by Christa Wick
Listening to the sound of Reeves working, I tiptoed to the door, unlocked it and snatched the basket off the porch. I re-locked the door then pulled a hip-high bookcase from under the plastic sheeting and jammed it against the door.
Only then did I see the slip of paper in the basket.
I snatched it up, my hand involuntarily fisting it into a small ball. Returning to the kitchen, I smoothed it out on the counter. Ignoring the handwriting on the plain white side, I read the commercial print on the other. Reeves had torn the thin, curling scrap of paper from the label for a bucket of barn paint.
Flipping the scrap over, I finally read the tidy, blockish script.
Don’t worry, catnip. I’ll sleep in the barn.
Chapter 6
Clover
By the time the sun set a little before nine, I had primer on the walls in the kitchen, living room and master bedroom and on the cupboard frames. I also had taken the cupboard doors off their hinges and degreased their surfaces. My original plan was to paint the doors and drawer faces outside—but that was impossible with Reeves around playing his cat games.
With no cable or internet, I made the bed in Paisley’s room with the freshly laundered sheets and comforter, then went around closing up the windows and drawing the curtains in the other rooms. I didn’t glance at the barn, but I could see the lights weren’t on. I still hadn’t heard the sound of any vehicle coming or going, but Reeves had stopped banging around outside about twenty minutes before sunset.
I figured he would go home despite the note. Maybe he would have if I had left the flowers on the porch. Grabbing them had been a mistake, but it was too late to put them back.
Walking into the bathroom, I rubbed at my tired, itchy eyes. Piling my hair up into a bun, I stepped under the shower and washed off just long enough that I wouldn’t feel like I was dirtying up the freshly laundered sheets.
Finished, I let my hair down and stared at it in the mirror, trying to decide if I should go back to the pixie cut I’d kept it in since losing Paisley to college after we both finished high school. Maybe I should shave it all off.
“What are you protesting now, Clo?” I asked my reflection.
#Everything
Wrapping a towel around my torso, I dashed from the bathroom to the bedroom. Finding the oversized t-shirt I had forgotten to take into the bathroom, I yanked it over my head and shoved my arms through the side holes. I rooted through the small suitcase I had brought, nose twitching at all the granny panties I had packed.
I was pretty sure my ovaries smirked at me.
“Stupid body,” I mumbled, turning off the light and climbing under the comforter.
The small window above the bed was open, its screen keeping out all the chirping, buzzing insects I could hear. I placed my phone on the nightstand, a Natalie Merchant album eating at some of the stress that had kept my muscles bunched tight all evening.
Reeves was right—I hid away whenever I was in heat. Other than Brandon and Taron, I had never been around a male shifter when it was “that time of the year.”
The practice was getting old.
I was getting old.
“Go to sleep,” I ordered, then repeated the command a little more loudly when the gears in my head wouldn’t stop spinning.
I was still trying to figure out my reaction to Reeves at the creek. I mean, I could understand why I had never scented anything different about Braeden when I was in heat. That would just be gross.
But I’d been around Taron the first few times while he fostered my brother and me. And his scent had never changed. Not to mention that I had smelled Joshua before he smelled me—so some chemical reaction to my heat wasn’t why he had smelled like Heaven.
Baked Heaven, cinnamon and vanilla, brown sugar and honey…bitable, lick-able Heaven.
Interlacing my fingers, I shoved my hands behind my head and tried to ignore the muscles tightening along my thighs and between them. Clawing my way toward sleep, I caught hold of the image of a honey bee and chased it behind my closed eyes, counting each time it stopped and I could make out the wings and the stripes of gold and black.
Slowly, the dancing muscles relaxed. My fingers stopped clinging to one another and my arms sagged off the pillow. My breathing deepened and I was finally there—fully ensconced in Z-ville, the land of a thousand snores.
Shaking, covered in an instant sheen of sweat, I bolted upright as a scream ripped through the trees.
