I sat down on the couch to feed Carson.
“Yes,” I said, slowly. “If you’re sure it’s not an inconvenience. Also, I hoped you could recommend a hotel in town; I haven’t made a reservation yet.”
“Hotel?” cried Erin. “Julie Hall. You’re practically family, Carson is family, and I won’t hear of you staying in a hotel. You’ll stay with us and I won’t take no for an answer.”
I looked at Liam, and he nodded after a long moment. Erin bustled out of the room, leaving Roger’s dad and me alone. Whereas I had felt comfortable with Erin right away, Liam’s less-than-genial scrutiny made me horribly aware of my failings. An unwed mother without the human decency to inform Mac I was pregnant. And now I’d descended on the MacGregor household. An interloper.
I focused intently on Carson, smoothing his downy head.
“So, Julie. What do you do for a living?” Liam asked.
“I’m a librarian. I’m on extended maternity leave right now, but I’m going back to work in about a month.”
Silence.
“And what about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a CPA, an accountant.”
“Oh, an accountant. That’s, um…”
“Interesting?” Liam’s mouth quirked in a smile I returned in relief. “About as interesting as being a librarian to most people I suppose. But I enjoy it.”
“Well, that’s what’s important. That you enjoy it, I mean.”
We lapsed into an awkward silence. Just as I desperately wracked my brain for something to say—anything—Erin called to tell us dinner was ready. Ian slunk down from his room to join us, but didn’t participate much in conversation. His hair hung in his eyes, and I couldn’t tell whether or not he ever glanced in my direction. The meal was hectic because Carson had taken it into his mind to become difficult-screaming-baby, which sometimes happened at this time of night. My mom always called it the “witching hour” and made some laughing reference to “payback.” I managed to eat my salad and enchiladas while standing up and bouncing next to the table. Carson nestled against me in his sling, but nevertheless regaled the table with occasional screeches that stopped just short of shattering glass. I dropped only a little bit of food on his head, definitely not my worse show.
“I remember when Roger was a baby,” Erin said, “I don’t think I ate a hot meal for six months. Somehow, whenever the food was ready, he needed to be held or nursed. Liam, do you remember?” She sighed. “Ian, on the other hand, was a dream: sleeping through the night by six weeks and hardly ever crying. You were such a happy little fellow, Ian, always cooing and smiling at everyone.”
I thought I caught Ian’s eyes rolling under his hair.
“How does Carson sleep, Julie?” Erin continued.
“He sleeps. Sometimes. He’s doing the best he can, right little fella?”
“Will he be happy sharing your bed tonight, Julie? Or shall we make up a small bed for him in a dresser drawer? That’s what my grandma used to do—I think my mom and all her siblings had a drawer for their crib. He’s not rolling over yet, is he?”
“No, he can’t quite roll over. He tries, though. I think he’ll be fine in bed with me. That’s actually his preference, even when we’re home,” I said. “But…are you quite sure it won’t be any trouble? I really am happy to find a hotel.”
“Absolutely not. You and that sweet boy—” The so-called sweet boy shrieked, so Erin raised her voice as well. “Will stay in this house as long as you’re in Greybull.”
“Speaking of which.” Liam’s baritone cut in. “You need to have a hard think, Julie. It may be better for you to move to Greybull. Permanently.”
“Liam—”
“Have you given real thought to what it means to raise a Werewolf? You need to be around a pack. You can’t handle this on your own.”
“Liam—”
“What are you going to do when he changes next time? How are you going to teach him to hunt? To use his abilities? He’ll be strong, very strong. How will you cope when he calls the moon?”
“Liam!”
“If not this pack, you need to move somewhere with another functional pack. But since Carson is part of our line, he really should be here with us. That’s how Roger would have wanted it.” Liam finished. I flinched.
“Liam!” Erin shot her husband a dirty look as he finally stopped talking. “Julie, we don’t need to talk about this now. It’s been a long day for you, a long day for all of us. At the very least, you’ll stay here for a while, and we’ll have plenty of time to talk things through. Right, Liam?” she said, pointedly.
