SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  Quentin closed his eyes. She'd won. Behind her gentle touch was the force of compulsion, his compulsion to remain and seek mending for the wounds even he didn't understand.

  His compulsion to stay near her—his healing goddess. His Valkyrie.

  For your sake, Johanna, I pray that the answers aren't more dangerous than the questions.

  Chapter 6

  Johanna loved the early morning, before any of the patients but May had left their rooms—when she had the garden and wood and orchard to herself, and plenty of time to think.

  She walked out to the orchard while the dawn air was still lightly touched with mist and the old bantam rooster was completing his ritual welcome to the sun. The neatly pruned apple, peach, and walnut trees in their measured rows, like the vineyard on the other side of the house, contrasted sharply with the wild woods on the hillside beyond.

  The vineyard and orchard were unmistakable emblems of man's imposition of order upon nature. Even in the short time Johanna had been in the Valley, she'd seen more fields put to the vine, more houses built for the men and women who worked this rich land. Yet it retained its loveliness.

  Such order could be a very good thing, like a physician's aid when complications beset a woman's ordinary process of birth. Or when the mind turned upon itself and must be cured with the help of science.

  Johanna leaned against the trunk of a mature apple tree, striving to arrange her thoughts in similar tidy ranks. She'd spent a restless night after yesterday's conversation with Quentin, her mind wholly taken up with the new patient, and not to any useful purpose. It wasn't at all like her to lose sleep just because she encountered the unexpected in her work.

  But Quentin had managed to surprise her. His rapid and unprompted transition into an hypnotic state was startling enough, but then to witness what must surely have been a reliving of some great anguish in his past…

  She pushed away from the tree and began to walk down the center of the row, hands clasped behind her back. It wasn't as if Quentin's capability for such retrogression was unique in Johanna's experience. He clearly hadn't known what he'd revealed during the incident outside Harper's room; amnesia for such episodes was typical. His ravings were those of a man trapped in a situation of great stress and suffering; he had been stricken with the kind of grief and horror she had seen in another of her patients. But Harper was seldom so lucid.

  She remembered how Quentin had slipped with equal swiftness from an embattled state to one quite different, behaving in such a way that she hadn't been able to tell if he were genuinely enervated or playing the rake. His "affectionate" conduct had certainly suggested the latter.

  Her cheeks felt warm, in spite of the morning coolness. She was beginning to see that Quentin's ready laughter and flirtatious speech were all part of the way he protected himself, his kind of defense against what was too terrible to bear, like Lewis's washing and Irene's delusions.

  But what had he borne? Had Quentin Forster been a soldier? His words and expression during the episode implied it. Many former soldiers had turned to drink to blot out memories they couldn't tolerate. She had visited asylums housing men driven insane by the War. Most could not be cured.

  Not by conventional methods. Not while so many asylum superintendents and neurologists believed that all madness was hereditary or came from physical lesions in the brain. Papa had never subscribed to that conventional belief. "Insanity," he had said, "is never simple."

  Johanna turned at the end of the row and moved to the next, plucking a leaf from a dangling branch. Insanity was never simple, nor was her as-yet-unproven theory. It was still new, tested only by the smallest increments for the safety of her patients. But she'd begun to see results.

  The first time she and Papa had witnessed what she called "mental retrogression," she'd been treating Andersen under Papa's supervision. While Andersen was hypnotized, he began to speak, spontaneously and unpredictably, of events that had occurred in his past—events that had clearly contributed to his illness.

  Papa had been fascinated, ready to pursue this new avenue with his customary impetuosity. But Andersen had come out of his trance, and they'd had to postpone a second attempt. Papa's attack stopped any further exploration of their discovery.

  But Johanna had never forgotten. During the past year she had taken it up again. She began cautiously, meticulously guiding Andersen into a past he was unwilling to speak of outside the hypnotic state. She walked with him through the very ordeals that had twisted his mind into its present illness.

  And the treatment was working. Slowly, step by painfully slow step, it was working. Lewis had improved. Her tentative theory came into being, fragile as a new grape in spring.

