SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  The Russian doctor stroked his chin. "This is a setback, Johanna, but we can still find a satisfactory conclusion. I will see what I can do."

  "And ask him to leave these rooms so that I can take May back to the buggy. I will not have her suffer again today."

  Bolkonsky answered with a bow and retreated. The door remained opened a crack behind him.

  "What the hell is going on?" Ingram demanded. "What's happened to my daughter? I thought you said this woman cured her."

  "I have no cause to doubt—" Bolkonsky began.

  "She's useless, a charlatan. I won't have May in her care one minute longer—"

  The door closed, shutting off his words. May remained still and mute.

  "All will be well," Johanna murmured, stroking damp hair away from the girl's face. "We'll be home very soon."

  May opened her eyes. "Where am I?"

  "Don't worry about that now. Just rest."

  "I'm not tired." She reached for Johanna's hand. "Are we going now?"

  Given what May had just experienced, that was a regular speech. She hardly seemed aware of what had set off her fit, or why she'd been afraid. Johanna cast up a wordless prayer of gratitude.

  "Soon," Johanna assured her. Bolkonsky entered the room, hovering in the doorway. Johanna joined him out of May's hearing.

  "He's gone," Bolkonsky said. "I'll keep you informed as to his decision regarding his daughter."

  "Sehr gut. I think it best if we postpone any more meetings for at least a week. Mr. Ingram should return to San Francisco for the time being."

  Bolkonsky didn't reply. His cool stare swept over May. "She seems recovered enough. I will send you a message at the Haven."

  Nodding her agreement, Johanna helped May up from the bed and walked her slowly back to the stable. May showed no further reaction to what had happened, nor made any reference to Bolkonsky or her father. It was as if they had already ceased to exist for her.

  And they would soon enough. The time for mere planning was past.

  Oscar galloped out to meet them when they arrived at the Haven, and immediately took charge of Daisy. Johanna saw May to her room and made sure she was calm and comfortable, then visited her father and Harper. She made an appointment to talk with Irene and Lewis before dinner, and then took Mrs. Daugherty aside where they could not be overheard.

  It was not a great leap of faith to trust the older woman with vital secrets, and Mrs. Daugherty was canny enough to have understood something of May's reasons for being at the Haven. She listened to Johanna's brief explanations with a furrowed brow and an increasingly dark expression.

  "You were right to come to me," she said. "I know just what to do. I've a cousin over in Sacramento—she's got girls near May's age, and she'd take her in if I asked. Warm-hearted woman who never turned down a body in need."

  "Like you," Johanna said, clasping Bridget's hands. "I have reason to believe that May's mother could return for her soon. If we can keep her safe until then—"

  "How fast d' we have to get her away?"

  "I think I've bought us a week. Time enough for a letter to reach your cousin."

  "Then let me get to writin' it, an' I'll get it out in tomorrow's post."

  Grateful and relieved, Johanna wandered about the house aimlessly for half an hour and finally found herself standing in front of Quentin's door.

  Her feet had carried her there without her brain's participation. She knew why. Her mind was bursting with a thousand concerns she wanted to share with someone who would understand, her worries for May chief among them. She went to Quentin instinctively, as once she'd gone to her father.

  He wasn't her father. How could she even consider it, after the events of two nights ago? If she couldn't treat him as a patient, far less could she confide in him as a peer. To do so would put them both in jeopardy.

  Nor dared she tell him what had happened at the hotel, given his closeness to May. It was a grave shortcoming that she felt the need to confess her fears to him.

  To what purpose? So that he might put his arms around her and tell her it would be all right, as she'd so glibly told May?

  So that he might kiss her?

  She shivered and rested her forehead against the wood of the door.

  Johanna stood just outside. Quentin could smell her, hear her breathing, sense her agitation through the flimsy barrier of wood. It was the first and only time she'd sought him out since he'd gone to her room the night before; he'd made himself scarce, and she'd been busy with May.

  Visiting with that new male doctor in town.

