They had arrived at his mother's house.
Apples and cinnamon and warm air and squeals greeted their entrance. Surrounded immediately by four little girls dressed in varying hues of pink dresses and pants and tops who all seemed to be squealing, “Uncle Gray, Uncle Gray,” Sorcha froze as the wind slammed the door behind their backs.
One grubby hand grabbed Sorcha's. The palm in contact with hers contained something wet and slimy. Sorcha swallowed.
A raven-haired moppet, lips stained poppy red by the scarlet Popsicle she gnawed on, muttered, “Mybef.”
Entranced, Sorcha asked, “Pardon me?”
“You're her new best friend forever,” Gray translated. “This is Ariel, Susie and Joe's oldest.”
“Something's moving in my palm,” Sorcha muttered, sotto voce. “I think she has something live in her hand.”
Gray grinned, rolled his eyes, and then stooped. “Show, brat.” He held out an upturned hand.
Ariel mumbled something around her Popsicle®, released her tight grip on Sorcha's hand, and deposited a lime green grasshopper on Gray's palm. Antennae quivering, the insect promptly leaped for its life. Ariel ran after the bounding insect, emitting high-pitched shrieks Sorcha couldn't decipher.
Stifling the urge to rub her hand on her dress, Sorcha flinched at the sound of a throat clearing . Another young girl stood in the spot Ariel had vacated. Clear black eyes, rife with intelligence, inspected her head to toe. Shoulder-length, glossy raven locks framed a heart-shaped face dominated by a long, straight nose, which led to a full mouth bordered by a stubborn jawline that shouted determination.
Uh-oh.
“I'm Jaclyn. Are you Gray's girlfriend?” Slender to the point of thinness, the child, around seven, wore cowboy boots, pink pants, and a purple long-sleeved shirt. The young girl crossed her arms, tapped her foot, and demanded, “Well? It's a simple yes-or-no question.”
Sorcha tried to keep her face neutral but knew her eyebrows had climbed to her hairline. She glanced to Gray for guidance.
“This is Jackie, Melanie and Mike's oldest. Jackie wants to be an investigative reporter when she grows up. We're still on the reporter, right, brat?”
So much for guidance. And Jaclyn wasn't finished, because one cowboy boot did a rat-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor.
“You know Gramma's not going to give you any apple pie if you keep calling us brats, Uncle Gray. And my name's Jaclyn, not Jackie. Mom says she's always been goopy for you, and that you wouldn't have brought her to church to sit with us unless you're serious. Just so you know, we've decided—I'll be the first flower girl at the wedding, and I'll be in charge of the rings. And we're all wearing pink. No ruffles.”
A hold button stamped Sorcha's whirling thoughts to a halt; she sneaked Gray another peek.
He winked at her.
Omigod. If the little girls had talked about a wedding, what had the adults discussed? Sorcha stifled a wince. Her temples throbbed, and the room's gradient dipped out of focus.
“I'm Jenna, and I'm the second oldest.” Jaclyn moved aside and another dark-haired girl took her place. This one had twin dimples and wore a smile that dazzled and spoke of future glamour.
“Jenna also belongs to Melanie and Mike,” Gray said as he and Jenna high-fived.
“I think we should have pink ribbons in our hair, and I like ruffles.” Jenna ended her pronouncement while batting the kind of thick and lush eyelashes only men seemed to inherit.
Sorcha barely had time to recover from the two J's when a tiny hand tugged her forefinger.
A miniature of Ariel, minus the stained mouth, stared up at her. Mesmerized by flying-saucer eyes, one the shade of After Eight chocolate, the other a light hazel with a hint of emerald, Sorcha returned the little girl's hesitant smile with a broad grin.
“I can count to fifty.” The toddler looked unsteady in a big, poufy dress and tottered on glass Cinderella shoes—pink, of course. “One, two, free, four.”
What would her daughter look like? Would she have dark eyes like Gray's or blue like hers? Omigod. Where had that thought come from? Logic told Sorcha her heart really couldn't turn over in her chest, but the sudden ache in that spot sure felt like it had.
