by Laura Moore
“Quinn.”
She shifted her attention to the end of the table. “Yeah, Dad?”
“I have a favor to ask,” he said.
“Sure. What is it?” The meeting had made her acutely aware of every gray hair in his head as well as every line creasing his tanned face, and she was determined to do what she could to help out.
“On your way back from Wolf Peak, I need you to swing by the airport and pick up Ethan Saunders. He’s going to be staying here for a while.”
“Daniel,” her mother said, “are you certain that’s a good idea?”
Her father spread his large work-callused hands. “I could hardly say no, Adele. You wouldn’t have been able to if Tony had put the request to you.”
“Ethan Saunders is coming here? Wow, that name’s a blast from the past,” Reid said.
“You remember him, Quinn?” Ward asked. “He used to lead you around on Jinx.”
Jinx had been her first pony, given to her at age four. She could recall every detail of the little paint—his long mane that she loved to braid, his fondness for peppermints—but the boy who’d walked by their side? “I remember he was tall and had dark hair.”
“Everyone was tall compared to you,” Reid said.
“Ha. Very funny.”
“Ethan was remarkably patient with you, Quinn. In exchange for riding out with us and learning to work the cattle, he’d lead you and Jinx on a circuit around the barns and corrals long after everyone else was ready to drag you off the saddle,” her father told her.
“Is this Ethan Saunders related to the Saunderses who live in Washington, D.C., and who were kind enough to send in their RSVP to the wedding promptly?” Tess asked.
“One and the same. Cheryl and Tony used to live on Cobble Hill Road. Cheryl and Tony married a few years before us. Cheryl was a godsend my first year as a bride, talking me down whenever I convinced myself that I could never live with a man as impossible as Daniel.” Her mother turned to her father and winked. He answered with a slow smile.
Watching the exchange, Quinn made a mental note to steer clear of her parents after the meeting or run the risk of catching them canoodling like newlyweds.
Her mother was still talking. “They lived in Acacia until Ethan was fifteen, then Tony got a job with the State Department. They’ve been in Washington ever since.”
“Ethan’s a photojournalist. He’s worked all over the world,” Ward told Tess. “Mr. and Mrs. Saunders often use one of his photographs for their holiday card. His pictures stand out from the run-of-the-mill Christmas trees or white doves with olive branches.”
Quinn might not remember what Ethan looked like, but the images he’d captured were unforgettable: the large, pleading eyes of the beggar children in Cairo; the heavy vestments of an Orthodox priest in Turkey; rail-thin boys straddling camels in a race across the desert dunes.
“So what’s the problem with Ethan coming here for a stay, Mom?” Quinn asked.
“I just don’t know whether this is the place for him. He should stay at—”
“That’s the thing. He won’t,” her father said. “Tony says Ethan refuses. Tony’s at his wits’ end, darling. I told him Ethan could stay for as long as he needed.”
“Which only worries me more. What if—” her mother began.
“We’ll do everything we can for him. One of the staff cabins would serve him best. Give him space and privacy.”
The deep brackets that framed her mother’s pressed lips revealed what she thought of that suggestion. But she must have decided that arguing would be futile. Quinn’s dad could be just as stubborn as her mom was persistent.
Shifting his attention back to Quinn, her father continued, “Ethan’s insisting on leaving Bethesda by the end of the week. Tony’s arranged to get him on a flight to San Francisco on Sunday. I’ll give you the flight number and arrival time before you leave. I hope it won’t cut into your time at the sanctuary.”
“Wait,” Reid said. “Bethesda? As in the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center?”
Her father nodded but didn’t elaborate.
Quinn opened her mouth to ask what had happened to send the globe-trotting photojournalist to a military hospital, but before she could say anything her mother spoke again.
“You know, Daniel, we could ask Estelle to meet Ethan at the airport.”
“We need Estelle to help with the Sunday checkout.” Estelle Varga worked the front desk.
“Or I could go—”
“Adele,” her dad said.
“Fine. Quinn will pick him up.” Her mom looked less than delighted.
