Code of the Wolf (21 page)

It was the old Jacob Constantine who spoke—not the bounty hunter and loner who couldn't settle down, but the man who had known how to love a woman. He wasn't thinking about leaving to go after the Reniers. In that miraculous moment, the old Jacob saw a real future: being with Serenity every day, sitting beside her at a roaring hearth, riding beside her, loving her, for the rest of his life.

He recognized his mistake as soon as the words
were out of his mouth. Carefully he eased his arm from around Serenity's shoulder.

She stared at him with parted lips and shining eyes.

“Go back to the hunt?” she asked. “I thought you lost the trail in Bethel?”

A bubble of laughter swelled and died in his throat.
She
certainly wasn't thinking about going away with
him
to some snug little cabin and settling down as a wife and mother.

“I did,” he said, trying not to let his bitter amusement show in his voice.

“I can't leave anyway,” Serenity said. “Not as long as my aunt needs me.” She gave him a forlorn little smile. “Don't worry about me. I'll be all right.”

The danger was over. Jacob cleared his throat.

“I've set up my bedroll in the barn,” he said. “It suits me just fine, but I plan to find a place by the river as soon as—”

“Why?” Serenity interrupted, her expression tightening up again. “You've come here for my sake. The least you deserve is a real bed.”

“I'm not much used to real beds,” he said. “I prefer a haystack or a nice blanket of leaves, myself.”

Though he hadn't intended any double meaning, Serenity blushed as if she'd been put in mind of something else that might be done in a bed. But that, he told himself, was just his imagination. Two kisses, and they hadn't come anywhere near going that far, or even contemplating it.

At least
she
hadn't.

“It's better if I stay away,” he said quickly. “Because of what I am.”

Her gazed locked on his. “A werewolf? But no one would ever—”

“I use a gun to make my living,” he said. “Your people might set themselves apart from other folk, but they aren't blind. They won't want me around.”

“How can they know what you do? You aren't wearing a gun.”

He shrugged, not quite sure how to explain. He'd known he wouldn't feel right here. He hadn't realized just how bad it would be until he'd met Serenity's kin, especially Elizabeth. In some ways she reminded him of Ruth, gentle as she was. She made him think about how many times he'd killed in the line of duty—seldom with anger, but killing just the same. Even being a werewolf didn't seem as bad a secret.

“Do you think they would consider Zora and Caridad any different from you?” she demanded when he didn't answer. “Or me? They've both killed in defense of our home. Victoria killed her husband to protect herself. I was responsible for Leroy's death. If they judge you, they'll have to judge me, too.”

Passion flared in her eyes, challenge and that almost violent emotion he'd seen each time she responded to his kisses.

But there was something deeper there, too…something he didn't want to see and yet hoped for all the same.

“Your kin don't have to know what you've done,” he said.

“But they
do
know. When I told Elizabeth about the ranch…” Her shoulders sagged, and all the defiance seemed to leak out of her at once. “She guessed that
we might have been bothered by ‘bad men.' I admitted it was true, and that we'd had to defend ourselves more than once.”

And that was what their “argument” had been about. Serenity might feel some sense of ease here, in this quiet pasture with the cattle looking on, and the sound of children's laughter and the smell of wildflowers on the breeze, but she wasn't at peace.

“I don't want you to go,” she said in a voice that would have been nearly inaudible to anyone but a werewolf. “I don't want to be alone here.”

“You've got Caridad, and—”

“I don't want you to go.”

Every time she was vulnerable like this, he felt as if someone had wrapped barbwire around his throat, and was pulling it tighter and tighter. She
needed
him, not just to take her to her enemies, but simply to be with her.

What had Zora said?
It is not enough to keep her from finding these men and killing them. She will need your help long after her enemies are dead.
Because in some strange way Serenity believed he understood her as no one else could. And he
did.
As well as he could understand anybody, including himself. But he had to believe that what Zora had said was wrong, that what he saw in Serenity's eyes was just a passing weakness. She could easily turn that same gaze on some other man, someone like…

Virgil.

Jacob stiffened. What in hell had put that sneaking polecat into his mind?

His own vehemence startled him. Virgil hadn't
done a damned thing to him but stare at him with cold disapproval—
he'd
sure as hell sensed what Jacob did for a living—and welcome Serenity like a brother would.