  The hair rose on the back of his neck, and he smoothed it down with one hand.

  Jealousy. Wasn't that what had sent him to invade Johanna's most private sanctum? Johanna had returned from town that day with a spring in her step and eyes alight with pleasure. Quentin had watched her, reluctant to go too near because of the potency of his feelings. Afraid to trust himself around her.

  Jealousy. Oh, he'd denied it vehemently to himself. He knew nothing of this Bolkonsky beyond his name and what little Mrs. Daugherty had told him. He was no physician to share Johanna's professional life and interests. He had no claim on her—none that extended beyond his imagination. But he had entered her room, uninvited, as no gentleman would do. That was where the memories became confused.

  Just like before, as if some outside force had snatched control of his mind and body, he could recall only scraps of conversation—enough to know that he'd behaved badly. Enough to send him slinking from her room in shame, and avoid her thereafter.

  What he remembered with painful intensity was arousal—overwhelming, single-minded lust—and the sight of Johanna's naked body.

  All it took was that one memory, and he felt as he had then. He spread his hand against the door as if he could touch her flesh. Mold it between his hands. Kiss it in a thousand ways and a thousand places.

  He groaned. At least he knew he hadn't attempted to ravish her, or he'd have been ejected from the house. Scant consolation.

  No consolation at all.

  It didn't help that he suspected the situation with Johanna, May, and the mysterious Dr. Bolkonsky had not turned out as Johanna hoped. Her manner had been considerably more sober yesterday, after her second meeting with the doctor. And today…

  Today she'd taken May to town with her, an extraordinary occurrence in itself. She certainly hadn't confided in him, but he'd seen her face upon her return, when she was too preoccupied to notice his presence.

  And May had come directly to him.

  He'd tried to speak with May, to learn why she'd gone with Johanna and what had transpired, but she hadn't responded to his careful questions.

  Quentin had never made a habit of studying human nature, but his werewolf blood made it relatively easy to know what humans were feeling. Johanna was no better than May at hiding her emotions. She was distracted and worried.

  He had added to that burden.

  What was he to Johanna Schell? A source of confusion, of apprehension, perhaps even of fear. He might be her patient, but he was not her lover, or her keeper.

  He might become her obedient hound, awaiting his chance to roll on his back in abject apology. A woman might tell a dog what she wouldn't share with a wolf.

  Should he hear that anyone or anything had hurt her or May, hound would become wolf in an instant.

  And do what? he asked himself, laughing derisively at his own conceit. This wolf's fangs have been pulled.

  "Quentin? Are you there?"

  He leaned into the door, resting his forehead against the wood.

  "I'm here."

  "We'll be having dinner soon, and a gathering in the parlor afterward. I hope you'll join us."

  It would be the first such gathering since things had gone so wrong a week ago. Johanna was striving for a sense of normality.

  "I'll be there," he said. And I'll behave myself—at least enough to learn what is troubling you and May.

  Her footsteps moved awa
y from the door. So, she was dodging the chance to speak to him alone.

  Wise, from her perspective. But two people could be alone even in a crowd, and he'd find a way.

  Dinner was a tense, quiet affair. Even Mrs. Daugherty said little. Afterward, in the parlor, Lewis made exaggerated efforts to stay far away from Quentin. Irene claimed the entire sofa; she smiled like the idiomatic cat who'd eaten the canary. Harper took a chair by the empty hearth, his gaze shifting from Johanna to Quentin and back again. Wilhelm Schell nodded to himself from his wheelchair and Oscar played with his puzzle, while May sat cross-legged on the carpet at Quentin's feet. Johanna ensconced herself at the head of the room, separate from everyone else—especially Quentin.

  She needn't have worried, when the two of them were accompanied by six potential chaperons.

  Chaperons with no power to prevent a loup-garou from doing whatever he wished…

  No. He forced out the savage, alien thoughts and concentrated on his objective. He had to get Johanna to himself, but not for the reasons his vivid imagination suggested. Casually, he picked up his chair and carried it close to Johanna's. May scrambled to follow him. From the sofa, Irene snickered.

