by Dani Harper
“I take my coffee seriously.” She did too. The kitchen was small but one half of the counter space was devoted to espresso and latte machines in addition to a regular coffeemaker, two different grinders, and an assortment of glass canisters containing dark beans. Huge bright coffee mugs marched along a shelf, while colorful paintings of steaming cups were hung on the wall. “But you can’t discount the Finer Diner entirely. The food is incredible there.” She knew it for a fact. She’d made a habit of eating there frequently and was already on a first name basis with Bill and Jessie Watson, the couple that ran the place.
“True, Bill’s an artist when it comes to food. He’d rather cook than breathe.”
“You know them? Oh wait, I guess you’ve been here a lot longer than I have.” She kept forgetting that people in a small town knew each other. In Vancouver, she’d lived in an apartment building for years without knowing the names of the people who lived on the same floor.
“Well, it’s true that we’ve been friends for a long time. But it was inevitable—where else could a single hardworking vet go to eat around here with the kind of hours I keep?”
She didn’t miss the fact that he was telling her outright he was available, and the news sent a pleasant tingle through her. “So does this hardworking vet prefer his coffee plain or would he like a mocha grande with double espresso?”
Connor hesitated for a moment and she realized that he looked tired. Very tired. “I’ll tell you what,” she decided. “I’ll get some strong coffee going because it’ll brew fast. After you’ve had a cup, I’ll make you that mocha.”
“Thanks. That sounds great.”
Long practice had the coffee brewing within moments. Zoey found the biggest mug she had and placed it in front of him, scooping her pile of papers off the table before she sat down. The table looked a lot smaller than usual with a good-looking man looming over it. Suddenly she remembered her appearance and ran her hands hurriedly through her hair. God, here she was entertaining in her bathrobe! Worse, beneath it were turquoise flannel pajamas with little green frogs on them. She tugged the collar of the bathrobe higher in a useless bid to hide them—the pant legs were plainly visible below the robe. So were the furry slippers. . . .
“It’s pretty.”
“What?”
“Your hair. It’s nice. The color, the waves.”
“Thanks.” Maybe the pajamas were okay after all. “So were you out delivering a calf?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and grinned. “This morning I wouldn’t swear to anything without checking with the dispatcher first. I’m pretty much running on automatic pilot.”
“I’ve done that myself a few times. Sounds like veterinary practice can be a lot like the newspaper business.”
“Not here, surely.”
“No, thank God. It’s a lot quieter here.”
“Is that why you came to Dunvegan? For the quiet?”
Not exactly, Zoey thought, but if she told him about that little ability she’d inherited, the one she was trying to leave behind, he’d surely think she was weird. She didn’t want to take a chance on chasing him off, not yet. He looked just too good in her kitchen. . . . So she gave him the same standard answer she’d given her former boss and co-workers, her new publisher, everyone in fact. “Big city journalism is not your career, it’s your life. I wanted a slower pace and a chance to write more human interest stories, instead of just pieces about murders and robberies.”
“Instead, you got wolves.”
“Beats the heck out of human wolves,” she countered. The coffeemaker beeped and Zoey took off the pot, poured Connor’s cup.
“Thanks.” He brought it to his face and inhaled deeply. “Smells like heaven.” Sipped. “Tastes like it too. I’m saved!”
“The miracle of freshly ground beans.” She poured herself a cup as well.
“Really? I didn’t see you grinding any.” His eyes were full of humor as they looked at her over his coffee mug.
She paused with the pot in her hand and sighed. “Okay, I’ll come clean. I was already awake, been up for over an hour. I’m one of those annoying morning people and I get my best writing done around five. Go ahead”—she waved a hand at him—“recoil in horror.”
He laughed. “My mother always said there was something magic about mornings. Must be true, since I’m sitting with a pretty woman and drinking good coffee. But I’ll confess too. I saw your lights on when I was driving by and knew you were up. And what I really came here for is to make sure you’re okay.”
“I am okay, thanks to you. As much as I love wrestling wolves, I admit I was getting a little tired when you came along the other night.”
“Did you get that bite checked at the clinic?”
“I called a couple of times yesterday, but neither of the doctors was in. By the time I called again, the clinic was closed.”
He frowned. “The message machine has an emergency number. The doctors aren’t that hard to reach.”
“Well, it didn’t feel like an emergency. I checked my leg—it looked clean and it wasn’t bleeding. I washed it and doused it with peroxide just in case.” That had stung like crazy at first but at least the peroxide hadn’t foamed up around the punctures, as it would have if they’d been dirty or infected. “So I thought it could wait until today.” She smiled but for some reason he was still frowning. Excuses suddenly came tumbling out of her mouth as if she was in grade school facing a glowering teacher. “I’ve been pretty busy. In case you didn’t notice, I have a newspaper to run and deadlines to make. I had to assign someone to take photos of the damage from the ice storm—there was a fallen tree blocking Main Street. And there were other calls to make, stories to be written. I just lost track of the time and well, forgot.” Crap. That sounded completely lame even to her. And why was she trying to explain herself to this man?
“Pretty tough to forget that a wolf used your leg for a chew toy.”
