The X-ray showed a compound fracture in the tibia, which was already fusing back together. Too bad lycanthropy didn’t speed up the healing of emotional wounds.
THIRTEEN
“Here you go, Doc, door to bed service.” Red, who had insisted on carrying me into the cabin like a bride, deposited me gently on the couch. I scowled up at him as he handed me a flashlight.
“It’s freezing in here.” After Malachy had cut off my jeans, he’d offered to lend me something of his, but nothing had fit. So he and Red had wrapped me in horse blankets, which were itchy and did little to keep me warm.
“I’ll take care of that in a sec.” He went into the bedroom and brought back our quilt, which he draped over me. Then he headed back to the truck for the hawk and raccoon. Red had used the animals to help find me, flying the hawk during the daytime, and setting the raccoon out to help him explore the woods at night. I knew I should be grateful, but I was cold and unsettled, and when the door opened, letting in another blast of cold air, I had to bite back another complaint.
I hobbled into the bedroom, dragging the quilt behind me, and searched blindly in the drawer of the bedside table for my spare glasses. After a panicky moment, I found them, slightly scratched from the nail scissors I’d thrown in with them. Putting them on, I peered at myself in the mirror. My hair looked like it had been styled by harpies, and my rimless spare specs—all the rage when I’d bought them—did nothing to hide the dark shadows under my eyes. At least I could see again, even if I didn’t like what I was seeing.
I limped back to the couch and huddled under the quilt, watching as Red settled the animals in their cages, speaking softly to them before taking his flashlight and heading over to the woodpile by the fireplace. As he hefted a great armful of lumber, I was reminded how deceptively strong his wiry body was, how competent he was in a nineteenth-century cabin.
Except my teeth were chattering, and I hadn’t really ever planned on living in a nineteenth-century cabin.
“You doing okay there?” Red lit the oil lamps. Misinterpreting my pinched expression, Red said, “I could get you something for the pain.”
“I’m not in the mood for drugs.” I didn’t have to add the reason why, because I’d had enough of altered consciousness. Red paused in the act of setting a match to a piece of kindling wood.
“I was thinking of a different kind of something.” Lighting the kindling, Red arranged it under the larger logs in the fireplace. He listened until he was sure the fire had caught, then replaced the grate. “Let me see your leg.” He was still facing away from me, gazing at the fire as if trying to remember something.
I pulled the quilt back from my leg, which was swollen underneath the Ace bandages. A human would have needed a cast. I kind of wished I’d had a cast. My leg looked awfully vulnerable like this.
Red approached me. “How bad does it hurt?”
“It’s throbbing.”
Red unwrapped the bandage, then stood up and brought back a mason jar filled with a pale yellow substance.
“What’s that?”
“Special ointment. Granddad’s own recipe.” Red carefully lifted my injured leg, then sat down with my heel resting on his thighs. Scooping the ointment up in his fingers, he began rubbing it into my foot and ankle with long, slow, circular motions. The lotion smelled like lavender and mint, and my skin began to tingle pleasantly wherever Red was massaging it. He was murmuring something low, under his breath, and I realized it wasn’t English. I leaned my head back, lulled by the touch and the chant, and as the pain in my calf eased, Red’s fingers began to move upward, toward my thigh. A gentle warmth had begun to build, and I found myself wishing that Red would work on the other leg, as well. “Wow. That’s good. Why didn’t you use that on my burn last year?”
“I didn’t have any left at the time.”
I tried to keep my eyes open as Red took another dollop of grease and massaged it in. “So how come you didn’t use it on yourself when the manitou got you?”
“It doesn’t work the same way when you apply it yourself.”
I stirred, curious. “And what’s it made of?”
“Rendered bear fat.”
I sat up straight. “Oh, yuck, please tell me you’re joking.”
“And some herbs and other powders.”
“I think that’s enough,” I said, pushing his hands away and covering myself with the quilt. “I’ve had enough of bears touching me tonight.”
