SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  She pulled the tousled sheets up to her shoulders and drew them tight. "I see," she said.

  "Don't hate me, Johanna." He knelt before her, pleading with his eyes—this aristocrat, this fine and handsome madman who had loved her so magnificently. "I couldn't bear it if you hated me."

  "Hate you?" Mein Gott. Hate him… how could she hate the man she loved?

  A shot of ice water mingled with the blood in her veins.

  Love.

  She smoothed her face to serenity and took his hand. "I could never hate you, Quentin. Not for any reason."

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. "My dear Valkyrie."

  Her heart stopped and started again, heavy and sluggish. She turned her hand to cup his cheek.

  "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for tonight."

  Mute, he kissed her palm and rose from the bed. He flipped back the sheets and gathered her up in his arms, lifting her against his chest. In a few long, silent steps he carried her from his room to hers, and laid her down in her own cool bed.

  "Sleep, Johanna," he said. He kissed her forehead and then her lips, almost chastely. "Sleep well."

  She slept so well that she woke sometime after sunrise, her body singing with remembered ecstasy after a night of glorious dreams.

  Dreams that completed what she and Quentin had not.

  She moved about the room only half awake, trying to hold on to the fantasies. And the memories. She saw herself in the mirror and wondered at this vision, this goddess she saw before her. She touched her breasts and remembered how Quentin had caressed and suckled them. She pressed her hand to her belly and imagined it filled with Quentin's child.

  That was not to be. Not so long as things remained as they were. And she must take great pains to be sure that the other patients didn't realize how her relationship with Quentin had changed. But now she knew what she wanted above all things in the world.

  Once she'd told herself that the only way to be free of her attraction to Quentin was to cure him. Curing him was still the only route to happiness for them both. They had gone beyond the safe association of doctor and patient, but she had a greater advantage than any she'd possessed in the past. She knew the full depth of Quentin's illness, and had faced his inner nemesis without submitting to it. She had a strong theory about how Fenris had come to exist.

  And she had love on her side.

  Love. It was much too new an idea to embrace fully. She must grow used to it by stages, little by little, until it became one with her heart. Love, and all its attendant expectations.

  She smiled foolishly at her reflection in the mirror and began to dress.

  With the perfectly valid excuse of keeping an eye on him, she paused at Quentin's door on the way to the kitchen. His belongings were in place and the bed was neatly made, but he had already stepped out. To the woods, undoubtedly, alone or with May. Once she'd started the morning routine, she'd make certain of his whereabouts and ask him to remain on Haven grounds.

  Furthermore, she must prepare May for her escape to Sacramento without alerting Quentin to the specifics of her plans for the girl. With luck, Bridget would hear back from her cousin soon, and she'd accompany May to a place where Bolkonsky and Ingram wouldn't find her. Much must be accomplished in the coming days.

  Mrs. Daugherty was at work in the kitchen, making breakfast. When she saw Johanna she stopped her work and bustled forward with an envelope in her hand.

  "Doc Jo!" she said, a little out of breath. "I have some-thin' for you. Just an hour ago, that Dr. Bolkonsky met me on the road and asked me to deliver this." She scowled. "He said it was urgent."

  That made it urgent for Johanna as well. She tore open the envelope. The letter was yet another request for her to meet him—not in town, but at a point halfway between the Haven and Silverado Springs. Once again he declined to visit the Haven, expecting her to come to him.

  Nevertheless, she couldn't afford to ignore him. Keeping him satisfied was her best way of holding him off until May was gone.

  She made her rounds to visit her father and the other patients, seeing to their immediate needs, and then asked Oscar to help her saddle Daisy.

  "Have you seen Quentin this morning?" she asked as she took the reins.

  "Nope. Not this mornin'." Oscar rubbed Daisy's nose. "May went out to look for him."

  They weren't together, then. But Johanna refused to be concerned. May wouldn't venture far from the Haven, given her experience in Silverado Springs. And after last night, Johanna suspected that Quentin had as much to think about as she did.

