SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  But he'd spoken, to a creature he believed could not judge him. The contact was oddly comforting to them both. Quentin closed his eyes and sighed.

  "Don't worry, boy. I'll—" The stroking stopped. Quentin opened his eyes to find Harper gazing down at him, the light from the lamp on the table picking out the gaunt features of his face. His breath came faster, and his hand clenched in the fur of Quentin's mane.

  "You," he whispered. "What are you?" The empty, distant look in his eyes sloughed away like a snake's skin, leaving them clear and almost sane.

  Quentin could have sworn that those eyes saw him for what he was—saw past the fur and recognized the soul beneath.

  He slipped free of Harper's grip and backed away. Harper stared after him, hand poised in midair.

  "Don't," he said.

  Voices sounded from the hallway. Quentin scrambled out of the room and ran for the back door just ahead of them. He charged straight up the hill without stopping until he reached the place where he'd left his clothes.

  Panting hard, he Changed. The air had grown cool, and his bare skin ran with goosebumps as he snatched up his drawers.

  Harper knew. He wasn't gifted with a werewolf's powers, but there was something about him… something that made him different, an outsider among his own kind.

  Perhaps they were kin, after all.

  He started back down the hill, skidding on the matted pine needles.

  "Are you running away?"

  He spun around at the whispered words. The unexpected intruder resolved into a girl, slight as a doe, the usual book tucked under her arm. May.

  "What are you doing out so late?" he demanded. "It isn't safe—"

  His words came out more harshly than he'd intended, and she recoiled. He recognized that look. She was expecting to be berated, punished, struck, all because he'd raised his voice to her.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm a brute. Forgive me."

  Her tightly coiled muscles loosened. "Are you angry with me?"

  Damnation. As little as he knew of the child, in spite of the very few insignificant words they'd exchanged, he felt an unaccountably fierce desire to protect her. What had Johanna said? "I have no objection to your speaking with her … if you are very careful. It might help her to realize that not all men are—"

  She hadn't finished the sentence, but he could fill in the rest. He'd seen his share of cruelty in his wanderings. God help anyone who raised a hand to her in his presence.

  "Of course I'm not angry," he said, crouching to her level. "I was only worried about you. Worried that you might be running away."

  "Not from this place. I like it here. I like—" She bit her lip. "You aren't leaving, are you?"

  A few moments past he couldn't have answered that question. Johanna had said that May's mother had left her at the Haven two years ago. Abandoned her, from the look of it. Had this girl known anything but maltreatment and neglect in her former life?

  Even his cowardice had its limits. He'd be damned before he added to her pain.

  "No, May," he said, "I'm not leaving." He offered his hand. "I seem to have forgotten my shoes. Will you help me find them?"

  She smiled—a heartbreaking, elusive thing—and took his hand.

  They returned to the house together. A woman stood in the back doorway, lantern held aloft, waiting to guide the errant strays back to safety.

  Quentin stopped before her. "You can douse the lamp, my dear doctor," he said, grinning past the lump in his throat. "I'm here to stay."

  Chapter 9

  Johanna sat up in her bed, throwing off the covers with a jerk. She came to full wakefulness a moment later. Only a dream. Odd; she so seldom remembered her dreams, and nightmares like this were rarer still. Something about running… away from a threat without solid shape, a creature that panted after her, never more than a step or two behind.

  A wolf had run at her side. She had felt no fear of the beast, only a sense of companionship and well-being. She remembered arguing with it, about whether to stand and fight, or run; the wolf had won the argument. So they fled, to no avail. At the very last instant, when the thing had almost caught up with them, the wolf whirled about and crouched, a shield between her and their pursuer. And from the mouth of the amorphous shadow came Quentin's baritone, strangely altered: "I'm here to stay."

  Considering the ridiculous nature of the dream, she ought not to have found it so disturbing.