“This is Taylor, Joe and Susie's youngest. Here's fifty cents, brat.” Gray stooped again and closed a small hand around two shiny quarters. “Go put it in your piggy bank, and I'll throw you up in the air later.”
Letting out an earsplitting screech, the child spun around and sped across the room.
A cacophony of sound contributed to Sorcha's dizziness. Someone plucked a piano in painful discordance, dishes and cutlery clinked in the background, deep male baritones conversed, and children hollered and laughed.
Two hours later, her brain reeling and spinning from the White's Sunday family lunch, Sorcha stared unseeing out the Durango's passenger window. She jumped when Gray's hand captured hers.
“Overwhelmed?” Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat. “The family can be a handful. Especially the first encounter en masse. Think you can get used to Sunday lunches?”
“I think you're very, very lucky, Gray White. And I would be proud to take part in Sunday lunches. And yes, I am overwhelmed. How can they accept me just like that?” She snapped her thumb and forefinger.
“The way it happened with us is the way it happened with all of them.” She liked watching the way his large hand controlled the steering wheel. “Mate-recognition happens in an instant. The minute I set eyes on you, I knew.”
“But all of you have the wolf spirit in you, don't you?” She shot him a glance. “I don't.”
“I hadn't thought about that.” He squeezed her fingers and yanked the hand brake on the car. Facing Sorcha, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “I'm still staggering, and I know you must be too. Let's just take this one day at a time, okay?”
Letting out a long sigh, she replied, “More like one second at a time.” All at once, Sorcha noticed her surroundings.
“We're here,” she said and glanced at the birdcage. “Harold and Kumar haven't come back.”
“They will.”
Gray hustled her into the house, muttering something about the Seahawks. He settled in front of the new flat-panel TV that had somehow materialized during the time they were gone. The minute he turned on the television, she lost his attention.
White trotted into the living room, past the kitchen to where his leash hung on a hook, and captured the leather with his teeth. Sorcha smiled as the Lab walked over, dropped the leash at her feet, and sat. She scratched his head and said, “Five minutes, boy.”
“Where are you going?” Gray frowned at her.
“It's time for White's walk.”
“I'll come with you.” Dark eyes flickered to the TV.
“You stay and watch your game. I'll be fine.”
A whistle blew; he looked at the screen and grunted, half turning away from her.
She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and put on her running shoes.
“Come here,” Gray said when Sorcha returned to the living room. “Put this around your neck.” He handed her a whistle attached to a string. “The first hint of anything suspicious, send three short blasts. Repeat every twenty seconds until I'm by your side.”
Sorcha dropped the whistle around her neck. Gray's palms warmed her cheeks as he held her steady for an openmouthed kiss. “Tomorrow, we start shooting lessons. Which way are you going?”
“To Goose Point.”
“Perfect choice. Ten minutes there, ten back.” He checked his watch. “Five fifteen. I'll set my timer. Careful on the rocks.”
She loved evenings like this on the lake. The sun hung above the horizon like one of Hercules's fat golden balls, turning the middle of the lake a brilliant silver, making the thick bands of trees lining the water shadow the banks dark and mysterious. A flock of geese flew in a formation so perfect and tight, any F-4 squadron leader would be envious. Eyes following the birds' flight, Sorcha missed her f
ooting, and she slipped into a puddle of icy water.
“Damn.” Her socks, shoes, and the bottom half of her jeans were soaked. “We'd better head back, boy.” Sorcha glanced up to find White had disappeared.
She whistled.
A muffled bark reached her ears, then another, and another, and then a long, mournful howl.
Not once since she'd adopted him had White ever howled.
The noise came from a clump of trees just ahead and inland. She ran toward the grove of evergreens. The sun's rays didn't penetrate the dense thicket of pine and brush, and she stumbled around trunks, squinting and bending to avoid branches.
Sorcha fell into a narrow opening. White's howling had climbed to a higher pitch, and she literally stumbled over her dog sitting next to a tree. The stench of rotting flesh thickened the air, and she pinched her nose to stifle a gag. At first she couldn't make out what animal had died; then she saw the white plumes stained a gruesome scarlet.
