It might have given Connor a tiny glimmer of hope, but he hadn't allowed himself that luxury in many years. His hand fell away from the thick white pelt as he automatically blocked the rest of his thoughts from his brother. What possible good could it do to tell James how much he missed him, ached to talk with him, to joke and laugh with him, hell, even to fight with him? How the whole family grieved for James, as if he was dead. And he was dead to them. Even as a wolf he very seldom ran with the Pack or came near any of them except Connor on occasion. James had forsaken his human self entirely, and it was unclear if he was bound to the Macleods by remembered human ties or merely a wolf instinct to be part of a Pack.
But not one of us blames him for it. Good Christ, how could we? We weren't there. We were too far away, all of us too damn far away. He shook his head. By the time they'd arrived at James's farm, the house was a heap of blackened beams and cold ashes. Too damn late to do anything but bury poor Evelyn. It had nearly been too late for James, as well. The Pack had tracked him through deep wilderness for two days, unable to catch up with him until he finally collapsed from his horrific wounds. Over thirty years had passed and still Connor shivered at that memory. He had barely recognized the blackened and battered creature that had once been the white wolf. Changeling or not, it was a flat-out miracle James had lived.
But the miracle was incomplete. The wolf had come back to them, but not the man. Connor glanced over at his brother. The massive white creature was stretched out on the ground beside him as if relaxed, but the vivid blue eyes flicked from person to person. Alert. Ready, Connor knew, to disappear. Everyone else knew, too. Connor noticed that each member of the Pack, family and friend alike, would glance over at James, and then turn away quickly, not knowing what to do or say, fearing to break some unknown spell, fearing that the white wolf would leave them even sooner than he usually did.
It's hard on James, but it's hard on all of us, too. Your older brother has lost his balance, his ability to be comfortable in both worlds.
Jessie Watson's voice was warm and strong in Connor's mind. He knew the Pack leader was focusing her speech so only he could hear it. He did the same. I don't know how to help him.
You're doing all you can. James is doing all he can, too. He's chosen to stay here, for one thing. He wanders but always returns. He still feels a connection to this land that your family claimed and settled, a bond to something that symbolizes roots. And he responds to you, Connor, cares for you as a brother not just a Pack-mate, even guards you. Haven't you sensed him on some level when you've been working late at the clinic?
Connor looked across the fire, saw it brush golden highlights over Jessie's dark skin. There was always something regal about her, a sense of power. She was a small woman, downright tiny when standing next to her husband, Bill. Yet she possessed a formidable blend of courage and wisdom, as well as more exotic gifts. Including magic. He didn't doubt her, but the news came as a surprise. James has been at the clinic?
Many times. Perhaps you haven't noticed his physical presence because thoughts of James are always in your mind. Take a walk tomorrow and use your Changeling senses to check the stand of trees behind the building. Scent the air, the ground. Watch for hairs in the hay bales in the compound, prints along the fences in the corrals. He watches over you, Connor. He watches over the others, too.
Well, then he should be fired--he didn't make sure everyone was dressed tonight. Connor tried to lighten the subject, a little uncomfortable with the notion that the older brother he worried so much about was guarding him. He turned his attention to where Devlin was mercilessly teasing his twin Culley about a lack of shoes and socks. Anything that touched a Changeling's body as it shifted to wolf was automatically taken along, tidily suspended in some unknown pocket of time and space until human form was resumed. Culley, however, always seemed to be in a hurry and often Changed without checking to make sure he was fully clothed.
It wasn't a problem unless they had to shift to human form unexpectedly. Explaining why their youngest brother was barefoot in the middle of the night could be tricky. Culley had no jacket either, only a light T-shirt, but a Changeling's ambient body temperature was much higher than that of a human. Connor shook his head, nearly smiled. That boy would be comfortable if he was buck-naked in a snowstorm. Then he saw Culley steal a wistful glance at the white wolf and the heavy-heartedness returned full-force.
