by Holley Trent
Arnold wouldn’t forget, though. While she ran, he’d take care of the child. He’d be sitting, waiting for her with the child in his arms whenever she returned from her run, and then he’d take both mother and child back to Norseton with him.
His visions rarely made a hell of a lot of sense before they were fulfilled, but he knew—for once—that he had a humanitarian purpose and not a self-serving one.
What she was doing was reckless and dangerous. If she were running, he’d give them a place to go. He’d had practice with running. She, apparently, didn’t. Not if all she had with her was that one overstuffed backpack and a diaper bag.
That was no way to live with a baby.
The gray wolf she’d become shot into the woods, opposite of where he was crouching.
He moved quickly across the clearing, cracking his knuckles and his neck, and ignoring his inner wolf’s compulsion to run after her.
The baby was swaddled tight, but fighting the blankets, squabbling red-faced and protesting with all the might he or she had in his or her tiny lungs.
Her, probably.
The blanket had pink stars and purple unicorns. He wasn’t curious enough yet to pull back the corner to see if the filling matched the wrapper. The swaddling job looked pretty complicated and he doubted he’d be able to recreate the folds and tucks if they became undone.
“Hey. Everything’s okay, see?” he cooed at the hollering baby and scooped the bundle up off the cold ground.
He plopped his tired ass beside the boulder and rocked, as much to soothe himself as the baby. The wolf wanted out. The wolf wanted to run and to sing to the moon, but someone with two arms and two legs needed to stay with the baby.
“Your ma should have listened to the stories,” he said to the baby.
Fairy tales should have taught the blonde long ago that the woods weren’t safe for women and children. He didn’t know if there was a pack anywhere nearby, but he knew that most weren’t as decent as the one in Norseton. If the wrong sorts found her, they’d take her and the baby in without question. They’d make her someone’s broodmare or put her to work, earning dues for the alpha.
Arnold wanted her to know she had options. She didn’t have to go back to that kind of life unless she wanted to, and no woman in her right mind would have wanted to. She’d run, so there was a chance she hadn’t been completely brainwashed. That was what he was hoping.
The baby had stopped squalling, though the baby’s little lips were quivering. A pitiful sight that tugged at Arnold’s heartstrings.
Apparently, the full moon had made him soft.
“Your ma will be back.” He rocked side-to-side, eyes closed, humming some rhythmless tune he made up on the fly. “She didn’t abandon you. She just had to go. My ma used to do the same.” He cringed. “Well. Kinda. She didn’t have a bite, but she still liked to run with the pack. She wasn’t all alone like your ma, though.”
His mother had never left him and Petra up to their own devices. Their father had been around, for a little while. And then there were friends and aunties who also didn’t shapeshift she got to watch them. Or young girls from the reservation looking to earn some extra cash. Obviously, the blonde had no such support system.
The baby stared up at him through swollen eyelids, lips stuck out in a pitiful pout, and cheeks bright red from exertion.
“You think you’re tired? I’m gonna to be the one feeling the pain in the morning and all through the day. I probably won’t get to sleep until we get down to Norseton. Ten-hour drive from here. Did you know that?” He gave the baby’s nose a little tweak.
The baby made a sucking sound at him. He couldn’t tell if that was baby-ese for “yes” or “bug off, fool,” but as long as the child wasn’t screaming his or her little head off, he figured they’d get along just fine.
“I took a nap before sundown,” he said, rocking a little more. “Before the moon started to pull. I probably won’t get to sleep for twenty-four hours. We’ll hit the road as soon as your ma shifts back.”
He noted the pile of clothes she’d left near the rock. Clean and soft, but a bit abused. Her faded jeans were coming apart around the back pockets and at one of the side seams, and her T-shirt—a simple stretchy cotton that had been printed with rosettes and bows—had a couple of bleach stains.