  She pushed her heavy hair away from her face and swung her legs over the side of the bed. For the first time since adolescence she subjected her large, sturdy feet to a critical examination. Vanity was something she'd dispensed with long ago, as being of no use to a female physician in a world of men, and quite pointless in her particular case. She was not beautiful, nor of the dainty sort so many men preferred.

  "You pretend to be a man," Rolf had said, all those years past. He had not meant it as a compliment. It was one of the last things Rolf ever said to her before they formally ended their engagement.

  He had found her overwhelming, unwomanly. Quentin didn't. The fact that she was comparing the two men troubled her.

  She went to the washbasin and bathed her face, neck, and arms with tepid water. A bath would be welcome this evening, if there was time. Mrs. Daugherty was off today, which meant that Johanna would be serving up the meals, conducting Irene and Lewis through their sessions, visiting with May, looking after Papa—he was very much in need of a walk outside in the fresh air—and supervising Oscar in his various activities and chores. She would spend an hour with Harper, hoping to get some further response from him. And then there was Quentin.

  She stared at her face in the mirror above the basin. A plain, somewhat ruddy face with high cheekbones, full lips, a slightly snubbed nose—thoroughly Germanic. Serviceable. Honest. All she needed for her work, where trust and compassion mattered far more than beauty.

  Quentin had kissed those lips. She touched her mouth. It didn't throb anymore.

  Her threadbare cotton nightgown lay against her body like a second skin. She peeled it off and studied her figure with severe objectivity.

  Broad shoulders—too broad for the current taste. Full breasts. They might be considered by some to be an asset.

  Her waist was small enough in proportion, but her hips more than made up for what her waist lacked in inches. Childbearer's hips, in a woman who would almost certainly never bear a child.

  Long, strong legs. Arms more like a washerwoman's than a lady's. Large hands.

  They seemed small when she was with Quentin.

  "Ha," she scoffed, shaking her head. "Du kannst immer noch ein Dummkopf sein, Johanna."

  She dressed as efficiently as always in austere under-drawers, chemise, a single petticoat, and a mended but perfectly adequate dress several years out of date, meant to be worn with a bustle she didn't own. Homely but sensible shoes. She put up her hair in the regular, utilitarian style, taking no more time on it than she ever did.

  Oscar was already at the breakfast table, while Irene lounged at the kitchen door in her wrap, looking out at the bright morning with infinite boredom. Lewis seated himself quietly in his corner. May peeped in the window and dropped from sight.

  Quentin made no appearance. Sleeping late, as he was no doubt in the habit of doing.

  She realized that she'd been holding her breath, wondering if there would be a lingering awkwardness in facing him. For her own part, she had strengthened her determination to forget yesterday's blunder.

  Forget, and forgive herself.

  She served up day-old bread, cheese from the pantry, Gertrude's fresh milk, and overcooked eggs, which only Irene complained about. During breakfast, she engaged each of the patients in conversation. Irene and Lewis seemed less inclined to trade their accustomed barbs, but Oscar was his usual irrepressible self, telling of a bird's nest he and May had found in the woods, and the big red dog he'd tried to chase up the hill.

  "It was mighty purty," he said. "And big, too. I wanted
to pet it."

  "Stay away from stray dogs," Lewis said unexpectedly. "They may bite." He paused to divide his second egg into a precise grid of bite-sized pieces.

  "Don't you like dogs, Mr. Andersen?" Oscar asked.

  "He doesn't like anything." Irene sniffed.

  Lewis looked up, his gray eyes bitter with animosity. " 'Judge not lest ye be judged.'"

  "That's terribly amusing," Irene said. "Weren't you the kind of preacher who called fire and brimstone down on everyone else in the world?" She leaned on the table, her breasts spilling over the edge of her dressing gown. "I know your kind. People like you are so afraid of their own lusts that they see evil in everyone else."

  Johanna looked sharply at Irene, hearing the ring of honesty in her voice. She remembered her resolve to speak to the actress about the new gown—one more thing she'd let slip because of her preoccupation with Quentin.