They think he avoids them, Jessie, and he does. He steers clear of everyone. Except me, Connor thought. And he doesn't exactly hang around much with me either. They were just a year apart in age, and they'd been inseparable when they were growing up. Even when Evelyn entered their lives, they'd remained close. Close before everything went to hell. I miss him, Jessie. It drives me crazy, wishing I could help him.
You are helping him. You're there for him. How many months was it before James even attempted to communicate? Yet he speaks to you now in your mind. How many years before he would venture near the Pack? Yet he often runs with us now, ran with us tonight. Progress is slow and subtle, very hard to see when it's happening--but James has been opening a door a little at a time. He doesn't know it, but he is ready to be healed. And because of this, the healer will come.
What healer? Who?
I don't know. I haven't seen that. I just know that the Universe reaches out to us when we make an effort, when we show we are ready. James is ready. The healer will come. She broke the connection then, turning her attention to something Bill was saying.
Connor looked down to find the white wolf gone. Good Christ, I didn't sense a thing. James was like a damn ghost at times. His brother might be talking--well, technically, using mind speech--a little more but if he was making any real progress, Connor couldn't see it. He couldn't imagine who or what could possibly heal his brother's shattered soul. Still, Jessie's words gave him a little actual hope. He let himself feel it this time, savor it. Hope that James could find his way back to his human self, hope that he would find a reason to want to come back. And stay.
* * * *
Douglas Harrison heard the song of wolves in the distance and shivered as he sat by his father's bedside. The old man had been dreaming again and thrashed the blankets and sheets into a twisted wad. He took his father's hand from where it clawed the air, clasped it, and remembered how that hand had once seemed so large, so powerful. The fingers were always cold now, the tough calluses covered with the velvet-soft skin of age. His dad's grip was still strong, but not nearly as strong as it once was. The old man licked dry lips and whispered fiercely, "It's here, son. We didn't kill it. It's still here, walking among us. I know it's here. Get your gun, Dougie, we gotta get it, gotta finish it off."
A chill zipped down Douglas' spine, tingled like ice-cold electricity. He tried to keep his voice calm, level. "We took care of that bear, Dad. Made a big rug out of it, remember?"
"You know what I mean, boy." His father's eyes fastened on him, angry and a little wild. His voice was hoarse but rapidly gained in volume. "The werewolf, the white one. The one you didn't shoot when I told you to shoot. You stood there and bawled like a damn baby until I had to drag you out of there."
Oh God, not that again. Douglas was thankful that none of the caregivers that came to their home believed his father's stories, but he found himself checking behind him just the same to see if anyone was listening. "Dad, I--"
"I told you. I told you we had to finish him. He's alive, and he'll be tracking us, hunting us both unless we hunt him down first. Get my gun, boy."
It took an hour this time to get his father settled. When he left the room, Douglas felt wrung out and apprehensive, even though he knew that the old man was unlikely to remember any of this in the morning. Wisps of an Alzheimer fog had settled over Roderick Harrison's mind in recent years. More and more, the past mingled with the present. Including a part of the past his son would much rather forget.
It had to be the full moon. His father was always worse during the full moon. Last month dur
ing this lunar phase, Roderick had been found halfway down the lane in his pajamas, carrying a broom like a rifle, determined to destroy the creature that filled his dreams.
Douglas had gathered up all the guns after that incident and sent them over to the ranch manager's house for safekeeping. A decision about a nursing home needed to be made soon--but he didn't feel like making it right now. He couldn't picture his father in such a place, away from the ranch he had ruled with such fervor. Knew, too, that in his dad's lucid moments he would feel betrayed by his son.
A small voice within mocked him. What about that long ago betrayal by your father? What about that night your dear old dad took his young son along to help him commit murder? Face it, Dougie-boy, you don't want to put your father in a nursing home because you're too afraid someone might start listening to his stories, that somebody might believe....
Douglas tucked his father in and decided against going back to bed himself. Instead, he headed downstairs to the bar for a drink. Maybe several drinks. As many as it would take to make that small inner voice shut up.
