“But then the years went by and you were still a wolf. Decades went by, and that’s what I have trouble understanding. Even for a Changeling, thirty years is one hell of a long time.”
“It didn’t feel like a long time.”
“Not to you. Not to you, but you ought to feel it from this side. From the side of all the people you left behind to miss you. Christ, you’re my brother, James, and I miss you every damn day of my life.”
Douglas set the grocery bags on the kitchen table, a shapeless heap of red and white plastic. There was milk and other things that should go in the refrigerator, but they could wait. What he wanted, needed, was in the brown paper bag. He looked around, checked the coffeemaker, smelled it. The coffee had been on too long, at that stage where it was just this side of syrup, but at least it hadn’t burnt. It would be strong, but maybe he needed it strong today. He poured two thirds of a cup, then drew the black-labeled bottle from the bag, topped up his cup with the amber liquid and drank it down greedily.
Better
.
Douglas felt his jangled nerves settle as the warmth spread through him. Filled the cup again, half and half this time.
Why won’t she leave things alone?
He liked the lady vet but she just had to bring up the goddamn white wolf. Okay, okay, so he’d panicked and lied when there was no real reason to lie. She was right, there were real wolves in the region. Lots of them, in fact. He wished that what Dr. Descharme suggested was true, that years ago Roderick Harrison had seen a genuine wolf or two or twenty that now inspired delusions of werewolves in his confused mind.
If wishes were horses
. . . What he wished for most was that he hadn’t seen the white wolf for himself. He wished he had never seen it become a tall blond man in the blink of an eye, or witnessed him discovering the woman on the floor. Douglas especially wished he had never heard that inhuman howl of unspeakable anguish. He had awakened twice this week in a sweat, with the howl ringing in his ears. Always, for the first few heart-pounding seconds at least, he was certain it was real and not in a dream. He poured another cup, mostly whiskey this time.
Werewolves. His father had never mentioned the subject again, at least not in his son’s hearing. But the old man had still gone out at night, alone, sometimes. He always took his guns. He invited Douglas once, but he stayed in bed under the blankets with his eyes squeezed tight and pretended to be asleep. His father had made a disgusted noise and never asked him again. Thank God. Being an accessory to one murder was enough. Two, said the little voice inside.
Two murders, it was a double-murder. She was pregnant, just like Rosa. You watched your father do it, Dougie, watched him shoot her, kill her and her unborn child and you did
nothing
.
He drank the cup quickly, hoping to drown out that little voice, but he kept thinking about Dr. Descharme’s questions. Come to think of it, his father never said much about how he found out about the werewolves, only that he’d seen them often. Knew their habits, knew their secrets. But how? How did he know so much about them? And did he learn it before or after they killed his wife?
Filled with liquid courage, Douglas headed for his father’s room. He stood in the doorway and watched his father snore. The old man had been wild for the rest of the night after the lady vet had driven away. But when morning came, he was remarkably clear-headed. He’d dressed, eaten, then saddled his horse. He rode out and checked over the livestock, inspected the fences, as if there wasn’t a single thing wrong with him and never had been. Douglas wouldn’t let him drive no matter what, not even an ATV in the pasture—and God, he hated the fights they had over that—but his dad’s favorite horse was a sensible old mare who didn’t put up with any nonsense. If his dad slipped into an Alzheimer’s fog, the horse seemed to know. She simply brought him back to the house and stood there, waiting for someone to come out and get him.
Usually when Roderick Harrison had good days, he didn’t have good nights. At best he would thrash in uneasy dreams, murmur unintelligible words. Sometimes he would wake up screaming that the wolf was coming, that the white devil was going to get him. Douglas would have to comfort his father like a small child.
But not lately. Last night the old man had slept peacefully without waking, and thanks be to Jesus, it looked like he would do so again. For a moment Douglas contemplated the drink in his hands, considered pouring it out. If his father was sleeping, he might be able to as well . . . but the drink was his insurance against dreams. He took a quick swallow, then another and headed down the hall to his room, taking the glass with him.