Not a scream—a snarl. It sounded again, an actual scream following a few seconds later.
A spring hare by the sound of the death cries.
Tears flooding my eyes, I settled onto my side and put the pillow over my head then whipped the comforter up.
I knew what I was hearing. There were no natural predators in the woods—the scent of shifters drove the more mundane form of bears, wolves and mountain lions away.
With Landa dead, there was only one creature out in the woods that sounded like that.
Reeves had chosen to hunt for his dinner.
Beneath the blankets, I shook all over. Hand darting out, I snatched the cell phone from the dresser. I turned the music off and opened up contacts. The only number I looked at was Braeden’s.
He had to know I was at Holly’s. He damn well knew he had sent Reeves to work on the barn. But big brother hadn’t called or texted me. And my scent would have been on Paisley—the early signature of my being in heat faint but detectible up close.
Had he gone nose blind?
Did he need Febreezed?
Or had he stopped caring?
I didn’t want to find out my last guess was the right one. Sniffling, I turned off the phone and drew my knees toward my chin, my position more that of prey than predator.
Another hare screaming in terror had me spilling off the mattress and racing for the bathroom. Lurching in the dark, I threw the lid up on the toilet just in time for the remnants of my microwave lasagna to splash all over the pristine bowl.
Stomach still roiling, I settled on my knees and waited for the next hurling wave of disgusting chunks to leave my mouth.
It wasn’t like I didn’t know that other shifters hunted. Hell, until Taron took us in, hunting was all Braeden and I had to survive on.
Those nights still haunted my dreams. I was nine when our parents were slaughtered. The whole chain of events had started with a family trip to the Klamath National Forest. We lived nearby in a nothing town near the Oregon border. Federal land, the park was viewed as safe—no one’s territory but the government.
Two lions, both betas from Crescent City, thought different. Out on ATVs and drunk, they attacked my family.
My father shredded them.
Our pack should have supported us—protected us. But the Crescent City pride was bigger and unforgiving. My parents were faced with the choice of fleeing and living in constant risk of attack from the packs and prides whose territories we would unwittingly pass through or staying and hoping the lions were bluffing.
We stayed. The lions weren’t bluffing. They attacked the house late one night, going after my father first. It took three of them to hold him while another ripped into his chest. My mom got off a shotgun round, blasting my father’s murderer in the face with a wound not even an alpha could heal from. Screaming for us to flee, she got a second shot off, that’s when another one of the alphas buried his claws in her face.
A heartbeat after that, Braeden and I were orphans. The blood of my mother and father did nothing to appease the pride’s hate. They wanted my father’s line finished. When Braeden and I escaped to the pack covered in the gore of our parents, we were turned away.
For two years, it was just me and Braeden. Witnessing my parents die had messed with my head. I couldn’t shift so Braeden would cover me in brush while he went in search of food in his wolf form. Sometimes dinner was wild game in the woods. Other times, Braeden risked farmers shooting at him as he raided henhouses.
One time, the farmer shot and
didn’t miss.
I still couldn’t eat chicken after that. Not store bought, not Kentucky Fried, not mushed up and breaded and cut into ridiculous shapes. Every time a piece of fowl was offered to me, I would see my brother bleeding, a chicken in his jaws as he hunted for a little sister so useless she could only hide.
More curvy noodles and cheese splattered in the toilet at the memory.
Sweat pouring down my face, I flushed the toilet then stood and ran water in the sink. I cupped my hands and drank then splashed water over my face. My stomach continued to twist and roll but there was nothing left to bring up. I walked on shaky legs into the bedroom and piled the covers around me. With every muscle in my body pulled tight in anticipation of fleeing for my life, I waited for the next snarl and the death scream that would accompany it.
A heavy thud sounded out on the porch. The sound was followed by soft paws prowling back and forth for one terrifying minute before the paws turned to feet and left.
