Luke (BBW Country Music Bear Shifter Romance) (Bearly Saints Book 3)

by Becca Fanning

  Setting the guitar on the bed, she opened the case and reached for her best friend. The Gibson had belonged to her grandfather, Granny’s husband, who had gotten it from his father, who had accepted it in trade for some labor he had provided for a man in town in the early 1930s. Even scratched and worn as the finish was, it was the most beautiful thing she had ever owned, and her greatest joy was losing herself in the music it produced.

  Addy had been home-schooled, because by the time she was five, things had gotten to the point at which she couldn’t safely mix with other people at all. Her family’s books had provided her with plenty of reading material, though, and Granny had proved to be an excellent teacher. When she’d been fifteen, Addy had managed to take and pass her GED exams at the local library, which had gotten the state off their backs about Addy not attending public school. Nine years later, she knew Granny was right: As much as Addy hated to even think about it, she was going to have to figure out what her future was going to be. Loving the farm wasn’t enough. Yes, she could manage to feed herself, but there were times when one woman couldn’t do for herself. She and Granny managed together, because Granny could call on the extended family for help, if they needed a strong back.

  Would they come if I asked them to?

  Addy frowned. When Granny died, their extended family—most of whom had never hesitated to treat Addy as an oddity at best and a complete freak at worst—would nevertheless probably insist she come live and work on one of their farms, leaving this one to be swallowed up by the woods. She hated the thought of Granny’s farm dying that way, but she wouldn’t have the money to keep it up, unless…

  Addy looked over at the crumpled letter she had dropped in the middle of her desk, and sighed. Sinking to the edge of the bed, she began tuning her guitar. Someone wanted to buy one of her songs. She couldn’t imagine it, but if they did, what might that mean for her income? She hated the thought of actually selling her songs—it was too much like selling a part of herself—but maybe, if the band really appreciated them, maybe then it would be okay?

  Shaking her head in annoyance at her own indecision, Addy left the letter where it sat, and taking up her guitar, headed for the front room, muttering to herself. She had reread Gone with the Wind recently, and Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlet O’Hara had it right. “‘I can’t think about that right now. If I do, I’ll go crazy. I’ll think about that tomorrow.’”

  Addy settled on the small couch, leaning back and allowing her fingers to wander over the strings of her beloved guitar. She was self-taught, having used an old chord chart she had found in the guitar case to get her started. Later she’d found chords of her own, the actual names of which she didn’t know, but they worked with her melodies. As she played, she began to relax, and soon the agency’s letter and any thoughts of the future were swept away in the music.

  Overnight temperatures had left frost on the ground, and Addy welcomed the fresh, crisp fall air into her lungs as she stepped out of the chicken coop early the next morning. The chickens had been in fine form, and there would be enough eggs to take some to the market. She was glad, because she had spied a used rhyming dictionary at the thrift shop earlier in the week, and she would now be able to buy it, if no one else had snatched it up. She scanned the hills and marveled, as she always did, at the beauty of the countryside. The drop in nighttime temperatures had begun to paint the forestland in a wash of yellow and red.

  The sound of a car making its way up their long drive brought her attention back to the present. Addy moved quickly to take the eggs into the cabin as a mid-sized SUV drove into the clearing.

  “Granny, someone’s here,” she called out.

  “I hear ’em,” Granny said, coming in from her bedroom, where she had been sorting linens. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Addy said, setting her basket on the counter and reaching into a cabinet for the cardboard egg cartons the market provided for their eggs. She would wash the eggs and let Granny take care of whoever had come to call.

  “Aren’t you even interested?” Granny asked, reaching for her shawl.

  “No.”

  Granny shook her head and muttering, went to see who it might be.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the stranger said when Granny opened the door.

  “Well, good morning, young man,” Granny replied.

  Addy thought she detected approval in her grandmother’s voice and braced herself, knowing the polite “young man” would be asked in for tea.

  “Is this the Spencer place?” he asked.

  “It is. May I ask who’d like to know?”

  “The name’s Saint, ma’am,” the stranger said. “Mark Saint. I’m here about a letter sent to you by Melinda Darlin’ concernin’ a song?”

  At least Granny sighed before she opened the door wider in invitation. “Of course you are. Come on in.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Addy paused then carefully placed the egg she’d just washed and dried into the waiting carton. She turned to the newcomer—it would have been unforgivably rude not to—but she was careful to keep back in the shadows of the kitchen.

  “This is my granddaughter, Adelaide,” Granny said, moving toward the kitchen. “Can we interest you in a cup of tea, Mr. Saint?”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I would enjoy that.”

  “Where did you come from this morning, Mr. Saint?” Granny asked, reaching for the tea kettle, which was already simmering on the stove. “Good, heavens, you didn’t drive all the way from Nashville this mornin’, did you?” she added, with a quick glance over her shoulder.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I drove across state yesterday and stayed with my folks last night.”

