by Chant, Zoe
“Not that Teddy Odom will be here anytime soon,” Aunt Julia said. She must have walked up from the hotel. “He’s probably up at Carter’s Crick, flirting with Annalee Lewis. As usual. Bandit, honey, are you okay? Did he hit you both?”
Kesley looked away from the guy, and her wits began to trickle back. What had felt like hours had actually been a few seconds. She rolled to her knees and tried to get up, but her joints were watery from adrenaline. That creep tried to run James down.
“Let’s get you inside,” she said to the man trying slowly to sit up. His complexion was pale, his mouth tight with pain.
Kesley knew he’d been hit, and for a non-shifter, slamming onto the concrete sidewalk the wrong way could have worsened whatever damage he’d taken from the initial hit.
She realized that a couple other shopkeepers had come out, everyone speculating.
“ . . . long gone,” Stu Rosen from the grocery was saying.
“Five gets you ten that lowlife was one of that gang of biker skinheads staying up at Dottie’s,” Aunt Julia was saying with disgust. “Bob Taggard would chase a penny into a gutter, and kick a beggar to get it first.”
Kesley ignored them all and stuck out a hand as James slowly rose, wincing grimly. To her surprise, he let her guide him inside. Leaving the others still wondering and speculating, she led him to the back room, and coaxed him onto the couch where the workers usually took their breaks.
He sank back with a sigh.
“Shall I call Doc Lewis?” Kesley asked.
“No,” he said, though his eyes were closed as he leaned his head back against the top of the couch. “I’m just banged up. There’s nothing a doctor can do except look at me and say, ‘Dude, you’re banged up.’”
“Are you sure? You might have a cracked rib or something,” Kesley said.
His eyes opened, warming once again when they met her gaze. “I’ve had enough recent experience of hospitals and broken bones to gauge my level of pain. He clipped my shoulder with those high handlebars. Thanks to you, it wasn’t worse.” He flexed his hand, and winced as he rotated his shoulder. “It hurts like hell. But nothing broken.”
“If you say so,” she murmured, wrenching her gaze from those eyes to his shoulder. “How long were you in the hospital?”
He frowned, but not in anger. It was more of a wince, and then he passed his hands over his face. “I don’t know. Feels like years. But it was probably only weeks, maybe a month or so.”
A month? For broken bones? His sense of timing had to be totally whacked—but then, she thought, it made sense if you were taking drugs and locked in a room with nothing else to do.
Especially if you had no memory. She gazed at him, her curiosity as intense as this instinct to care for him, to do anything she could to save him pain. “I wish there was something I could do,” she said—not even realizing she’d spoken out loud until he gave her that sweet smile again.
“You already did it,” he said, reached to touch the top of her hand. “And just talking to you makes me feel better. You’re a kind person, Kesley. It doesn’t take brains to see that—I could be an axe murderer or a con artist. I don’t know. So I feel I ought to warn you not to trust me until I find out.”
As lousy as her experience with boyfriends had been so far, she was pretty sure that a con artist, at the very least, would be playing the tiny violins for a pity parade in order to manipulate her. “There aren’t any axes around, but there are two exacto blades right here, and the paper cutter over there, and you haven’t looked at them once,” she said. “Going by that, I’d say if you’re an axe murderer, you aren’t a very good one.”
It was a stupid joke, but he smiled as if she had tossed off some brilliant Shakespearean wit, and once again his smile caused her to tingle all over.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “With you, I feel like I don’t have to worry about it. Just be. That’s a nice change of pace.”
She smiled back, aware of heat igniting in her core. It had been two months since Nick the Dick had departed her life—was she really that desperate? Except that Nick had never made her this . . . well, she could admit it to herself, this hot down deep where it counted. Even when they were actually in the middle of sex, she’d been dismally aware that most of the attraction had been in her head.
What she was feeling for James, who sat fully clothed six feet away, was a whole different ballgame, as her dad would say.