Chapter Five
Gray grabbed his gun and flew out the door when he heard the first whistle blast. He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he had his cell phone on him.
Fuck.
He should never have let her go alone.
Fear turned his saliva bitter and churned his stomach raw. He picked up her scent, not along the banks, but more inland, and let his stride lengthen. White's howling drowned the lower noises, but when the Lab paused, he picked up Sorcha's sobs.
His lungs burned, but he pumped his arms and legs faster and faster. Dusk fell as he sprinted across boulders, weaving through the dense forest. Night vision heightened his amplified senses. As he closed in on Sorcha's position, her scent broadcasted her emotions, fear, sorrow, anger, saturated his nostrils.
“Sorcha.” He kept his voice low, not certain of the danger ahead.
“Gray,” she said, his name uttered on a sob.
He spotted her turning from side to side, hunting for the source of his voice.
“Behind you.”
She spun around but still couldn't see him as the sun had vanished. Gray reached her; he caught her to him and held her tight against his chest, burying his nose in her hair. For one deep inhale, he wallowed in her essence, relishing the feel of his mate in his arms.
Safe, she was safe.
A twig snapped, Gray's head whipped up, and he froze.
Another aroma reached him.
Death.
A body?
“The birds.” She hiccupped. “Kumar, Harold—” Her voice cracked, and she burst into tears, dampening the front of his shirt.
Stroking her back while his eyes swept the thick-leaved carpet dusting the narrow oval clearing, Gray spied the carcasses of two white cockatoos three feet away from Sorcha's sneakers.
Lying almost at a ninety-degree angle to the other, one bird's underbelly concealed the other's head. Closing his eyes for a second, he prayed one of the animals lived.
“I need to look, honey.” He set Sorcha next to the Lab and wrapped her arms around the dog's neck. “Hold on to White.”
Crap.
Someone had broken the smaller cockatoo's neck. A clean break similar to the one Native Americans used on old roosters. Running his fingers gently over the other cockatoo's body, he almost shouted his relief when the bird's chest lifted and fell.
“Kumar's alive. I need to make him a splint. Talk to him. Scratch his head if you want. It's not injured.”
“Who would do this? They're harmless pets.” She broke into a series of muffled sniffles. “Everyone in town loved these birds. At least they used to.”
The cockatoos had accompanied Aileen on her daily chores about town. Most Twisp residents did their damnedest to train either Kumar or Harold to imitate them. Gray couldn't think of a single individual who would injure either parrot.
He listened absently to Sorcha's disjointed reminiscences, his mind on fast-forward. He worked steadily, gathering twigs and branches while drawing in deep breaths. He didn't pick up any unusual scents, saw nothing other than the regular nocturnal animals, heard nothing but what he expected—the occasional howl, insect chirps, and the slithering and hissing of a nearby snake. Yet his every sense jangled and sparked. Danger and death lurked and lingered on Sorcha's skin.
“Honey, it's ready. I know you can't see very well.” He reached for her hand. “This is the splint. I'm going to put it on the ground. I want you to hold the top down so I can slide Kumar onto it. We're going to have to leave Harold for the time being. Will White stay and guard?”
She nodded. “Yes. White, stay. Guard.”
With a little fumbling, they managed to place the bird on the makeshift splint.
“Here's the way we're going to do this. I'll carry Kumar. You hold on to my belt loop and follow. We need to go slowly so we don't jar his wounds.”
Halfway to the cabin, he slipped his cell phone out of his pocket while balancing Kumar on one palm. “Our vet, Jimmy Plant, is only ten minutes away from here. I'll give him a heads-up.”
Sorcha's intermittent weeping quieted by the time they reached the cabin.
“Honey, can you grab the keys while I put Kumar in the car?”
Her tearstained, grubby cheeks tore at his heart. She nodded and broke into a jog. By the time Sorcha returned with the keys, he had Kumar wedged into a box resting on the front passenger tray.
Taking the keys from her clutching fingers, he said, “You need to hold the box steady with your feet and hands, okay?”