But there hadn't been anything brotherly in the way the other man had looked at Serenity. He was hiding something.

You're imagining things,
Jacob told himself. But the thought of Virgil's bland smile and flat eyes wouldn't leave his mind.

“I'll stay here,” he said suddenly. “So long as they'll have me.”

She gave him such a smile that the barbwire snapped in a million pieces. God, how he wanted to kiss her again. She took a step toward him, eyes half-closed, all sweet womanhood with the swell of her breasts and curve of her hips that even sackcloth couldn't hide. Jacob fought a savage inner battle between instinct and sense.

But there were still only three ways this could end: with Serenity staying here in the bosom of her family, returning to Avalon, or coming with him and giving herself up to violence and death.

“We'd better go back,” he said. “Your cousin must be waiting for you.”

Serenity's smile vanished. “Of course,” she said. “Supper should be ready soon. I'd intended to…” She paused, a flicker of bewilderment in her eyes. “They'll expect you to come.”

“I'll be there,” he said, though he dreaded the prospect of sitting down with the Quakers—and Serenity—more than a bullet in the belly. But he didn't get much
of a chance to think about how bad it might be. He smelled someone coming toward the pasture from the direction of the house, someone he definitely had no interest in talking to. He was about to make a break for it when Serenity heard the approaching footsteps and rushed toward the fence.

“Virgil Thompson,” she said brightly. “Has thee spoken to my uncle?”

“I have,” he said, shooting Jacob an unfriendly glance over the rail. “Jacob Constantine. I trust I am not disturbing you?”

“Not at all,” Serenity said. “I was about to return to the house.”

“Then perhaps your hired man will not object to my escorting you,” Virgil said.

Considering how strongly most Quakers felt about equality for all people, pointing out that Jacob was a “hired man” was a pretty strange thing for Virgil to do. But Jacob knew why Virgil had spoken as he had. He wanted to be sure that Jacob knew his place.

“I don't mind if Serenity doesn't,” Jacob said flatly.

Serenity barely looked at him as she climbed over the fence. Virgil was more than ready to help her. He took her hand and gripped it firmly until she was on the other side.

“Jacob Constantine,” she called over her shoulder, “I will see thee at supper.”

She didn't wait for his reply.

Jacob was left to watch her and Virgil walk away, the young man's arm brushing hers and her head tilted toward his. Instead of going directly to the house, Vir
gil led her along one of the little paths that curved away behind it.

As soon as the two of them had turned the corner, Jacob jumped the fence and went straight to the brushy wood across the road. When he was out of sight of the settlement, he tore off his shirt with enough force to pop two of the buttons and removed the rest of his clothes with equal indifference to their subsequent condition. The sun had left a streak of red across the sky, reminding him of blood, and the smell of deer and small animals seeking their dinners made his stomach growl and his mouth water.

But he had other prey in mind. He Changed, shook his fur briskly, and trotted back across the road.

“C
AN I HELP, SERENITY
Campbell?”

Virgil's voice was mild and pleasant, almost musical, with none of the harsh masculine tones that dominated whenever Jacob spoke.

But Serenity had been glad to hear Jacob's voice when he'd sympathized about the difficulty of her reunion with her family and her aunt's condition. She had basked in it when he'd put his arm around her to comfort her. She'd been grateful for his understanding, without her telling him, why seeing this place again had evoked so many painful memories and such violently mixed emotions. And when he'd offered to take her away, right now…

Oh, how she had wanted to go. And had realized, an instant later, how close she'd come to a terrible misstep. Jacob hadn't meant it the way her heart had heard…her foolish, overwrought heart. She'd been quick to make it seem as if she'd understood him correctly the first time, that they were both speaking of the hunt.

So he hadn't caught her slip. And she would have let it end there if he hadn't said he would move down to the river because he didn't belong in a place of such peace-loving folk.

She couldn't bear it. First she'd been angry on his behalf, that he would think himself somehow less than the
Friends just because he had not lived his life in a way they would approve. Then she had been angry on her own behalf for the same reason. Angry and ashamed, and trying not to let him know it.

