“Donny,” she murmured, sweeping between tables to get to him as a low buzz swept through the café.
People stared outright at Donovan. He was some sight in that getup. But it wasn’t his appearance that caused a stir, Veronica knew. People were used to that since he came into town regularly for supplies.
Word of the attack had already gotten around and speculation was rife. Not that most folks would dare say anything negative to her directly.
That Donovan was here at all relieved her mind a bit. He had to be worried about Raymond or, considering the circumstances and his distaste at being fodder for gossip, he would’ve avoided Iron Lake like the plague.
DONOVAN HADN’T WARNED Laurel that the Veronica of Veronica’s Vittles was his mother. But the introduction when they’d entered the typical small-town eatery, with its Formica-topped counter and tables and its vinyl-covered padded stools and chairs, hadn’t been necessary.
The eyes gave her away—amber, glowing, readthrough-you eyes exactly like her son’s. And the older woman was reading her between waiting on the few lunch customers who still straggled into the place.
A decade or more younger than the congressman, Veronica Wilde hadn’t lost the looks that must have captivated her lover. Her body appeared slim and strong. Minimal silver threaded her heavy blue-black hair that she’d twisted into an artful coil at the base of her neck. More exotic than conventionally beautiful, her features remained unmarred by time but for a few tiny lines at the outer edges of her almond-shaped eyes.
Laurel suspected a Native American ancestry somewhere in Veronica’s background…and therefore in Donovan’s, as well.
As they ate the huge midday breakfast his mother had cooked for them, she noted that Veronica made a telephone call before finally settling at the counter. There she spoke with a man who’d been present before they’d arrived. Salt-and-pepper hair topped a pleasant, sun-lined face, and a blue work shirt and pants enveloped a physically fit if age-thickened body. His lunch plate long ago pushed to the side, he seemed to be drinking a bottomless cup of coffee.
Laurel suspected the man’s interest lay more in the proprietress than in the contents of his cup.
“That’s Josh Harley, owner of the local garage and auto parts store,” Donovan told her. “Josh is a long time friend of the family.”
From his expression as he gazed at Veronica, Laurel gathered Josh was interested in more than simple friendship. “How long?” she asked, thinking of his evident infatuation.
“Ever since I can remember. He taught me how to fish. How to start a campfire. And to find my direction by reading the stars.”
“Guy things.” Obviously, he’d missed her drift “Sounds like you two bonded.”
Donovan didn’t answer. Big surprise. But from his suddenly tense expression, she guessed she’d struck a nerve. He appeared…almost guilty. Curious. She couldn’t imagine this man feeling guilt over anything.
She noticed that Veronica split her attention between Josh and them. And even as they finished their meal, the older woman joined them, seeming ready to speak her mind.
Gaze fixing Laurel to the spot, she said, “Raymond told me you came to him with some wild tale of a stranger pretending to be our son.”
When Veronica glanced at Donovan as if for corroboration, he said, “It’s her story.”
Laurel told it quickly, succinctly, once more leaving out the more intimate details. When she finished, mother and son connected, shutting her out, the thick silence speaking volumes about the closeness of their relationship.
Feeling almost as if she were intruding, Laurel cleared her throat and said, “Congressman McKenna was determined to find your son to make certain he was all right. And if so, he meant to warn Donovan that something was up and that he should watch his back.”
Veronica nodded. “That’s pretty much what he told me when he called last night. But your story didn’t make sense then and it doesn’t now. Just who are you?”
The woman already knew her name, so what was she looking for?
“I don’t understand.”
“Are you someone important?”
“Only to a bunch of formerly homeless animals who depend on me,” Laurel said truthfully.
She had no one else…nothing else…not even her fantasy of a big loving family to hold on to any longer…
“But not to the wolves,” Veronica murmured.
Laurel shook her head. “Not that I wouldn’t like to be important to their survival beyond making small contributions. But my life’s in Chicago. I work for the city, actually—Streets and Sanitation.”
She tried not to sound defensive. Circumstances had forced her to take a good-paying, steady job that she didn’t want in lieu of finishing the education that she desired. One day soon she would have the medical debts paid off, and she could decide what to do with the rest of her life. In the meantime…
“I’m an equipment driver,” she explained. “Street cleaner in the summer, snowplow in the winter.”
Veronica didn’t even blink at her unusual background. “That’s about as far from working with wolves as you can get, I guess. Then…why you?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Laurel said truthfully. “I don’t know why he picked me or what he was up to.” She still found it difficult not to think of the man she’d come to care about as Donovan. “But I sure intend to find out. If I can.”
Not that she had the slightest idea of how to begin. And not that knowing would make her feel any better.
Nothing would erase her foolishness at putting all her trust in some stranger just because he’d been handsome and charming and had seemed nice. And vulnerable. She suspected she was a bit too susceptible to a hard-luck story…or wounded demeanor, in the case of her fake Donovan. Though maybe he had been wounded and vulnerable. Unfortunately, that hadn’t made him honest.
Veronica touched her son’s arm. “I called about your father while you were eating. His condition hasn’t changed. Your sister’s with him, though. I spoke to her. Aileen promised to call with any news…either way.”