  Johanna concealed any hint of discomfort. "Quentin," she said, loudly enough for the others to hear. "How was your day?"

  Such banalities were just another shield between them. "Better, I think, than yours," he said under his breath.

  She pretended not to hear him. "You have such a handsome voice, Quentin. I thought you might read to us this evening, from one of May's books." She smiled down at the girl. "Would you like to choose one, May?"

  "By all means," Quentin said, grasping the opportunity. "May, didn't you tell me the other day that you'd found an abandoned bird's nest? I'd very much like to see it, if you'll bring it along when you fetch your book."

  The girl hesitated, sliding a glance at Johanna. "I'll get it," she said, and scurried into the hall.

  Johanna sat very stiff and tall in her chair. Quentin smiled vaguely about the room for the benefit of the other patients, as if he had nothing at all on his mind.

  "About the other night—" he began.

  "There is something I must tell you—" Johanna said.

  They stopped at the same moment and stared at each other.

  "Ladies first, by all means," Quentin said.

  "No. Please continue."

  He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Johanna, I owe you a profound apology. I came into your room uninvited. I behaved like a cad. I am sorry."

  She breathed in and out several times. "Do you remember what you said and did?"

  "I remember… enough." He tried to capture her eyes. "I wasn't myself, Johanna. Will you accept my apologies?"

  "Of course, Quentin. As a doctor, I understand such things. Let us speak no more of it."

  His lip curled. There was his answer. It always came back to that, didn't it? Her professional detachment was her shield—maiden's armor, to protect her from unwanted intimacy or the chance of transgressing the patterns and accommodations of her life. She could still look at him and act as though he hadn't seen her naked body, never come close to—

  He tried to stop the thoughts as they spilled, unchecked, from the dark reaches of his mind, but they were stronger than he was. "Shall we speak of Dr. Bolkonsky instead?"

  She flinched, hardly more than a twitch of an eyebrow.

  "You took May into town today," he said, "to see this Bolkonsky."

  "Yes, I did."

  "And something went wrong."

  Johanna drew her legs under the chair. "May is not used to leaving the Haven."

  "It was more than that. I saw both of you when you came back. She was terrified, and you were gravely upset."

  "This is a personal matter."

  "Personal? For you, or for May?" He leaned closer to her, and she angled away. "If it concerns May's well-being, it concerns me as well."

  She straightened and met his gaze. "I appreciate your friendship for May, but she is my patient, not yours. And soon—" She broke off and visibly braced herself. "Given the complications that have attended my attempts to treat you, it seems best for everyone if I locate another doctor who can take over your case."

  He felt not so much shock as anger—righteous, cleansing anger. He clenched his fists in his lap. "You mean you want to get rid of me."

  Her eyes widened. "No, Quentin. It's for your own good."

  "For your good, because you're afraid."

  Her expression grew remote. "I wish only for you to receive the best of care. I may not be able to provide it… as I'd hoped." She swallowed. "You will not be leaving right away. There are few doctors to whom I'd entrust any of my patients, and the search will require diligence. In the meantime—"

  "In the meantime, we'll go on like this, avoiding each other, avoiding the truth. Neither doctor and patient, nor friends, nor lovers."

  She paled. "I would hope that we are friends, Quentin."

  Her distress drained the unwonted anger from his body. What was he doing to her? It couldn't have been easy to admit that she no longer felt qualified to act as his doctor, even though he was the one to blame. How could he expect her to acknowledge anything else?

  "Johanna—"

  May chose that moment to return to the parlor, bearing the bird's nest in her cupped hands and a book tucked under her arm. She laid the nest at Quentin's feet. A porcelain fragment of a blue robin's egg rested at its center.

  Quentin smiled for May's sake. "A treasure indeed," he said, lightly touching the nest. "Surprisingly sturdy, for all that it's made of twigs." He glanced at Johanna. "Very much like the human mind."

  "And should it tear, it can be mended," she said with her usual composure. "If the desire is strong enough."