Red didn’t move for a moment, and I tried to ignore the residual warm tingling in my lower extremity. I had a feeling that this particular ointment might have some properties other than simple healing. “Is this some kind of aphrodisiac?”
Red gave a startled choke of a laugh. “No,” he said, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “But it’s nice to know I’ve still got the touch.” Underneath my heel, which was still on Red’s lap, I could feel that he wasn’t unaffected.
“I thought you could smell my response.”
Red’s eyes half closed for a moment, and I wondered what he was thinking, or what he was concealing. “You know I can.”
“So I can’t hide that from you.”
Red studied me carefully. “Abra,” he said. His voice was full of hope and desire. The urge to yield to him was almost overpowering. In one of her films, I can’t remember which one, my mother said all women’s virtue lay in resisting that first intimacy. Once the boundary of intimate touch had been breached, women were driven to yield themselves again and again.
I was on the verge of turning my head that small, critical distance, joining my mouth to Red’s, but then his hand tightened on my injured leg, and the unexpected small jolt of pain brought me back to myself.
“But you have been hiding things from me, Red. Like the fact that I was going into heat.”
Red drew in a sharp breath that turned into a long sigh. “I was going to tell you. I was just waiting to be sure. Even now, you’re not in full heat.”
“Jesus! I can’t believe you’re still lying to me. You were trying to get me pregnant. Just admit it.” The last time we had discussed birth control, Red had insisted that we didn’t need to worry about it when we were in canid form, since wolves only conceived when the female was in estrus. I couldn’t take the pill—it gave me migraines. So Red and I used condoms or a diaphragm when we had opposable thumbs, and nothing when we went around on all fours. “You were trying to trick me into starting a family.”
Red flinched a little at the word “trick” and I withdrew my leg as he stood up, walked over to one of the antique oil lamps, and lit the wick. When he replaced the top of the lamp, the tinted glass gave his face a warm cast, as if he were blushing. “Truth is, Abra, I never really expected …”
“You didn’t expect that I’d go into heat at all? Or you didn’t expect it so soon?”
“Most lycanthropes don’t reproduce,” Red said quietly. “I’d heard about it, sure, but it’s pretty damn rare. Last year, when you thought you were pregnant by Hunter? That would only have been possible if you’d conceived before the virus took effect.” Red hesitated. “Fact is, most women who’ve had the virus can’t conceive a child in either form.”
“And you didn’t think I needed to know that? You didn’t think I deserved to know that I might never be able to have a child at all!”
“Now, hang on a moment. Are you mad because I didn’t tell you that you could get pregnant, or mad because I didn’t tell you that you might not be able to get pregnant?”
“I’m mad at both, you idiot!” I started to cry, and Red drew me into his arms. Irrationally, I found myself punching at him, clumsy, ineffectual jabs at his hard stomach and arms that he absorbed for a moment before grabbing hold of my wrists. “Let go of me,” I protested, as he drew me into his arms. I tried to hit him again, but he had pinned my arms and now my face was pushed into the warm flannel of his shirt and I was enveloped by the clean male scent of him, spiced with the fragrances of woods and winter.
&n
bsp; “Easy, now, easy. I got you.” It was the voice he used to gentle animals, but I didn’t want to be gentled. I bit his chest, just hard enough to bring his hand up to my hair. “Ouch.” He gave my hair a soft tug, but I wouldn’t let go. I was fed up with partial truths and evasions, and I wanted to tear into Red’s calm equanimity and rip it to shreds. As I clamped my jaw harder, Red’s hand tightened on my hair, pulling harder. “Come on, baby, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Maybe because you can’t,” I said, pulling away. I wasn’t sure where this was coming from, but I couldn’t seem to control myself. “We shift, and I’m bigger than you. Stronger.”
Red raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Oh, so now you’re going to turn it into a jo—” There was a blur of motion, and before I could finish the sentence, I was flat on my back, and Red was on top of me, pinning me to the bed.
“Looks like I won.” Red looked down at me with a half smile.
“I said when we shifted!”
“You want to shift?”
“I can’t just shift, as you very well know.”
