by Lauren Esker
"The guest room," Grandma said. "I'll bring hot water and the first-aid kit."
Unlike the rambling Capshaw house, Grandma MacReary's house was small and cozy. Julie gave up on the wheelbarrow in the hallway; it simply wouldn't fit without knocking things over. "We're going to have to carry him from here—" she began, and broke off when Terry gathered the limp mass of unconscious wolf into his arms.
"Faster this way. I can carry him five steps to the guest bedroom. It won't break my back."
Staggering under Damon's weight—he wasn't a small wolf—Terry led the way. Julie picked up an armload of towels from the hall closet. By the time she got to the bedroom, Terry had spread out the limp wolf on top of the quilt covering the bed. Blood and water was already soaking into it.
"Is it possible to get him to shift?" Terry asked. "Because it would be a whole lot easier to do first aid on a human instead of a wolf."
"I don't know. I can try."
Julie patted the side of Damon's face and called his name softly, while willing him to wake up. She tried to send all her love and concern to him through their link.
Please come back to me. Please be all right. I just found you; I don't want to lose you. Please come back!
8. Damon
He struggled up, slowly, from a warm, dark place, to cold and pain. Everything hurt. He didn't want to be here. Sliding back into the darkness sounded like a better alternative.
But she was here. He turned into her comforting touch. Gradually the soothing murmur of her voice resolved into actual words.
"Can you shift back, Damon? It would make it a lot easier to help you."
Shift. Oh. He was still a wolf.
Normally the change was effortless, but in his weakened state he had to throw all his willpower into it. At first he thought he wasn't going to be able to, but then he managed to get hold of it, and the wolf slipped away, leaving him shivering in a clammy, wet T-shirt and jeans.
"There you are," Julie's voice breathed. "There you are, my brave, wonderful wolf. My mate."
Damon wanted to see her, needed to see her, and with that, he found the strength to open his eyes. Julie was the first thing he saw, leaning over him and filling his world, her blue eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears.
Above her were the low wooden beams of an old-fashioned ceiling. He moved his hand a little, tracing quilt stitching. "Where," he managed.
"You're safe," Julie said. "We're at my grandmother's house."
"The one with the varmint gun," he murmured. "No taking baskets to Grandmother's house."
"I see he's been warned about Grandma MacReary already," said a different voice, lightly seasoned with sarcasm.
Damon, startled, turned his head to the side. He hadn't realized they weren't alone. The rest of the room came into focus: gingham curtains, a lamp with a Tiffany shade, shelves of old books with cracked spines, and ... great. One blond-haired sheep shifter/over-protective big brother, leaning against the wall beside the door with his arms crossed.
"Oh good." Damon closed his eyes again. "Terry Capshaw. Just what I need."
"Hey," Julie said, with a mock sternness that couldn't conceal the infinite well of warmth and relief underneath. "My brother helped save your life. Behave yourself."
Damon tried to cast his hazy memory back to exactly what had happened. He remembered throwing himself out the window, and other wolves chasing him through the woods. It all took on the tenor of a bad dream—it seemed he'd been running forever through the darkness and the rain, with wolves everywhere and the sound of their hunting howls ringing in his ears. One of them had been Cain Renner; he'd never seen Renner wolf-shaped before, but he recognized the scar.
And then he'd stumbled out onto the road ...
"You found me."
"I'll always find you, no matter what," Julie said. "Oh, gosh, you're bleeding all over."
"I got shot," he said, not bothering to open his eyes. "And bitten too, I guess."
"What?" Julie demanded. "Where?"
He didn't have an opportunity to answer, because footsteps tripped smartly into the room, and a new voice asked, "Is our guest awake?" in a tone that indicated if he wasn't awake yet, he would be soon, and he wasn't going to have a choice about it.
