by Hattie Hunt
Anger churned in Ripley’s gut as she spun away. She paced her steps with purpose. This was not a retreat. At least, she couldn’t show Cheryl that it was. That bear bitch would get what was coming to her. With any luck, she’d be the one Brett sunk his teeth into first.
Ripley cringed. That was a little harsh, even for her. But she was sick and fucking tired of taking that woman’s crap.
As she stepped past the tree line, she shook off the tension aching in her shoulders. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t staying. She just had to light the fire for her uncle’s funeral, and she could get the hell out of town.
Screw them all.
Chapter Eight
The walk to Tuck’s helped a lot in cooling Ripley’s anger, but it did very little to change her mind.
She had made up her mind before she ever boarded that bus, and she wasn’t changing it now. As soon as the funeral was over, she was gone.
Tuck’s cabin was tucked into a stand of trees at the end of a long driveway. Tuck and his wife had spent two years hand-picking the logs to build its walls. The amount of love that went into its construction paled against the amount of love living inside. She had always felt welcome there. Loved. Tuck had even built an extension on the cabin just for her.
He’d been the only person in the world to care that much for her well-being. Yeah, her mom and dad had been there, provided a roof over her head and food for her belly, but they’d both worked more hours than they spent at home. When they were around, they were either sleeping or barking orders. Ripley wasn’t angry with them. They’d done what they could with what little they had.
But they’d never bonded.
Her dad had spent most of his time with her brother, Sean, teaching him the ways of the padfoot. He insisted his padfoot would never choose a woman. In his line, the padfoot had never chosen a woman.
Still, her aunt Myrtie had been trained just the same as Ripley’s dad and Uncle Jib. It wouldn’t have surprised her if her dad was just an asshole.
Ripley should have talked to Uncle Jib after she’d been chosen, but her padfoot had warned her to stay away. Then there was the fact that her transition hadn’t gone well. At all.
But now with Uncle Jib dead?
Ripley pulled herself out of her head as she walked up to the house, her boots clanking on a loose board of the porch. She couldn’t change it now. She just wasn’t the type of person who connected well with others. There wasn’t anything wrong with her. She just sucked at… people. She was okay with it. She was independent. There was nothing wrong with that.
Joe's reaction haunted her. He hadn’t tried to stop her from leaving. He hadn’t met her gaze once after the padfoot had come out.
He’d been like all the other asshole humans she’d met during her travels. They only cared about one thing: their own meaningless lives. Anything outside of that was just…well, someone else’s problem.
Ripley shook her head. That wasn’t true, and she knew it. Most of the people weren’t really assholes.
She was just feeling surly. And if she was honest with herself for two seconds, it was probably because of Joe.
Mother fucker.
Yeah. She was in a pretty bad mood.
She walked through the door without knocking. “Hey, Tuck,” she called as she shucked her jacket and dropped it on the hook next to his coat.
“We’re in the kitchen, Rip,” he called back.
The cabin was pretty good sized. The front door opened to the living room. The coat hooks hung on the wall next to a doorway leading to the rather large dining room and kitchen. Large was an understatement. They probably took up half the house. Tuck’s wife had been quite the baker, so he said. With her gone, it left a lot of free counter space that Tuck and Ripley had never used.
A woman leaned against the large kitchen island with a glass of ice and amber drink in her hand. She twisted around and smiled. “Hey, Rip.”
Aunt Myrtie. Ripley hadn’t expected to find her here, but why wouldn’t she? Uncle Jib was her damned brother, and Myrtie probably knew Jib a hell of a lot better than Ripley had.
“Hey, yourself.” Every nerve in Ripley was raw— being back home, the rabid wolf, Brett’s infection, Joe’s reaction to her padfoot, the confrontation with his mother, Cheryl. Ripley needed a stiff drink. And some quiet.
Myrtie grabbed another glass. She unscrewed the top of the bottle of whiskey and poured a good three fingers. She raised her eyebrows and nodded once, handing the glass to Ripley.