The moon was high, and James was still standing on the porch. He hadn’t moved in an hour. Connor stood at the kitchen window, watching his brother and wondering for the hundredth time if he had done the right thing. He had argued hard for this decision, but it was James who had to make it. And he had. There would be no going back now.
Connor had called the family. Their parents, Ronan and Gwyn, were presently in Scotland, and one sister, Carlene, was in Wyoming. The rest lived here in Dunvegan and they were on their way.
He sensed the approach of Changelings in wolfen form, moving in swiftly from the southeast, heard the mental banter that hallmarked the twins, Culley and Devlin. He noted that their sister Kenzie was with them and knew that James heard them too and saw him stiffen. For a brief second Connor wondered if he’d pushed James too far, too fast. If he was going to Change or leave. Or both.
Quit worrying, Connor. Since when has anyone ever talked me into doing something I didn’t want to do? I made the decision and I’ll deal with it.
Connor’s throat tightened and his eyes stung as James sat slowly, deliberately, on the top step and waited for his family to find him.
Chapter Seventeen
“T
he cow had a little problem, that’s all. She threw a big calf. These things happen all the time with livestock. You’re not a cattle rancher, so I don’t expect you to understand.”
Jillian folded her arms and glared up at the dark-haired man. Gerald Mountney Junior looked too well dressed to be a serious farmer. Although his tanned face was almost magazine-cover perfect, she could see something worse than cruelty behind it. Indifference. “I understand that the cow had a prolapsed uterus. And it’s a hell of a lot more than a little problem when an animal in that condition doesn’t receive timely medical attention. It’s a wonder she isn’t dead.”
It was a veterinarian’s nightmare. Sometimes after a cow gave birth, the powerful contractions would push part of the actual uterus outside of the body, where it was susceptible to both massive infection and injury. As the responding vet, it was up to Jillian to wrestle the swollen, discolored organ back into place and put in the stitches that would hold it there. It had been a long, difficult, miserable job with no guarantee that the creature would survive. Her arms felt like spaghetti and would likely be sore for days.
“ ‘Medical attention’ is what I’m paying
you
for.” The smile became a hard line, the black eyes narrowed and glittered with anger. The smooth voice rose. “You just stick to your cutting and sewing, and leave the opinions to an experienced cattleman.” He began to push past her, but she quickly stepped in front of him.
“If you’re such an experienced cattleman, maybe you could explain to me why you dumped the cow in one of our corrals without telling anyone. And why you disappeared so we didn’t even know whose animal it was when we finally found it.” Jillian met the man’s eyes without a flinch. “And every experienced cattleman I know hangs around to give us a hand with their animal. They don’t drop it off like goddamn dry cleaning.”
His face was far less attractive when it was flushed purple with rage. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you have no fucking idea who you’re dealing with.”
“I appear to be dealing with someone who shouldn’t be allowed to own animals. That cow should have been brought in immediately, not a day later. Better yet, it should have been a farm call. You should have called us to come out. We could have fixed it on the spot so the animal didn’t have to go through the additional stress of being transported.”
“That’s the opinion of someone with a shiny new diploma who thinks she’s better than everyone else. It’s your word against mine.”
“That’s the opinion of a trained veterinarian. You’ll find it holds up well in court.”
He took a quick step toward her and she braced herself, brought her fists up to ready in a classic Tae Kwon Do stance. Suddenly Mountney stopped dead, his eyes traveling upward and over her head. There was something else besides temper in his face now. A flicker of fear? To her surprise, he backed up a step, then another. Tried to speak and couldn’t seem to get anything out. Finally he spun on his expensive boot heel and stormed to his truck, a shiny club cab pickup in metal flake cherry. He spun gravel as he pulled out of the parking lot.
Jillian whipped around, thinking it was Connor behind her. “Hey, I had this under control. You didn’t need to—”
She was struck speechless as she found herself face to face with James Macleod. More like face to chest, since he was so tall.
“You’re right, you didn’t need any help,” he said. “But the man’s a bully, and sometimes the best way to deal with a bully is to stack the odds against him. I figured if he saw he was outnumbered, he might take up a lot less of your valuable time.”
The timbre of James’s voice stroked something deep inside her. Her cheeks went hot as her body clenched then went liquid.