  Lewis shot up from his chair, face pale. "You… you—I saw you sneak off into town last night, when you thought no one saw. 'As a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.' "

  Johanna stood, demanding their attention with her silence. "This is not a place of judgment," she said. "We are here to help one another. Irene, I'll have a word with you after breakfast, in my office."

  Irene pressed her lips together and seethed. Oscar, sensitive to arguments, hunched over his plate. Johanna patted his shoulder and reminded him of the game they were to play later that day. He brightened and finished his breakfast.

  May didn't repeat yesterday's daring foray into the kitchen, so Johanna left a plate on the doorstep for her. The girl needed more attention than she'd had of late. Johanna planned to lure her into a talk with the promise of a new book she'd brought back from San Francisco, and took a breakfast tray to Harper.

  Harper wasn't in his chair. He wasn't even in his room.

  Alarmed, Johanna set down the tray and ran into the hall. The back door stood open. She stepped through the doorway and found Harper sitting on the wooden bench in the garden, his hands hanging between his knees.

  "Harper," she said.

  He turned his head. "Doc," he croaked. "Is that you?"

  She closed her eyes and whispered a childhood prayer. "Good morning, Harper. How are you feeling?"

  "Tired," he said. "Hungry. Like I've been asleep for a long, long time."

  How long had it been since he'd said so many words, with such perfect rationality? It sometimes happened that patients spontaneously emerged from a deep melancholy or cataleptic state, but she hadn't envisioned such a favorable development with Harper.

  She masked her excitement and smiled in encouragement. Keep the conversation casual. Let him take the lead.

  "I was just about to bring you your breakfast," she said.

  "Much obliged." He squinted at her, as if looking into the light. "Where's the dog?"

  She felt another surge of hope. His memory must be functioning if he could recall not only her name, but also a brief visit that had occurred months before. "The dog I brought to the Haven in April?"

  He shook his head. "Last night. It was last night."

  You cannot afford to be overly optimistic, she warned herself. "I'm sorry, Harper. There was no dog here last night."

  "It was in my room, right beside me," he said with soft-spoken conviction.

  Was he hallucinating? If so, she must tread all the more carefully. "I've left a tray for you in your room," she said. "Would you care to come in?"

  "Do you think I could eat out here?" He raised his face to the sky. "The sun's so warm."

  "Yes, Harper, of course. I'll return directly."

  She left Harper basking in the sunshine and hurried into the house to retrieve the tray. On the way out she noticed that Quentin's door was open, and paused to glance inside. The bed was neatly made, but he wasn't there.

  Gott sei Dank. No distractions from that direction…

  Her relief was short-lived. Harper wasn't alone in the garden. Quentin stood beside the bench, bare-chested, his freshly mended shirt draped over his shoulder. Johanna forgot the tray in her hands.

  She gazed mutely at Quentin's back, wide through the shoulders and trim at the waist, and observed with fascination the flex of his muscles as he put on the shirt. Hot prickles stabbed at the base of her spine. Her mouth went dry.

  He turned around, feigning surprise. "Johanna. I didn't see you there."

  Disregarding the heat in her cheeks, she set the tray down on the bench beside Harper. The former soldier's gaunt face broke into a smile.

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said. "It looks delicious."

  "You may call me Johanna," she said. "I see you've met Quentin."

  "I just got up myself," Quentin offered. "We've been talking."

  Johanna looked from Quentin to Harper in concern. They seemed at ease with each other, though she couldn't imagine that Harper had done much of the talking. And while she knew Quentin to be kind, he hadn't her training in dealing with those who'd been seriously ill. He was ill himself.

  Yet she had admitted that he had a way with people. Harper had reacted to his presence the first time Quentin visited him in his room. They shared an experience of war and conflict that she did not.

  There was so much she had yet to learn, and needed to know, about both men. Would fellow soldiers confide in one another as they wouldn't with a civilian, even their physician?