  The mind hid from itself. It was able to conceal its own darkest desires, its greatest fears, those most unpleasant memories it did not want to remember. And when it did so, it inevitably warped the personality out of its proper channels. Until those thoughts and memories were exposed to the light of the conscious mind.

  Johanna had become more and more certain that her new method, based upon Papa's work, was the right one to pursue. Why, then, did she question herself when she thought of treating Quentin Forster with that same method? As if by fate, he had appeared on her doorstep—a man who might prove to be the perfect subject: easily hypnotized, suffering from unbearable memories of his past, but clear-minded enough to cooperate. And to wish for healing.

  But he was not a "subject." He was as real and important to her as any of the others, for all the briefness of their acquaintance.

  Johanna unclenched her fingers and let the crushed leaf fall. This idle speculation was unproductive; she'd already made the decision. She'd assured Quentin that she would help him, tried to allay his natural fears. She must not doubt herself if she was to succeed.

  She went back to the house, pausing to throw feed to the chickens. That was usually May's job, as was collecting the eggs, but the girl had neglected her duties this morning.

  Reminded of the letter in her pocket, Johanna drew it out and opened the envelope. Mrs. Ingram's missives from Europe were infrequent, always sent general delivery and without a return address, but at least the woman made some inquiries after her daughter's welfare, and expressed the intention to come for her eventually. What she did across the ocean she kept to herself, except for her occasional hints about working to make sure that she and May need never live in fear again.

  Johanna kept the letters hidden from May. Until Mrs. Ingram actually arrived, there was no point in getting the girl's hopes up. Two years had passed; many more might do so before May's mother saw fit to come for her.

  She scanned the first lines of the letter and inadvertently crumpled the edge of the paper. The promises in this one were much more explicit than any before. "Please keep my daughter safe," the last lines said. "I will return for her very soon."

  The statement might even be true. But if it were not, Mrs. Ingram need have no fear for May's safety.

  She pushed the letter back in her pocket and looked up to find the subject of her musings only a few yards away. May was standing at the border of the garden in her plain, loose-fitting dress, poised on the edge of flight. The object of her riveted attention was Quentin Forster.

  He stood as still as she, with the absolute motionlessness of a wild animal. He and May regarded each other minute by minute, as if in silent communication. Then Quentin held out his hand and spoke. Johanna couldn't hear his words, but the tones were low and soothing. He smiled. May flinched, eyes wide, and stared at his hand.

  Of course Quentin didn't know any better; she'd failed to properly warn him. May was terrified of strangers, men especially, and Quentin was, in spite of his leanness, an imposing figure. Johanna felt an instinctive need to protect May from any discomfort he might inadvertently cause her. She prepared to go to the girl's rescue.

  Then a miracle happened. May reached out to brush Quentin's fingers with hers, withdrew her hand, repeated the gesture. Quentin spo
ke again, and her piquant, heart-shaped face broke out in a tremulous smile. She answered him, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  The magical moment passed, as it must. May remembered her fear and backed away. Quentin didn't try to hold her. He watched her run off, a faint frown between his brows. Concern. Why should he care about a girl who was a stranger to him?

  Why should he not, if he were a decent man? Inebriety, even insanity, did not always destroy what was fundamentally good in a human being.

  She strode along the graveled path to join him on the other side of the garden. His engaging smile was back in place by the time she reached him.

  "I've finally met your May," he said.

  "So I see." She looked him over severely. "You ought to have remained in bed."

  "But I had so little incentive. I've always felt that sleeping was a very poor use for a good bed."

  This time she managed to control her blush. "A return of your illness will be incentive enough." But he hardly looked as though he needed more time to rest. He'd thrown off his debilitation as if it had never existed. "You have no lingering weakness, no distress?"

  "Nothing that a dose of your healing touch wouldn't cure."

  "I am surprised, Mr.—Quentin." She must not treat him differently than any of the others. Using first rather than surnames and formal address helped build trust, and she could not abandon the practice simply because it smacked of a greater intimacy when used with this man. "May generally refuses to go anywhere near strangers. She seldom even approaches any of the other patients, except for Oscar. What did you say to her?"