Quinn sat straighter in her chair. Well, this was different. Usually her matchmaking-prone mother was all for her spending time with a member of the opposite sex. Logically, she should be doubly eager since the male in question was the child of old friends. But here she was volunteering to drive all the way to the airport on Sunday herself, rather than have Quinn spend time with him. Weird.
But this much was clear: whatever had happened to Ethan Saunders, both her parents were deeply concerned about him.
And that made Quinn even more curious.
—
Quinn sat cross-legged on the rocky ground, her binoculars trained on a gray she-wolf that was pacing inside the eight-foot-high enclosure. It was Una, a wolf Quinn had adopted several years ago, during her first trip to Wolf Peak, a sanctuary owned and run by Joel and Ruth Meyers, former hedge fund managers turned wolf protectors.
The scars that crisscrossed the wolf’s body were no longer visible, but Quinn remembered them to this day. Una had just arrived when Quinn came to Wolf Peak as a college student writing a paper on the differences between dogs and wolves for her animal behavior class. Introducing her to the wolves in their care, Ruth had told her about Una.
The she-wolf had been raised in captivity because some less than bright individuals believed that owning a wolf was kind of like having a wicked cool dog—mistake number one of about one hundred that humans repeatedly made when it came to understanding the nature of these animals.
Una’s owner, in addition to having slop for brains, was a fucking sadist. When Una didn’t behave like some souped-up husky, shaggy pit bull, or whatever canine he’d envisioned, the guy didn’t attempt to place her with a rescue organization. No, he took her to the woods, chained her to a tree, beat her, and then shot her, leaving her to bleed out.
Hikers, hearing her howls of pain, had called animal protection services, which in turn had contacted Joel and Ruth. They’d arranged to have Una admitted to the animal hospital and footed the bill for the operations to remove the bullet, mend her broken bones, and repair her internal injuries. Afterward, they’d arranged to have her transported to Wolf Peak.
The vet did an amazing job fixing her battered body, yet to this day Una was terrified of humans. But because she’d been raised in captivity, to release her into the wild would be to write her death sentence. No pack would accept her, and she wouldn’t be able to survive and hunt on her own. Her true nature was forever crippled.
Una’s story had cut Quinn to the quick. When she’d discovered that there were ways to sponsor wolves at the sanctuary, she’d chosen Una. Quinn was now responsible for paying for her food and future veterinary care.
“She’s looking great,” she said quietly. Today was the first time she’d caught sight of the skittish female.
“Mm-hmm.” Ruth Meyers’s voice was pitched equally low. “Una’s found love. She’s caught the attention of Griff, the newest pack member. See how he’s come to stand over her now that she’s lying down? He’s guarding her.”
“Good for Una.” Quinn focused her binoculars on the large male wolf. His coat glinted silver in the sunlight. “Griff looks like a healthy male.”
“Not only that, he’s a movie star.”
“Seriously? What’s he doing here?”
“His trainer came down with an aggressive bone cancer. Died within weeks. His widow was hoping to pl
ace Griff with another trainer, but no one could take him and she couldn’t handle him herself. She called us.”
Quinn sighed. The story was too familiar. “I’m glad she knew where to turn.”
“Me too. In all likelihood Griff would have ended up being euthanized. Sometimes it seems like there aren’t enough shelters for all the creatures in need. Speaking of which, you made any progress?”
“Still saving up. Mendocino County isn’t Napa or Sonoma, but even there land doesn’t come cheap.”
“Have you thought about approaching your family?”
Even though she could feel Ruth’s gaze on her, she didn’t lower her binoculars. “To help me buy a property, you mean? I couldn’t—wouldn’t. This is my dream.”
“What about just using a piece of the ranch?”
“Not possible. All of Silver Creek is tied up, either as farmland for the ranch or for the guest lodgings and amenities.” Which was how it should be, Quinn thought. The ranch was the family’s endeavor; the sanctuary would be hers.
“Sorry if I sound pushy, Quinn. I know you’ll make the dream of opening an animal refuge a reality.”