“Well, of course I didn’t forget that. My leg feels like it was caught in a bear trap, okay?” She couldn’t keep the defensive tone out of her voice, and that pissed her off. She glared at him, wondering how the hell this man had managed to knock her off-balance so easily with less than three sentences.
There was a pause. Then his mouth twitched so slightly that she wasn’t sure she’d seen it. “I see I’ve left my manners in the truck. Can I have a do-over if I apologize and promise to stop grilling you?” He held out his cup and grinned. “I really don’t want to risk losing out on more of your great coffee.”
She rolled her eyes but topped off his cup, her anger deflating like a balloon. “I’m sorry too. I’m just stressed, I guess. I can put a lot of things to the side—like making repeated calls to doctors’ offices—when I have other priorities, and my main priority has been to try to convince people that there’s a dangerous animal out there. I’ve been on the phone a lot.”
“Yeah? Who did you call?”
“The usual. The cops and the mayor’s office and the Fish and Wildlife guys for starters. Most wouldn’t even listen. Well, the RCMP listened enough to send an officer over. He was nice about it but it was obvious he thought it was a dog attack. Said they’ll definitely keep their eyes open. If an animal is found and its owner is determined, they’ll lay charges. He’s going to refer my case to the local bylaw official, but I don’t know what good that will do. I’d already called him myself.”
“You told all those people and no one believed you?”
“Hey—city girl, media type, new in town—what do you think?”
“No credibility at all, eh?”
“Not a shred. So I figure I’ll write up the story as if it was a big nasty dog, say it was acting strangely—no exaggeration there—and maybe people will think it could be rabid, maybe they’ll be a little bit worried.” She stopped and thought then. “What am I saying, I should be the one that’s worried. What if it did have rabies?” Her
hand went to her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have crawled to the damn clinic if she had to and gotten herself checked out.
“I doubt that you have to worry. There’s very little incidence of rabies in this part of the country. I haven’t seen a case in ten years.”
“Really? That’s a huge relief. Well, I can still write the story so at least people will be on the lookout for a weird dog, and maybe no one else will get bitten.”
“Sounds like a plan. Are you sure you’re going to be okay with that, with letting people think it was a dog? You know what it was.”
“I know what it was.” She looked at him sharply then. “Hey, so do you!” Why hadn’t she thought of it before? “I don’t have any proof that the wolf was a wolf but maybe you could back me up. The village officials would listen to you. Or maybe you could give me a couple of quotes I can use in my article.” She couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of her voice. A hope that faded as Connor shook his head slowly.
“It’s true that it was a wolf, but the truth can be misused. The local farmers and ranchers are likely to get gun-happy and wipe out every wolf they can find. Wolves aren’t a protected species here,” he explained. “I’m not happy that one attacked you but it’s out of character for wolves in general. It may have been sick, or too old to hunt regular game.”
Like some lions that become man-eaters in Africa, she thought with a shiver. “I guess humans are very easy prey.”
“Unless they have windshield wipers.”
She snorted at that. Still, she couldn’t help agreeing with what he’d said. “Look, I don’t want to start a wolf extermination either. I just want people to be safe, and a dog attack story will probably do the job. But it bothers me that no one will be looking for this animal. Old or sick or just plain crazy, it should be stopped.”
“That much I can promise you.”
“But the authorities—”
“Are not the only people capable of tracking down a rogue wolf,” he finished. “Trust me, my family and friends are on it as we speak. The wolf will be dealt with.” Connor placed his hand over hers.
She hoped her hand wasn’t shaking. It was completely swallowed by his. She could feel the heat of it, and the rough palm that was the signature of a working man. It was sexy as hell and she caught herself wondering what that hand would feel like sliding slowly under the bathrobe, stroking her bare skin. . . . Her cheeks heated suddenly and she pulled her hand away.
“I promised you a double-shot mocha,” she said as she got up and began pulling out canisters. She risked a quick glance at his face as she worked. There was humor in his eyes, as if he was laughing at her for pulling her hand away. Thank God he didn’t know what she had been thinking. Yesterday she’d felt nervous at the thought of seeing him again. And here she was in her pajamas and bathrobe, making him coffee in her own kitchen while thinking bedroom thoughts. And hoping like crazy she wasn’t blushing.
“You know, there’s another reason why the town officials didn’t take you seriously.”
“What would that be?”
“They don’t want the stories about werewolves to start up again.”
“Excuse me?”
“Werewolves. Two years ago the paper carried a number of stories about werewolves attacking area residents.”
She stopped dead and stared at him, the carafe forgotten in her hand. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope. Wish I was. Of course, there were only three people interviewed, all of them regulars at the same bar, mind you. Didn’t stop some of the bigger city papers from picking up the story. We even had a television crew visit the sites of the alleged attacks. Dunvegan ended up on the national news and for a while it was impossible to go to the post office without running into reporters. It was all very X-Files.”
Zoey shook her head slowly. She was in the news business—how had she not heard about the story before she came here? Had she been so intent on avoiding the paranormal that she had missed it? Of course, she would have been focused on “real” news, automatically filtering out anything that reeked of tabloid tales. “No one ever mentioned a word of it at the newspaper. I had no idea—wait, wait just a minute.” She held up a finger as several puzzle pieces clicked into place.