She crossed her legs the other way.
“You really did save my life,” he murmured, pulling his head off the back of the couch and resting his hands on his knees. “I’d like to make it up to you. How about dinner?”
Her raccoon stirred again insistently. Yes, yes, this is the one.
Take it easy, there’s more issues here than how attractive we find him.
She shut down her raccoon and gave James a mock affronted look. “Only if there are no questions about nudists or animal worshipers or hippies or the rest of it.”
He raised a hand. “Promise. If you want to know the truth, I don’t give a damn about that. It’s Marlo’s project—”
Voices approached.
Ted Odom, the sheriff, appeared at the inner door, his dark-skinned face concerned. Trailing after him were the others, everyone talking as they crowded into the back room.
Ted raised his hand, his badge flashing on his khaki shirt, and the group fell quiet as he said to Jameson, “Sir, would you like me to summon an ambulance?”
“Not necessary, thanks, Sheriff,” James said. “I’m fine.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
A small shake of the head. “I didn’t see anything, to tell you the truth. I heard the biker coming. Kesley here yanked me out of the way. The handlebar caught me here.” He tipped his chin over his shoulder. “I hit the ground. That’s all I know.”
“He blacked out for a few seconds,” Kesley said. “That creep came right at him. Like it was on purpose.”
“Can you describe him?” Ted asked, with his notebook out.
“Not really,” Kesley said slowly. “Leather jacket, dark helmet blocking his eyes. Stubbly chin . . . big. Big bike, too.”
“You wouldn’t have happened to notice the make or model?”
“Just, you know, a big motorcycle. I’m sorry.”
Everyone took that as an invitation to add their mite, well-peppered with questions and speculations, until a new voice interrupted, and Marlo appeared, looking round-eyed with concern. “What is this I hear?”
Her presence had the effect of shutting everyone up. As she sat down beside James, the crowd broke up and dispersed, except for the sheriff.
James gave her a short report, and she said, “Perhaps you should come back to the motel to lie down. This concerns me greatly.”
“I have to get back to work,” Kesley said, backing away.
James got to his feet, wincing, and walked out with Marlo, but paused at the door into the retail part of the store. “When do you get off?” he asked quietly.
“Five.”
“I’ll be here,” he said, and left.
Kesley watched him follow that nosy Marlo, thinking, No, he can’t be my mate.
But her raccoon cooed inside her: He is the one.
Chapter Five
Kesley half-wished he wouldn’t show up.
The other half of her was so antsy by mid-afternoon that she caught herself checking the clock every five minutes, each time thinking that half an hour had gone by at least, but finding the big hand had barely moved.
Finally Grandma Zhao, who had arrived after lunch, came to the painting table and peered up into Kesley’s eyes. Though shifters’ human shapes didn’t always give any hint to their inner animals (Elliot being a prime example) Grandma Zhao was a tiny woman as well as a hummingbird shifter. But she didn’t dart about when in human form. If anything, she was the opposite: calm, making no unnecessary movement.
“You have lost focus, Kesley. What is the cause?�
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No one knew how old Grandma Zhao was. And unlike a good many of the others in town, she was no actual relation to Kesley, but the younger generations all called her ‘grandma’ because their parents did.
She was also the one who had taught Kesley to paint.
Kesley put down her brush and sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to focus. I know we need to get these cups done.”
“And they will be done.” Grandma Zhao seated herself on the other stool directly under the skylight, her hair shining blue-black in its neat bun.
“It’s . . . I think, that is, I’m fairly certain, that my raccoon.” Kesley lowered her voice out of habit. “She thinks this guy staying at the Primrose is my mate.”
“Ah,” Grandma Zhao said softly. “And you are unsure?”
“I don’t know what to think. But he came with that woman who is asking questions all around. Have you heard?”
Grandma Zhao inclined her head. “Marlo Evans stopped me outside in the parking lot after lunch a little while ago, introduced herself, and asked many questions.”