Quinn smiled. Sometimes Ruth could be pushy. Devoting her life to protecting wolves and educating the public about them wasn’t for the meek or timid. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Anytime. So how are your various critters doing?”
“Good.” Quinn hugged her crossed knees. “Have I told you about my gelding named Tucker?”
“Don’t believe so.”
“I spotted him at an equine rescue center near Sacramento. He’d been abused and then abandoned—you know the story. Once I got him healthy, I started working with him on the ground and in the saddle. I’ve been studying massage therapy and hope to work on him. But he’s really shy. Whoever hurt Tucker did a number on him. I don’t know if he’ll ever get over his fear of people. Especially men.”
“So he’s with you for life.”
“Yeah.” Quinn shrugged. She was fine with that. She never fostered or adopted an animal she wasn’t prepared to keep forever. “Luckily my friend Mel, who’s a wrangler at the ranch, is feeding him his hay while I’m here. Tucker’s used to seeing her around the corrals, so the change in routine won’t freak him out.”
“And what about that other horse of yours?”
“Domino? Oh, he’s set for the weekend. One of our new ranch hands took him out for a ride at the beginning of the week. When Josh came back he was grinning from ear to ear. Apparently Domino was one of the sweetest rides he’d ever enjoyed—no surprise there,” she added. “I decided to let Josh borrow him again this weekend—they’re cutting cattle from the herd for harvesting.”
“Sounds like a lucky cowboy.”
“Yeah.” Her only worry was that Josh might read more into her gesture and think he was going to get even luckier.
“You fostering any new animals?” Ruth asked.
“Only Alfie.”
Ruth lowered her binoculars. “What’s he, a cat?”
“Nah, that would make life too easy. He’s an Amazon blue parrot. Remember me telling you about my friend Lorelei?”
“The one who works at the local shelter?”
“Yeah. She’s housesitting and keeping Pirate, Sooner, and Alfie company this weekend. I’m going to owe her big-time.”
“Let me guess. Alfie’s verbal?”
“To put it mildly. I’m thinking a batch of killer brownies might go a ways toward compensating Lorelei for any hearing loss.”
“Ahh, chocolate. The default solution to everything under the sun.” Ruth laughed softly and raised the binoculars again, scanning the pack.
“Well, yeah.” Before she could launch into a catalog of the ills chocolate could cure, her phone’s alarm vibrated. With a frown she pulled it out of her jacket pocket and switched it off. “Drat,” she muttered. “I hadn’t realized how much time had passed. I’ve got to hit the road. I’m due at the airport.”
She stood and shook out her legs to regain feeling in them after sitting on the cold ground. Ruth rose, too, and tucked both pairs of binoculars into a carrying case.
“Are you picking up a guest?” Ruth asked as they followed the dirt trail back to the sanctuary’s center.
“Kind of. The Saunderses are family friends, but we haven’t seen Ethan, their son, in years. He’s a photojournalist. Apparently he’s been in the hospital after being on assignment in Afghanistan.”
“The hospital? I hope he wasn’t seriously injured.”
“No clue. Before I left, I tried to pry more information out of my folks, but they were acting very hush-hush. That he’d been in Afghanistan was all I managed to get out of them.” Her parents were being super-cagy. “My guess is either they don’t know what happened or they’re respecting his privacy. More likely the latter. They’re big on confidentiality.”
“From what I’ve heard, that’s what makes Silver Creek Ranch such a great place. The VIPs get to enjoy the red-carpet treatment but aren’t hounded or harassed. So you’re to be your family friend’s chauffeur?”
“That’s right. It’s the least I can do since I got the weekend off. And it’ll be nice to have company for the drive home.” Quinn lengthened her stride, her curiosity about Ethan Saunders rising to the fore. As someone who’d been around the world photographing everything under the sun, he’d have good stories to tell. And she did enjoy a good story. “I should probably have one of those cardboard signs with his name on it. Ethan and his parents left Acacia almost twenty years ago. I hope I recognize him.”
