Porter pulled up. The officer pointed him down a side road. “You can’t go through the rest area. You can reach the campground from here, but if you need supplies you’ll have to go back to Twin Lakes.”
“No problem.” Porter glanced at the conglomeration, noting a blackened van much like the ones Seamus favored. “Thank you, sir.”
Ambling down the stretch of road, Porter envisioned his beautiful mate and tried again. Maggie?
Silence.
After a few miles, the sign for the campground appeared. Porter pulled into the main lot by the information shack. Only two other cars sat in the lot. They belonged to humans either deeper on the grounds camping or out for a hike.
Porter took his shirt off after he got out of the truck and set it on the seat. Eyeing the box containing the Ruger, he untied his work boots and slipped them off. Setting the boots on the floor, he reached to flip the box open. Extracting the revolver and ammo, he loaded all six slots in the cylinder. Rolling his flannel up tightly, he tied off the end, then looped the arms around to tie off a loop.
Next he shrugged out of his t-shirt and locked his pickup. The keys he hid back behind a tire. Tucking the flannel and its cargo under his arm, he loped off into the trees.
The tang of smoke clung to him, but he couldn’t scent any humans around. Setting his bundle down, he stripped out of his pants and shifted.
His senses came alive. Raising his head to sniff the air he promptly sneezed. The acrid tang of burning gasoline dulled his acute sense of smell. He’d have to cast a wide net searching for a sign Maggie or Seamus was in the area.
Nosing through his shirt wrap, he ducked his head into the loop and wiggled it down his neck. The wolf side of him frowned on the collar-like contraption, but he didn’t know what arsenal Seamus had with him. Porter wanted every advantage searching for Maggie—and for when he found Seamus.
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie’s leg burned. Fantasies of getting her hands on a blade and digging the lead out fueled her flee. Running as fast as her limp allowed, she navigated trees, avoided jumping over any downed trunks to keep her head from pounding until her eyes crossed, and set a course for the lake.
The fish-laced odor of lake water grew stronger. She focused on it to crowd out the smell of the fire. With each passing mile, the smoke lessened as the wind helped carry it into the atmosphere.
The throbbing in her skull urged her to slow down, keep her heartbeat from creating the cacophony behind her eyes. She couldn’t; decreasing her speed meant opening a window of opportunity for Seamus. She was naïve about her world, but not enough to think the explosion had decimated him, or even better, blew his cruel face off. The van took the brunt of it, and Seamus was devious enough to escape the humans’ concern over his injuries, or his resurrection from sure death.
Vegetation thinned and blue twinkled through the branches. The sight allowed Maggie to slow. She sniffed the ground searching for recent human presence. Nothing. Using narrow tree trunks for cover, she inspected her surroundings.
This portion of Twin Lakes was a sizable body of water. Cabins dotted the shoreline. Some of the more affluent buildings had personal docks, but to Maggie’s good fortune, the public dock and beach were on the other side of the lake. Since it was a weekday and not peak season, lake activity was pretty quiet. Only a few boats dotted the water.
She’d have to chance the notice of the fishermen. With her speed hindered, her aching brain would have to come up with various ways to hide from Seamus.
Trotting to the edge of the water, she sniffed around to make sure she was alone. Edging closer, the squishy coolness of mud caked her paws. She didn’t sink as much as she would’ve on two legs, but as a shifter-sized wolf, her paws settled in.
Dammit. That left prints. If Seamus’ sense of smell recovered quickly from its combustive assault, he’d have no problem following her. She wasn’t as concerned about that as she was about leaving massive paw prints for humans to find. Her Guardian training to conceal their existence kicked in. The fishers might think she was a larger than average wolf from their distance away, but she didn’t have to give them proof.
Shuffling her feet through the thick muck, she obscured as much as she could before stepping into the water. Cold shocked her legs, traveling up her spine until she shivered and jerked her tail. Treading in deeper, her feet sinking even further in the mud, wisps of green algae clinging to her fur, she stalled to let her body adjust to the temperature.
The pounding in her temples slowed, the ache in her leg dimmed, the cold’s soothing properties working on her injuries. If only she could hang out in the water until a shifter besides Seamus found her.
With the bullet’s effects diminished, she considered attempting telepathy again. Focusing on the surface of the water, the swish of each lap of wave hitting land, the feel of green algae swirling around her legs, she tried reaching out to her brother.
Ja—
She jerked her head as if to yank it away from the source of pain, the sounds of the water diminished, threatening her consciousness. Her face hit the water, effectively waking her up when she would’ve passed out.
No telepathy. She doubted she’d be able to receive any mental communications and she sincerely hoped that if anyone tried, she wouldn’t writhe in agony from the pain or that it wouldn’t instantly knock her out.
Moving to deeper water for the camouflage and so she wouldn’t expend so much energy schlepping through the mud, she counted on instincts taking over. As a person, she’d never went swimming. Her assumption that her wolfy self would know how to doggy paddle had better hold true or she was screwed. To her right was more open shoreline. Several hundred yards away was a cabin nestled in the trees. Her chance of concealment lay to her left where the ground swelled. The water had cut through the face of the hill until it rose over the water twenty-feet. Maggie planned to swim around that until she reached an area she could exit the water from.