Red’s eyes crinkled. “I suppose that’s one advantage I’ve got over you.”
I bucked under him, and suddenly we were kissing, harsh, hungry, rough kisses, and I tried to pull my arms free but Red caught my wrists, which made me thrash more fiercely against his grip. I needed to feel his strength; I wanted him to overpower me. His breathing grew harsher, I could feel him hard against my thigh, and I was about to throw the wrestling match when Red inadvertently shifted his weight onto my bad leg. I gasped, and Red scooted back as though he’d been scalded.
“Aw, shit, honey.” Red was gently checking my leg, I was crying again, and this time even I knew I was riding a hormonal roller coaster, complete with twists, inversions, and sudden reversals. “C’mere,” Red said, lying down and carefully spooning himself around me. “Care to tell me what’s really going on in here?” He nuzzled my head with his chin.
“Magda says there’s no way I can bring a baby to term.” My voice was barely audible, but I knew he could hear me. “Even if I do get pregnant, she said I’d just wind up losing it.”
Red had propped himself up on one elbow, and I glanced back over my shoulder so I could read his expression. “Well, that’s just her opinion. I happen to hold a different position on the subject.”
“So she’s wrong? You’re saying she just told me I was infertile to upset me?” I felt as if a more established doctor had just given me a second opinion: That’s not cancer, it’s a rash.
Red looked pensive as he formulated his response, and I felt such a burst of depression that I could barely force myself to listen. “It’s not so much that she’s wrong about the facts as wrong about the particulars. I mean, sure, in an extended family you’re only going to have one breeding female, but even if she’s sharing close territory, Magda’s not exactly part of our pack. In the end, it all boils down to what you feel, deep inside.”
I sat up, which made my leg throb. “So what exactly are you proposing? We just go ahead and try and if it’s a false pregnancy, well, no harm, no foul, and if I do get pregnant and then just—whatever it is dogs do—reabsorb, then what?” My voice rose into the register of anger and fear. In the back of my mind, I was aware that I wasn’t being completely fair, and that I was taking something out on Red. Give me an hour or two, and I’d be apologizing for my outburst. But not yet.
Red sat up and cupped my cheek in his work-roughened palm. His warm hazel eyes were kind and a little sad as he used his thumb to brush away my tears. “Everybody who tries to have a baby is taking some kind of gamble, Doc. You don’t know how long it’s going to take, or what might go wrong. You just go on faith and hope. And love,” he added, his thumb stroking my cheek again.
I slapped his hand away. “Oh, no you don’t. This isn’t some typical situation here, and don’t you go and try to whitewash it.”
Red looked as though he were going to say something, and then must have thought better of it. “Tell you what. I can see you’re awful upset right now. How about we take a break and I give you a nice cup of hot tea with honey?” He walked over to the gas range and filled the kettle with water.
“I don’t want tea. I want us to face the fact that you clearly want to have a family. And the way it sounds to me, that’s not going to happen.”
Red looked at the kettle as if he’d forgotten what it was used for, and then put it down to face me. “I love you, Abra. I wouldn’t trade being with you for anything. You … you’re my family. You’re my pack.”
“But you want me to have your baby.”
Red looked straight at me then, his hazel eyes darker than I had ever seen them. Then he nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “More than I ever wanted anything.”
There was silence, as we both waited to hear what I said next. The flames in the fireplace crackled and an ember popped. “Does it all hinge on me, then? On how alpha I am?”
Red held my gaze. “No.” And then, very simply, he added, “If the male is powerful enough, that can tip the balance.”
And I thought back to the night that I couldn’t remember, when Red had been so ebullient, and I had not understood why. I knew now what bothered me about it. It wasn’t just that Red hadn’t asked permission in words—mind if we risk knocking you up, sweetheart? It was that he’d felt that he had to trick me into getting pregnant.
I just blurted it out. “And are you powerful enough?”
Red hesitated. “I am if you believe I am.” He said it bluntly, without embellishment, standing there like the very image of the salt-of-the-earth workingman.