“What did you think?”
“She is very eager. But wishes to hide it. She wants something very badly, and her questions make me think it is about shifters. My instinct says not to trust her.”
Kesley let out her breath. “That’s my feeling as well. But the guy with her, James, well, that’s who my raccoon says is our mate. Can that be wrong?”
Grandma Zhao pressed her lips together as she touched one of the cups with her forefinger, running it lightly around the rim before she spoke. “I have never heard that the mate bond is wrong. But I do know sometimes this”—she touched her forehead—“can overrule this.” She touched her heart. “Or mistake what our inner self is trying to tell us.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Kesley admitted. “I’ve been 100% wrong in all my relationships so far. This one feels different. Really strong. So is mega, super-powered attraction fooling both my raccoon and me?”
You have not discussed it with your family?”
“No. Mom and dad are mates, but they knew that from the time they were in grade school. I don’t think they seriously dated anyone else, and my sister is just the opposite—never sticks with any guy longer than a month. So I don’t know what they can tell me. And I know they won’t mean to, but I bet anything they’ll think the whole mess is funny.”
“Cat people,” Grandma Zhao said, her face creasing in tiny lines of humor. “Well do I know them! My daughter, David’s grandmother, was a lynx. Never took anything seriously. Or stayed in one place, even as a girl.” She touched her finger to her lips. “I will say nothing to anyone, but to you: listen to your inner self. She has senses that you as a human do not.”
Kesley nodded. She knew all that, but it was still comforting to hear it, and most of all to see Grandma Zhao’s calm demeanor. I can handle this, Kesley thought. One step at a time.
She bent over her work again as Grandma Zhao went into the front store, and got so involved in thinking over the conversation while her hands painted on autopilot that the next thing she knew David was sauntering by her table, yawning. “Five o’clock,” he said. “We’re free!”
Kesley’s heart leaped. Would James remember? He might be in too much pain from that near-miss with the motorcycle. She decided to finish the cup she was working on. She owed Grandma Zhao that much extra labor because of the time she’d spent earlier dithering.
She became so absorbed in the tiny details that she was startled to hear two quiet steps. She glanced up, and heat suffused her when she saw him with Grandma Zhao. The tall, broad-shouldered man and the tiny lady seemed to be in accord with one another as they walked together to the back room.
Grandma Zhao said, “Here she is.” And to Kesley in her tranquil voice, “Forgive me for keeping him. We were getting acquainted. Remember to lock the door behind you when you go.” And she glided by with her usual unhurried step toward the back door.
As she passed, she smiled down at Kesley, and glanced back with what Kesley would swear was an approving look. Then she was gone.
Kesley glanced up at James, to find him looking down at her half-done painting. “This is really good,” he murmured.
“Thanks,” she said.
And though she suspected he was being polite, she warmed inside as he leaned on the table with one hand, his head bent over the picture. Her breath caught as she studied the taut skin of his face, as if the muscles held onto remembered pain. His strong bone structure was so mesmerizing, right to the length and curve of his thick, dark eyelashes.
Crap. She was getting wet just looking at the guy’s eyelashes.
She wrenched her gaze down to the drawing he was so absorbed in, and tried to see what it was he saw. It was only half done, a stylized painting of a fantasy village a bit in the style of Brueghel’s medieval villages, only with animals instead of people busily and cheerfully going about their lives.
“These are so good,” he repeated, his tone reflective. “They are all so different. Where did you get the idea?”
“They’re fairy tale figures,” she said quickly. She hated lying, so she reached for what truth she could safely share. “I got the idea from Richard Scarry books when I was a kid, and I later studied Brueghel and the Dutch painters who did village scenes. When I was a teen I made stories up about all the people in the pictures, and drew them in comic book form.”