Laurel heard the slight break in her voice.
“You sound exhausted, Mom.” Frowning, Donovan looked around. “Where’s that guy you hired?”
“You know how it is keeping help around here. I had hopes for Billy, but in the end, he up and took off on me just like the last one. Still, I’m not the one to be fretting over.”
“Neither am I,” Donovan insisted, any further protest cut off as the door to the café swung open with a bang.
In strode a big red-haired, bearded man whose mouth spread into an even bigger grin when he spotted Donovan. He stalked toward their table. Something about that smile felt wrong, Laurel thought, noting the malevolence in his hazel eyes. Her instincts went on alert when he towered over them, his flesh practically quivering in delight, and Donovan’s expression hardened.
“Wilde. Thought you’d like to see the weekend Herald.” Heedless of the dishes on the table, the big man slapped down a newspaper in front of them. “Held up the presses this morning especially for you.”
In complete control, Donovan glanced at the front page without so much as a blink. Laurel didn’t do nearly as well when she caught a glimpse of the cartoon—a wolf with slathering jaws. The headline shouted: Wolf Attack…Congressman Down for the Count.
“That’s disgusting.” She glared at the man.
Donovan said, “Laurel, meet Hamilton ‘Ham’ Gault—owner, publisher and editor of the local paper. I hesitate to use the word news. You’d think the National Tattler and World Inquisitor would be fighting over his talents.”
The grin hardened. “Don’t try to deny it, Wilde. Got my info first hand from the sheriff.”
“Sheriff Dwyer is ahead of himself.”
“Doesn’t seem to think so. Your daddy was savaged by one of them damn wolves. He dies, and the recovery program is through.” He barked a laugh. “Hell, it’s through now. All that’s left is the eulogy.”
“Don’t write it yet,” Donovan warned him. Voice deceptively calm, he asked, “By the way, Ham, where were you last night?”
The newspaper man narrowed his eyes. “What? You suddenly interested in my social life?”
“I’m interested in knowing exactly how far you’d go to kill the wolf recovery program.”
“You got something stuck in your craw, Wilde, spit it out”
“Those rottweilers of yours, they have pretty big jaws. Probably could take down a buck…or, for that matter, a man.”
Live-wire tension crackled between them. Laurel held her breath, waiting for an explosion. The whole café seemed to be waiting. Every eye in the place was turned their way.
Red-faced, Gault managed to hang on to his temper. “I’ll take that as distress over your daddy’s health speaking. But I wouldn’t go around badmouthing a pillar of this community if I were you.”
Donovan merely lifted a challenging eyebrow and stared the man down.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Gault spun around and stalked out of the café, slamming the door behind him. One by one, the other diners turned their attention back to their food. The show was over.
Forehead pulled with worry, Veronica said, “He’s going to cause more trouble for you, Donny.”
“His specialty.”
“What would the owner and publisher of a newspaper have against the recovery program?” Laurel asked him.
“Thickheadedness, pure and simple. He’s a pillar, all right. Solid stone.”
She shook her head. Of course she knew that kind of blind prejudice existed against the wolves, but she thought it belonged to the people who lived off the land and feared losing their animals to a predator.
“Ham Gault is the president of the local sportsman’s club,” Veronica said. “He’s afraid there might not be enough deer for him to shoot.”
“What a joke,” Donovan said. “Wisconsin has several times the volume of deer the state can handle without destruction of the vegetation. Herds are kept artificially high for the hunters, who kill maybe half a million deer a year. By contrast, our hundred wolves might take down another eighteen hundred. Vehicles take out ten times that”
Veronica added, “And every winter more and more deer die of starvation.”
“As part of my graduate work,” Donovan continued, “I did a study about a wolf pack’s encounters with deer. How many deer detected, how many got away before the wolves got near them, how many outran or outlasted the wolves and so on. They actually only manage to kill less than five percent, many of which are old, crippled or starving. Culling the less adaptable is actually healthy for the deer herd.”
“There’s another reason Ham hates wolves,” Veronica said. “He breeds rottweilers. Last fall, when he took several dogs hunting with him, one of the young ones disappeared, never to be seen again. Though no one ever found signs of the dog’s carcass, Ham swears the wolves ripped him apart and ate him.”
Though Laurel knew that to be a real possibility, the thought made her shudder.
“The dog probably had good taste and simply went and found himself a new owner.” Donovan indicated the remains on her plate. “If you’re done, how about making that phone call?”
“Right. The congressman’s car,” Laurel clarified for the other woman. “It had to be towed out of a culvert.”
“Get the station’s location. We can pick it up now and you can drive it home. To Chicago.”
Not wanting to argue with Donovan in front of his mother, Laurel rose and headed for the pay phone. She had no intention of driving back to Chicago…at least not yet, not when the congressman’s condition was still in question.
“Think old Ham got it on the nose, or what?” she heard an old-timer mumble as she approached his table.
“Don’t know, Nate,” his grizzled companion returned, “but I wouldn’t want to cross Wilde myself. He’s got a way with them wolves. It’s like he can control them.”