Seamus could follow her scent to the water, but not through the water.
Jerky movements subsided and her instincts took over. She stuck close to shore in case she ran into trouble swimming and concentrated on maintaining calm breathing. Flatter shore dissolved into an incline that held no purchase for a creature with no hands. The depth of water increased, the temperature of the water dropping with it. Rolling waves splashed her face, but she powered through. Fatigue set in. If the full body cold compress hadn’t soothed her aches, she wouldn’t have made the trip.
She still wasn’t sure she would. The sheer surface on her left kept curving, continuing for how long she didn’t know.
Dull pounding built between her ears. A constant crescendo would develop if she didn’t get rest. And even then, she didn’t know if it’d go away.
Her sides heaved, the effort getting to be too much.
There was no one else out here to help her. Sure, the Guardians, or at least Jace and her mother would come looking for her. Finding her would be akin to the needle in a haystack. Once Seamus had dumped her body in the van and drove off, her scent had left with it. No way in hell would they have tracked her to this lake out in the middle of nowhere. Even if they surmised Seamus would bring her to Lobo Springs for his retribution, they wouldn’t have enough manpower to scour the miles of territory around the village.
She was alone.
Porter’s handsome face, his steady, dark gaze and strong body, came to mind.
If she could spare the air, she’d sigh. Before she was shot, he was her last thought. Facing her possible end in murky, frigid water, he was last on her mind.
He’d hurt her, but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be repaired. Sheer stubbornness and dented feelings had kept them apart. Here she was, ready to tell him she loved his headstrong hide. They could find a way to make their long distance relationship work. They had centuries!
Had centuries. Maggie might only have minutes. Hours, if she was lucky. Days, if there was a miracle in store for her.
The slap of waves against the earth changed to the gentle splash of waves carrying through vegetation.
Thank the Sweet Mother. In a hundred yards, the land sloped back down. The rugged shoreline gradually formed from cattails and reeds. It’d be perfect concealment. Another hundred yards was a cabin. No boats sat at the short dock, she sensed no cars or people. It warranted a closer look.
Using the tall grasses and plants for cover, she trudged out of the water. Her legs wobbled, she panted, her tongue lolling out. Fuck, she was tired. Unconsciousness did not equate sleep and it’d been a long day, her injuries dragging her further down.
Shivers grew into full body shakes. Cold, tired, and injured weren’t a winning combination. Circling the cabin in her halting, plodding stride, she determined that it was empty.
No cars were visible in the front. The flower beds hadn’t been worked up yet after winter, leaves and debris scattered in front of the door.
It was worth a shot.
She glanced around, the openness around the cabin made her feel like a large, red target had been painted on her flanks. It had to be done. She’d bought herself some time, now she needed to take care of herself.
Rising to her hind legs, she fell back to all fours with a whimper. The bullet. Shifting her stance, taking the brunt of her weight on her good leg, she tested the knob. Her wet, muddy paws slipped and slid.
This wouldn’t work. Searching the trees one last time, she flowed back into her human form.
Sagging against the door, her raging headache and burning leg sapped her energy. Cold dimpled her body from head to toe. Teeth chattering, she wondered if shifters could die of hypothermia or if they just laid dormant until warmer weather arrived.
She tested the door again. Locked of course. Using the walls for support, she tested all the windows and back door, hoping none of the boaters could see a naked woman trying to break into one of the cabins. If she was reported and the police came, she’d feed them some stereotypical story about an abusive husband chasing her—a gamble that they don’t watch the same shows she did.
To prevent the possibility, she stumbled back to the front door. It had the most secure lock, but the stoop was more private. When she reached it, she leaned against the door to catch her breath. Jiggling the handle, the lock seemed sturdy.
Shoving her body against it would take too much effort. She needed to make sure her assault on the door counted. Taking three steps back, she prepped herself.
One, two, three…
Using her good leg as the foundation, she focused on the area above the handle and stomped her bad leg into the door.
Her thigh screamed as her foot slammed through the door. The door jumped and groaned, but remained solid. Ignoring the pain, digging deep, she kicked again, and again, the bullet wedged in her flexing muscles tearing healed flesh apart.
Finally, the door shuttered open and Maggie fell through, landing on the chilly hardwood floor. She rolled on her butt and measured her surroundings. No cameras were visible, no wires ran from the door. There was no keypad and so she hoped, no security system. It was plain inside—walls, a living area and kitchenette under an arched ceiling, and a small room off to the side.
The one level dwelling made it easier with her limited mobility to locate a bedroom with possible clothing. The dresser in the room was empty, the bed stripped down to the mattress, leaving Maggie’s only hope the closet.
Come on, even a towel.
With hands shaking from the chill, she pulled open the closet door.
Empty.
Refusing to cry from frustration, she spun around. She had to pick the cabin with the most thorough tenants ever, who scoured everything before they left for the winter.
Limping to the door, a piece of fabric under the bed caught her eye. She snagged it. It was a dusty old t-shirt. One someone had used as a rag. To Maggie it was like a cashmere sweater. She shook it out and pulled it on. It was long enough to cover her butt cheeks, but as tight as a sausage casing.