  "Oscar, you know the places where May likes to go. Would you find her and bring her home straightaway?"

  "I will, Doc Jo."

  "Thank you." She clucked to Daisy and set out for Bolkonsky's rendezvous.

  He was waiting for her as promised, mounted on one of the best horses from the town livery. His animal's restless pawing reflected the anxious expression on Bolkonsky's deceptively handsome face.

  "Johanna. I'm glad you came."

  She drew Daisy up beside him. "You said it was urgent."

  "Yes." His voice held a note of strain, and he kept looking back over his shoulder toward town as if he expected followers. "Something new has happened in Silverado Springs that I felt you should know about directly. Before someone else arrives to inform you."

  Foreboding stiffened Johanna's shoulders. "Go on."

  "Another man has been attacked," he said. "Last night, well after midnight. His body was disovered just outside of Silverado Springs. I am told the man was a local mine owner of some wealth, known chiefly for his cruel treatment of his Chinese workers. He was not well liked, so I hear—but someone resented him enough to kill him."

  "He's dead?"

  "Torn apart, I hear, though I have not seen the body."

  A metallic taste coated her mouth. "And they suspect that one of my patients is responsible."

  "Yes." He gave her a grave and sympathetic look. "I thought it best to warn you, so that you are prepared. After the previous attack on Ingram… the crowd was in an ugly mood this morning, and I fear—" He sighed. "I fear they may take matters into their own hands."

  "Without proof?"

  "What proof does a mob need? And there is more… two men from town claim to have identified a man lurking near the place when the mine owner was found. He bears, from the description, a striking resemblance to your Quentin Forster."

  With as much stern discipline as she'd ever employed, Johanna prevented herself from showing any reaction. "I see."

  "You do know where he is?"

  "Naturally. It's all an unfortunate mistake. I thank you for your warning." She turned Daisy away, but Bolkonsky caught at her reins.

  "My dear Johanna, I understand your dismay, but you can see now why it is necessary for me to take May with dispatch. She may be in danger from this—this madman, whoever he may be."

  "But we agreed—"

  "I'm sorry, Johanna. I'll be coming within the next few hours to fetch her. I would appreciate it if you'd have the girl's belongings packed and ready." He patted her arm. "I would prefer this to be as pleasant as possible, for all of us—without involving any outside authorities."

  Bolkonsky had made just such a threat before. The last thing she wanted now was the local law sniffing about the Haven.

  "Very well," she said. "I will do my best."

  She sawed at Daisy's reins a little too violently, and the mare tossed up her head with a snort. She murmured an apology and kicked the horse into a gallop for home, not bothering with farewells. Let Bolkonsky look to himself.

  As she must look to May and Quentin. All at once everything was falling apart, the reins of control slipping through her fingers. She had no notes or textbooks to consult, no protocols to fall back on.

  Quentin—Fenris—was all but accused of being a killer. If, indeed, Bolkonsky was telling the truth. He was not a man to be trusted on any count, but she had to assume the worst. An
d May was in immediate danger.

  So short a time ago she'd been filled with hope and happiness, imagining a future built upon love as well as science.

  That future, and all she'd ever believed in, was crumbling before her eyes.

  Chapter 19

  Quentin turned over in his bed, breathing in the scent of Johanna's body. Her perfume saturated the sheets, filling him with fresh desire and the urge to roll about and rub the scent into his skin like the wolf he could so easily become.

  Last night, after the loving, he'd ran as a wolf—swift, sure, and silent. There was no other way to express the joy, the fullness of his heart. And the frustration of self-denial.

  He'd done the right thing. He knew that. Johanna was still a virgin, free to give herself to another man without regret.

  Or free to choose him, if by some miraculous turn of events fate granted him one more chance.

  He got up and walked to the window, stretching in the shafts of morning sunlight until his bones cracked. Another chance. Was it possible?

  Only if he wanted Johanna, a life with her, enough to change: not from man to wolf, but from drunk to sober, from ne'er-do-well to competent adult, from coward to hero.

