Arthur, Keri - Beneath a Rising Moon.txt

by Beneath a Rising Moon (lit)

  mother was never charged because her old man paid off

  the right people.”

  She slapped her palms on the table and thrust upright.

  “Get out.”

  His smile was grim. “She’s done it once, Neva. She

  could easily do it again.”

  “I said, get out.” Her voice shook with the force of the

  fury rolling through her.

  “A good investigator considers all options.”

  “My mother is not an option. Now get the hell out of

  my house.”

  He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Might have been

  made of stone, and she was certain his heart was.

  “Then perhaps you should consider your father,” he

  said, his rich voice as cold as the storm outside. “Did you

  know he’d been questioning Betise about who was dancing

  with whom up at the mansion?”

  She’d been questioning Betise—and the older wolf had

  certainly never mentioned her father doing the same. And

  she would have, if only because Betise hated Neva’s father.

  It was actually doubtful whether she’d give him the time

  of day. “I said get out. I meant it.”

  “Your days and nights are mine, little wolf. I’m not

  going anywhere.”

  “You’re a...” Words failed her. Somehow, bastard just

  didn’t seem strong enough.

  His smile contained little warmth. “So you keep

  saying.”

  She hit him. Not physically, but emotionally. Hit him

  with all the anger and humiliation and pain that had built

  up over the past couple of days. Although his shields were

  up, the force of her emotive blow still leeched all color

  from his face and thrust him backwards, off the chair and

  onto the floor.

  “It’s not a nice feeling, is it?” His voice was little more

  than a hoarse whisper, and beads of sweat dribbled down

  his face. “Having your family as suspects?”

  She met his soulless gaze and wondered why in hell

  this man got to her so badly. Not just physically, but

  emotionally. Damn it, if any of the rangers had mentioned

  her mother’s past, would they be now writhing on the

  floor? Definitely not. She’d be asking them to show her

  the evidence to prove it. Or running back to her mother to

  confirm what had really gone on.

  But right now, that was something she could not do.

  She let the power slip away and slumped back on the

  chair, covering her face with her hands. After a few

  seconds, he climbed slowly to his feet. She could feel the

  heat of his gaze on her, but she refused to look up.

  “I’ll be back at dusk,” he said softly. “And I will claim

  what I am owed.”

  His words made her tremble, but it was a reaction

  that had nothing to do with fear.

  And that, she thought, as his footsteps retreated to

  the door, was a major problem. He could push her buttons

  as easily as he breathed. He didn’t even have to touch

  her. All he had to do was look at her.

  Cold air swirled around her as the back door opened

  and closed. Shivering a little, she dropped her hands,

  surprised to find that he really had left. Given the heat

  that had been flaring between them, she’d expected the

  conversation to end in bed.

  Had half wanted it to.

  She rose and walked over to the coffee pot. How could

  she want a man she hated?

  Easy. She didn’t really hate him. Never had.

  She closed her eyes at the thought but knew it was a

  truth she finally had to acknowledge. Despite everything

  he’d done, she didn’t hate him. In fact she rather liked

  him, at least when he wasn’t being such an arrogant fool.

  But what good did such an admission do? It wasn’t as

  if anything could develop between them. It was one moon

  dance, nothing more. She’d known that going in, and he’d

  certainly emphasized it more than a few times since.

  But that deep down crazy part of her wanted more.

  She sighed softly and wondered what the hell she was

  going to do. Because the one thing she’d feared the most

  after their very first mating was beginning to happen.

  She didn’t want to let him go at the end of this moon

  cycle. Didn’t want to walk away. Didn’t want him to walk

  away. Just wanted to explore the possibilities that might

  lie beyond the heat that flared between them.

  Which was stupid thinking. Especially when his soul

  mate didn’t live all that far away.

  She bit her lip and glanced at the clock. Betise owned

  a small hair saloon on Main Street. With this storm, it

  was doubtful whether she’d have any customers.

  The perfect time to catch up with her and ask some

  more questions.

  Nine

  Duncan shivered and pulled up his jacket collar. As

  he headed across town to Neeson Jones’ place, the force

  of the wind was pushing him along the street so hard that

  he was almost running. The old wolf had only recently

  retired as editor-in-chief of the Ripple Creek Gazette, and

  if there was anyone in this town who’d know all the secrets

  and hatreds, it would be him.

  Though right now, battling this storm and talking to

  the old wolf were really the last thing he wanted to do.

  He’d much rather be curling up with Neva in her big old

  bed, loving her and holding her until the storm had fled.

  But given what he’d done over the last day or so, it was

  very doubtful that she’d dance with him willingly. Not

  during the day, anyway. And he certainly wasn’t going to

  force her. He wasn’t that callous.

