“In the house. We don’t let him around the horse barn yet. He’s still a pup, doesn’t have the sense not to nip at their feet.”
“Probably a good thing. This gal’s foot certainly doesn’t need any more irritation. I found a rusted piece of wire jammed into the frog of the hoof.”
“Shit. We thought it looked infected, but we couldn’t see anything in it.”
“The swelling was hiding it. I had to pour a stain over it to get the puncture to show up. Took me a while to get the wire out, and then a ton of pus drained out too.” Jillian turned to the horse, talked to it as she patted its massive black shoulder. “What a brave girl you were. I’ll bet that foot feels a whole lot better already, doesn’t it?” The animal nosed her as if it agreed, and the vet turned her attention back to Douglas. “The foot’s still hot and swollen. It needs to be soaked twice a day, and she’ll need a course of antibiotics. I gave the instructions to your manager.”
“That’s just fine. We’ll make sure the instructions get followed.” He nodded. “Sheila’s a good horse, so we sure appreciate that you came out.”
“It’s a treat to get to work on a draft horse. There’s not many around anymore. In fact, I’m surprised at how many horses you have.”
“You’re not from Alberta, then, are you? There’s more horses here than anywhere in the country. We use them.”
She looked surprised. “I thought farms and ranches used ATVs and trucks.”
“We’ve got our share of ATVs all right, but a quarter horse is still the best when it comes to working cattle.” He warmed to the subject. “ATVs don’t have the maneuverability, and they don’t have the natural cow sense, the ability to anticipate, that a good working horse does.”
“Does Sheila work cattle too?”
“Nope, she has different talents. We do selective logging on the hillsides and coulees, and we have horses like her to pull the logs out of the brush. Heavy equipment would just mow down half the forest.”
It was going well. They were actually having a conversation. Maybe that whole wolf thing had been imagination—hers, his, somebody’s. Douglas felt himself relax as he walked the vet to her truck. She was actually kind of a pretty thing with those green eyes. He wondered if she had a boyfriend.
“Get away from her! Jesus God, Dougie, you oughta know better.” Roderick Harrison was standing at the top of the porch, a plaid flannel work-shirt flapping open over pinstriped pajama bottoms. His feet were bare. “Get the hell away from her. Can’t you see she’s been near one of
them
?”
Dammit!
Where the hell was that nurse? As his father made his way down the stairs, Douglas turned quickly to the vet. “Please excuse my dad. Alzheimer’s has him pretty confused these days. Just mail me the bill, okay?”
“No problem. Birkie’ll send out an invoice on Monday.” Dr. Descharme started the truck and leaned out the window. “Look, let me know right away if you don’t think the horse is improving, okay? Don’t let it go more than a day. There’s a lot of infection in that foot.”
His reply was cut short as his father seized his arm with unexpected strength. The old man’s voice was shrill in his ear, reminding him anew that his father remained taller than he was. Easy to forget that when the man was in bed half the time. “Get back from there! Can’t you see it on her? That goddamn werewolf has marked her as his own. It’s all over her, blue as its demon eyes. I told you we had to kill that big white devil, Dougie, I told you and you wouldn’t listen.”
Jesus H. Christ, not this stuff again, thought Douglas, frantic to hush his father, to hustle him away from the truck. But Roderick gripped Jillian’s arm as well and leaned into her face with wild eyes. “You still got time, girl. You still got time to run before they get you, make you into a wolf like them. Run, you hear me? While you still got only two legs.”
No longer interested in being gentle, Douglas pried his father’s fingers from the vet’s arm and forcibly wedged his body between the old man and the truck. All he could manage was a quick glance at Jillian and a jerk of his head, but thank God she got the message and put the truck in gear. His father continued to yell at the vet over Douglas’s shoulder even as she drove away. “Run! Run while you can!”
Chapter Eleven
J
ames sat in the loft for a long time after Connor left. As a man.