  He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I told her a secret."

  What sort of secret? she almost blurted out. Instead, she considered how much she was prepared to trust him with May's well-being.

  "I have no objection to you speaking with her… if you are very careful. It might help her to realize that not all men are—" She stopped herself from revealing too much. "Just remember that she is fragile, and cannot be pushed."

  He glanced the way she'd gone. "Poor child. But you are helping her."

  "I do what I can," she said coolly. Within the unconstraint and surprising rapport of their conversation lay a trap—that of treating Quentin more like a colleague or sympathetic friend than a patient.

  "Breakfast should be ready soon," she said, starting for the house. "Let us go in."

  He raised his head to sniff the air. "I thought I smelled cooking." His stomach rumbled audibly.

  "I see that you have a healthy appetite," she said dryly. "Mrs. Daugherty arrives early five days a week to cook breakfast, so we shall have something substantial this morning."

  Together they went in the back door of the house, passing the patients' rooms. Johanna sent Quentin ahead to the kitchen and looked in on Harper. He sat by the window, staring at the drawn curtains. No change.

  If she could succeed in helping Quentin, there might be hope for Harper as well.

  The others, with the exception of May, were already gathered about the large oak table in the center of the kitchen. Laid out on the cheerful gingham tablecloth were plates of sliced bread, a crock of fresh butter, a pitcher of milk, and a wedge of cheese.

  Irene, at the head of the table, was dressed in a gown Johanna hadn't seen before, smelling of crisp, new fabric and cut along much more fashionable lines than most of the actresses's years-old wardrobe. The dress was somewhat vulgar and far more suitable for an evening at the theater than a country breakfast, but Johanna was most interested in its origin. Irene had no income to afford such a gown, nor had she any source for purchasing it.

  Unless she had gone into Silverado Springs. Johanna had felt safe in assuming that Irene wouldn't do so, after the first time when she'd crept out to town one night only to be mocked and reviled as a woman both soiled and mad. She had too much pride to risk humiliation again.

  Still, it would be wise to speak to her about the dress after breakfast. Irene was not above stealing.

  Lewis Andersen, scrupulously honest, wore his habitual unrelieved black and was engaged in carefully refolding his napkin. Oscar eagerly watched Mrs. Daugherty as she put slices of bacon in the frying pan on the great cast-iron stove.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Daugherty," Johanna said.

  "Mornin', Doc Jo," the older woman said. "Take a seat. I've got bacon today, and fresh milk and butter." She glanced past Johanna to Quentin, never slackening in her preparations. "You must be the new feller. Feelin' better now, I take it?"

  Quentin stepped around the table, caught Mrs. Daugherty's broad, chapped hand in his, and kissed it. "Quentin Forster, at your service. And I shall certainly be your most willing slave if that bacon tastes as fine as it smells."

  She beamed. "Well, I'll be. A real gen'l'man. Haven't heard your like in some time." She lifted a brow at Johanna. "Can't believe this feller was ever sick."

  "I had the best of care," he said, following her glance.

  "You can't do better than having Doc Jo to tend you," Mrs. Daugherty said with a vigorous nod. "She wouldn't hear of leavin' your side, not even when she was near fallin' down exhausted. That's the kind of lady she is. She saved my daughter and grandchild. Never will forget."

  Johanna longed for a useful task to keep herself occupied, but Mrs. Daugherty had matters well in hand. She'd learned on Mrs. Daugherty's first day at the Haven that the woman found her more of a nuisance than a help in the kitchen. "You keep them hands fer healin'," she'd said. "They ain't no good for cookery."

  "Would you sit down, Quentin?" Johanna asked, indicating the chair next to Lewis.

  "But I've saved a chair for you, right here," Irene said, ignoring Johanna.

  Quentin flashed Johanna an apologetic grin and seated himself next to Irene. She latched on to him immediately, beginning her usual monologue about the theater, how desperate the New York producers were for her return, and how she would fight off her hordes of admirers when she went back. Lewis emerged from absorption with his own sin to stare at her with thin-mouthed condemnation.