  “So you don’t live around here, then?”

  “Well, we—my brothers and me—we have a place in Nashville, now, but the family still lives up in Clayton Hollow. That’s near Thorn Hill.”

  “I know of it. You still have some family in these parts, then.”

  “Well, you could say that, ma’am,” he said, grinning. “Our pa was one of ten and our ma one of eight, so I’d guess that qualifies as ‘some.”’

  Granny laughed and gestured toward the kitchen table where the man took a seat. Addy could only stand and stare, frozen in place by the man’s appearance. He was tall—well over six feet—and as broad-shouldered as some of the lumberjacks she’d seen pass through the village. His jeans were worn, as were his flannel shirt and boots, but he was clean and didn’t look at all sloppy. His hair, trimmed neatly short, was the color of the old mink stole Granny kept in her hope chest, and it gleamed where the sunlight touched it through the window. His voice was low-pitched and smooth. She imagined it turned heads when he sang.

  “As I’m sure you must have guessed, Mr. Saint,” Granny said, adding boiling water to the tea pot and dunking the tea ball into it, “Addy is the one who wrote the song. I’m just the one who sent it.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m certainly glad you did. It’s a beautiful song, and we’d sure like to record it.

  “And would you want a woman to sing it?” Granny asked, placing a mug for him on the table and filling it.

  “Granny…” Addy said.

  “It sure does seem to call for one, doesn’t it?” Mark said. “That’s one of the things I’d like to talk to your granddaughter about.”

  He looked up from his tea mug, and his eyes met Addy’s. She couldn’t quite suppress a gasp, for his were the same deep golden color she saw whenever she looked in the mirror.

  “What do you say, Ms. Spencer?” Mark asked softly. “Would you be willin’ to sell us the rights to perform your song? And might you be willin’ to sing it with us? It sure does speak from the heart about this place.” He gestured broadly. “Makes it just the kind of song we like to perform.

  “And in case you’re wonderin’,” he added, “The Four Saints don’t go for any of that glitter and bright lights, pyrotechnics and smoke crap—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. We sing abou
t home and family, love and life. We stick with acoustical instruments only—I play the same bass fiddle my great uncle used to play—and we don’t amplify any more than we have to. We like small gigs and small recording studios, none of the big time concert venues or high tech bells and whistles.

  “So, iffen you’d be interested, I’d sure like to take you to Nashville and introduce you to my brothers.”

  “You want to take Addy with you now?” Granny asked, shocked into interrupting.

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” he assured her. “It’s a long drive to Nashville, so we’d have to leave early in the mornin’. And I can wait a couple of days, though I should be back in Nashville by sometime on Thursday, if that’d work for you. You’ll probably want to talk to Mel on the phone before we leave, too, just to set your mind at ease.”

  “Mel?” Granny asked when Addy remained mute.

  “Melinda Darlin’,” he said. “She’s our agent at the Konstantine Talent Agency, though truth be told, she a lot more to us, too. See, Mel’s gonna marry my older brother, Matt, in the spring, so she’s pretty special to all of us. Anyhow, she’s got an apartment with a guest room, and she said to tell you she’d be glad to have you stay with her while you’re in Nashville, so you don’t have to worry about a hotel or bein’ alone.”

  The last he said to Addy, his expression expectant. Addy still couldn’t move. She felt a panic attack coming on along with the first twinges of what she feared most.

  “Addy, darlin’?”

  Granny’s soft enquiry broke Addy free from the spell Mark had put her under, and she shook her head.

  “I can’t.”

  “Sweatheart...”

  “No! I can’t!”

  Addy lunged for the door and in seconds she was running as fast as she could across the yard and up into the forest beyond. She thought she heard the man calling to her, but she didn’t look back. As she ran on, the incline got steeper, and her lungs began to burn with the effort to climb. In moments she felt the beginnings of the change that frightened her so much. Soon her legs were reshaping, their muscles and sinews, taking on a new form. As she scrabbled for purchase in the undergrowth, her arms lengthened and her fingers became claws, and soon she was running on all fours, her ears pointed forward, her nose scenting the air, her whiskers sending back signals as she crashed through the underbrush. The mountain lion she had become gobbled up the distance with little effort.

  When she reached the giant sugar maple overlooking a wide expanse of meadow, she dropped down into the shade, panting. This was her favorite spot, her favorite tree anywhere on her family’s hundreds of acres of mountainside forest. The cold night had turned the leaves on the outside of the tree to a brilliant yellow, while the inside branches still showed some green. The stark contrast between the bright yellow and the cloudless, clear blue sky beyond made her heart skip a beat. The wildlife at first disturbed by her sudden appearance began to rustle once more as she lay there, still as the rocks, her tawny side barely moving, in and out, as her breathing slowed. Then after a time, she felt the change come on her, and the mountain lion became the woman again.