She bit her tongue to keep silent Gossip might be rife, but she guessed that was to be expected. That the wolves were his work was circumstantial. Besides, no one could control a wild wolf to his bidding. People were always afraid of what they didn’t understand…and the real Donovan was certainly an enigma.
“Hey, Andrew, think he might sic one of ‘em on Ham?” Nate asked.
“You heard what happened to the congressman,” Andrew said speculatively. “Never any love lost between them two. Remember that time back in the seventies when the old man came to collect him…and Ronnie had to round up a search party in the middle of the night…”
The conversation faded off as she arrived at the pay phone installed on a wall covered with framed photographs. So, even as a kid, Donovan had run from Raymond. Laurel could only imagine the hurt he’d experienced. Distracted by the bizarre thought of him being vulnerable like anyone else, she checked the phone book and dialed the station. Somehow, Donovan seemed so…impenetrable.
A woman answered and Laurel inquired about the congressman’s car. There was some confusion at the other end. The woman asked her to wait a minute.
Laurel passed the time by perusing the photographs. One in particular caught her attention—a young Veronica, hair plaited, throat surrounded by a quill necklace, posing with three other Native Americans, each of whom wore some article of traditional dress.
Then the owner of the service station came on-line. Stunned at what he had to say, she headed back to the table to share it with Donovan.
But when she heard his mother say, “I want to see Raymond, Donny,” she chose not to intrude.
“And I’m certain you’ll do exactly as you like.”
“Stop trying to sound so heartless. I know you better than that.” Veronica faltered before adding, “I want you to come with me. Please.”
“What makes you think I want to see him?”
“He’s your father.”
Donovan’s jaw worked. “So you keep insisting. He’s in good hands. Besides, Aileen’s with him now. Skelly’s sure to follow.”
Veronica didn’t say one more word, merely held her son’s gaze in a meaningful way that only a mother could. At first, Laurel didn’t think Donovan would give in. Then his grim expression altered. She swore he grew uneasy under his mother’s scowl.
“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow after breakfast.”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“I have traps to check.”
Laurel thought Veronica might argue further, but in the end, the older woman compromised, nodding in agreement.
“I’d better see to my customers. Tad Norton is heading for the cash register.”
She rose and, seeing Laurel, gave her a speculative look as she hurried to the counter.
Then, before Laurel could sit, Donovan asked, “Ready to leave?”
“Sure.” She picked up her jacket. “But forget about going for the car.”
“How serious is the damage?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Her stomach did a jig as she added, “And neither would the service station.” When she said, “It’s not there,” Donovan’s expression reflected her own shock. “The owner’s pretty hot under the collar about the situation, too. He came out and searched the road for an hour but found nothing. He accused me of wasting his time. My saying I’d make sure he was paid barely satisfied him.”
“A vehicle can’t just up and disappear.”
“No,” she said. “Not by itself, it can’t.”
NOW WHAT?
Expecting Donovan to grab on to the fact that the car had been stolen, to grill her about the circumstances, Laurel was surprised when he didn’t even broach the subject…as if he chose to exclude her, she thought resentfully. She stared out of the passenger window as they left town. She knew he’d stuff her on the next bus south if the only one that came through Iron Lake wasn’t already long gone, as he had dispassionately informed her upon leaving the cafe.
“Tomorrow morning,” he’d promised, before lapsin
g into his customary silence.
No talk of what she’d do today…or where she’d sleep tonight. She guessed it was back to his place, then. Only tonight, she’d insist on taking the couch. As to his plans to put her on a bus the next morning…let him assume what he would.
When Donovan drove his mother to Nicolet General Hospital, Laurel meant to go along for the ride. If Donovan gave her flack, she’d appeal to Veronica. She was certain the older woman would understand and champion her request.
She wanted to be there…either way.
If Raymond came to as she fervently hoped he would, Laurel wanted to see him for herself, wanted to tell him how sorry she was that she’d gotten him into this mess. She also wanted to hear the congressman’s account of his assault. What had attacked him and why? Unless he’d been haranguing the animal to make it leave him be, another person had been involved in the dangerous scenario.
The same person who’d taken the car?
Her Donovan?
On the way back to the woods, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man. How he’d pursued her, charmed her, wooed her. How she’d half fallen for him, if not enough to commit herself instantly. She should have known his romancing her had been too good to be true. Not the type of woman who pushed men’s erotic buttons, she should have suspected some ulterior motive when he’d gone to such great lengths to see her.
Why her?
Veronica’s question echoed in her mind all the way home, until the moment they left the truck for the cabin. Unfortunately, she remained clueless.
They’d barely gotten inside the door when Donovan said, “I don’t have time to entertain you.”
Taken aback by his rudeness, she said, “Did I ask?”
“I have work to do.”
“Fine. So do it. You don’t owe me any explanations.”
His outer garments flung to a chair, he moved with purpose. Half out of curiosity and half wanting to annoy him, Laurel followed Donovan to the supply closet and lounged in the doorway as he gathered his equipment and supplies. He worked quickly, efficiently, appearing for all intents and purposes capable of anything he set his mind to. Intent on his preparations, he didn’t seem to be aware of her. But she was certainly aware of him.
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