Heading for the kitchen, she wondered if her luck would hold.
Empty. All but two jars of home canned green beans and from the looks of the contents, Maggie didn’t feel like testing whether shifters could survive botulism.
The sight of swampy green beans rumbled her belly.
She muttered to herself. “No luck, hunger. You and I are going to be pals.”
She tested the sink but the water had been shut off. She’d gotten enough mouthfuls swimming to keep her going. If she had more energy, she’d get it working to shower, but rest took priority. That, and getting the bullet out of her leg. She found a knife, long and sharp and set it on the counter, but she didn’t know if she could dig out the bullet in her thigh without bleeding out or staying conscious. If both scenarios occurred, she’d be screwed. With no food, she couldn’t heal.
She needed sleep before she could do anything.
The couch in the small living room promised more warmth than the plastic covered mattress. Maggie hobbled over, her vision beginning to blur from her migraine. Rest, then change into a wolf and hope to catch something with a little meat on its bones during her flee.
Closing her eyes, she sought relief, but none came. Only exhaustion overwhelmed her pain so she could fall asleep.
In her slumber she saw a chocolate brown wolf with a red handkerchief tied around his neck.
Porter?
He ran through the trees at a pace faster than she’d ever dare, his face set, determined. The fabric around his neck bounced rhythmically like it contained a small but weighty load. She recognized the fallen tree he’d just passed. Had he found her trail?
The lake came into view and he charged to the water. Stopping, he sniffed around, his tail taut and pointed. Lifting his head, he searched the midnight water, moonlight twinkling over the waves. Tasting the air, he looked left, then right. He continued to do that as if dumbfounded.
His thoughts ran through her head. She’s smart, what would she do in this situation? She’s running from Seamus, needs to lose her scent. He eyed toward the right, noting the increase in human activity like she had. Knew that heading that direction meant Seamus would pick up her trail easier, maybe even intersect her.
The other direction was the only answer. She wouldn’t have backtracked because the risk of running into Seamus was too high.
Porter sped toward the right. Maggie was confused. He spun and ran into the trees and right back out, leaping into the water with a splash.
Had he done it to confuse the trail? His jump from several feet away would keep his scent from trailing into the water.
Her mate swam much better than she had, but then he’d been doing it his whole life. Like hers, his mind wandered during the swim, his thoughts settling on her.
His emotions filtered through. Terror for her safety. It was greater than her own fear for her life. Regret. So much regret, of what he’d said, of their time apart, of how he should’ve come begging her forgiveness so at least she’d know he loved her.
Maggie shifted on the couch, a sob escaping.
No! She didn’t want to quit dreaming. If she woke up and it was all just a fantasy, she’d be devastated. Best to delay the heartache.
His powerful body cut through the water in half the time hers had. He followed her trail through the reeds to the door hanging on its hinges. Stepping inside, his sharp gaze focused on her slumbering form, tangled, messy hair matted down her back, with the lower globes of each butt cheek visible. She was curled into the back of the couch trying to preserve as much heat as she could.
He padded quietly to her until he stood over her. The turmoil of his thoughts hit her like a raging storm. He sensed her agony and it flayed him, his guilt barely assuaged by his relief at finding her alive.
Flowing into the glorious nude male she adored ended her dream.
Maggie’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of a muffled object hitting the floor. The floral pattern of the old couch greeted her. The
flowers appeared grey and black in the dark cabin. With a start she twisted to look behind her with dread that it was all a cruel dream.
Stars exploded behind her eyes, stealing the view she’d have of Porter’s thick thighs. Groaning she curled back into herself, her headache as mighty as when she’d went to sleep.
Porter dropped to his knees. “Maggie,” hands stroked her hair, rubbed her chilled skin, “what’s wrong?”
She didn’t want the breakdown that took over, but she couldn’t stop it. Tears poured down her cheeks.
“Maggie.” Her name on his breath sounded as if he shared her torment.
He lifted her so he could slide underneath and cradle her. She snuggled in, absorbing his heat, still she cried.
He was real and he was really here, holding her.
“I was afraid,” she murmured into his chest, “that my dream wasn’t real and you weren’t here.”
“Oh god, Maggie. I’d never stop looking for you.” He dropped kisses onto her head, stroking her back. His touch battled back a portion of the pain, but it was only temporary. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” she cried harder. “Me, too.”
“Shh,” he kissed her again. “You did absolutely nothing wrong; you have nothing to apologize for. I was the lunk.” His soothing hands rubbed up and down her spine calming her distress. “Are you hurt?”
She nodded, the movement stabbing her brain. “Seamus shot me in the leg and head. I’ve healed around the bullets, but every movement rips new flesh.”
The pungent smell of his anger overwhelmed the cabin. “He will die.”
“I found a knife. With you here, we can cut them out.”
His hands stalled. “Have you eaten?”
She answered verbally to spare her poor head. “I’m starving.”
Hugging her tighter. “You won’t heal properly without nutrition. The blood loss alone would incapacitate you and with Seamus out there…”
Birthright (Pale Moonlight Book 1) Page 16
