by D. M. Turner
A hefty little pouch was the only thing of interest left. He opened it. Two-hundred and thirty dollars in gold coin with some spare change. Heaven only knew where that had come from, but he might need it. He tugged the drawstring to close it and tossed the pouch into the box along with the clothes. The lid on the box barely closed. Nothing more would fit in there, including the Bible.
Ian studied the cover of the book. Randy had said he could find answers to questions within those pages. Ian glanced at the star-speckled sky. “If that’s true, Lord, then what’s my purpose? Why did You let this curse fall upon me?”
He opened the book.
A breeze whipped around the rock behind him, fluttering the pages.
He slapped a hand on it, careful not to tear or otherwise damage the paper.
The wind died down.
Ian took a deep breath. The scent of a summer rain filled his lungs. There were no clouds in the sky, and he hadn’t seen signs of rain the past couple of days. He shivered in the chilly winter night. Very odd.
He lifted his hand away from the book. The pages settled, with the Bible open to the end of Genesis. He frowned. A note had been scrawled in the margin:
“For some reason, as I prayed for you tonight, about your purpose in this world, this verse came to mind. The Lord assures me that you’ll understand. - Randy.”
It was dated the night before Ian had left Tucson. The pastor had bracketed the verse in question. It read:
“But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.”
Ian’s frown deepened. He hadn’t saved anyone. He’d killed a man.
“A man who’d killed, and would’ve killed again.”
He hopped to his feet and looked around. Where had that soft, warm voice come from? It had touched him like a gentle breeze.
He was alone.
Barely able to breathe, he glanced down at the open Bible. Had he just heard God?
Hadn’t his màthair read him something from the Bible about listening for a still, small voice that guided a man?
Ian sat cross-legged at the fire, picked up the Bible, and started to read. He had to find that verse.
1917: Friendship
Camp Greene Army Training Facility
A few miles outside Charlotte, North Carolina
Thursday, September 6, 1917
EYES FORWARD TO resist looking around and getting barked at by the sergeant yet again, Ian also restrained the urge to rub a hand over his chin and jaws. He hadn’t been clean-shaven since before the Civil War, and his face was cold. The U.S. Army didn’t stand for facial hair, though, so he’d shaved that morning, right along with chopping off his hair. All that remained of the latter was short, dark blond curls. Losing all the hair had made him look painfully young and pale, but not as much as the men gathered around him and standing at attention.
Good Lord in heaven, are these men old enough to fight? They look barely old enough to shave peach fuzz off their faces. He grimaced. Sounded like some of the older officers when he’d joined the Union Army decades before. Am I really so old that everyone looks so young?
Not that he looked it. His papers claimed him to be thirty-one, and his own son, to boot. Yeah, a lie all the way around, but an unavoidable one. Werewolves didn’t have the luxury of truth when it came to such things. He couldn’t very well admit to being seventy-four years old. Best case scenario, they’d laugh it off as a joke. Worst case... well, he’d prefer not to think much on that.
A scent drifted past his nose on the breeze ruffling his short hair. He stilled and took a deep, slow breath. Another wolf. Male. He glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source without breaking ranks.
“Am I boring you, Private?”
He jolted, facing forward, only to find himself nose-to-nose with the sergeant, who scowled darkly. The wolf didn’t appreciate the man being in his personal space, but Ian suppressed the growl of warning that tried to rise. “No, sir!”
“Eyes forward. You ain’t here to sight-see.”
“Yes, sir!” That guy had better step back and get out of his face. His hackles rose.
The sergeant moved on, barking more instructions.
The wolf settled. Well, this could get interesting.
* * *
Ian set the footlocker and the load stacked on top of it on one of the two cots nearest the door of the tent. Then he straightened and looked around. A cone-shaped, wood-burning stove about two feet tall stood on a base about one foot in diameter in the center of the tent. Five cots lined three outside walls. None of them had been disturbed except the one he’d just loaded, so the rest of the men assigned to that tent hadn’t shown up yet.
He shifted the clothing and equipment to one side, moved the footlocker to the floor, and knelt beside it. The lid propped open, he went through the clothes and arranged them in the trunk, then added equipment as well to get it out of the way. Then he closed the trunk and shoved it under the cot. He grabbed the rucksack still sitting on the bed and opened it. His books would fit under the bed, too. He could set them on top of the footlocker to keep them off the wood plank floor.
A shadow blocked the fading sunlight coming through the open door.
The air stirred, carrying a scent toward him. The same one that had distracted him earlier.
He stood and glanced over his shoulder without turning fully, keeping his body relaxed and non-threatening until he knew what he was dealing with.
The man filling the doorway eyed him warily. Only an inch or so shorter than his six-foot-five, narrower through the shoulders, and lighter of build, the newcomer studied him with blue eyes that reflected resignation, boredom, and something else Ian couldn’t quite pin down.
They were alone. Might as well get straight to it. Otherwise, he’d never be able to relax. “Do you want a fight?”