Ripley took the glass and sipped it thankfully. The quiet reception proved a welcome buffer for her nerves, almost as much as the liquid promise in her hand. She sniffed at the stove where a pot of water boiled. She wrinkled her nose at the scent of wet potatoes. But aside from that, she smelled meat. Delicious meat, warm and smoky. “Dinner?”
Tuck glanced at her, his lips flat and pushed out, his grey mustache and beard feathered out like he had been combing them with is fingers. “Rough night?”
Ripley lifted one shoulder in a half-assed shrug and leaned against the counter.
Myrtie took in a breath, her expression softening with quiet understanding. She pushed off the island, setting her drink on the counter, and shooed Ripley gently out of the way to grab the colander.
Well, if they were going to offer quiet, she’d take it. She breathed it in—the rare opportunity to be with humans without having to talk to them—and took another sip of her whiskey before she set it down to help set the table.
By the time dinner was ready, Ripley’s nerves had settled enough that she could at least hold a conversation, as long as it avoided conflict. Her emotions were still set to charge, like an explosive device with a timer that had been paused.
Myrtie lit two large jar candles in the middle of the table, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. Between the soft light of the candles and the dying light of the sun, another soft blanket of comfort settled over Ripley.
Well, crap. If life could be like this, she might want to stay. Key word: might.
Not.
Tuck delivered the platter of meat, a roast of some sort, cut into steaks, still a little bloody. Ripley raised her eyebrows in appreciation and sat down, setting napkins next to each plate as she sank into her chair. “That’s a new one.”
“Butter rosemary rump roast cut into steaks.” He kissed his fingertips. “It’s damned beautiful.”
Ripley chuckled, her mouth salivating. “It smells amazing.”
Myrtie set the bottle of whiskey next to the potatoes and a bowl of green beans. “Have you talked to Sean yet?”
Well. She wasted no time with that one.
“Nope.” Ripley hooked one of the steaks and plopped it onto her plate before diving in for the potatoes.
“We’re sayin’ Grace,” Tuck said with a low growl.
“You’ll say Grace.” Ripley finished spooning beans onto her plate and leaned back, waiting.
Tuck sighed. “Heavenly Father, bless this meal before us.” He reached for Ripley’s and Myrtie’s hands, clasping their fingers in his. “Bless these lovely ladies who grace my table and keep them safe. Thank you for this time with them both, and keep Jib safe in the loving comfort of His arms. Amen.”
“Amen,” Myrtie murmured.
Ripley clamped her lips shut and nodded, taking her hands back. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in God. She did. She just thought he was a dick most of the time. All these humans praying to him, offering their undying love and faith. Well, with the things she’d seen? No. She didn’t put much weight in God’s “love.”
But it made Tuck happy, and she supported him.
“So, why the long face, Rip?” Tuck asked, filling up his plate.
Ripley cut a piece of the steak and put it her mouth. Flavor exploded on her tongue, and she chewed slowly, savoring the moment of bliss. Swallowing, she blinked her eyes open.
Myrtie chuckled. “I’d say I’d have what she’s having, but I am.”
Tuck
shook his head and shoved potatoes in his mouth. “I don’t ever want to see that look on your face again.”
Ripley chuckled. She hadn’t intended to enjoy it so damned much, but damn it was good.
“Now, spill. You were short with me on the phone, and you came back pissed as hell.”
She was always short on the phone, which he would know if they talked. Her fault more than his. “Had a run-in with Cheryl Elliot.”
Tuck curled his lip.
Myrtie pulled her ears back, which was impressive that Ripley could even see through her long, dark hair.
“We went to see Snow. She said it doesn’t look good for Brett.”
“Why not?” Myrtie asked.
Oh, right. She didn’t know. “He was bitten by a rabid wolf.”
“Oh.” Myrtie shrugged. “So?”
“Apparently, it’s really bad for shifters.”
“Really?” Myrtie frowned at Tuck.
He shrugged. “So, he’s going to the doctor? There’s a vaccine for this.”
