow morning. “I’m Ranger Marshall,” he answered, using his title like a sort of shield.

  “Well, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad I found you. I’m interested in a boat tour.”

  “I’m sorry. The park is closed,” he repeated, keeping his tone even.

  She tipped her head to one side and thrust her chest toward him. “Can’t you make an exception for me?”

  “I’m afraid not. We have our rules,” he managed to say.

  She wore no perfume, but her scent was strong. It was as though she hadn’t washed her crotch that morning. And the heat from her body was wafting the evidence of her arousal toward him. He tried to take shallow breaths, but it wasn’t doing much good. Even a normal man would have to react to that raw female scent. And he was no normal man. He was a werewolf, and even in human form he was caught in the sensual web of that tantalizing aroma.

  He saw her lips moving, and her words came to him over the buzzing in his brain.

  “Oh. That’s too bad.” She took a step into the room, looking like she wasn’t all that upset.

  “So this is the Nature’s Refuge office. It’s a bit primit
ive, isn’t it?” she asked, eyeing the scarred wooden desk and the battered metal filing cabinets.

  “We’re not going for the designer look,” Adam answered as he took in the predatory gleam in her eye. The frank sexual interest.

  Most women were more subtle. But he had the feeling she was planning to crowd him into a corner. Crowd him—and more.

  And from his vantage point this encounter had the feeling of a trap closing around him.

  He didn’t know why the trap image sprang to his mind. He only knew it was strong and vivid.

  To get out of the confined space, he came around the desk, stepping closer to her so that she’d have to back up. She held her ground.

  “I’ve heard how sexy you are. I thought I’d find out about that for myself.”

  “I thought you came for a boat ride.”

  “Well, since that attraction’s closed, maybe we can move on to another one.”

  SARA stopped at the entrance to the park and read the sign that announced the hours. It was ten after five. And the listing said that closing time on Wednesday was five.

  The gate was open. But normally, she’d just turn around and go back. Today she needed to talk to Adam, so she drove through and headed toward a cluster of buildings she could see in the distance.

  She’d collected some of her plants from the wild, unkempt expanse of the swamp, but she’d never been in the areas that were maintained for the public. When she’d come in the back way, she’d driven over a narrow gravel track. The road leading from the front entrance was two lanes and paved with macadam. To keep it from flooding, it was built up above the level of the swamp.

  The drive ended in a rectangular paved area divided into sections by garden ties.

  Natural looking, weed-free garden beds bloomed with an assortment of cultivated annuals and perennials interspersed with plants native to the Olakompa. Most of the indigenous plants were labeled with small signs giving their common and Latin names. A nice touch, she thought. The buildings clustered on the other side of the almost empty parking area were either log cabins or simple wood structures painted dark brown.

  It was all tidy and well-kept, with a notable absence of trash on the ground. The state of the park spoke well for Adam Marshall. Apparently he ran a tight ship. And he knew how to make a natural area attractive for visitors.