  Addy sighed and remained still, her not quite as sharp eyesight passing over the valley below her. Late summer flowers continued to bloom stubbornly among the grass. She would have to pick some for Granny on her way back. She thought of the disappointment her running off had undoubtedly caused her grandmother and blinked back tears.

  “I’m sorry, Granny,” she whispered, “but I just can’t face it.”

  Addy had never had any control over this change that happened to her. From the time she was three, anything that made her at all nervous could trigger it, and it wasn’t until she was away from the perceived danger that she would turn back to herself, and even that wasn’t necessarily by her choice. There had been times, however, when running away had not been enough, and as a mountain lion, she had never had enough control of her own actions to stop herself from lashing out.

  Addy still shuddered to think about the hikers who had found her in the woods one day when she’d been sixteen. They’d been city boys from the east, by their accents, college boys full of both the arrogance and entitlement that comes from wealth. When the two of them had decided the “hillbilly” girl they’d found was theirs for the taking, Addy had tried to run, only to be knocked to the ground. They had ripped at her clothing, expecting an easy time of what they’d intended to do to her. Not surprisingly, she had changed, becoming a trapped animal of an altogether different nature. She had badly mauled both boys in her attempt to escape.

  Later Granny had found the newspaper article about the two hikers who had tangled with a mountain lion. In spite of the Fish and Wildlife Department’s stance that eastern mountain lions no longer lived in these hills, locals had believed the two boys. Both had ended up in the emergency room, one had nearly died. Both had been badly scarred for life.

  Addy rolled over onto her back and fought to control her shaking. She’d told Granny what had happened, and her grandmother had forced her to swear never to tell anyone—and she never had. The rest of the family had always preferred to ignore the fact of her father’s nature. Since his death, no one but Granny had even mentioned what he had been—and what Addy had become. Granny had told Addy stories about her father, as he had grown up. For whatever reason, Addy’s mother hadn’t seemed to mind what her husband became on occasion, but then she had been a forest ranger, and had probably been thrilled to marry a man who sometimes became an endangered species. No one had dreamed that Addy would be left alone to deal with what she had inherited from her father.

  Addy had almost fallen asleep when the bark of a squirrel announced approaching danger. Addy turned her head to look down the valley and saw a bear coming her way. She sat up, hoping her movement would scare him off. Anyone who lived in these mountains knew that bears were far more interested in their next meal than in tangling with a human being, so she didn’t want to surprise him. He surprised her, though, when he simply continued toward her. There was no doubt he saw her—he was looking right at her—but he wasn’t charging and just looked curious. Addy glanced behind her then reminded herself that climbing a tree wouldn’t do her any good, since the bear, no doubt, could climb a lot better and faster than she could.

  “Go away!” she shouted, standing and waving her arms.

  She had always found such a tactic worked before, but not this time. The bear just came closer, still not charging but still intent on her. Then it got close enough that she could see his eyes, and she froze. There was no mistaking that deep golden color, and she could have sworn the bear was smiling at her.

  In another moment, the bear morphed into something else, and she stood facing Mark Saint.

  “Your granny sent me this way,” he said, though she hadn’t asked. “She told me to look for the biggest sugar maple.”

  He paused and let his eyes roam over the gigantic, old tree.

  “Sure is pretty,” he said.

  Addy just stood there, wringing her hands and glancing around, looking for a way out of this encounter, a part of her wanting to flee but another part fascinated by what she had seen.

  Mark took a step closer, and though she refused to take a step in retreat, she swallowed hard.

  “Your granny also told me to look out for a mountain lion,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Turned out that wasn’t necessary, ’cause I saw you Shift as you climbed the hill.”

  Her eyes snapped to his, then, and hers were wide with fear.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said, as though reading her mind. He kept his tone soft, his stance nonaggressive. “You’re not alone, Addy, though I got the feelin’ you think you are.”

  It wasn’t quite a question.

  “I didn’t…” She stopped, not having a clue as to what she wanted to say.

  “You didn’t know there are others like you, did you?” He sounded surprised.

  She crossed her arms over her ch
est and hugged herself tightly.

  “Granny tells me my daddy did, but there’s no one else in the family. Then Daddy died, and...”

  “How old were you?”

  “Not quite two.”

  “How old were you when you started Shifting?”

  “Is that what you call it? About three, I guess. One day I, well, I just found this new game. Granny was surprised but happy for me—I think—then she told me I shouldn’t tell anyone, even my cousins, ’cause they couldn’t do it, and they might tell on me.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t even control it. Granny tried to help, but she didn’t know how to help me.”

  “She didn’t remember what your daddy did?”

  Addy shook her head. “She’d married Granddad, knowin’ about him, and it was Granddad who taught Daddy. But Granddad died before I was born. There wasn’t anybody else.”