But he'd seen through her, realized just how brittle her brief feeling of peace had been, how easily her sense of herself could be shattered. She had set aside all her pride and asked him, begged him, not to leave her. His answer had driven the darkness away and made her forget all over again that some things were impossible, and always would be.

Why couldn't she remember that simple truth?

“Something
is
wrong,” Virgil said, halting her racing thoughts with a hand on her arm. “Is it the outsider?”

Serenity realized she'd done no better at hiding her emotions from Virgil than she had from Jacob. She was weary of others asking her what was wrong, and her first impulse was to tell her old friend to mind his own business.

But that would hardly be fair. Virgil's inquiry was meant in true Christian fellowship, just like Elizabeth's, and she couldn't find it in her heart to rebuff him.

“Jacob and I were only speaking of the journey,” she said.

Virgil kept a firm grip on her arm. “I do not think that is why you are unhappy,” he said. “It is difficult for you to be here again.”

If he'd seemed to pity her, she would have broken away in spite of her decision to bear with his questions. But his gaze was straightforward, respecting her dignity, and so she told him the truth.

“Yes,” she said. “It is difficult.”

“Considering what thee has borne, thee has done well,” he said. He smiled. “I remember thee as a brave child, Serenity. Young though thee was, I admired thee even then.”

Admired her? She experienced a small unexpected flush of the pleasure that long-ago child would have felt if she had known of such admiration in happier times.

The pleasure quickly faded. “The child thee remembers is gone,” she said.

“‘When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child,'” he quoted. “There is no shame in putting aside childish things.”

He didn't know her. None of them did.

“Does thee think grief is childish?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“No, cousin,” he said gently. “Not childish. But thy family is with God now, beyond pain and suffering. And thee has thy whole life ahead of thee.” He let his hand fall from her arm. “Has thee thought of what I said about coming back to us?”

It had been only two hours since their last conversation, and already he expected an answer?

“Thee has been most welcoming,” she said, “but I cannot think of such things yet. My aunt—”

“I do not believe it is thy aunt who makes this decision difficult for thee,” he said, his tone hardening. “Or even thy memories. Serenity—” he sighed “—these outsiders with whom thee live are no good influence on thee. They are rough in their ways, and I fear—”

“That is enough,” Serenity said, stepping away from him. “You don't know my friends, and you don't know
me. I would ask you not to comment on such matters again.”

Virgil blinked at the vehemence of her response. “I… Serenity, I did not mean…” His face fell. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn, and in ignorance. It is only that I remember our friendship, and how it was when we were children together. I ask thy forgiveness.”

No apology could have seemed more heartfelt, and once again Serenity felt obliged to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“As you said, we are not children anymore.”

“No. We are not.” He gave her an uncertain smile. “Come. We will help lay the table.”

Mollified, she accompanied him back to the house, where Grace, Elizabeth and a woman named Leah were placing bowls and plates of simple, wholesome food on the table. Elizabeth seemed glad to see Serenity after the awkwardness between them, apparently prepared to disregard their last conversation and what it had revealed of Serenity's life since the tragedy.

Relieved, and glad to pretend that nothing had happened, Serenity offered to help, and the work was done quickly. A short while later Elizabeth asked Virgil to ring the bell, and one by one the other Friends began to assemble in the kitchen. Elizabeth introduced Serenity to each of them in turn. They welcomed her with varying degrees of warmth or reserve.

Uncle Lester, however, was effusive in his greeting. He enfolded her in an embrace that all but shouted relief and joy.

“Serenity Campbell,” Lester said, releasing her, “I thank God thee is here at last. To see thee again safe
and well after so many years is a balm to my soul. I only wish thee had come to us sooner.”

There was no rebuke in the words, no sign that he had been distressed by her failure to keep in closer communication with the Friends. He beamed at her as the other men and women took their accustomed places, turning away only long enough to ask those seated on either side of him if one would be willing to give up his seat for Serenity. When an older man by the name of William Burns quietly surrendered his chair, Lester waved Serenity to join him and continued to gaze at her with undisguised pleasure…and a less happy emotion he obviously intended to conceal.

Guilt.

Aunt Martha had said what he wouldn't. “I have prayed thee would forgive me and Lester.”

Serenity laid her hand over his and smiled. “I am glad to see thee, too, Uncle,” she said.