Another minute passed, maybe less, before there was a knock on the door.
Through the thin wood, I heard Reeves.
“Let me in, Clover.”
His voice was soft, but firm. He sounded like Braeden when he was trying to be both parent and big brother.
I ignored Joshua’s entreaty.
He knocked a little louder. “I’m not going away when I can feel that you’re upset.”
I wrapped the blankets tighter around me. I stank of fear at that moment—just like the two rabbits Reeves had killed in the woods.
Out in the living room, the deadbolt disengaged.
Metal danced against metal.
A key turned in the bottom lock, the doorknob turning with it.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers numb as I pawed for my cell phone.
The bookcase scraped over the wooden floor.
I slapped at the phone’s screen, tried to tap in the security pin with disobedient fingers.
Reeves loomed over me, his big hand curling around the phone and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans.
The rest of him was bare.
I scrambled along the bed until my back was against the wall. My knees pressed against my chest. My arms wrapped around them. Suddenly, my extra long t-shirt was too short.
I screamed at Joshua to get the hell out.
He ignored me and turned on the bedside lamp. All traces of his cat and alpha state were gone. Above me towered a muscular man, with tight jeans hugging his body and a fresh sheen of sweat coating skin.
The smell was there, too, that scent of fresh-from-the-oven sex rolls.
So too was the lingering odor of dead rabbit.
I buried my face against my knees, humiliated by the way my shoulders trembled but unable to stop them. This wasn’t me! I always stood up for myself and others around the pack. No one had to guess what I was thinking, especially if I thought they were wrong.
“Catnip,” Joshua started, his voice soft and vibrating. “You’re terrified…”
The accusation hung in the air. I wouldn’t acknowledge that he had even spoken.
“Of me?” The question wavered with incredulity as he sat on the edge of the bed.
I threw my hand out, fingers curled and the heel of my palm striking his shoulder.
“Who do you think you are?” I snapped. “The big bad wolf?”
My snort sounded fake to my own ears, but all I had at that moment was an act.
“You’re a cat,” I sniped. “Nothing for me to be afraid of.”
I tried to strike a second time. Joshua pulled back, carefully sliding further down the mattress.
His cloudy blue gaze narrowed.
“Why do you make it difficult?” he asked. “You turn your nose up at every male, but me most of all.”
I cocked an eyebrow and shoulder at the same time, my muscles tenuously under my control as anger layered itself over my fear.
“What have I done to you, Clover?”
I had an answer for that. I had lots of answers for that!
“Tried to claim my brother’s mate as your own—”
He shook his head. “You still think that?”
“I will always think that,” I snarled.
“Fine, let’s accept your assumptions as fact. You hated me long before that, and all Braeden had to do was claim Paisley. Otherwise…”
He paused, his mobile expression relaying the horrors that easily could have befallen my best friend after she had discovered the presence of shifters in Night Falls.
“Well, you know what could have happened to her,” he continued. “If not Braeden claiming her, another alpha had to do it or the vote would have gone against Paisley.”
I couldn’t believe he really thought he was the innocent one in this exchange! He was the one out in the woods terrorizing rabbits close enough I could hear. He knew about my parents, had to know the effects his snarls would have on me. And he damn well had tried to court Paisley. He had tried to get on her good side before she even left for college.
“Whatever,” I said, eyes rolling so I wouldn’t have to look at the indignant expression he wore.
“Yeah, whatever,” Reeves echoed. Standing up, he tossed the house keys onto the nightstand and left the bedroom. Reaching the front door, he turned and looked at me, his expression obscured by the night shadows populating the living room. “Goodnight, wolfling.”
With that, he left.
I went back to hiding under the covers.
If I never saw Joshua Reeves again, it would still be too soon.
Chapter 7
Clover
There were no more feral snarls, no heaving trips to the bathroom to vomit, just me in my bed, tossing and turning, occasionally drifting to sleep then startling awake if a squirrel so much as farted on the roof.
