Carson reached his limit of alone time—well, not even alone time, but time not physically attached to me—and I lifted him out of the bouncy chair. I grabbed the baby sling and settled him in. He relaxed against my body contentedly, as I finished getting ready. Pushing my curls behind my ear one last time and scrunching up my nose, I frowned at myself before giving up.
The next order of business was coffee. Definitely coffee.
Then figuring out how to get in touch with Mac.
Chapter Two
After contacting every acquaintance of Mac’s I could think of to no avail, I also blind-called all the private investigating agencies in southern Oregon. None of them had employment records for a Roger MacGregor, which didn’t really surprise me, since Mac hadn’t worked for anyone local, as far as I knew. I hoped he might have taken some freelance work during the months he was here in southern Oregon on his “real” case, but I quickly ran out of leads.
So that’s why, six days after the full moon, I drove down North Fork Highway looking for the town of Greybull, Wyoming. A trip that, according to my phone app, should take eighteen hours and forty minutes lasted four and a half days, mostly because I had to pull over just about every hour for Carson. Diapers, feedings, general in-the-car-too-long crankiness: we’d dealt with it all. I made good friends with every coffee shop between Oregon and Wyoming and seriously contemplated the possibility of hooking up some sort of nonfat latte IV drip. It had been a long and weary trip, and I just hoped it wouldn’t end in vain.
Mac was a pretty reserved guy, and I was amazed how much I didn’t know about him after dating him for six months. I’d attributed his reserve partly to his personality and partly to his profession—tact and discretion were obviously important components of an investigator, or a “private eye” as I joked to his not-so-much amusement. He was mum about that aspect of his life, but his taciturn nature also carried over into all things personal. I knew Mac’s parents were still alive and he had a brother quite a bit younger, still in his late teens. I also knew he’d grown up in Greybull, Wyoming—a fact he’d mentioned once, in passing, while joking with me about small town life. Certainly, everything in Jackson County, Oregon qualified as small town life. I would like to say I was surprised I remembered the name of the town, but that would be a lie. Sometimes, I felt like every detail of my time with Mac etched into my long-term memory. Heck, I remembered his toothbrush was blue and the deodorant he used was scented “Cool Fusion,” whatever that means. Perhaps I was a bit obsessive, I couldn’t deny it.
At any rate, here I was, about to drive into Greybull, and hoping to track down Mac. An internet search for MacGregor in Greybull, Wyoming turned up no leads, so either the family had an unlisted phone number or they had moved. Out of any other options, I bet on the former—perhaps Mac’s odd sense of personal privacy was a family trait.
While hunting for Mac, I’d also spent a bit of time trying to find real information about Werewolves. My research confirmed not only that I knew nothing about Werewolves, but also no one else did. At least, no one on the internet. And neither the fiction books nor the works on myths I checked out of the library helped much. I still had no idea why my baby turned into werewolf. He wasn’t bitten by a wolf. He didn’t drink water from a wolf’s footprint during the full moon. He didn’t wear a belt made out of a wolf pelt. And yet, he had definitely turned into a wolf.
During the last four and a half days, I tried to keep my hopes down by telling myself it was extremely unlikely I’d find Mac himself in Greybull. The most I could expect, I reminded my racing heart, was to find his parents or his brother. Somehow, though, I had a hard time listening to myself. My hands shook and my heartbeat thudded loud in my ears as I saw a highway sign announcing I entered Greybull. I drove slowly down the main town thoroughfare, such as it was. At every minute, I expected to catch sight of Mac walking into a store or getting out of his battered red truck. After I drove the length of the downtown and came once again into a residential area, I turned around, drove back, and parked in a bank lot.
Leaning my head against the steering wheel, I closed my eyes and settled my breathing. At that moment, Carson decided to wake up and scream—one of his ear-piercing, glass-shattering, pick-me-up-NOW-Mama screams. I jumped out, unhooked his car seat harness, and picked him up.
“Shhhh, now, Carson, little fella, shhh,” I murmured as I bounced him. Looking around, I spotted a nearby bench in front of a local hardware store.