  Her instincts told her that this was an unorthodox but legitimate approach. Harper and Quentin might actually help each other.

  It was worth considering, in due course.

  "You mustn't tire yourself, Harper," she said. "When you're finished, I'd like you to return to your room and rest. Quentin—" She glanced at him, not permitting her gaze to drift to the open collar of his shirt. "Would you kindly locate May and ask her to come to the parlor? I'm sure she's somewhere about. I have something to give her. You and I shall meet for our next session in my office at three this afternoon."

  "I am at your disposal, Doctor," he said, clicking his heels with a British soldier's precision. The gesture was uncharacteristically formal, as if he'd sensed the conflict in her mind and respected it.

  "Harper," Quentin said, nodding to the other man. "We'll talk again."

  "Yes," Harper said. He watched Quentin stride off toward the woods. Without intending to, Johanna did the same. She recalled Harper's presence only when he gave a low cough.

  "A good man," he said.

  "Yes." She didn't feel prepared to elaborate on that subject at the moment. She noted with pleasure that Harper had finished his meal; his appetite had returned along with his reason, "If you are still hungry, I can bring you more. Shall we go in?"

  Harper struggled to his feet, and Johanna helped him regain his balance.

  "Sorry… I'm not in better shape, ma'am," he said, flushing.

  "You have been confined to your room for many months," she said. "You must be patient in recovering your previous strength." She let him take the next few steps on his own. "How much do you remember?"

  He felt his beard, testing its neatly trimmed length. "I remember you, ma'am. The room, and the dog. I can't rightly say that I remember much else."

  "That is not surprising. You came to stay with us—my father and me—some time ago. You've been ill, and we hoped to make you better."

  "Am I?" He met her gaze with warm hazel eyes, so mild that it was difficult to believe that he'd ever had bouts of manic, even violent behavior.

  Even the insane deserved as much honesty as possible. "It is too soon to be sure," she said. "But until this morning, you were not speaking. Now you are. I would like to talk more with you about what has happened, and how you feel."

  Depending on how much he did remember, and how stable he seemed, she would gradually introduce the idea of hypnosis and gauge his reaction. In the meantime, she'd spend a few hours each day simply talking, and allowing him to do so.

  And if Quentin's company seemed ben
eficial…

  Be methodical, Johanna. One step at a time.

  Harper was reachable, but far from well. Quentin seemed normal on the surface, but so much was locked away underneath.

  There was no telling what might happen in the coming weeks.

  Excited, even flustered in a way she considered most singular, she escorted Harper to his room to rest and threw herself into her daily routine. First she met Irene in her office and asked about the woman's new gown. Irene, unsurprisingly, was evasive; after steady questioning, she admitted that she had gone into town to buy the cloth and pattern, and made the gown herself. She pressed her lips together rebelliously when Johanna reminded her that she was not to leave the Haven grounds unescorted. Nothing could induce her to explain how she'd come by the money to purchase the rich fabric for such a garment.

  Johanna dismissed Irene and considered the problem. Short of confining the actress to her room, she couldn't be sure that Irene wouldn't visit Silverado Springs again. If she took the woman into town with her more frequently, perhaps Irene's desire to "sneak out" might be lessened.

  Satisfied with that temporary solution, Johanna dealt with her father's needs and visited with him for half an hour, pretending that she didn't miss his imperturbable good humor and wise council. Oscar was kept busy with a new puzzle Johanna had ordered, made especially for him by a craftsman in town—one just difficult enough to stretch his mind without causing tears and frustration.

  Quentin was as good as his word, and delivered May to the parlor before making himself scarce again. May showed every inclination of wanting to trail after him, but her pallid face lit up when she saw the book Johanna had brought back from San Francisco. Books were the single topic of discussion in which May could become as eloquent as any young girl her age.

  Or had been, until Quentin. Johanna suspected she could be encouraged to talk about him with very little effort. She trusted him. Could he be instrumental in helping the girl overcome her remaining fears?