He couldn’t say what had prompted him to Change again. Maybe it was the pique of having his younger brother tell him to be careful. James snorted at that. Humans would never find him unless he wanted them to. Years of life as a wolf had honed his forest skills to an uncanny degree, even for a Changeling. He moved as a ghost—unseen, unheard, and without trail. Then he remembered with no small chagrin that Jillian had made it all the way into the loft and actually tripped over him before he was aware of her presence. What was hell was that, another mysterious gift of hers? Suddenly something much more ominous occurred to him. What if the wolf had been aware all along that Jillian was there—and deliberately did not inform his alter ego?
Great. Now I get to be paranoid on top of having a goddamn split personality.
James decided to risk venturing downstairs. He felt a little clumsy on the ladder, but at least walking was coming easier. And he had to walk through the whole building. The absence of names on the doors forced him to look in almost every room. Finally he spotted a door thickly papered with cartoons and articles.
Bull’s-eye.
There was no doubt it was Connor’s office. His brother’s scent was concentrated here, almost tangible. Connor’s jacket was hanging among a motley group of lab coats and surgical scrubs. An oversize couch sagged along one wall, with an accumulation of mail and newspapers covering torn cushions. An enormous desk was groaning under stacks of papers and books. In the far corner, an open door revealed a bathroom with bedraggled towels hanging everywhere and clothes on the floor. It looked just like Connor’s half of the room they’d shared as kids. A sharp pang struck his heart as James recalled living at home with his brothers and sisters. He suddenly wondered how his mother and father were and where they might be—and ruthlessly cut off that line of thinking. It didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be around. It wasn’t like he was going to go visit his folks for Sunday dinner or some damn thing. He was going to get the damn clothes, turn into a damn wolf, and hit the damn road.
James made his way through the clutter to where a dresser was burping out socks. He was reaching for the top drawer when he caught sight of the mirror above the dresser. Instantly he froze in a confusion of instincts—then shook it off. He was not a wolf, not in wolfen form. The human in the mirror was him.
James ran his hand over his beard, a little surprised that it hadn’t grown out. It was as he had always worn it, just as his hair was its usual length. He had often heard it said that a Changeling’s human body didn’t age or alter while the wolf form was being used. But had anyone ever tested it for this long? In fact, he didn’t look any different than he remembered. Not physically. Something in his eyes, however,
had
changed. They seemed almost ancient compared to the rest of him.
He turned away, both from the mirror and that line of thought. James shucked his tattered clothing and got stuck only once when he had to fiddle with the button on the waistband of his jeans. He might be walking just fine, but his fingers were frustratingly out of practice. He yanked open the top drawer of the dresser and ended up catching it just before it hit the floor. Obviously he was out of practice with a lot of things. He’d have to remember to temper his Changeling strength before he broke something.
Why the hell were there so many socks? He wasn’t used to making these kinds of decisions. Finally he pulled out a likely-looking candidate, only to find it single. He pawed through the drawer and discovered they were all singles. Most had holes, big holes. James cursed his brother soundly as he dug around for a mate to the one in his hand.
“James August Macleod!”
Both hands still full of socks, James whirled to find Birkie Peterson grinning at him from the open doorway.
Ah, damn.
Out of annoyance at being caught in human form, his voice was rougher than he intended it to be. “I thought the place was closed down. If you’re looking for Connor, he’s not here.”
“Nope, I was looking for
you
, James,” said Birkie. “Been feeling your presence around here for days now, and Jillian mentioned she’d run into you. So I stopped by in hopes of seeing you too.” She waved a hand toward him. “And what I’m seeing is that you’re in human skin.”
He scowled. “Well, keep it to yourself. I’m not planning to stay in it.”
“Now that’s just a shame. It’s a damn fine skin.” Her chuckle was deep and rich.
Awareness dawned. James snatched a shirt from the closet and held it in front of him. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” And he hadn’t, he realized. He was busy getting clothes in case of a possible future need for, well, camouflage. Was he so accustomed to his wolf skin that he couldn’t even notice when he was bare-assed naked?