Carson struggled in my arms, trying to bite my shirt and making it otherwise quite clear he was going to starve to death in the next three minutes. Not known for his patience, my Carson.
Giving a bit of a mental shrug, I grabbed my purse and went over to sit. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what folks in Wyoming thought about breastfeeding in public, but there weren’t many people around and I didn’t have any other options. So, I sat on the bench, settled Carson to nurse, and pasted a smile on my face, channeling my inner diva in case anyone gave me a disapproving look or—worse yet—said something rude.
The proportion of pickup trucks to cars was definitely high in Wyoming, I noted while watching traffic and checking out the parked vehicles. I didn’t see Mac’s truck anywhere, though. Not that I expected it, I told myself again.
The bell on the hardware store door tinkled merrily as it opened and a middle-aged man in an honest-to-goodness cowboy hat stepped out. He paused sharply and darted a glance at me and the baby. Then, touching his hat brim, he said, “Ma’am” and hopped into a large green truck. Before pulling away from the curb, he popped open a cell phone and dialed, looking at us one more time. I continued to beam a smile into the vicinity, thinking my first experience with a rancher could have been much more traumatic. The rancher talked for several minutes, stealing glances at me the whole time, then nodded, snapped his phone shut, and drove away, with one last lingering look in my direction.
Weird.
Across the street from the hardware store were a realtor’s office, a pizza place, and a drugstore, which I decided would be our next stop. After a few more minutes, Carson decided he had enough to eat and wanted to look around this new place. He started waving his little fists and making funny little squawks.
“Hey, Coo-coo Carson, you funny fella,” I sang, making a face that always earned a baby grin. Carson smiled, grabbing for my face at the same time, and we played for a bit.
My cell phone rang and when I fumbled it out of my purse, I saw a picture of Sheila sticking her tongue out at me. It made me smile—here I was, in the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming, but I still had cell phone reception.
“Hey,” I said, happy to hear my best friend’s voice.
“Hey yourself. Did you find him yet?”
Sheila didn’t waste time on non-essentials when busy fixing people’s lives. She never understood why I broke up with Mac, and she gave me some serious grief for not telling him I was pregnant. She even threatened to tell him herself, but never carried through with it. When I called to say I was headed to Wyoming in a possibly futile search for Mac’s family and his whereabouts, she sounded joyful. She knew about the problems Mac and I had, but she was also a firm believer in love conquers all. She was crushed she couldn’t come with me, but she taught communication courses in the summer session at Southern Oregon University until the end of July. Of course, she didn’t know about the whole Were pup thing—I hadn’t told anybody, partly because verbalizing might make it even more real somehow. Mostly because I was afraid everyone would think I was crazy. During our five years of friendship, I’d kept few secrets from Sheila, and I felt awkward during our conversation.
I explained we’d reached Greybull, but hadn’t had a chance to find the MacGregors yet, and I reminded her I did not expect to actually find Mac here in Wyoming. I reminded myself at the same time. We chatted for a few minutes about the drive, Carson, and some new guy named Bryan who Sheila was dating, before we said our goodbyes.
Feeling much more relaxed, I stood
up and told Carson, “Okay, sweet boy, let’s go across the street and see if they know the MacGregors, hmmm?”
As I looked both ways to check traffic, I noticed a clerk in the hardware store staring at us. I hovered at the curb for a moment, my attention caught by the voyeuristic clerk, who looked about seventeen and surely had better things to do than watch me and my baby. A coworker must have noticed his distraction, finally, and said something, because the clerk jumped slightly and turned away. Huh. Must be boring, living in Greybull, if Carson and I were the highlights of the day. First, the rancher, then the clerk. Didn’t these people have anything else to do?
I crossed the street, inwardly shaking my head at the thought that living in Greybull really might be more small town than Jacksonville. I guess Mac hadn’t exaggerated.