Eventually, the moon disappeared from the sky. The sun started its slow climb over the trees. I pulled the blanket up over my head, shutting out the encroaching light. Through sheer determination, I crawled all the way up to the edge of falling asleep again.
The sharp hum of a table saw bounced me out of bed.
Swiping at my phone’s screen, I checked the time.
And snarled.
“Too damn early.”
Stomping my way into the kitchen, I put a kettle on and wished I hadn’t already taken the doors off the cabinets. I needed something to slam. Multiple somethings.
Yesterday’s hammering resumed. I pressed my open palms against my lips and screamed until the kettle whistled. Digging through my tin of tea bags, I searched for something that would calm my jacked up nerves. I found a chamomile and pulled it out. Hoping for something stronger, I kept looking.
Were there vodka tea leaves?
If not, there needed to be.
Coming up with nothing better, I tossed the tin onto the counter, put the chamomile tea bag in the cup and poured boiling water over it. Opening the refrigerator, I pulled out the half gallon of milk and eyed the groceries I had picked up the day before.
Vetoing the idea of breakfast, my stomach offered up a visceral reminder of last night’s trip to the bathroom. I finished making the tea then put some newspaper down on the counter, sat on a stool and applied primer to one of the cupboard doors.
Every time I reached for the cup of tea, my gaze wandered toward the barn. Joshua alternated between cutting boards and hammering them in place. He had a shirt on this time, the first I’d seen covering his chest since my arrival.
It was black and clingy.
#NotHelping
Placing my cup on the counter, I scowled at the small tag hanging from the tea bag’s string.
Soothing Chamomile
“False fucking advertising,” I grumbled low as I picked up the paint brush.
Swearing erupted from inside the barn. I looked up from the cupboard door to see what the big cat was making a fuss over, a smirk playing at one corner of her mouth.
Then I saw the blood.
Too much of it.<
br />
I ran out of the house, my feet bare and nothing but my t-shirt and granny panties on. Reaching the end of the porch, I froze. Joshua stood in the open doorway of the barn, his t-shirt stripped off to wipe at his fast healing wound.
Right. He was an alpha. He didn’t need my help.
I tiptoed back into the house before he could realize I was watching. Standing at the kitchen window, I spied on him a few more seconds to make sure he was okay.
Not that I cared. But Paisley was about to start a new life with my brother in this house. If another damn thing went wrong around the homestead, she would probably think it was cursed.
Reeves’ cut had already healed shut, but the shirt was ruined. I returned to painting and ignoring the cat—until the next time he started up the saw. When he did that, I watched the entire time to make sure there wasn’t another accident.
For Paisley’s sake.
#WhoNeedsManTitty
He took the cut board around to the side of the barn and nailed it into place. I laughed at the relief I felt in hearing him hammer. At least when he was doing that, I didn’t have to worry about anything more than a sore thumb.
Reeves returned to the saw. I stopped painting and watched him again.
And again.
And again.
I watched his hands, concerned that the fingers were too close to the blade. I watched the length of his arms, looking for the wobble that would precede any kickback of the board. I looked at the abs and chest exposed to the double threat of blade and board.
Heat infused my flesh. It wasn’t just the warming of my skin, but the maddening condition of my body that shouldn’t have been happening. My chest tightened, the nipples of my unbound breasts becoming exquisitely sensitive as I tried to paint between Joshua’s trips to the saw. The breasts themselves felt like lead bowling balls, the weight dragging me toward the ground with a sensual heaviness.
Keeping my eyes open was almost impossible. I dropped the brush into the sink and stumbled toward the bathroom.
I shut the door and turned on the cold water, splashing it against my cheeks. It didn’t make me feel cool or refreshed. Shimmying out of my underwear, I switched off the cold water and turned on the hot, wetting a cloth and pressing it against my mound to relax the muscles that kept drawing tighter and tighter.