CLAMMY SWEAT COVERED Ethan Saunders’s body. It permeated his shirt, making the cotton fabric stick to his heaving chest and gluing his back to the plane’s narrow seat. The sling wrapped around his neck to immobilize his right arm and shoulder chafed the skin below his close-cropped head.
He lifted his free arm and swiped his forehead again.
The passenger next to him, who reeked of aftershave and wore a fucking ugly tie that reminded Ethan of the fuzzy blotches that had obscured his vision for days after he finally opened his eyes in Landstuhl, flinched and darted another nervous glance his way. It hadn’t taken his neighbor long to decide he wanted to be as far from Ethan as possible. He’d even relinquished territorial rights to the armrest. But there was only so far he could retreat. Hence the nervous glances.
The guy made a comical picture. If Ethan could remember how to laugh, he might have been tempted. Were he a nicer person, he might even reassure the man that he wasn’t suffering from some highly contagious tropical disease.
But his kindness had disappeared along with his sense of humor. Besides, he needed all his energy to focus on the metallic latch that fastened his seat’s tray. It was the only way to keep the nausea at bay.
The captain’s confident drawl came over the PA system to announce the plane would soon be landing. Within minutes the attendants began their march down the twin aisles to verify that seats were upright and trays and possessions stowed. The plane dipped and angled as it began its descent. Fighting the vertigo, Ethan swallowed hard and jammed the back of his head against the seat. Clutching the armrest with his left hand, he squeezed the metal edge until his fingers were as numb as the ones on his right hand.
The wheels of the plane touched the earth with a series of bumps that jarred his body and sent his brain knocking against his skull. He groaned heavily even as relief swept over him.
The hell of the past six hours was over. Only now that he’d survived it did he acknowledge the idiocy of traveling in a damned airplane. Of traveling, period. But he’d needed to get away, far away from Walter Reed, where he’d been transferred after Landstuhl.
His team of doctors, his parents, and even Erin Miller, his New York editor, who’d planned to publish his photographs, had done their best to convince him to remain or at least be transferred to another facility where he could receive therapy and counseling. He’d ignored their arguments and pleas. He refused to be jabbed
with one more needle, handed one more plastic cup filled with pastel-colored pills that were 100 percent guaranteed to turn his brain to slush, or subjected to one more test by a doctor who stared at his laptop screen and repeated that he’d need to be patient. With the right rehab program Ethan should regain full mobility in his shoulder and arm. With counseling he should get past the horror of the explosion that had ripped through the armored vehicle and sent him flying from the backseat to the rock-strewn ground to land among other bodies.
It was possible the doctors were right, that if he talked and talked he might eventually be able to remember that gruesome tableau without wanting to crawl inside a bottle. Eventually he might accept why he alone had survived the blast, why that wasn’t simply some awful, sick joke. It was conceivable that with the right combination of pharmaceuticals, he might succeed in banishing the visions and muting the sounds that assailed him day and night, his own hell on earth.
What they didn’t understand was that even if a full recovery was in the cards, he couldn’t stay in a hospital room or rehab clinic one more day, wouldn’t lie in a bed and receive treatment that should go to soldiers—some of them still teenagers not even old enough to buy a drink—who’d come back from tours of duty with wounds far more grievous than he’d sustained.
He’d shot down the idea of staying at his parents’ and receiving outpatient treatment, too. He needed to be in a place where he couldn’t see their worried expressions or have to listen to their tentative, anxiety-laden questions. Perhaps because he’d lived in Acacia for a good stretch of his youth, Silver Creek Ranch was the one place where a few positive memories remained—of open land that stretched, reaching out to pine-covered mountains; of horses and cattle.
The signal for the attendants to begin the crosscheck interrupted his thoughts. All around the cabin seatbelts were unfastened as the travelers launched themselves from their seats, intent on seizing their place in the narrow aisles. The man with the fuzzy amoeba tie in the adjacent seat was equally determined. Bowed into a lumpy C shape, he lurched toward the aisle, barreling his way through the two-inch space that separated Ethan’s knees from the seat in front of him. He reached his destination with a heavy grunt of satisfaction.