  He briefly closed his eyes, remembering her shocked

  expression, seeing again the hurt and anger shining in

  her pretty eyes, and swore softly. Part of him had needed

  to push, had needed to confirm what he already knew in

  his heart—that she had no part in whatever was going on.

  But mostly, he just felt like the bastard she kept calling

  him.

  And that he regretted. Very much.

  But he’d set his path, and it was too late to change it

  now. He just had to be thankful the moon was still rising.

  If nothing else, he at least had the nights to enjoy.

  He sped past houses he couldn’t really see, their shapes

  lost to the white blur of the storm. Neeson lived up on

  Seventh Street, not far from the building that housed his

  beloved paper. Duncan wondered why he’d finally decided

  to retire. Ten years ago, he’d been adamant he’d die on

  the job.

  He swung onto Seventh Street, and the wind hit him

  broadside, sending him staggering several steps before he

  caught his balance. The dance was in trouble tonight. It

  was doubtful if even the most dedicated follower would be

  willing to battle this storm for the sake of pleasure.

  He ran across Neeson’s lawn and rang the doorbell.

  Inside the house, bells chimed an annoying melody that

  seemed to go on and on. After several minutes he heard

  shuffling steps approaching.

  “Who is
it?”

  “Duncan Sinclair. I need to talk to you.”

  The door opened, revealing the stout, silver-haired

  figure Duncan remembered. But as his gaze met the old

  man’s, he saw the reason for Neeson’s retirement. His blue

  eyes were all but white. The cataracts were so bad he had

  to be nearly blind.

  And the white cane he held confirmed it.

  “Come in, come in,” Neeson said, opening the door

  wider. “You want a drink to warm the ice from your bones?”

  “Coffee would be good.”

  Neeson snorted softly as he slammed the door shut. “I

  can remember a time when you would have sneered at

  the mere mention of coffee.”

  “A few days in jail can alter a wolf’s thinking,” Duncan

  said wryly.

  The old wolf tapped his way down the hall, but once

  he got to the kitchen, he put the cane down and moved

  with more assurance. Obviously, he spent most of his time

  here and didn’t have many visitors—or at least many who

  used the front door.

  “So,” Neeson said, picking up the coffee pot and feeling

  for the mugs. “You didn’t come here to talk about old times,

  as we haven’t had many. What do you want?”

  “I’m trying to hunt down this killer for my pack.” He

  saw no reason to lie to the old man. Neeson might be

  blind and he might be retired, but he probably still knew

  more about what was going on in this town than anyone

  else. And his next words confirmed this.

  “Thought you might be, considering you swore ten

  years ago never to set foot in this...what did you call it?

  ‘Blighted town?’”

  Duncan smiled. “I don’t believe I was that polite.”

  “I wouldn’t have been, either. Darcy set up quite a

  campaign. Had more than half the town convinced you

  were the father of his daughter’s kid.”

  “And the other half ready to come after me with

  shotguns.” He kept his voice dry, though in truth, anger

  still lingered even now. “You think he’d be peeved enough

  at the outcome to plan a little revenge?”

  “No. Darcy wouldn’t have the brains to come up with

  something like this and pull it off. If he intended to come

  after any of the Sinclairs, he would have done it the old

  fashioned way. With a gun.”

  Duncan murmured a thanks as Neeson slid a chipped

  mug across the table, then said, “What about Nancy

  Grant?”

  Neeson’s rheumy gaze studied him for a moment.

  “You’ve obviously been digging.”

  He shrugged, even though he knew the old wolf

  couldn’t see the movement. “I have to start somewhere.”

  “Nancy Grant isn’t what I’d call a start.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she was sixteen when the Bitterroot fire

  happened, and she was fueled up on alcohol and drugs.

  She’s been on the straight and narrow since.”

  “No rumblings whatsoever about the dance?”

  “Nothing more than any of the golden tribe.“

  “What about Levon?”

  “Doubtful. Besides, both he and Nancy are golden

  wolves. The killer is silver.”

  “The evidence points that way, but it could be planted.”

  “The rangers don’t think so.”

  True. But then, the rangers were convinced it was

  someone in the Sinclair pack, despite having no real

  evidence to prove it. “I’m told Levon was recently asking

  about the dance and who was partnering who.”

  “Then the person who told you is a liar.”

  If Betise was lying, he’d have to find out why—and

  what she hoped to gain by doing so. “What makes you say

  that?”

  “Because Levon knows the dance is essential. He might

  hate it—he might not want any of his immediate pack

  involved with it—but he’s never said a word publicly

  against it, and he’d never try to stop it. Did an interview

  with him about five years ago. You should read it if you

  want to get a handle on the man. Very interesting.”