Chapter Two
Despite the fact that it was still April, despite the early morning hour and despite Jillian's fervent wishes to the contrary, it was already hot and humid in the city of Guelph, Ontario. She got on a crowded Greyhound, praying that its air conditioning could handle the unseasonable heat wave that had plagued eastern Canada all month.
Dr. Macleod had wired enough money for a first class plane ticket and some extra besides, but the cash she saved by choosing the bus had paid off the rest of her rent, the balance on her phone bill, plus her tab at the little corner grocery store. No loose ends, she thought with some satisfaction. Nothing left behind, either. Everything she owned was in a battered knapsack and three large boxes held shut with duct tape. Fifty-seven hours and twenty-one minutes later, she arrived at the little northern town of Dunvegan, Alberta, with only the knapsack, a pounding headache, and a determination to strangle, then sue, every bus line employee she could find.
The clerks at the small terminal--which apparently doubled as a dry cleaning establishment--never knew their danger. They were spared the moment Jillian stepped down off the bus. She caught only a glimpse of a white-haired woman in a citrus-green suit before she was swept into a bone-crunching hug.
"You made it. You must be exhausted, dear." The woman stepped back, still holding on to Jillian's arms. Looked her up and down with hawk-bright eyes. "Name's Birkie Peterson. I'm officially the receptionist at the clinic and unofficially the glue that holds the place together, and I for one am damn glad to see you. Been trying to tell the bossman he needs another pair of hands for years now. Welcome to the north."
"Um. Thanks. Thank you." Feeling a little off base, Jillian noticed that the woman's white hair was elegantly styled, her suit tailored and crisp. Tasteful gold jewelry gleamed at her ears and throat. And those shoes, those lovely little slings, looked like real leather. Next to Birkie's cool and polished exterior, Jillian felt like a rumpled, sweaty mess wrapped in rags. Fashion had never been her top priority, but she was dead certain that a homeless person would possess more style than she did at that moment.
Birkie didn't seem to notice. If she did, she didn't think a thing of it. "Let's get you out of this heat, hon. At least you've left the humidity behind you. We're dry as the proverbial bone here, and I've got a cold beer with your name on it, or a cola if you'd rather. Connor would have been here himself, but he got called out to a foaling out at Vanderkerke's not half an hour ago, and they're two hours north of here in Eureka. We'll be lucky to see the bossman before tomorrow. How much luggage did you lose?"
"What? Some boxes. How did you know?"
"Honey, hardly anyone comes off that bus with all of their possessions. It's almost a tradition around here--things tend to get rerouted over to Spirit River or up to Fort St. John. I'll give them a call, get them to track down your stuff. Should get it back in a couple days at the most. Truck's this way."
Jillian let herself be steered by the arm and found that Birkie was as good as her word. There was an ice-filled cooler with an assortment of drinks, but after the lengthy bus trip, it was the beer that appealed to her the most. The air conditioning in the bright red pickup felt delicious. Jillian took her first deep breath since Winnipeg and began to unwind a little. She thought the older woman was a bit of a puzzle, but a friendly and interesting one. With such impeccable appearance, Birkie might look more at home in the back of a limousine, yet she handled the big truck as if she'd been born behind the wheel. And her earthy humor made the grand tour of the town a memorable experience.
"That's Kinney's. You want a good deal on furniture, you go to them, but you won't need anything right away. Apartment's fully furnished, you know. And make sure you see Greg Kinney, not Bob. Bob wouldn't give his own mother a good deal on the time of day. Besides, he farts something awful.
"That apartment of yours, by the way, is right inside the clinic. Northwest wing, down the hall from the lunchroom. Good location for getting to work on time, not so good for getting a break from your work. You'll want to watch that.
"Have to go to Macklin's down the street here if you want any sporting goods. Do you fish? I like to go for trout on the weekends, sometimes get a few perch to fry up. Sergeant Fitzpatrick, now, he likes to fish for sturgeon. I see him on the river quite a bit. When he's not fishing, he heads the RCMP Detachment in these parts, and if he asks you for a date, say yes. He's a good man. Connor is too, if you don't mind dating your boss. I personally don't think there's anything wrong with it, unless you're hoping to get paid extra or get out of some of the dirty work."