  "Only the devil waits for you," he said. "Beware, Jezebel—"

  Irene sneered. "Pay no attention to him. He's crazy."

  "Let us try to have a pleasant breakfast," Johanna said. Irene stopped talking with a pout, clinging to Quentin's arm. He made no effort to disentangle himself. Oscar wrenched his gaze from the frying pan to smile shyly at the newcomer.

  "Hullo," he said. "I'm glad you're better."

  "So am I," Quentin said. He plucked at his shirt. 'Thank you for the use of the clothes."

  "Do you like them?"

  "Very much."

  Oscar rewarded him with a gap-toothed grin. "Good." He turned back to Mrs. Daugherty. "Is the bacon done yet?"

  "If I ain't careful, you'll eat all of it." She took the pan off the stove and laid the bacon on a serving platter, then took it around the table, beginning with Quentin, who made as if to swoon with joy.

  "Wonderful," he said. He waited until the others were served, and offered Irene the plate of bread. Mrs. Daugherty cooked up a dozen eggs while everyone helped themselves to what was on the table.

  Johanna seldom had a problem with her appetite, since she firmly believed in the value of hearty eating and good nutrition, but she found herself merely picking at her food. Again and again her gaze turned to Quentin. He was cordial and sympathetic to Irene, but there was a slight remoteness to his speech and manner, as if he were merely indulging her. He seemed to make no judgment of either Lewis or Oscar. Mrs. Daugherty had certainly fallen for his charm.

  No grounds, then, to be concerned about his fitting in with the group—at least thus far. The thought made her feel unaccountably breathless. After all, he was hardly likely to remain beyond a few weeks or months. He was not like the other three men, who could not live elsewhere.

  As if he'd noticed her preoccupation, he looked directly at her and smiled. "This is the most enjoyable meal I've had in a long time. How grateful I am that you rescued me, Doc
Jo."

  She winced inwardly at the nickname Mrs. Daugherty had given her. "I'm glad you find the food to your liking."

  "More eggs, young man?" Mrs. Daugherty asked, hovering behind his chair with pan and serving spoon in hand. Irene grabbed his arm and glared at the older woman.

  Quentin patted his flat stomach. "You've quite filled me up, madam. I think I must reluctantly forgo a third helping. But I have only the highest praise for your culinary expertise."

  "Don't he talk fancy," Mrs. Daugherty said, winking at Johanna. "Just 'bout the same as you." She studied Johanna with a speculative eye. "You two could have some pretty edjercated conversations, I's'pose."

  Mrs. Daugherty was too perspicacious for Johanna's comfort. She had learned long ago not to mistake a lack of education for a dearth of intelligence.

  "Mrs. Daugherty," she said, "would you please prepare trays for Harper and my father? I'd like to deliver their meals."

  The older woman shook her head. "Poor feller," she said to Quentin. "Harper's the lad who fought in the War. Never right in the head after that—" She caught herself at Johanna's pointed look and went back to her stove.

  Johanna had just about given up on her breakfast when the back door to the kitchen swung open on squeaking hinges, banging against the wall. May rushed in, a sprite in calico, and dashed toward the table. With a darting glance at the others, she stopped by Quentin's chair and laid a bunch of wildflowers across his empty plate. Almost without pause, she snatched a slice of bread from the table and skittered out the door again.

  "Well, I'll be," Mrs. Daughtery said. "I never seen her do that before."

  Nor had Johanna. Quentin gathered up the flowers and bent his head to appreciate their scent. Irene simmered.

  "Why do you let that… guttersnipe run wild through the place?" she snapped at Johanna.

  "She does no harm," Lewis said, breaking his customary silence for the second time that morning. "Leave her be."

  "Oh, is she without sin?" Irene asked with a trilling laugh.

  Johanna rose. "Irene, Lewis, I believe it's time for your midmorning chores. If you'd be so kind, Irene, I have a few of Quentin's garments that need repair. Your skill with a needle is unmatched."