Opening the door to the drugstore was like opening the door to the past, when superstores and chain pharmacies didn’t exist in every town. The several aisles contained all sorts of toiletries and medicines, racks of magazines, and a generous display of candy at children’s eye level. Dirty marketing ploy, that. The cash register was to the right side of the store, where a bored-looking teenager stood cracking gum. At the rear of the store, I saw an older man busy with bottles and pills in a raised pharmacy window.
“Hi,” I projected cheer and approached the cashier. Crap. Now what? Somehow, my plan hadn’t extended further than “go to Greybull and find people who know the MacGregors.” Sorry-ass plan.
I asked, “Do you have a phone book I could borrow?” I balanced Carson with one arm while I pushed my curls out of my eyes with the other hand.
“Yeah, somewhere.” The teenager stopped picking her nails, and bent to rummage behind the counter.
I noticed the pharmacist had approached the window. I half turned to give him a smile and a nod, at which his narrow look cleared somewhat. He stood there watching me for a moment, then walked the length of his counter, opened a half-door, and stepped down to approach us. He had a fringe of short brown hair on the sides and a bald pate. His frame was broad and muscular, though he carried a small paunch near his belt.
“Hello, miss,” he said, his mellow tone at odds with his assessing gaze. “Can I help you find something?”
Weighing potential help versus discretion, I said, “Yes, perhaps. I’m looking for the MacGregor family? Roger MacGregor’s family. Do you know them?”
“Liam and Erin MacGregor?”
“Um…yes. Yes. Roger MacGregor’s parents.”
“Yes, I know the MacGregor family.” He paused and then proceeded in a genial voice. “Where are my manners? I’m Don Reid, the pharmacist here.”
Carson squawked slightly as I adjusted my stance to shake his hand.
“Julie Hall.”
“Fine boy you have there,” Don said. “What is he, about four months old?”
“Yes, four months last week. Thanks.” I smiled down at Carson. “I think he’s pretty fine, too, although I happily admit to being biased.”
“Did you still want the phone book?” the teenager asked, plopping it down on the counter.
“Yes, thanks.” I juggled Carson, wishing I’d brought the sling from the car, and flipped the pages looking for the MacGregors. I made what I hoped was a convincingly disappointed moue. “Oh dear. They don’t seem to be listed.”
“So, Mrs. Hall—”
“Ms. Hall,” I corrected the pharmacist automatically, then looked up quickly to soften it with a smile.
“Ah, Ms. Hall.” Don Reid cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Have you traveled far? Liam and Erin didn’t mention they expected visitors…”
I hesitated a moment, not sure how to deal with this small town curiosity.
“Yes,” I said, “All the way from Oregon. I, um, I’m friends with their son M—Roger.”
“I see.” He looked at me for a long minute, then gave a decisive nod. “Well, I happen to be friends with Liam and Erin, so I can give you their phone number. Here.” He pulled out a small piece of paper and wrote down a string of numbers.
Jackpot! I could hardly believe how easy this was. I guess Greybull was small town America.
“Thanks so much for your help,” I said to both the teen and Don Reid. “I really appreciate it.” Shoving the paper in my pocket, I took a better hold of Carson and left the store. As the door swung shut behind me, I heard the pharmacist say, sharply, “Tracy, hand me the phone.”
Great. Perhaps the MacGregors would hear about me before they heard from me.
****
As I crossed the street, Carson fussed loudly, announcing to the world he was in need of a diaper change. Just about done changing him on the passenger seat—a skill I had quite perfected in the last few days—I noticed a car pulling into the lot. Snapping the last snap on Carson’s outfit, I taped the dirty diaper around itself and looked for a trash can. As the car parked next to me, my eyebrows rose at the bright red convertible about the half the size of my trusty sedan. Sitting in the driver’s seat was a woman who might have been Miss Wyoming thirty years ago: long blonde curls, exquisitely made-up baby-blue eyes, and shiny pink lips. She wore a white western-style shirt with rhinestones on the trim and skinny white jeans. I saw the toes of white crocodile-skin cowboy boots peeking out. Mentally, I revised my impression from Miss Wyoming to cowgirl fashion doll.