Get a grip, girl!
Her body ignored her, making her annoyed at herself and now twice as annoyed at James. She scowled up at him even as she ran a hand through her disordered hair. “Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around and interfere with my work?”
“I didn’t interfere. Didn’t say a single word.”
Jillian narrowed her eyes at him, and he had the nerve to look innocent. It wasn’t a look that suited his rugged features. “I’m not going to say thanks.”
“ ’S not required. You didn’t ask me for help.”
“I didn’t
need
help. What I need right now is to get back to work. Maybe if you had a job, you’d have a lot less time on your hands to spend meddling with mine.” She saw the flash in his eyes as the dart hit home, and was feeling just petty enough to enjoy his irritation. Jillian knew she’d be mortified, even ashamed, later, but right now, she didn’t want to be the only one frustrated and annoyed.
“As a matter of fact, doc, I’m here on business. I need a vet’s signature so Birkie or Caroline can dispense some things on my list.”
“What list?”
He shoved a sheaf of paper into her hands. “This list. It’s for Connor’s farm. And since I have some feed to load, I’ll pick up these papers and the stuff later. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood then, but I doubt it. I don’t think I’ve seen you in a good humor yet.”
“I’m just fine until you show up.” Dammit! Would he quit looking at her with those eyes? Who told him he could have such sexy eyes? “And don’t think for a moment that I’m going to apologize for hitting you the other day.”
“That’s fine. I’m sure not apologizing for kissing you. Might do it again too. Consider yourself warned.”
She stood with her mouth open as he walked away. And cursed herself for noticing how well those jeans hugged that muscled butt.
“I know it’s close to closing, hon. But Connor’s still out in the corral with that injured heifer, and I need to ask if you’re up to seeing just one more appointment today.” Birkie held up a file.
Although she had endless patience for the animals that needed her help, Jillian found it was often downright difficult to extend that patience to some of the owners. Especially the ones who came in near the end of the day. Still, it wasn’t the animals’ fault if their owners couldn’t bring them in when Jillian was feeling more tolerant. James’s comments about her mood sprang to mind, and she worked up a smile for her friend. It turned out to be a faint one, but it was a smile. “I’d be glad to. Not a wild elephant with a toothache, is it?”
“Nope, just a small dog. It’s the owner that’s wild.”
Jillian didn’t dare ask, just took the file marked “Pinky” and headed for the exam room. She was scanning Connor’s notes when Charmaine Forrester breezed in. Or rather, her hair did.
Platinum curls were piled high atop the woman’s head, where they tumbled down in a caricature of an outdated Nashville style. The fluffy cascade almost hid a tight black T-shirt and finally ended where rhinestone-studded jeans seemed painted over sharp narrow hips. Jillian found herself mentally calculating as to which weighed more, Charmaine or her garish hair.
As the young vet watched, fascinated, the woman pulled a shoulder bag from under her bleached tresses, drew out a silky mass of white and black hair and plunked it on the stainless steel table. There it coalesced into a purebred Shih Tzu.
“This must be Pinky,” Jillian managed at last and automatically ran her hands over the dog’s body. Thin, too thin. Female, and with the permanently enlarged teats of a creature who’d given birth in recent months and not for the first time. The dog’s ankle-length coat was dull and falling out. Her eyes were dull as well. “What seems to be wrong with her?” she asked.
“Nothing’s wrong with her,” snapped Charmaine. “I just want to know if it took.”
“If what took?”
“Well, the breeding of course.” The woman looked at Jillian as if she was an idiot. “I paid two hundred bucks for Pinky to have an afternoon with a purebred stud, and I don’t want to pay another two hundred if I don’t have to. It’s bad enough that it costs me forty dollars to see you to find out. Where’s that good-looking Connor, anyway?”
Jillian ignored the question. “Normally we do a blood test to check for a hormone called relaxin, but this dog is obviously in no shape for breeding.” She wished she’d had more time to read the file. “When was her last litter, and how many litters has she had?”
“Why she’s had lots, because that’s her job, to make cute little puppies. Isn’t it, girlie-girl?” Charmaine hugged the dog to her and made smoochy noises at it. Pinky regarded Jillian with weary eyes.