“Are you German?”
He frowned. “Uh... no. Scottish actually.”
The other man snorted and shrugged. “Then you aren’t who I’m here to fight.” He chose the cot that would put his head near Ian’s, dropping the load in his arms onto it. He sat next to his equipment, his gaze returning to Ian. “Where you from?”
“West Virginia originally. Arizona most recently. You?”
“Pennsylvania originally. All over most recently.”
“Ian Campbell.” He chuckled and offered his hand, which was immediately grasped.
“Brett Mitchell. So, how do we handle this if neither of us wants to kill the other?”
“I have no idea.” Ian half-grinned. “I’ve never met another who didn’t want me dead.”
“Me either. Suppose that’s a reflection on them, or us?”
“Considering the temperaments and personalities of the ones I’ve dealt with, I’ll definitely say them.”
“Sounds reasonable to me.” Brett nodded with a full-fledged grin. “So, why are you here?”
Odd question. “To fight for this country and stop the Germans, why else?”
The other man nodded but said nothing.
“You?”
Brett shrugged and shifted his gaze to the stack of items beside him. “I’m bored.”
Ian laughed, despite the fact the man’s words had sounded suspiciously like a lie. The rumble of voices outside reminded him that they weren’t isolated or alone, so he lowered his voice. “You joined the war effort because you’re bored?”
“Mostly. What else should I do right now? The worst that can happen is death, and I’m not much afraid of that.”
The dark tone of the last statement made Ian cock his head and frown, and the claim of no fear was not true. The man may want death, but he most definitely feared it. “You want to die? Why?”
“If you had lived as long as I have, you’d feel the same way.”
“Our lives aren’t always easy, that’s for sure.” Hopefully Brett understood the “as werewolves” part of that statement without Ian having to
say it. It was best not to risk being overhead saying such things. The tent walls weren’t exactly soundproof.
“Easy or difficult isn’t the issue. It’s the years, miles, and experience that take a toll.”
“Aw, shucks, man.” The new voice belonged to a dark-haired young man barely out of high school with dark eyes and a jovial smile. “How many years could you possibly have lived? You’re what? About thirty or so?”
The pinpoint questions made Ian grateful he’d left the “as werewolves” unsaid. He’d been right to be concerned and would have to keep the thin walls and lack of privacy in mind for future conversations.
Brett gave Ian a resigned look and glanced at the new arrival. “I’m thirty-three.”
Only Ian knew it was a huge lie.
The newcomer snorted and set his footlocker and equipment on the bunk against the back wall of the tent. “Please. My parents are a lot older than that, and they aren’t ready to give up yet.”
“Who’s giving up?” Another newcomer filled the doorway, his hands loaded. He peered over it all with blue eyes, a shock of barely-existent blond hair blending into his pale scalp. “We just got here. How can anyone talk about giving up already?”
Brett sighed and shook his head. “Not exactly the point of the discussion, but it doesn’t matter.”
“Name’s William Masters,” said the newcomer as he set the footlocker on the floor beside the cot across from Brett and perpendicular to the other new kid. He offered his hand to the latter. “Friends just call me Willy.”
“George Cranston.” The man grimaced. “Please, don’t call me Georgie.”
That sent chuckles through the tent.
“Ian Campbell.”
“Brett Mitchell.”
The doorway darkened again. “And I’m James Wilson.” Green eyes peered around the tent then fell on the cot across from Ian. “I guess this one’s mine by default, eh?” He smiled and set down his footlocker.
Ian studied the faces of the three humans. Not one of them had even reached his twentieth birthday, he was pretty sure. Was James even eighteen? Talk about making a wolf feel old. He glanced at Brett, who gave him a woeful look, sighed, and shook his head. He wasn’t sure if that was a sign the other wolf had had the same thought or not.
Willy and George left a few minutes later to check out the camp.
“Suppose they realize how big this place is and won’t get lost?” Brett grinned.
“We can only hope.”
James finished stowing his gear then sat on his cot with a book in his hand, a frown wreathing his face. He stared at the cover then sighed.
“Something wrong?” Ian dropped onto his own cot and leaned his elbows on his knees.
The young soldier glanced up, and a sheepish look crossed his face. “I didn’t know we’d have to read books.”
“Is that a problem?”
He grimaced. “I can’t read all that great.” The confession came out little more than a whisper.
“So, I’ll help you.”
“Me, too.” Brett started putting away his things.
His eyes widened. “You will?”
“Sure. Why not?” Ian shrugged. “I’m sure we can keep up with our studies while helping you learn to read better.” He glanced at Brett, who nodded.
“That’d be great! Thanks!”
* * *
Friday, September 14, 1917
Book open in his hands, Ian lay on his cot and tried to focus on what he needed to study before lights out. Faulty concentration had nothing to do with Brett working with James on his reading a few feet away, or Willy snoring in his bunk, or George humming as he rearranged his gear for at least the fourth time in the past week. Supper was less than three hours behind them, and his stomach already gnawed itself. The food had been decent quality and plentiful, for humans.