He pulled the top closer and ran his thumb along the hem, wondering if that frilly motif was her choosing or hand-me-downs she’d had no choice but to take. Petra had been wearing Arnold’s hand-me-downs for ten years. She didn’t seem to mind, but Petra freely admitted that she didn’t have any taste.
He set the shirt, rife with the blonde’s scent and that pungent one of her mate that most any male would have recognized, atop the blanket to comfort the baby.
The baby worked out a little fist and gathered enough of the fabric to push into his or her mouth.
“Gnawing on the sleeve? Really?” Arnold shook his head. “Hope you’re not hungry. How often to babies eat, anyway?”
He pulled the diaper bag closer, unzipped the top, and rooted through the contents. Diapers. Wipes. A few changes of clothes—sized three months. A bunch of little socks and some toiletries. No formula. No bottles. There was a clear plastic bag with some papers inside, though.
He took the bag out and massaged the contents with his thumb, scanning for anything important.
Crisp new social security card, printed with the name KINZY PHILLIPA BANKS. A girl.
“Hey.” He tweaked her nose again. “You’re a girl.”
A birth certificate indicated Kinzy was about nine weeks old, and listed Leonora as her mother and Samuel as her father. The document had been issued in Wyoming.
“Wyoming.” Arnold closed his eyes again and clucked his tongue. He couldn’t remember anything at all about the wolves in Wyoming. He and Petra had certainly driven through there on occasion looking for seasonal work, but they’d never stuck around for long. Lone wolves did everything they could to avoid packs. Encountering organized packs was risky business. Arnold could have gotten killed by insulted alphas and Petra could have gotten snatched.
Leonora—whom Arnold assumed was little Kinzy’s mother—probably hadn’t run from very far. Just across state lines if she’d been in southern Wyoming.
He tucked everything back into the diaper bag, pulled the zipper closed, and then shifted Kinzy to his other arm. “Where’s your ma going, huh? Do you know?”
Obviously, Kinzy didn’t give a flying fig. She nodded off, sucking on her mother’s shirt and Arnold battled with his brain to not follow her lead.
Shift or sleep.
His body screamed for him to do one or the other, but he had to remain alert and vigilant. He needed to be awake for whenever Leonora finished her wolf run.
Chances were very good that she’d return growling and ready to claw him up, but she couldn’t really fight him. If he shifted, he’d be bigger, stronger, and more acclimatized to his wolf’s body than she was to hers. She would barely be able to get a swipe in, but she’d try anyway to get him away from her baby once she remembered the baby was hers.
If he were lucky, she’d return on two feet—not four—and he’d be able to rationalize with her. He’d tell her, “I’m here to help,” and maybe she’d go along nicely.
He scoffed, and occupied himself by counting the stars he could see over the forest.
No way in hell was she going to go along nicely. That would make his life easy for a change, and gods forbid that ever happen.
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ABOUT HOLLEY TRENT
Holley Trent writes contemporary and paranormal romances ranging from sensual to erotic that are usually set in her home state. Her humor is sometimes subtle, often ribald, and regularly inappropriate. If any of her stories seem overly serious at first glance–keep reading.
She’s a winner of the inaugural CIM-RWA Abalone Award (for My Nora) and a three-time Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence finalist (My Nora, Calculated Expos
ure, and A Demon in Waiting). A Demon in Waiting was a RomCon Readers’ Crown finalist in 2014. Her Den of Sin novella Winterball was a 2015 Passionate Plume award winner.
To see her full list of books, visit holleytrent.com.
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COPYRIGHT AND CREDITS
SCOUT
Copyright © 2016 by Holley Trent
Excerpt SEER © 2016 by Holley Trent
Cover art by Jacqueline Sweet
Copy edits by K. Stein, Missed Period Editing
All rights reserved. Reproduction of any part of this book in any format, except for reviewing purposes, is allowed only with prior consent of the author.
SCOUT is a work of fiction. Names, places, entities, and scenarios in this book are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