Carson started screaming in earnest, this time protesting my frozen stance. I closed my mouth, took a deep breath, and started bouncing my baby again.
Move to Greybull. Greybull, Wyoming? Population 1815? Unless there’d been some birth or death since the highway sign went up. Me, Julie Hall, move to Greybull, Wyoming? Did they even have libraries in Wyoming? Did ranchers read? Move here to the middle of nowhere? Impossible. Although…How was I going to raise a Werewolf all by myself in the middle of Jackson County, Oregon?
The shrill ring of a phone cut through my troubled thoughts and Erin jumped up, seeming equally relieved to have the moment broken.
“Hello? Oh, Full, hi. What? Oh, no! How? Where was he? Do Miguel and Elise know yet? Do we—Yes. Of course. Yes. Tomorrow at moonrise, I’ll tell them. Moon guard you, Full.”
Erin hung up and stood for a moment with her back to us. When she turned around, she met Liam’s gaze with a grim face.
“Carlos Sanchez has been killed. The Full’s called a pack meeting tomorrow, moonrise at the old Beswick ranch.”
“What?” Ian exploded from his chair, no longer slouching, but stretched to his full height. Energy spilled off of him, and I felt the hairs on my arms rise.
“Ian.” Liam’s voice was flat. “We don’t know everything yet, and we shouldn’t jump to conclusions―”
“Bullshit. This is bullshit!”
Ian slammed out the kitchen door. For a moment, we remained motionless, then Liam jumped to his feet to follow his son. As he pushed open the door, I saw it—or, rather him—a wolf as tall at the shoulder as my waist, dark fur glinting in the slanting sun, tearing through the grass away from the house.
“Ian!” Liam called. “Ian!”
No response from the wolf as he raced out of sight.
Liam smacked the door jamb with his hand, then leaned on it heavily with his eyes closed.
“Should I…” His toneless voice trailed off.
“No. No, don’t go after him. You can’t change at this time of the moon anyway. Just let him run it off, and he’ll be back. He’ll be back.” Erin sounded as if trying to convince herself as much as her husband. She moved to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort. Liam shifted slightly and took her into his arms.
I stood there, feeling awkward in the face of their grief, not understanding what just transpired. I took a few steps toward the living room with a half-formed notion of giving them some privacy, but then Carson let loose with an ear-piercing shriek. I shushed him, as Erin turned to me. Liam turned the other way and stared out into the early evening.
“I’m sorry, Julie. This must all seem very strange to you,” Erin said.
“No, no, no. I mean, yes, this whole thing,” I gestured expansively, “is still strange to me. I’m sorry to intrude at such a private time. Ian—all of you—just experienced another loss and maybe it’s best if Carson and I leave, give you some privacy.”
Erin sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Ian is overwrought, but perhaps for good cause. Carlos Sanchez—the Werewolf who just died—was sent to investigate Roger’s murder. It seems the murderer caught up with him first. I’m not sure how to react myself. Two pack members murdered within a few months? Believe it or not,” she gave a small, wry smile, “we’re usually not a violent bunch.”
Liam turned around and came to her side. They clasped hands and Erin lean
ed into him, gratefully.
“We’ll know more after tomorrow’s meeting,” Liam said to his wife. “Did she say if—Was Carlos killed the same way?”
Erin’s blue eyes turned storm-cloud gray. “Yes.”
A moment of silence followed.
I started to speak, then cleared my throat before I could continue. “How was Roger killed?”
“He was beheaded,” Erin said.
Chapter Four
In the last few months, I’d found Carson was a great excuse. An excuse to indulge in chocolate—a nursing mother needed the extra calories, after all. An excuse to turn down unwanted invitations. An excuse to sing silly songs and watch Sesame Street. Sure, he didn’t even pay attention to the television yet, but personally, I’d never stopped enjoying Grover. And he loved it when I sang “I Don’t Want to Live on the Moon” along with Ernie.