“Oh, don’t spoil it by apologizing, James. My pleasure actually. An old bird like me doesn’t get such a pleasant view very often. Tell you what, why don’t you get yourself together and meet me in the lunchroom? We can talk over a meal.” She disappeared without waiting for an answer.
Goddammit.
He didn’t want to sit down and visit, and definitely not with this woman, as much as he liked and respected her. She wasn’t a Changeling, but the power she could wield made both Jessie, the Pack leader, and his father, Ronan, look like amateurs. Yet it wasn’t her magic that bothered him.
He wasn’t surprised she had detected him, either. He should have thought of that. She was more than able to discern a Changeling at a hundred yards even if it wasn’t in lupine form. Birkie had always claimed it was the aura that gave Changelings away, noting that wolfen beings had a halo of light around them that was distinctly blue. But that didn’t bother him either.
No, he was ill at ease because she was Evelyn’s great aunt. She’d been a frequent and favorite visitor to their home, and Evelyn adored her. He’d enjoyed her immensely too. But he wasn’t interested in a trip down memory lane, definitely didn’t want to talk about Evelyn. The fact was, she’d been alive the last time he’d spoken with Birkie.
Yet he couldn’t see any way to say no. It would be, it would be . . .
rude.
That was the word. And worse, it would hurt her feelings. He sank heavily onto the couch with a pair of socks and wondered at this turn of events. Yesterday he’d been a wolf minding his own wolf business. Today he was a human negotiating a maze of human considerations. He’d ignored his instincts to leave and ended up having a full-scale human conversation with Connor, who would now expect it from him. Human convention dictated that James find suitable clothing for his human form, and it had delayed him long enough to get caught in that form. Now he’d been seen.
Really
seen, he amended, noting that human social mores also had him covering himself—belatedly—in the presence of a woman. Human manners plus human emotion now boxed him in, prevented him from turning down Birkie’s invitation to visit over lunch.
If he could ever get the damn clothes on.
James frowned and cursed as he fought to put on socks. It required fine motor skills, a challenge for hands that had been paws for decades. He counted himself lucky that the first pair of jeans he found had fit him, and that he’d managed the button and zipper a little better this time. Shirts were another story. James had always been broader across the shoulders and chest than Connor and it took several frantic minutes to locate something large enough. He soon gave up on trying to put anything back on a hanger and simply left the discards in a pile on the floor. Given the state of the room, Connor was unlikely to notice.
The buttons were a nightmare and finally he just left the shirt open. Had to settle for sneakers to replace his boots. Luckily he and his brother wore the same size in that department, but no way in hell was James going to attempt those laces. He tucked the loose ends in roughly and made his way across the room. Ended up having to almost slide his feet to avoid losing the shoes.
God, he missed being a wolf.
Although he’d found the kitchen earlier and would have been able to locate it again by memory, this time it was easier to simply follow his nose. The scent of food, human food, was almost overpowering. And very nearly foreign. Not only was it laden with spices, but the food was
cooked
. It enticed and repelled at the same time.
Birkie had just added a bag of warmed buns to a table already laden with food. She waved a hand at him to sit. James pulled out a chair, feeling awkward as he slid into it. There was a plate in front of him, a knife and fork. A glass. He eyed them warily.
“I remember you used to like lasagna quite a bit, so I set this aside for you when the Watsons filled the fridge this week. It’s Bill’s own recipe. Everything they bring is packaged in individual servings of course, but the portions are large. Have to be, to feed Connor.”
James took the steaming dish from her, sniffed it carefully. The spices were heady, nearly overwhelming, but he could identify all the ingredients, pick them out from one another. Suddenly a huge and ravenous hunger made itself known, and he almost dropped the dish. Only a supreme effort kept him from burying his face in it. Quickly, James dumped the pasta on his plate and shoved his hands in his lap where Birkie wouldn’t see them clenching.