"I'm awake," Damon said. He cracked his eyes open and squinted up at a woman who was, in essence, everything Julie's description of "Grandma MacReary" had promised and then some. She had the typical Capshaw build, muscular and stocky like a wrestler, with powerful shoulders that hinted she could probably bench-press a pregnant sow without breaking a sweat. She was wearing a plaid farm shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Damon thought he caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from under one of them. Grandma had a lantern jaw and, while Julie's blue eyes made him think of soft things like sky and clear water, hers were more the color of gunmetal steel.
She set down a large, steaming bowl on the bedside table, and folded her arms, glaring down at him without a hint of sympathy. "A wolf," she said. "Of all things. In my house."
Red Riding Hood jokes definitely wouldn't get anywhere with this one. "I'm Damon Wolfe, ma'am," Damon said as politely as possible when he was flat on his back and bleeding all over the place. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Hmmph." She dipped a rag into the hot water. "Julie, there is a flashlight in the drawer there. Get it, please."
Terry jerked a thumb at the door. "So, I think I'll just go outside and patrol for—"
"You are going nowhere," Grandma declared. "I may need extra hands for this. Young man, where are you hurt?"
Without waiting for a response, she began patting him down brusquely, making Damon feel like a prize steer at auction. "You know, I don't think any of this is necessary," he tried, and then she got to his ribs and he made a stifled "Augh!" noise before he could stop himself.
"He said he was shot," Julie said.
"Let me see. Where are those scissors? Ah, thank you, Terry." She peeled back his T-shirt, using the wet rag to unstick it from his skin. Damon gritted his teeth.
Julie sat next to his head and ran her hand through his hair while holding a flashlight for Grandma. Damon tried to concentrate on the sensation of her warm fingers against his scalp. Her hip was pressed against the side of his face, her jeans mildly damp. He didn't mind.
"Just a flesh wound," Grandma reported. "Lots of blood, nothing serious. I saw worse last spring when the horse got into some old barbed wire. You might have a cracked rib. How does it feel when I press here?"
"Ow!"
Julie petted his head. "Grandma, please."
"Give me that thread," Grandma ordered Terry, holding out her hand. "This needs a few stitches."
"Now, wait a minute," Damon protested. He wished he could see what was going on down there. "Are you a, er ... a medical person of some kind?" A vet, at least?
"Son, I've been stitching up livestock since before you were born, not to mention mending socks, patching trousers, and piecing together quilts that used to win awards at the county fair. I think I can manage to stitch up a flap of loose skin."
"Don't worry," Julie murmured, dragging her fingernails lightly across his scalp. "Chicks dig scars."
It was some small consolation that Terry looked faintly green when she started stitching.
Getting his ankle tended was worse. He'd felt Brad's teeth shredding things down there. Julie gasped aloud and Terry blanched when Grandma cut away the leg of his jeans. Damon tried to prop himself up on his elbows to look, but Julie pushed him back down.
"Wolves heal fast," he said, gazing at the patterns of lamplight on the ceiling. It was just as well she hadn't let him sit up. The bed seemed to be rocking under him gently, the room swaying around him.
"This is going to need to be irrigated," Grandma said. "Terry, hand me that bottle."
Terry did it without either complaining or asking to go on patrol again, which was an indication Damon didn't need of how serious things were. Wordlessly, Terry held his leg while
Grandma put a bowl underneath and then flushed warm water and iodine through the torn flesh. Damon ground his teeth together so hard that he thought he felt something pop.
"I need that flashlight closer, Julie dear."
Julie moved away from Damon's head, to crouch beside his hips. With the hand not holding the light, she laced her fingers through his. He gripped her hand tightly.
There was, he was fairly sure, more stitching, but his lower leg was a mass of fire and he couldn't quite be sure. He gazed up at the ceiling and focused on not crying out or, worse, passing out—he'd never live it down, not in front of all these Capshaws—until Grandma straightened up and started gathering up gauze packaging.
"I've got some antibiotics left over from when the horse got into the barbed wire. Stay here, I'll get them. Terry, help me carry this?"
They left with their arms full. Damon pushed his head up far enough to see that his shin and ankle were now swathed in bandages. "She wants to give me horse antibiotics," he said helplessly.