  He laughed at himself and pressed his forehead to the sun-warmed glass. The heroism was all Johanna's, if she could deliver him from his demons. But she couldn't do it alone. He must give up every trace of resistance and let her into his innermost heart, where she could drag his fears into the light. Where he must confront them unflinchingly, even those—especially those—he had never seen except as shadows.

  How he hated choices. Easier to run. Easier until you found yourself bound by stronger chains than any in that dark, stinking cellar…

  No. That dungeon was far away. Johanna was here, and now. Soon he'd see her, and all they'd shared would become his only reality. Soon he'd be a whole man again, able to love.

  He mouthed the word and choked on helpless laughter. Quentin Forster, in love—with a distinctly unglamorous, too-serious woman well past her first youth.

  An absurdity. Just like the rest of his life. Why should he be surprised?

  Whistling with nonsensical happiness, he washed and dressed with extra care. This late in the morning, Johanna would be busy with the others, but Mrs. Daugherty was bound to have some leftovers from breakfast. He'd bide his time, visit Wilhelm and talk to Harper. He was surprised that May hadn't come looking for him, but somewhat relieved. May was too young to be aware of what had passed between him and Johanna.

  Or was she? His good humor dimmed. May. What was to be done about her?

  Trapped in indecision, he walked out the door and found Lewis Andersen waiting in the hallway.

  The former minister shrank back as Quentin appeared, holding his gloved hands high like a shield between them.

  "Did you do it?" he whispered. "Did you kill that man?"

  "What?" His guts knotted. "What did you say?"

  "Thou… thou cursed creature of Satan. Did you kill him?"

  Quentin backed into the wall and felt blindly for its support. "Kill who?"

  "The owner of the Red Star quicksilver mine—Ronald Ketchum. The actress told us about it. He was found dead, torn apart." He sucked his breath through his teeth. "You did it, didn't you? You are evil." His hands trembled. "You will not kill again. I will stop you."

  Even in the midst of his horror, Quentin admired Andersen's courage. The man was hardly the heroic sort, yet he stood face-to-face with what he believed to be a monster. A killer. He had more grit than anyone knew.

  "If this is true," Quentin said past the constriction in his throat, "you won't have to stop me." He took a step forward.

  Andersen held his ground. He began to sing in a high-pitched, wavering voice—a hymn, "Soldiers of Christ Arise," that Quentin remembered hearing in his childhood.

  "I won't hurt you," he said, taking another step. "I must find Doctor Schell."

  "Stop." Andersen produced a gun from inside his coat and pointed it at Quentin's chest. Where he had acquired such a weapon, or how he knew enough to use it, was a subject for wild speculation.

  Quentin raised his hands. "Shoot, if you must," he said, floating within a bizarre calm. "I won't prevent it."

  "But I will."

  Johanna came up behind Andersen. She set her hand on his shoulder. "Give me the gun, Lewis."

  "But he is a killer, spawn of the devil. I must—"

  "You don't want to hurt anyone, Lewis. Even if what you say is true, he is entitled to representation before the law, is he not?"

  Her calm, reasonable voice worked its usual magic on Andersen. The muzzle of the gun tilted down. Johanna pried it from Andersen's fingers and held the weapon as gingerly as if it were a poisonous snake.

  "You would not listen before," Andersen said, never taking his gaze from Quentin. "You must listen now. He will come after you next."

  "What makes you believe that, Lewis?"

  His thin face puckered. "I know."

  "I have never given you cause to distrust my judgment, have I?"

  "No."

  "Then trust me now. Quentin will not hurt me. He won't hurt any of us." She looked into Quentin's eyes. "Whatever he may be, Quentin is not evil. No more than you or I."

  "You will… keep the gun?"

  "Yes. I must speak to Quentin now, but I shall not fail to protect myself. You would help me best if you'd gather the others and bring them into the parlor. Please fetch Mrs. Daugherty as well, and ask her to bring my father out of his room. It's very important that everyone stay indoors today."