Right now, he was an excuse to get me out of the house alone for a minute. Carson needed diapers, so after careful directions from Erin—and turning down her offer to accompany us—we were back in the car on the highway driving toward Ron’s Grocery. I hoped. Carson finally stopped screaming, and he actually fell asleep within 15 seconds of me starting the car: a new record. I drove slowly, obeying the speed limit for once. Originally, I thought I needed to get some time away to think, but I found myself trying not to think—trying very hard to keep my mind in a Zen-like state of nothingness.
Beheaded.
My stomach lurched and I veered onto the gravel at the side of the rural road. Leaving the car sprawled diagonally, I pushed open the door just in time.
After several minutes of absolute misery, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and realized sharp rocks dug painfully into my knees. I sat back, hugging my legs to me, glanced into the car to make sure everything was okay, and gave in to my thoughts.
I couldn’t get the picture of Mac out of my mind. Mac, beheaded. I tried to hang onto my real memories of him: Mac sprawled across my bed and whistling as I came out of the shower; Mac laughing when he first saw my inherited collection of ceramic chickens; Mac one brow raised in mock confusion as I confessed I hated dark beer. But my imagination kept sending me grisly images of Mac’s head flying through the air, of his eyes glazed and fixed on nothing. The pictures were pure Hollywood, since I’d never actually seen such a thing. Intermixed with it all were flashes of headless chickens, of blood spurting from an empty neck. I considered the brute force required to cut off someone’s head. Some sick, morbid part of me wondered what it sounded like, chopping through someone’s spine. What it felt like. My stomach rolled again, and I wished fervently to turn off these obsessive thoughts.
I cast back in my mind, trying to latch onto a happier memory.
Like the day we picnicked at Applegate Lake. I put together a delicious spread: fresh strawberries, triple-cream brie, sourdough bread, roasted red peppers, and an assortment of olives. Mac loved olives. He could eat a whole container in a sitting; black, green, pitted or not, stuffed with pimento, garlic, feta, whatever. His favorite, stuffed with jalapeno peppers, came from a little roadside stand in northern California. And, of course, I’d brought wine, a bottle of chilled white wine. What kind of wine was it? I scrunched up my eyes, trying to bring back every detail. A local pinot gris, maybe from Weisingers. Yes, that was it. We spread out my old picnic blanket, its multi-colored plaid soft with age and many washings. I remembered Mac lounging on one elbow, popping olives into his mouth. His hair had been on the long side, ready for a trim. I leaned over and brushed it away from his eyes. He caught my hand and pulled me down with him, to lie against him. God. I remembered the warmth of the sun on my back, the smell of lake and green things growing, the taste of olives and wine and berries and Mac, the sound of a woodpecker somewhere nearby. I’d craned my neck this way and that trying to find the bird, but gave up and just listened. I remembered at the time trying to lock every element of the afternoon into my mind so I could always feel the vividness of that moment. That perfect moment.
Followed by a less than perfect night, which, unfortunately, remained more vivid than all the rest of it. After our picnic, after returning home to impatiently shuck off each other’s clothes, after lying together in twisted sheets and talking about everything and nothing, Mac got up to leave. To work, he said. On a Saturday night. After a Saturday afternoon like the one we had spent together. Oh, I’d been so mad. I felt the anger, the hurt, even now. I yelled. I cried. I accused him of not caring, of being utterly selfish, of being cold. Of using his job as an excuse to shy away from intimacy. Finally, at the end, I practically pushed him out of my house, telling him to get the hell away if he couldn’t be there with a whole heart, if he’d rather work on God-knew-what.
And I remembered waking up the next morning, eyes swollen, parched and lonely, wishing to take it all back. Wishing I didn’t always have to push and push and push. Wishing I could respect his boundaries and his needs. That I could love him without trying to cage him. I called him over and over and over again on his phone until he finally picked up.
Now, I wondered: had it been a full moon?
The Wyoming desert was quiet, except for the skitter and pop of grasshoppers moving through the brush. I stood up, brushed off the seat of my jeans and ran fingers through my curls. Mac. God, it hurt.