Jillian goggled, not certain how to respond to such bluntness.
Birkie peered sideways at her and grinned. "By the way, if you see our young assistant, Caroline, sighing in Connor's direction, don't pay any mind to it. It's just a crush. She's barely 19, already has a steady boyfriend, and is heading to veterinary college next fall. Every female assistant we get goes through the same thing for the first few months or so. Connor's a good-looking man and a good-hearted one, too, just like all the Macleods are. Don't take it too hard if you drool and forget your own name when he smiles at you--you wouldn't be the first gal that's happened to."
That did it. "Okay, look," said Jillian. "I'm not the drooling type. I don't sigh much either, unless chocolate is involved. I worked my way through seven years of veterinary studies, and I intend to be busy using that education, way too busy to develop a crush on anybody." She was trying to convey professionalism, but the words sounded defensive, even silly, even to her. Small wonder that the older woman burst out laughing and thumped the steering wheel.
"Now see, a sensible and serious attitude like that is just plain refreshing." Birkie laughed again and stole a quick swig out of Jillian's bottle. "Of course, good intentions don't always work out as planned, you know, hon."
Before Jillian could think of a response, Birkie was continuing the tour as if they'd been talking about the price of cattle. "Over there's our lawyer, Herb Salisbury, just coming out of the drugstore. He's the only lawyer in town, but a good man and honest--damned unusual for someone in his profession, it seems." She waved at the man and carried on.
"On that corner is Chez Mavis. That's a sandwich shop, belongs to Mavis Williams. She's got a hot bacon salad that'll put you in heaven right before the cholesterol kills you. But you want the best food in town, you go to the Finer Diner. Bill and Jessie Watson own that operation. I'll take you to lunch there in a day or so when you're settled. Although you can sample plenty of their wares in the lunchroom at the clinic--they keep the staff fridge stocked for us. Probably the only reason Connor hasn't starved to death. And with you around, maybe he won't work himself to death either."
Birkie continued to rattle off facts about everything and everyone and gradually Jillian just gave in and enjoyed the tour. Her frame of mind improved with each block they passed. Dunvegan might be remote, but it looked both friendly an
d prosperous, not the tiny rundown village she had feared it would be. And there were definitely no igloos or dogsleds anywhere--so much for the northern stereotype. Slowly she forgot her headache and her missing boxes. Forgot Birkie's unsolicited advice on men. And nearly forgot her own name, not from meeting Connor--who, as Birkie had predicted, didn't make it back that day--but from seeing the clinic. The North Star Animal Hospital was a sprawling modern building, clean, bright and as well-equipped as the college labs had been. Jillian probably spent her entire first day with her mouth open.
* * * *
Agitated, the white wolf paced the shadows in the trees just behind the clinic. The massive creature didn't know why he was here, only that he needed to be. He had been here countless times on numberless nights, watching, guarding when Connor stayed late. But his brother wasn't here. None of the family, none of the Pack, was here. Yet something had tugged him away from the hunt, drawn him from the tall forests along the steep coulees, pulled him away from the deep shadows and bright starlight. Even the newly full moon couldn't compete with this urge. He couldn't ignore it, didn't want to resist it. The wolf had felt this sense, this something before, followed it before ....
Not something but someone.
Scents lingered around the outside of the building, on the pavement, in the yard, in the corrals. Hours old, days old, even weeks old. Many animals had been here. Many humans. And Changelings. He could identify every smell--except one.
The massive wolf stopped in his tracks. His nostrils flared, taking in the subtle traces. Human. A woman. It was her scent that lingered here and there in the corrals, in the doorway, in the yard. She was somewhere in the building now. He inhaled deeply, drawing the tiny molecules over the delicate olfactory tissues, seeking information. The scent was fresh, and it was not one that he had ever encountered here. He snorted and inhaled again. There was something vaguely familiar--and important--about this strange woman. But the wolf could not discern what it was and whined softly in frustration.
Heart of the Winter Wolf Page 2