Julie got up and began rummaging in a chest at the foot of the bed. "Grandma may not have a formal medical education, but she knows her stuff," she said over the top of it. "Before they built the new vet clinic, all the farm families in the area used to come to Grandma when their livestock were sick."
"Not really helping."
Julie smiled, but then it passed, leaving behind a worried expression. "In the morning, we can take you to the hospital. Terry wanted to take you there tonight. I thought it would be a bad idea."
"You were right," Damon said. "The pack never use hospitals unless we absolutely have to. We have our own doctors." He grimaced. "Not that I can trust any of them right now."
Julie set down a stack of folded sheets and blankets on top of the chest. "Damon, what happened?"
Shock hit him like a bucket of ice water. In the chase and the fight for his life, he'd nearly forgotten the events that had set it into motion, and particularly the fact that Julie didn't know about any of it. "My father—" he began, then broke off when Grandma came back into the room.
"The two of you will have this room, of course, and Terry can sleep on the couch. I've found some pajamas for you, young man. They were my husband's—God rest his soul—and they should fit you well enough, though they'll be short at the cuffs. Julie, you can wear one of my old nightgowns. Ah, I see you found the clean sheets."
"Yes, Grandma," Julie said meekly, accepting the neatly folded nightgown. "Thank you."
"You can change in the bathroom."
"Actually, Grandma, I can change in h—"
"Bathroom, dear," Grandma said with a polite but firm smile.
"Bathroom," Julie agreed. She gave Damon a quick glance and a supportive smile, and darted out.
"Medicine for you, young wolf." On top of the folded sleeping garments, Grandma had balanced a tray containing a glass of water, a small dish with several pills on it, a bowl of soup and a package of crackers. "Antibiotics and painkillers. Of course you don't want to take aspirin on an empty stomach. It's bad for you. And drink all the water. You've lost quite a bit of blood. You're going to need to eat something as well, to replenish the energy your healing will be taking out of you."
By now he was to the point where he was just doing what he was told. Obediently he ate a handful of crackers and took the pills under her watchful, gimlet stare, then—although he wasn't hungry—tucked into the soup. No one had ever told him there were sheep shifters like this in the world. Probably because if anyone knew, us wolves would've all left the valley and never come back.
"Damon," Grandma said thoughtfully. "Verne and Lorna's eldest?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Hmmm." She stared at him. "And what exactly are your intentions towards my granddaughter, young man?"
Ohgod. His eyes darted around wildly, checking to make sure she didn't have weapons and wasn't standing close to anything that might be used as a weapon.
But, actually, once he got past his initial flood of panic, that wasn't a hard question. Or, at least, while he didn't know which answer would satisfy her best, he knew how he felt. The words came easily, as if spoken directly from his soul.
"Ma'am, your daughter and I haven't had time to discuss our plans yet. I don't know what the future holds for us. All I know is that I love her better than myself. She is the missing half of my soul, and the best part of it. I want to spend the rest of my life making her happy."
This brought out a slow, reluctant smile that warmed her gunmetal eyes. "I can't say, if Julie had asked me, that I'd ever have given my blessing to a relationship with one of our valley's wolves. But if she had to choose a wolf, I believe she chose well. Good night, Damon."
"Good night, ma'am."
After she was gone, he took a few deep breaths—he felt like he'd been holding his breath the whole time she was there. He'd eaten about half the soup and wasn't sure if he could stomach more, so he set the tray on the nightstand and then got stiffly and painfully off the bed, waiting out a head rush.
The beautiful, handmade quilt was an absolute mess of mud and blood. "Damn," Damon muttered. "Sorry, ma'am."
He slowly worked his way out of his stiff, muddy jeans. He had to rip the leg to the crotch to get it over the bandage. The aspirin either hadn't kicked in yet, or it was barely taking the edge off. Damon wished he had something stronger. He was shaky and exhausted, his whole body a mass of aches and pains.