“No.” Ripley’s gut churned, threatening to heave dinner. She shoved another piece of steak in her mouth and told her stomach to get a grip. “Doesn’t work on shifters. Snow’s putting together a cure.”
“Oh, good,” Myrtie said.
“Except it doesn’t work.”
Myrtie set her fork down forcefully and stared at Ripley. “You’re not jokin’.”
“Nope. And he’s getting married this weekend.” Ripley set her fork down, no longer interested in eating. “Juliet’s a sweet woman. Loves him to no end. She says that if the cure doesn’t work, she’s got something that’ll push his bear down so they can go somewhere where he won’t infect anyone else.”
“Infect anyone else?” Myrtie looked at Tuck. “This just keeps gettin’ worse. Shit, girl. No wonder you were in a bad mood.”
Yeah.
Tuck narrowed his eyes. “But what really happened?”
Damn Tuck for knowing her so well. Ripley took in a breath and rolled her head from side to side in an attempt to ease the tension creeping back into her neck. “They were acting like it was all roses and kittens.”
Tuck set his silverware down. “And?”
He was many things to her, the most important being her rock. His opinion mattered. If he thought she’d acted wrong, she probably had. “I let the padfoot talk to them, let them hear just how bad it really is.”
“The—” Myrtie glanced from Tuck to Ripley and then back again. “You’re the padfoot. Jib’s?”
Hadn't they told her? Shit. Ripley grimaced. “Dad’s.” Now, she felt like an asshole.
Myrtie blinked and bit down on her lips.
Awesome. “Anyway, Joe…” Ripley rolled her eyes. “I told him before.”
“Before you left?” Tuck asked, frowning in confusion.
“No. Before the wolf.”
“Oh.” He shook his head and picked up his silverware again.
Ripley wasn’t ready to eat just yet. “He told me I was stupid not to tell him, that he—” She felt stupid saying it out loud. “—still had feelings for me. But the look on his face after he talked to my padfoot?” She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah. He’s gone.”
Tuck took a sip of his water and sighed. “And how did you end up at the Elliot’s? I know Cheryl didn’t invite you.”
Myrtie growled low in her throat.
Ripley didn’t know what Cheryl had done to her aunt, but she was glad she wasn’t the only one to have a problem with the bear mother. Cheryl was a thriving pillar of the community. Everyone loved her and thought she was a wonderful person. Everyone except trouble-maker Ripley Kent. “Juliet invited me.”
“She knew you were a padfoot?” Tuck asked.
“Yeah. Well, yeah. Her family respects the padfoot. I may have to consider moving to Montana.” Which wasn’t a bad idea, now that she had said it out loud.
“Except your family’s here,” Tuck said quietly.
Yeah. Except that. Ripley glanced at him, not sure what to say to that. She wanted to stay for him, but…she didn’t want to have to deal with everything else that came with being there. “Anyway, Cheryl came at me and told me to leave her sons alone. It almost got ugly. A stand-off between the Elliots and the Yazzies.”
“I might like this Juliet girl,” Myrtie said, finishing off her meal. “I never did like Cheryl.”
Ripley frowned, but she didn’t want more information. She was just glad to have an ally. “How long are you staying?”
“Well,” Myrtie said with a shrug, pushing her plate away, “I was thinking of coming back.”
Really? Ripley shot her quizzical look.
“Yeah.” Myrtie leaned back in her chair, draping one arm over the back. “With Jib gone, Daddy’s house is vacant. I don’t know who he’s leaving it to, but I thought I might settle there.”
“Why wouldn’t it go to you?”
Myrtie shrugged. “The last time I saw the will, the house went to Alfy.”
“But Dad’s dead and has been for years.” Ripley shook her head, ready to stop talking about it. “The house is going to you. It’s good. You’re good.”
Tuck frowned at her, otherwise ignoring her emotional gracelessness. “You can just move?”
“I’m an editor.” Myrtie toasted him with her glass. “I can do that anywhere.”
Tuck glanced at Ripley, then back at his plate, shifting to stoop over it a bit as he finished his meal.