I knew what I was supposed to say here: Of course I believe in you, you’re my man. But the truth was, some part of me wasn’t convinced that Red was strong enough to compensate for what I lacked. What he did have was intelligence and craftiness and patience. God knows, the man had patience. But we were talking about the kind of strength that leaders require, and Red wasn’t really a leader.
For a moment, I thought Red was going to argue his case—here’s why you should vote for me as alpha! Instead, he bobbed his head, as if acknowledging some correction. “Of course, that’s not exactly the kind of thing you decide all at once.” His face had gone unreadable, and his voice oddly formal. “Would you like me to put on some tea? Or do you want me to help you get into your nightgown?”
I gave Red a look that put an end to any thought he might have of seeing me naked again in the foreseeable future.
“Or else I could brush out your hair. It looks like it got kind of snarled there in the back.”
Now, that was clever. That was one of my favorite rituals with Red; every night, he liked to sit and brush my hair. He did it with such patience and gentleness that I couldn’t help but wish he’d been around to brush my hair when I was a kid, instead of my mother, who used to tear through my hair like it was the enemy. She’s better at grooming animals, of course.
Taking my silence as acquiescence, Red said, “Here. Scootch on over so I can get behind you.” He sat behind me, running the brush through my hair, holding on to the snarled pieces so he could work on them without tugging on my scalp. I leaned my head back and let him work, listening to the small, hungry sounds of the fire, half hypnotized by the feel of Red’s hands on my hair. When the last knot had been untangled and the brush ran smoothly from scalp to ends, I felt Red’s breath near my ear, his hands drawing me close. “God, I love touching your hair.” Through the quilt and his jeans, I could feel just how much he loved it. I pulled back, even though it would have been so much easier to fall back into his touch.
“Thank you, Red.” If he took me now, I knew that I would really be choosing him as my mate, and finding out whether or not we could have a family together. And I wasn’t sure I wanted my body making up my mind for me. But more than that, I was a little afraid that his touching me would release all the things I’d locked away. As long as we talked about Red’s desire
for a baby, I could hold it together. If I started thinking about my own feelings, my own desire for a child, I felt I might really unravel. “I think what I really need now is a little privacy.”
Red stood up awkwardly, as if someone had changed the music on him in mid-dance. “Of course,” he said. “Here.” He handed me the brush, then looked embarrassed. “Do you want me to heat up some water for a bath?”
“I’m too cold and tired. I’ll do it in the morning.”
“Sure thing. So, ah, I’ll just see to Rocky and get Ladyhawke settled. If you need anything …”
“No, thanks.” I wondered if I was supposed to be feeling guilty. I hadn’t had much experience being the one fuming in a relationship. With Hunter, I’d always been apologizing for something I hadn’t done. With my mother, I took the role of the reasonable one.
“All right then. But, Doc?”
“What?”
“You might want to hold on to this.” He handed me a soft chamois pouch; when I poured it out, the moonstone pendant slipped into my hand.
“There’s a piece of leather in there you can hold it with, so the silver won’t burn your hands. I thought about trying to reset it, but since moonstone is a soft stone, it didn’t seem wise to try to pry it out of its setting.”
I used the leather square to pick up the pendant, which was just as ugly as I remembered. “I thought Malachy wanted to run some tests on it.”
Red shrugged. “Yeah, well, a necklace that grants true sight is a valuable thing. And the fact that the silver burns you may actually give it some of its power; a lot of magical objects work that way. Best not to let Malachy tinker with it none.”
I felt a surge of affection for him then, but I also wondered what I would see if I slipped it back over my neck when I looked at him. I decided I would let my neck heal before trying to find out. “Red?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He grinned at me, like a mature version of Tom Sawyer, guilty of nothing but high spirits and a taste for adventure. But he wasn’t some good old boy who just happened to know a bit about the supernatural. According to his ex-girlfriend, he was a shaman. Funny how easy it was to forget that when you lived with the man. I glanced at the bandage on his arm, underneath the coyote tattoo. A blood trail, to find his way back.
Moonburn Page 11