Water gurgled in the old house's pipes. Somewhere a telephone rang and was answered before it had time to go to a second ring. Damon flinched. He wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed, but it had to be around two or three in the morning. It couldn't be good if someone was calling here in the middle of the night.
But no one barged into the bedroom looking for him. After changing into the borrowed pajamas, he stripped the sheets off the bed where the mess had soaked through, and bundled the whole thing up for washing.
It was hard to resist the temptation to look around the room, trying to find insights into Julie's life. One of her parents had grown up in this house—probably her mom, since the old lady's last name appeared to be MacReary instead of Capshaw. However, the room was a generic farmhouse bedroom, offering few insights into its previous occupants. Heavy wooden furniture, probably antiques; a straight-backed chair by the window with a hand-crocheted afghan draped over the back of it. Framed paintings of flowers on the wall that looked like originals—did one of the Capshaws paint?
Shelves on the wall contained rows of slightly dusty books. Damon tilted his head to read the spines. Diseases of Sheep ... Livestock Care and Husbandry ... 101 Quilting Patterns ... Building the Better Fence.
Exciting.
But it made him think about how little he and Julie knew about each other yet. He knew she wanted to own a bed and breakfast, at least. That was more than he'd known about her future plans twenty-four hours ago.
He was looking forward to learning about her, and watching her learn about him.
If I can manage to avoid being killed by my family in the next twenty-four hours ...
Still, this was probably about the safest place to hide out in the whole valley. He couldn't imagine anyone thinking to look for him with his family's long-time enemies.
The alternative was too terrible to think about—leading the wolfpack straight to Julie and her family.
Damon shook off the gloomy thoughts and turned his attention to remaking the bed. He was tucking in fresh sheets when a throat-clearing noise came from the doorway.
Damon glanced up. Terry stood there, looking awkward.
Coming through a challenge from Grandma definitely put the rest of the family in perspective. When Terry continued to hover in the doorway without saying anything, Damon said the first thing that came to mind:
"Was that a tattoo on your grandmother's arm?"
Terry blinked. "Uh ... yeah. Yes, it is."
"Of what?"
"It's a black sheep," Terry said. "You know, as in 'of the fami
ly'? A joke half the family has made about themselves at one point or another, by the way. Grandma says it's a relic of her misspent youth."
"Suddenly I'm very sorry I asked."
Julie appeared behind him, now much cleaner and with her hair wet from a recent shower. She'd changed into a nightgown that could best be described as "flannel" and "large". Still, the contours of her curvy body were faintly discernible underneath. Julie Capshaw was a woman who would be sexy in a potato sack.
Despite his weariness, Damon felt his libido stir slightly. He still couldn't believe that, in spite of everything, this smart, beautiful woman had chosen him.
"Excuse you," Julie said, nudging her brother out of the way so she could get through the door. She went straight to the newly fixed bed and flopped down on it. From this vantage point, she smiled up at Damon. "Why, Mister Wolfe, you clean up nice."
Just a few hours ago, he would have cheerfully flirted back. Now, all he could muster was a wan smile.
Seeing the look on his face, Julie rolled onto her side and patted the bed. "Come here," she said gently.
Stiffly, trying not to jar his injured leg too much, Damon lay down beside her. At the touch of his mate, something tense and tight, that he hadn't even been aware of, began to relax. His side still throbbed horribly, his ankle hurt, he was exhausted and weak and tired, but his mate was here. And for the wolf part of him, that was all that mattered.
Damon's eyes were drifting closed when Terry shut the door with a click and sat down on the end of the bed.
"Terry," Julie said without raising her head, snugged against Damon's shoulder. "Dear brother. You appear to be in our bedroom."
"I'll be out of it in a minute," Terry said. "I wanted to tell you, our parents called Grandma to find out if we were over here."
Julie's warmth abandoned Damon's shoulder as she sat up abruptly. "What did she tell them?"
"Just that we were safe and she'd tell them more about what was going on in the morning. At least, that's all I heard her say."