  Andersen bobbed his head. "Yes. Yes, I understand." He cast Quentin a glance composed of equal parts fear and loathing and scuttled backward down the hall, watching them both until he passed out of view.

  Johanna released a long breath and stared at the gun in her hand.

  "You won't need that against me, Johanna," Quentin said lightly. Better to joke than to run wailing in despair.

  He hadn't known quite what to expect of their first meeting after last night's loving. Awkwardness, yes, and perhaps a little shyness on her part. A new familiarity between them. Possibly even her resolve that it should never happen again. Anything but this.

  His latest, brief flirtation with hope had already come to an end. Andersen had seen to that—Andersen and his accusations.

  Accusations Johanna confirmed with the bleak, drawn expression on her face.

  It was still a beautiful face, though the hair hung bedraggled about her shoulders and her forehead was moist with perspiration. He'd have to be dead not to appreciate it, however desperate his circumstances. Her face, her lips, her form from crown to toe were imprinted upon his hands and his lips and his heart.

  He didn't dare embrace her, though his mind and soul and body demanded the solace of her arms. He didn't dare move at all.

  "Andersen was telling the truth," he said. "Someone was killed last night."

  "So I have heard."

  "And you think… that I had something to do with it."

  Anguish darkened her eyes to pewter. "When you left me—" Her voice faltered just for an instant. "Afterward, where did you go?"

  "To the woods. And then back here."

  "Do you remember every moment?"

  Did he? Could he be certain he hadn't forgotten the forgetting itself? He remembered falling into bed, exhausted from his run, and then sinking into what he presumed was a deep, uninterrupted sleep…

  "I didn't drink," he said, frantically sifting his mind for plausible alibis. "I knew nothing of this Mr. Ketchum before Andersen told me."

  "He was known to mistreat his Chinese workers. As—" Her throat worked. "—as May's father might have mistreated her."

  His lungs stopped working. "You said something happened in town… the night I got drunk. You never told me what it was."

  "May's father was attacked and wounded."

  "Oh, God." He fell back against the wall and clutched at his head. Trouble always follow
ed in his footsteps, wherever he went, whispering of violence, of fear and hatred and suspicion. It had found him again, in this last and final sanctuary.

  But in all those times past, the whispers had never been of murder.

  He forced himself to look at her instead of cringing like a whipped dog. "Did I kill this man?" he asked, letting blessed numbness seep into his body.

  She shook her head, too fiercely. It savaged his heart to see her so torn, so vulnerable. She was the very pillar of solid strength to everyone here, including himself.

  He'd undermined that fortitude ever since he came to the Haven, hour by hour and day by day. Last night had shattered the remaining foundations of her life, and left her with nothing to be sure of.

  "Johanna," he said. "Did someone see me do this thing?" He straightened, staring past her. "I'll go into town at once and give myself up—"

  "No." She raised her chin. "We know nothing yet. No facts, only rumor. But there is something I must tell you, something I recently discovered. I wish that circumstances permitted me to explain more gradually. I fear it may be difficult for—" Tears filled her eyes. "I am sorry, Quentin."

  She led him into her office, still clutching the gun in a death grip, and closed the door.

  Then she told him.

  He didn't react at all. Johanna watched for signs of horror, denial, incredulity. None came. He listened to her account of Fenris's emergence, unmoving, as if she were describing a rather uninteresting acquaintance.

  That was abnormal in itself, almost frightening. She carefully edited her description of Fenris's advances upon her, but she doubted very much that he'd failed to guess what she omitted.

  When she was finished, he gazed blankly at the wall and said nothing. Minutes ticked by. Precious minutes that she dared not waste, for May's sake as well as his.

  Bolkonsky might arrive in a matter of hours. Oscar had not returned from his search for May, and if he did not come soon she'd go looking herself. Her original plan for the girl's escape was no longer viable; Bridget would simply have to spirit May out of the area while Johanna concocted a story that Bolkonsky and Ingram were bound to find wildly implausible. But she didn't dare risk facing them down with May still present.