Was Brett as hungry as he was? Maybe they could hunt together over the weekend. Saturday would follow the same schedule they’d had all week, but they’d be cut free at supper time to go into Charlotte if they wanted. Some of the men were excited about some social or another the women in town had set up. Not something Ian cared to attend. Spending time with women only invited feelings he’d rather not stir up.
He’d have to find an opportunity to talk to Brett, discuss the possibility of a hunt on Saturday evening or Sunday during their day off.
Give it up already. Ian closed the military manual and slipped it under his bunk on top of the footlocker. Rather than lie there staring at the other men or the walls, he grabbed one of the books he’d brought to read for pleasure.
That caught James’ attention. “What are you reading? That don’t look like one of our manuals.”
“It’s not. It’s a novel. I brought a couple to read for relaxation.”
“What’s that one?”
“Call of the Wild by Jack London.”
Brett snorted and grinned. “Seriously?”
Ian quirked a brow. “Have you ever read it?”
“Yeah, which is why I asked. Have you read it before?”
“A couple of times. It’s one of my most recent favorites.” He half-grinned. If Brett had read it, he knew the story and characters, and he probably understood the appeal it held for Ian.
James missed the look the two wolves shared. “I heard about that one. The main character is a dog, right?”
“Yep.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I can identify with some of Buck’s struggles. He goes from a familiar, easy life to having to fight for his life and deal with unsavory characters.” At least, those were the qualities that he could share with a human.
“Uh... isn’t Buck the dog?”
“Yep.”
“You identify with the dog?” James chuckled. “That’s just strange.”
“You ought to read it sometime. You might understand then.” Doubtful. At least, he wouldn’t grasp the appeal for Ian anyway.
“Maybe.” The young man looked dubious. “So, you said you brought a couple. What’s the other one?”
“Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey.”
“What’s that one about?”
“A cowboy seeking justice with a gun and finding love, I’d say pretty well sums it up.” Those were the elements that stood out to him each time he read it anyway. He wouldn’t mind if his life took the same turn as Lassiter’s. The arm of justice and vengeance finding love. Yeah, would be nice, but werewolves didn’t have such luxuries as happy endings that involved women. At least he could live vicariously through the cowboy-gunman.
James wrinkled his nose. “A love story? Isn’t that a book for women?”
Ian laughed. “Nope, unless you consider gunfights, cattle rustling, and horse stealing to be subjects for women. All sorts of action in Grey’s work.”
“Mind if I borrow it sometime?” He scowled at the book in his hands. “After I’m reading better, that is?”
“Not at all. You can borrow either or both, as long as I get them back.” He motioned to the book in James’ hands. “But you better get to work on learning. We’ve only got a couple of months here.”
The young man sighed and nodded.
* * *
Saturday, September 15, 1917
Ian stopped at the top of the hill. They had a clear, three-hundred-sixty degree view and the sun was still up, so they’d know if anyone headed their way and could overhear their discussion.
“So, did you change your mind about wanting to fight?” Brett cocked a brow.
“No.” He chuckled. “Actually, I wondered if you need to eat as much as I do?”
“Then some.” He rolled his eyes and pressed a hand to his stomach. “I’m losing weight.”
“Yeah, me, too. I was thinking maybe we could go hunting tonight. The others are headed into town, but I don’t have any interest in that, and I could really use something to eat. Something fresh, if you know what I mean.”
Brett nodded. “Same here.”
“I asked around a bit about unsettled areas where a man might go to think and pray.” He half-grinned. “There’s a river east of here as well as a couple of lakes a few miles out. We could go there and back tonight easy, even with time to hunt.”
“Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Brett’s eyes narrowed.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“We’ve never hunted together. We might not get along quite so well in wolf form when it comes to competition for food.”
Ian shrugged. “We’ve done just fine all week competing in other things, so I don’t anticipate a problem.” The two of them had almost blown their cover a couple of times, striving so hard to outdo each other in various tasks. They’d outperformed most of the other men at running, jumping, lifting, and shooting before it had dawned on either of them that they’d better pretend to be normal humans.
“And if one arises?”
“We’ll deal with it. You and I have gotten along just fine. Neither of us wants an unnecessary fight. I doubt we’ll have a problem.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Ian half-grinned and chuckled. “We’ll just make sure we take down a deer or something comparable in size. More than enough for both of us. No reason to quarrel.”
Brett continued to look dubious. “When do we head out?”
“We could leave now. Nobody’ll look for us until tomorrow evening.” He pointed toward camp. “If we go back now and wait until the others leave, we’ll face questions about not going to town. I don’t particularly want to answer those. Do you?”
“Nope. Lead on.”
Ian turned east and trotted down the hill, slowing to a walk when they entered the tree line.
They hadn’t gone far when Brett broke the silence. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”