Which was something she should do, too. Good food like this shouldn’t be wasted just because she was having a sour conversation.
“So, the padfoot chose you.” Myrtie leaned forward, chin resting on a knuckle.
Ripley dove into her food with a renewed energy. “You mad it didn’t choose you?”
“Hell no.” Myrtie barked a laugh. “Took both my brothers. I don’t want that damned thing. No. It’s good you have it. What concerns me is that it chose someone not trained.”
Ripley straightened, chewing.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone, Rip? I could’ve helped.”
Ripley opened her mouth, but that same resistance she’d felt ever since the padfoot chose her rose up in the back of her throat. She’d tried telling people, back then. People who would have known what to do. “I don’t think he wanted me to.”
Myrtie sipped her whiskey with a thoughtful frown.
“I mean, I was able to tell Tuck, but…” Ripley barely remembered anything from back then. She’d taken up residence in her own little corner of hell as she lost her dad, her mom, her brother. Not to mention seeing death everywhere. “I don’t know. He just didn’t want me to.”
“He probably didn’t want you telling the rest of us Kents because then we would teach you.”
Maybe.
“You know, I remember when Alfy said he wasn’t going to train you.”
Ripley didn’t remember the day her dad had decided that. It seemed like her entire life.
Myrtie pursed her lips. “I told him it was a bad idea, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Just said the padfoot wouldn’t choose a female.”
“Yeah. That’s what he told me, too.”
“Except he was stupid wrong and knew it. Momma was our padfoot, not Daddy. No, somethin’ else was going on there. I knew it, but I didn’t push it. And when his padfoot left him, it didn’t choose Sean as he’d supposedly promised. Went straight to you. I wonder why.”
Ripley couldn’t say, but those potatoes were awfully tasty.
“I wish I had stayed around.” Myrtie’s voice was small.
Which usually meant there was emotion there and Ripley wasn’t really in the mood to deal with that at the moment. And what was she supposed to say?
Potatoes were tasty. That’s what she was supposed to say.
“Maybe, if I’d stayed, things would have been different.”
And maybe not. “It is what it is.” Eat the potatoes.
“How’s your relationship with the
padfoot?”
Why couldn’t they just discuss the weather? “Fine, I guess.”
“You said you let the padfoot talk.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you do that often?”
Nope. “Whenever I slip into, I don’t know, padfoot vision or death glare or whatever you want to call it, he has control.”
Myrtie nodded, her lips tight. “What else? Do you shift?”
Ripley sawed at her steak with the steak knife, then set it aside and brought out her pocket knife instead. It sliced through the steak like butter. “Yeah.”
Myrtie made a choked sound. “And when you do, are you solid?”
“You mean, can I walk through objects?” Ripley shoved a large piece of steak in her mouth, hoping that the question had answered for her.
“I see. Well.” Myrtie looked away, a quiet anger settling over her face. “If Alfy wasn’t dead already…”
“What is it?” Tuck asked.
Myrtie shook her head. “It’s just that if she’d been trained, she would know how to control her padfoot. Allowing it too much control is dangerous.”
“Now, the way I see it,” Tuck said, “and I could be wrong as a human, the padfoot is a real spirit. A person. A living being trapped inside someone else’s body. It’s a bit like living in a cage.”
Myrtie tipped her head to the side and released a breath.
“Now, the shifters let their animals out from time to time because they have a partnership, but if what you’re saying is true, then maybe the padfoot was just trying to get some yard time.”
It made sense.
“Is it bartering lives?” Myrtie demanded, meeting Ripley’s gaze.
She swallowed and nodded.
Myrtie gripped Ripley’s hand, pocket knife and all. “It’s not a reaper, Rip. It doesn’t get to barter, and that’s one thing we protect against. The padfoot is the guardian and has no control.”
“But if you strip away all control,” Tuck said, leaning forward, “take all living time? What would you do?”
Ripley didn’t have an answer. She’d never looked at it that way.
“I know what I’d do.” Tuck looked at Ripley. “I’d break out of the damned jail.”