“By the way, you can relax while you’re here, son. Connor’s at his farm with Zoey. Jillian’s out on a call. She’s all the way over by Spirit River, and she’s got another call after that. We’re not going to be interrupted anytime soon.”
“Jillian—she’s okay?”
“She’s just fine. Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I scared her, that’s all. Not on purpose,” he added quickly at the woman’s questioning glance. “Figured she might be mad or upset or something.”
“You startled her,” corrected Birkie. “You’ll find that Jillian Descharme doesn’t scare easily, and while she’s capable of a real good mad, she doesn’t hold onto it like some people. Interestingly, she was concerned about you.” She poured milk into both of their glasses, took something else out of the microwave. “Usually we eat off paper plates around here, but I thought you might find those a bit flimsy to practice on. So these are stoneware. Solid but not breakable.” Birkie winked at him. “Human coordination probably takes a little getting used to.”
He didn’t dare look at the lasagna on his plate, but the smell was driving him wild. He concentrated on Birkie’s words even as he began to sweat. “You always were very perceptive. And considerate.” James’ voice sounded strained even to him. He needed to eat. He had to eat. A wolf wouldn’t wait, but a human must. Would the woman ever sit down?
“And
you
were always very independent. You could have asked for a little help with the buttons and the shoelaces, you know.” She laughed at his scowl. “I have to say, it’s good to see you again. I’ve missed you, boy.” She gave him an airy wave with one hand while she slipped into her chair and picked up her fork. “Of course I don’t expect you to have missed me, James. Or anyone else for that matter. Being a wolf surely precludes a lot of emotions. I imagine that’s why you’ve been one for so long.”
There didn’t seem to be anything he could say to that, so he grabbed a fork too. The sensation of holding a slim metal object, the concept of using it as a tool, seemed bizarre and that annoyed him. It wasn’t as if he’d never been human before. Gritting his teeth, James gave the lasagna an experimental poke. Birkie cleared her throat, and he glanced up to see her cut the stacked pasta neatly with the side of her fork. He tried it, succeeded in dragging the first layer off his lasagna instead. On the second try, he managed to cut a forkful but it ended up on his bare chest. Finally a bite made it to his mouth.
The meal continued like that, with Birkie making conversation and James making a mess. She didn’t turn a hair when half of his milk landed in his lap, the result of accidentally trying to lap from a glass. And she completely ignored his curses and noises of supreme frustration.
James was determined to eat like a human being, to remember how. And gradually, he did. Mostly. But there was no holding back his non-human appetite. He quickly worked his way through most of the Watson’s menu. Birkie simply talked while he ate, occasionally warming up more food and placing it on the table, clearing away empty containers. She seemed to deliberately stay away from any mention of the distant past, and instead brought him up to speed on the everyday workings of the clinic, the growth of the town, the latest issues that were making headlines in the
Dunvegan Herald Weekly
. And gradually she segued into the daily lives of his brothers and sisters. Their human lives. Connor’s marriage, Culley’s business, Devlin’s books, Kenzie’s studies, Carlene’s children. Things he knew nothing about, and it bothered him suddenly that he didn’t.
“You know, I think you’ve gotten the hang of it, son,” Birkie said at last, as the last bun disappeared from the bag. “And I must say, you’re a lot neater at it than Connor, and believe me, I’ve seen him pack away food after a Change. I don’t know what it’s like to shapeshift, but I imagine it uses up a truckload of calories.”
James nodded. The truth was, he’d completely forgotten about that little detail. For years, he’d lived with only a wolf’s natural appetite. He was unprepared for his stomach to turn into a snarling bottomless pit, a black hole with an appetite for entire galaxies, but knew he should have expected it. Too many Changes, not enough chow. He blamed his wolf side for that. If it had just cooperated, paid attention to wolf business instead of trailing after Jillian, then he would have hunted this week. “I guess I’d better thank you for lunch. Looks like I needed it more than I knew.”