She tried another tactic. “Guess you get a good price for those puppies, huh?”
“Six hundred dollars each, purebred, unregistered. If I get a real good stud and can register the puppies, I charge another three hundred.” The woman bounced Pinky up and down. “She usually has six puppies too, and last time she had eight,” she announced proudly.
Eight? Jillian imagined the tiny dog struggling to feed eight growing puppies. The nutritional demands of lactation called for high-quality food and lots of it, but even if Pinky was being fed like a champ—which she somehow doubted—the dog wasn’t getting any real recovery time. She took a deep breath and sucked back her anger, remembering the words of one of her instructors:
Most pet owners who fail to care for their pets do so out of ignorance rather than malice.
There must be a persuasive argument that this client could respond to.
“Can you hurry it up with the blood test, doc? I’ve got a nail appointment.”
So much for the educational approach. “A nail appointment? You’re using your dog as a goddamn puppy machine and you’re worried about a nail appointment?
“Hey, who the hell do you think you—”
Jillian cut her off. “This dog is exhausted. Do you get that? Completely and totally exhausted. Don’t you care about her at all?”
“Don’t you tell me I don’t care about my girlie-girl. What the hell do you know?”
“I know that Pinky’s practically skin and bones. She doesn’t have the physical resources to produce a litter. And if you keep pushing her to breed, Pinky’s going to die an early death, either during whelping or, if she survives that, from eclampsia when she tries to feed more pups.”
Charmaine’s face turned scarlet under her makeup and she clutched the dog to her, although whether to protect it or shield herself, Jillian couldn’t guess. “How dare you say things like that to me! Pinky’s been doing this for years. She’s a . . . she’s a
career mom
and she’ll be just fine.”
The argument gained both volume and intensity, and moved out into the empty waiting room until Charmaine Forrester finally whirled on her high-heeled boots and left in a huff, slamming the door so hard that the adoptions bulletin board fell from the wall in a flurry of papers, tacks, and photos.
Jillian stalked back down the hallway, clenching and unclenching her fists. It was some minutes before she was able to calm down. And a few more before she realized what an unprofessional ass she’d been to lose her temper like that. Arguing with a client, for God’s sake. Sure, she’d confronted that Mountney character, but she’d kept her cool and reported him to the authorities afterward. But she’d actually yelled at Charmaine.
She didn’t know where Caroline and Birkie were or what they must be thinking, but she was dead certain they’d heard it all. Connor might have heard it too, if he’d come in.
Crap. If he’d been three counties away, he’d still have heard it all.
Embarrassed color flamed bright along her cheekbones.
Crap, crap, crap.
She didn’t want to lose her first real job because she couldn’t control herself.
Could I have been more of an idiot?
What would her “Client Relations” instructor say? She’d done exactly what he had emphasized a vet should never do—gotten emotionally involved.
Jillian sank into a chair at the lunchroom table and laid her head on her arms. She should find Connor immediately and explain—no, not explain, there was no explanation, no excuse for her behavior. Apologize, that was what she should do first. Then resign. Maybe—
“Do you always beat yourself up like this?”
Jillian sat up quickly and scowled. Of all the people she’d rather not deal with right now, James was right at the top of her list. “What do you want?”
He pulled out the chair next to hers, flipped it around and straddled it with his arms resting on the back. “I want to know what’s got you so upset.”
She goggled at him. “You must be the only person in a two-mile radius who didn’t hear me yelling at Charmaine Forrester. I could lose my job over this. I
should
lose my job.”
“Your job’s safe enough. If Connor fired his staff for getting exasperated with clients like that one, he’d have no one left to work for him. Including himself. By the way, Birkie says to thank you for saying a few things that she’s been dying to say for years. She may start a fan club for you.”
“I . . . oh, jeez, it was so damn unprofessional.” Jillian blew out a breath and ran a nervous hand through her hair, not realizing that it made it stick straight up in several places.
“No argument there. So tell me why you became a vet.”
“What?”
“Tell me why you decided to become a vet. I want to know.”