  He might dig it out, but only because it might give

  him more insight into Neva. “Have there been any

  rumblings about the dance in recent months? Has anyone

  been trying to close it down?”

  “There’s always rumblings about closing it down.

  Always will be. But it never is, because everyone fears

  what might happen if they did.”

  Duncan swallowed some coffee, then asked, “So,

  nothing more than the usual grumbling?”

  Neeson hesitated. “There has been more than the

  normal amount of anger directed toward the Sinclairs this

  last month. Someone is stirring up trouble, but I haven’t

  been able to discover who.”

  Join the club, Duncan thought. “Where have you been

  hearing this?”

  “Everywhere.” Neeson hesitated and smiled. “People

  seem to equate blindness with deafness. Some of the things

  I hear amaze even me.”

  “And what’s the opinion on the street about the

  murders?”

  “That it’s one of the Sinclairs. That your games have

  finally crossed the line.”

  “And your opinion?”

  “It’s too pat, and it just doesn’t feel right.” His sudden

  smile was a touch wistful. “Just the sort of juicy story I

  loved when I was at the Gazette.”

  “Who’s running it now?”

  “Some fancy pants from Denver. He’s as useless as a

  neutered dog.”

  Duncan smiled. “If you hear any more interesting

  rumors, would you mind letting me know?”

  “As long as you come back when this is all over and

  give me a blow-by-blow account of how you found the

  killer.”

  At least someone outside his family thought he’d find

  the killer. “Planning to submit a story to the Gazette?”

  Neeson snorted. “And give that asshole a great scoop?

  No way in hell. I just like knowing outcomes, that’s all.”

  He nodded. It was that desire, more than anything,

  that had made Neeson a great reporter and an even better

  chief. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good.” Neeson rose and escorted Duncan to the front

  door. “Where you off to now?”

  “I think I’d better talk to my lying source of

  information.”

  “Good idea.” He opened the door, and Duncan

  hurriedly left before the icy touch of the wind stole too

  much heat from the old man’s house.

  Then he shifted shape and ran through the storm,

  heading towards Betise’s house.

  ***

  Neva thrust through the hair salon’s door and slammed

  it shut behind her. The heat hit her immediately, making

  her gasp, and she quickly shed some layers.

  “Don’t tell me,” Betise said dryly as she came from the

  rear section of the salon. “You felt an urgent need to finally

  cut your hair.”

  Neva grinned as she took off her ski mask and shook

  loose her hair. “You and I both know that’s not going to

  happen, so quit asking.”

  “You
sure? You’d look fantastic with a shorter cut

  styled to suit your features. And it would bring out your

  eyes more.”

  “My eyes are just fine the way they are.” She shook

  the snow from the mask and her coats, then draped them

  over the nearest chair.

  Betise crossed her arms and leaned a hip against the

  counter. “So what can I do for you, then?”

  Though the friendliness had not fled from her voice,

  there was a touch of wariness in her green eyes. And guilt

  in an emotive trickle leaking past her shields.

  Probably because she’d been caught in a lie, Neva

  thought grimly. “Why did you tell Duncan my father was

  asking you about the dance?”

  Betise sighed. “I’m sorry, but Duncan was wasting time

  asking me all sorts of questions.”

  Hostility rose in a wave, and Neva briefly looked away.

  She had no right to feel proprietary when it came to

  Duncan, and if anyone should be angry at sharing, it was

  Betise.

  “But why say something like that?” she said, once she

  was sure her voice was under control.

  “Because he’s been away for so long and is the only

  one in town likely to believe such a silly statement.”

  That was certainly true. The animosity between her

  parents and Betise was no secret. Though why her father

  was so against Betise and not the other regular dancers

  who came into their diner was something Neva had never

  been able to understand—or get an answer to.

  But maybe it was time she tried again. She should

  question her mom, at any rate. They’d know she was here—

  the hospital staff would surely have mentioned it—and

  she’d much rather confront them than have them seeking

  her out. Given the way her luck had been running of late,

  they’d probably walk in and find her and Duncan in the

  middle of a heated dance. That was something she didn’t

  need right now—not if she wanted to start mending

  bridges.

  “I gather he’s been harassing you about your parents,”

  Betise continued, sympathy in her voice.

  “All but accused my parents of being behind these

  murders.” Neva sat in one of the chairs and stretched her

  legs towards the heater vent to warm her feet. “My mother

  may not have the past of a saint, but she’s not behind

  these killings.”

  “Anyone with half a brain would know that,” Betise