His eyelids lifted, those long eyelashes no longer shuttering his hazel gaze as he picked up the painting with careful fingers. She fought not to get lost studying the shape of his fingers, the neat manicure, the long bones beneath his skin, hinting at latent strength. “But they all have so much personality,” he murmured. “I could swear I half know them. Like the smile on this little pink pig.”
Oh God, Aunt Julia, Kesley thought, alarm burning through her.
He set the painting down carefully, and she could breathe again. “I think you’re really talented. Are you exhibiting in a studio somewhere?”
She smothered a laugh. “No. I sell them during spring and summer at a parking lot art festival.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Ten for the small ones, twenty-five for the bigger ones.”
“Not nearly enough,” he stated.
She shook her head. “I charge what the market will bear. Nobody is rich around here—some are barely holding on. And anyway, I’m not doing art to get rich. I’m doing it because, well, I like knowing my pieces sit in houses where they get looked at by ordinary people. If I charged a lot of money, even if I actually sold one, where would it go but in some mansion, or worse, in a temperature-controlled vault or something, where no one would ever see it?”
“Do you think wealthy people are so soulless?” he asked, turning that intent, intense gaze to her face.
She had made a misstep somewhere. “I don’t know any rich people,” she said, and tried to lighten the atmosphere. “But the ones on TV sure are!” And when he didn’t smile, “Look, my favorite sale ever was one of my smallest ones, for five bucks. I sold it at half price to a teenager who didn’t have any more money. Turned out she bought it for a cousin who was stuck in the hospital for a long stay. She came back to tell me about it, how her cousin would only look at that painting when they gave her treatments, and she gave all the animals names, and made up stories about them. That five buck sale was my best ever.”
“Okay,” he said. “Yes. I get that.”
That intense gaze still rested on her, and she sensed question in it. Suddenly the room had become too small, or he stood too close—though he hadn’t moved. And her hands tingled with the intensity of her desire to reach and pull him closer. “It’ll be dark in an hour,” she said as she put the painting in the drying rack and made sure all her acrylic tubes were capped. “Are you hungry?”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “I had a late lunch, but if you want to eat something . . .”
She finished tidying her paints away, trying to sort out her contradictory feelings. It was a relief that he wasn’t trying to get her alone—in the con-artist way—except now she wanted to get him alone. Not only because of the waves of heat his proximity raised, but because her instinct was clamoring to keep him out of sight. Keep him safe.
She forced herself to meet his eyes. How had she not noticed those warm, honey-colored flecks? Fire shot straight down to her core, pooling there with scintillating possibility.
“Come on,” she said. “I know something better.”
He followed her to the back door. She made sure the lock was engaged and pulled the door shut behind them. Then she pointed across the parking lot to the little street that bisected Main Street.
“This only goes a little way up, and then there’s a path. The view from up there is really beautiful.” She paused. “Or are you too sore to walk?”
“Shoulder’s stiff, but the rest of me would really appreciate a chance to stretch my legs. Lead on.”
They walked slowly up the narrow road, passing even narrower driveways to houses hidden up on top of the bluff. Kesley let him choose the pace until she realized that he was shortening his steps to match hers.
Then they both turned at the same time.
“Have you—”
“How did—”
They laughed. His laugh quirked his mouth into a devastatingly attractive smile,
there then gone again, a flash of brightness like sunlight on water.
“Go ahead,” she said, after swallowing a couple of times. “You’re the guest.”
He smiled ruefully. “I was going to ask, what got you into art?”
“I was always drawing,” she said, intensely aware of his arm inches from hers as they walked. Her fingers ached to touch, smooth, caress, explore. “I doodled in my workbooks at school, and I even corrected the illustrations in my books if I didn’t think the drawings properly matched the text. Once I did it to a library book. I had to pay for the book. It took weeks to save up my allowance, so I never tried that again. But after I paid for the book, I decorated all the illustrations in it, and my parents seemed to decide I was serious and bought me sketchpads.”