“Oh. My. God. I’ll bet that’s why the publisher asked me during the job interview if I’d ever reported a UFO story or interviewed a dead celebrity! I thought he just had a bizarre sense of humor.” She laughed as she said it, but she’d been terrified during the interview, fearful that Ted Biegel had heard rumors, had somehow discovered the truth behind her reputation for breaking stories or worse, had discovered her real last name. What a relief to know that the man’s odd questions hadn’t had a thing to do with her, her psychic ability, or her unusual family.
Connor chuckled. “I imagine old Ted feared a repeat of history. He was on vacation when the werewolf stories came out. When he came back, the editor responsible not only resigned but left town.”
“I imagine that’s resigned as in fired.”
“That’s what everyone figured.”
“I’m really glad you told me this before I wrote about the attack.” She wanted nothing to do with any supernatural stories. No werewolves, no woo-woo, nothing that might direct any attention her way. Sure, she’d changed her name years ago, but one whiff of the paranormal around her and another reporter would have little trouble uncovering who she really was. “I could have destroyed my credibility as a journalist without even knowing it. No wonder the deputy mayor was so rude.”
She’d have to shelve all the research she’d done on wolves, along with the draft of her article. Maybe she could rework it and sell it to a magazine—in another part of the country. And the “dog attack” story for the newspaper? She would have to choose her words carefully so as not to remind local residents—or her publisher—about those werewolf tales. Or anything else of that nature. . . . Zoey put a pair of frothy cups on the table and tried to lighten things up. “God, can you imagine the headlines if a bigger paper picked up the story? Werewolf Attacks Editor, Town Under Siege by Wolfman. That would be great for my career—not!”
Connor awarded two thumbs up to the mocha, then asked, “So, can I drive you over to the clinic now and get that wound looked at?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I haven’t even checked to see if they’re open on a Saturday. I really should have done it yesterday.”
He smiled and pulled out a cell phone, waggled it in his hand, then went out onto her balcony. A few moments later, he returned and pocketed the phone. “Lowen says to bring you in. He’ll open the place in twenty minutes.”
“I—what? Who’s Lowen?”
“Lowen Miller, husband of Bev Miller. They’re the doctors here. And my friends.”
“That’s a wonderful offer but—”
“It’s not an offer, it’s an order from Lowen. He’s threatening to come down here if you don’t show up. Says a bite like that is nothing to fool around with, and I happen to agree with him.”
Zoey stared for a long moment, slightly stunned. The amiable and charming Connor Macleod had just neatly transformed into a brick wall. The expression on his face was still pleasant yet something in his eyes had hardened. Her lips were forming a protest—hopefully something more mature than you’re not the boss of me—when a familiar tingly sensation settled over her. And expanded. Her gift, usually so tiny, flared brightly as she looked at the man standing in her kitchen, giving her a sudden clarity of perception.
He wasn’t threatening her, she could feel that. There was only good intent. But no mistake, Connor Macleod was fully prepared to do whatever was necessary to get her to the clinic. If she argued, she would not win. If she refused, he would probably carry her. That rankled more than a little but then she shook herself mentally, letting the gift show her more. He was afraid for her—
The gift winked out abruptly and she wondered how long she’d been staring at Connor. “You’re right,” she said
simply. And he was. She’d been an idiot for not getting her leg looked at—what had she been thinking? It was just like that time she had gotten so involved with covering an ongoing murder trial that she’d neglected to eat for a day and a half. And had fainted on the courthouse steps like a ninny. Mortified, she’d made a promise to take better care of herself. It was just that she got so darn focused, so intent. . . .
She thanked him and went to get dressed.
Chapter Five
After the trip to the clinic, Connor drove Zoey back to her apartment to pick up her camera and her truck. He’d hoped to talk her into having breakfast with him, but she insisted she had to go to work. He knew full well that the newspaper office wasn’t open on Saturday, but maybe she just wanted to get some writing done. Or maybe she just needed to assert herself.
He’d been prepared for a hell of an argument over going to the doctor, and then over whether or not he could drive her there. She did not like being told what to do. He felt her bristle at his words, saw her plant her feet, fist her hands at her sides, resist with every part of her being. She’d glared at him eye-to-eye when suddenly the ferocity slipped away, replaced by something akin to his own farsight. The power of it had radiated from her like the electrical energy that heralded the Change from human to wolf. It had lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough to change her mind. Long enough to make him wonder.
Now he slipped into the back door of the clinic, headed up the stairs to the living quarters where he knew his friends were waiting. He could smell Earl Grey steeping, Bev’s favorite. She was a pediatrician while Lowen was actually the area’s coroner as well as a surgeon. Rather than retire, the couple had chosen to leave the big city and their lucrative practices to set up a clinic in a small town that needed them. With the nearest hospital two hours away and doctors in short supply in northern Canada, little Dunvegan was extremely lucky to have them. Connor felt lucky himself to count them as friends. Particularly because they knew what he was.