Tears welled in his eyes. He clasped her hands in his, then addressed the table at large. “We are indeed blessed this day,” he said.

There were murmurs of agreement. Serenity flushed and glanced toward the front door. Virgil and one of the younger men had drawn up five additional chairs for their guests. The table was crowded, but no one thought to complain, and when Zora, Caridad and Victoria arrived—each one in a dress, though Zora looked a little uncomfortable and Cari much too vivid for the unadorned brown—they made room and saw to it that the women were comfortably situated.

Soon afterward a troupe of five children, ranging in age from what looked like three to ten, marched in
through the back door, each one scrubbed and dressed like a little adult. They filed to the smaller table and chairs set out for them at one side of the main table and took their seats, glancing curiously at the strangers. They were too well-mannered to ask questions without permission, but a boy of about five made a remark that caused the oldest girl to giggle. The young woman caring for them cast Serenity an apologetic smile and shushed the child gently.

These were the good, honest people Serenity had known most of her life, and she felt the tightness begin to drain from her muscles as the comfort of familiarity pushed her conversations with Jacob and Virgil out of her mind. Virgil, engaged in a low-voiced discussion with his neighbor, sat two places away from her and didn't seem inclined to ask any more awkward questions. The only wrong note was the empty chair beside Zora's, waiting for its tardy occupant.

But Jacob didn't keep them waiting long. He came quietly through the kitchen door, wearing his spare set of clothes, boots carefully cleaned and face cleared of stubble. He paused just inside the room, removed his hat and nodded to Elizabeth.

“Ma'am,” he said, then glanced around at the table's nearly two dozen occupants, waiting for someone to break the silence.

Uncle Lester rose. “Good evening to thee, Jacob Constantine,” he said. “I am Lester Owen. Thee is welcome to our table.”

He didn't offer to introduce anyone else, but Jacob had never been one to stand on formality himself.

“I'm honored to be here, Mr. Owen,” he said. He
looked at Serenity as if she were a stranger, hung his hat on the rack near the door and went to the unoccupied chair.

Once Jacob was seated, there was a moment of silence as each of the Friends offered his or her private devotion. Victoria bowed her head, Caridad crossed herself, and Zora simply waited. Jacob gazed at some point in the center of the table.

Serenity attempted to pray with the others. The last time she had done so had been during her captivity, and she had never tried again after her escape. The words seemed empty, addressed to someone who had abandoned her long ago.

She was profoundly grateful when the others lifted their heads, and the plates and bowls of food began to make a stately circuit around the table. No one took more than he or she needed. The fare was as plain as it could be, but as substantial as hardworking people required. Conversation between neighbors was sporadic, but no one addressed the table at large, and Serenity knew why.

It was Jacob. He did nothing to call attention to himself, but he didn't need to. No matter how much she hadn't wanted to accept what he had told her in the pasture, he had been right. The Friends weren't blind. How could she blame him for wanting to stay away?

“Jacob Constantine,” she said, her voice rising above the others at the table, “how are the horses?”

The quiet conversations stopped, and nearly everyone looked at Serenity. She smiled as if she hadn't noticed.

“The horses are fine,” Jacob said, meeting her gaze. “Cleo's already lost that limp.”

“That's wonderful news.” Serenity gathered the other diners into the conversation with a sweeping glance. “We are fortunate to have such good horses.”

“Your livestock are some of the best I've seen,” Jacob said, addressing Uncle Lester.

“Thee are kind to say so, Jacob Constantine,” Lester said. “We care for them as best we can.”

“You keep beeves on your range?” Jacob asked.

“A modest number,” Lester said. “Enough for our needs.”

“Does thee have much experience with beef cattle, Jacob Constantine?” Virgil asked.

The question was perfectly civil, but there was no particular friendliness in Virgil's eyes or expression.

Jacob stared right back at him, and Virgil dropped his gaze.

“I wouldn't be much use to Miss Campbell if I didn't,” Jacob said.

Virgil tried to conceal a grimace. “Thee must have encountered…they are called ‘rustlers,' I believe?”

“That comes with the territory.”

“How does thee defend thy property, Jacob Constantine?”

A heaviness settled over the room. Lester opened his mouth to speak, but Jacob was already answering.

“How do you defend yours, Virgil Thompson?” he asked.