As I picked up Carson and the dirty diaper, she rose from her car and clicked her high-heeled boots in my direction. At first, I thought she headed for the bank, but she fixed me with a white-toothed smile and walked straight toward me.
“You must be Julie Hall,” she said, holding her hand out. Her perfectly shaped pink nails matched her lipstick.
She was even shorter than my five foot four. I bet without her heeled boots, she’d be lucky to claim five feet. I juggled the diaper in order to extend my hand. Her firm handshake belied her dainty stature and, as our eyes met, she exuded a sense of strength utterly at odds with her appearance.
“Yes?” I said, guarded, wondering if this was some member of Mac’s family tipped off by the pharmacist.
“This must be your son.” The woman nodded at Carson in the crook of my arm.
“Yes? And you are?” I drew myself up to my full height and attempted to look stern, inwardly wishing I wasn’t still clutching a dirty diaper.
“Lily Rose. Mayor of Greybull.”
“The mayor comes to meet every visitor to Greybull, Wyoming?” I knew a note of sarcasm crept into my voice, but this entire encounter was surreal.
“No. Not every visitor. Only the visitors who come into town with a Were pup and ask about Roger MacGregor.”
Correction. Now this encounter was surreal.
“Wha—How…” I clutched Carson a bit harder and took half a step backwards, only to bump into my car.
“I think we need to talk, Julie Hall. Privately. Let’s go to my office.”
I looked at her a moment, mind whirling. Was this some kind of trick? How did she know about Carson and what was her relationship to Mac?
“Julie.” Lily smiled and spread her hands wide, rings sparkling in the sun. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have questions, I have answers. I have some questions, too. It benefits us both to share information.
“My office is just down the street, take a left on Cottonwood Road and you’ll see the town hall. You can follow me in your car, and we’ll talk.”
I nodded, feeling cautious, but thinking the town hall would be a safe, public space to talk.
“Okay then.” Lily flashed her million-dollar smile once more. As she click-clicked back to her car, she turned and said, “There’s a garbage can right in front of the bank for that diaper.” I smiled at her in return, though it felt more like a grimace.
After visiting the trash and strapping Carson into his seat, I got in the car, furious at myself for feeling anxious and defensive. If anyone should feel defensive, it should be this Lily Rose. Who names their daughter Lily Rose,
anyway? And who elects someone named Lily Rose as mayor? She should definitely be an aromatherapist. Or a stripper. I followed Lily’s red convertible, regaining my mental equilibrium by imagining her as a cowgirl stripper.
The town hall didn’t look like much, especially compared to those Midwestern towns always pictured in movies, the ones with large grassy squares and limestone buildings decorated with carvings. Instead, it was just single-story square of brick with white trim sitting in a row with all the others on Cottonwood Road. A western-style wooden sign out front read “Town of Greybull” with smaller lettering announcing Mayor Lily Rose, Clerk’s Office, and Notary Public. Right next door was the local police station, a small, plain brick building with stone steps, double glass doors, and two police cars parked in front. A large American flag and, I assumed, the Wyoming flag flew on poles set in front between the two buildings—actually, after a closer look, I realized the two buildings joined at the rear, forming a municipal complex. Lily’s red car zipped down a side driveway, presumably to park in a back lot. After thinking for a second, I opted to park on the street. Easier getaway, if I needed to leave in a hurry. I checked myself in the visor mirror, frowning at my freckles as usual. I added a layer of lip gloss and called it a day.
As I opened Carson’s door, I saw he had fallen asleep in the approximately two and a half minutes we’d been in the car. I debated whether to transfer him into the sling, which was more comfortable, but meant a chance of waking him up, or detach the baby seat from its base and schlep that into the building. Schlepping would be heavy, awkward, and uncomfortable, but nearly guaranteed sleep continuity. After weighing the decision a minute, I decided to value sleep over ease and detached the car seat. I balanced the handle on my forearm and the side against my hip.
Dark Moon Wolf Page 2