****
The long summer evening drew to a close as I drove home from Ron’s Grocery, diapers and baby both safely ensconced in the backseat. The two-lane highway was nearly empty, and the setting sun turned the brush into long, slanting shadows. I kept the windows down to smell the sharp tang of dust and sage. Behind me, a lone car approached and I automatically slowed a bit to allow the car to pass in the other lane. The road stretched out straight in either direction, no other vehicles in sight. The car—a blue sedan—swung out to pass. Then suddenly it veered and crashed into my fender.
Metal shrieked and the steering wheel bucked in my hands. The car spun with the impact and I fought back, instinctively trying to regain control. Before I could straighten the car, before I could even understand what happened, the other car hit again. My car jerked violently as the other car crashed into us, this time against the side of my poor car. My tires left the road, hit the gravel, and skidded into the dirt before the front end hit a shallow depression and the car jolted to a sudden halt. I slammed against the steering wheel, then the seat.
Heart pounding in my ears against the silence, I finally found my voice enough to yell, “Shit,” and then found my head enough to scream, “Carson!” I jerked my rigid arms from the steering wheel and turned around, straining against the seatbelt before unlatching it, half climbing into the backseat to inspect my baby.
Carson opened his mouth in a terrific scream and my pulse skipped, then hammered away in sheer panic.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Are you okay?” I fumbled into the seat next to him. I ran my hands along his arms and legs, checking for injury, moving him gently. No obvious breaks. No blood. He thrashed about, a good thing, I told myself. Sobbing now, I unlatched his belt and carefully lifted him out, cradling his head and neck carefully, using one hand to poke and prod a bit.
“I think you’re okay.” I closed my eyes and sank my nose into his hair. “You’re okay. Thank God you’re okay. Holy shit. What the fuck was that?”
Shaking, I opened the door and got out, holding Carson tightly. He continued to voice a few hiccupping sobs, but quieter now. He butted his small head into my shoulder like a kid goat. I rubbed his back and bounced him on rubbery legs, looking around and trying to get my thoughts in some sort of order.
Off the road ahead of us, the other car loomed ominously in the fading light, and a jolt of adrenaline ran from my core to my fingertips. The blue sedan’s engine suddenly stopped, and I took a step backward. For a frozen moment, I was only aware of myself, my frightened baby, and the dark shadow of the man behind that wheel. I glimpsed something metal, a flash as something reflected the setting sun, some movement in the car. Then
our standoff was interrupted by a distant susurrus that at first sounded like the ocean and quickly resolved into a pickup truck approaching on the highway. The blue sedan came to life, spun its wheels, and bolted down the road to disappear into the distance.
I came out of my daze as the pickup truck approached. I had an irrational flash of panic as it slowed, before I registered the concern on the driver’s face. For the first time, I turned to look at my little compact. My car was in sad shape: the back end smashed, a huge dent in the driver’s side, nose down in a small ditch, entangled in brush. It looked like at least one tire was toast.
“Fuck. Fuck! Holy…shit.” I took a deep breath, trying to gain some measure of brain activity—not to mention a less profane vocabulary.
“Are you okay?” A lean, weathered man jumped down from the red pickup. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
“Yes. I mean…yes. I think so.” I focused on breathing.
“Here, why don’t you sit down?” He gestured to the passenger seat of his truck and then guided me there with a warm hand on my shoulder.
As soon as I sat down, I started shaking uncontrollably, suddenly freezing. Carson twisted in my arms to watch the rancher as he walked around my car.
“Whoo-ee,” he said, as he came back over. “What happened?”
“I’m n-not sure,” I said, “A c-c-car h-hit me. Us.” I was afraid my shaking arms might drop Carson.
The rancher walked to the back of his pickup and came back with a blanket, slightly worse for wear. “Here,” he said, “I think you’re in shock.” As I nodded, he settled the blanket around us.
“Ma’am.” The rancher’s eyes squinted in concern. “Can I call someone for you? Do you want me to call 911? Do you need an ambulance?”
“N-no, not an ambulance. I’m sta-staying with Erin and L-Liam MacGregor. Um. I have their number in my cell phone.” I gestured to my purse, still in the front seat of the car, and he brought it to me. He took the phone from my shaking hand.
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