  "Not so the egg inside." He tapped the broken shell with his fingertip. "No mending it once it breaks."

  "Then we must take that much greater care to protect it. May, did you bring your book?"

  With a little sigh of compliance, May began leafing through the book to find her favorite passage.

  Irene, feeling neglected, arose from her royal seat and sauntered over to join Lewis. He ignored her, and so she turned her attentions to Harper. Quentin heard the murmur of their conversation, during which Irene strove in vain to attract Harper's interest. He responded with neutral courtesy, which offended Irene's sense of self-importance. She whirled about and set her sights on more familiar prey.

  "I hear you have a new lover, Johanna."

  Johanna blinked at the sudden attack. "I beg your pardon?"

  "That handsome new doctor in town, Bolkonsky." Irene's smile was poisonous. "I don't know why you ever thought he would have an interest in you."

  May dropped her book on the carpet and stared at Irene. Quentin touched her shoulder. She was trembling.

  "Why don't we go for a walk, May," he suggested. "You can show me where you found the nest."

  The girl refused to budge. Johanna rose to take Irene's arm and steer her away from the others. Despite the low pitch of her voice, Quentin heard every word she spoke.

  "How do you know about Dr. Bolkonsky, Irene?"

  "You think I'm stupid, don't you? Just because I've been forced to live out here in this rural backwater with a house full of loonies and old maids—" She shook off Johanna's hand with a sneer. "Well, I do know about Feodor Bolkonsky. I know a lot more than you would ever guess. I still have admirers who have no intention of leaving me here to rot, and I—" She caught her painted lower lip between her teeth. "You might as well give up, Johanna." She pointed her chin toward Quentin. "Take him if you want. I don't."

  She flounced back to the sofa, leaving Johanna to stare after her. Quentin wasn't in the least surprised that Irene DuBois had her own devious ways of tapping into the local gossip, even if the town considered her one of the "loonies" herself. She certainly wouldn't balk at prying into Johanna's personal and professional affairs.

  She might even have alre
ady done what Quentin planned to do tonight. He hoped that Johanna didn't draw the same conclusion.

  "Trust a woman like Irene to know the names of every eligible male within a hundred-mile radius," he joked when Johanna rejoined him. "I believe that I should pity the man."

  "I do not." She sat down again, her expression shut to him. There'd be no further chance for conversation tonight.

  Quentin did as he was asked and read May's passage from The Story of Avis. The others made a pretense of listening, but he doubted they truly heard. When the gathering broke up an hour later, Harper made as if to speak to Quentin, only to fall silent. Quentin didn't encourage him. All his attention was centered on Johanna and May, the doctor and the innocent. They needed him, and, come the end of the world, he wasn't about to let them down.

  Just after the stroke of midnight, when everyone was tucked safely in his or her bed, Quentin slipped into Johanna's office. He knew exactly what he was looking for, and where to find it.

  If he felt like a thief in the night, that was exactly what he was. Johanna kept her notes in the desk drawer, unlocked. She obviously hadn't expected any of her patients to go rifling through them. Not Irene, who might have already done so. Certainly not Quentin.

  The recent entries about her meetings with Bolkonsky, and the visit with May, were tucked into the front of her notebook. Quentin sat down at her desk and read by the sliver of moonlight that shone through the office window. He sifted the lines of careful handwriting until he found the pertinent section.

  The earlier notations rang with the confident satisfaction she'd shown after the first encounter with Bolkonsky. What she said of the man bordered on infatuation. Quentin's hair bristled, and he had to force his mouth to close over his teeth, which had a tendency to bare at every mention of Bolkonsky's name.

  Fool, he told himself. Concentrate.

  Concentration paid off. Yes, she thought very highly of the doctor at first. Enough to be flattered by his attention, to write glowingly of his knowledge of hypnosis and his study of her father's work. She even wrote of her hopes that Bolkonsky might become Quentin's new doctor.

  But the next meeting's entry was different. May's father, he read, and stopped.