“Yes.” She never spoke another word and stared at Kumar for the entire five-mile journey.
Gray thanked the gods when they burst into the animal hospital and Jimmy Plant himself greeted them. One look at the injured bird, and the vet took charge. Within seconds, they were in an operating theater with Jimmy issuing commands in machine-gun fashion.
As soon as the vet began working on the bird, Gray excused himself and went outside.
He called the station. “Henry, it's me. Listen, we've had a small incident at the cabin.” Gray filled in his deputy on the situation. “I left the cabin wide open. Get Ted to watch the place. Shouldn't be for longer than a couple of hours.”
“Done, boss.”
When Gray went back into the vet's office, he discovered Sorcha had insisted on staying in the room for Kumar's operation, which was expected to last an hour.
Gray didn't hesitate. “Tell Ms. McFadden I went back to get the other bird and her dog. Make sure she waits here. Call me as soon as Dr. Plant's finished.”
Her mouth opening and closing like a dying trout, the receptionist blinked but nodded.
Ten minutes later, Gray found Ted, his lieutenant, pacing the cabin's graveled driveway. As he cleared the Durango's running board, he flipped the front-door keys to him. Ted raised a hand and nabbed the jangling metal ring.
“Any special instructions?”
“No. Cable's hooked up in the cabin. Beer's in the fridge. Help yourself. I'll probably be a couple of hours still. That okay with you?”
“No problemo, boss.” Ted waved a hand and then turned around.
As soon as the other man stepped onto the cabin's porch, Gray broke into a run.
Following a zigzag across the area, he searched the woods for a three-mile radius east of the cabin.
About a third of the way to Goose Point, he discovered the hint of an unfamiliar, repulsive aroma, acrid to the nose, clinging to a short shrub he didn't recognize. Gray uprooted the plant using his ankle knife and bare hands. Wherever his skin came into contact with the bush's leaves, a rash appeared.
After he picked up Harold's body, he and White jogged back to the cabin. After washing his hands to the elbows, he applied calamine lotion to the raised red splotches dotting his skin. He packaged the shrub and the cockatoo's remains in separate airtight plastic bags, sealed both, and stored the items in the Durango's rear.
White accompanied Gray to the vet's. He found the doctor and Sorcha standing and chatting in the lobby.
“How d
id it go?”
“He's a tough little bird. Nothing crucial was damaged. I think he'll make it.”
“He opened his eyes and squawked once.” Sorcha gave him a half smile. Gray smudges under her eyes emphasized her reddened corneas, and even her rosy lips had paled. “Someone will call us if he worsens.”
“I brought you a friend,” Gray said, and he whistled for White, who bounded in through the open front door.
“Hi, boy,” Sorcha mumbled and knelt to hug the Lab.
“I need to get these two home and in bed, Jimmy.” Gray drove his fingers through the knots in his tangled hair. “Honey, you want to hop in the car and settle White?”
As soon as Sorcha left the office, Gray muttered, “I brought the other bird. Can you do an autopsy? It looks like his neck was broken, but I want to know for sure. I'm pretty sure she'll want to bury the bird, so fix him back up, will you?”
“No problem. I presume the results are not to go to Sorcha?”
“Bingo.”
“I'll call your cell.”
“Thanks. Later.”
When they entered the log cabin, Ted was watching the second football game.
“Yo, boss.” He greeted them with a nod. “Everything okay?”
“We're good,” Gray replied, and he hurried Ted out while thanking him for filling in on the fly.
His neck had knotted and bunched, and he kneaded the stiff muscles as he secured the front and back entrances.
Sorcha had already fallen asleep when he made it to the bedroom. Her features had softened in repose, and her mouth had lost the pursed, tight set she'd worn all evening. After he stripped, he slipped under the covers and tucked her head onto his chest, lifting her leg over his groin. Hot, soft skin erased the chill in his bones.
He traced the curve of her cheek with a finger. A whiff of the flowery perfume she favored wafted to his nostrils. One wavy lock, darker than auburn, fell across a breast, making her nipple a pale shell pink instead of the usual bright cherry blossom. Her lush lashes cast a smoky shadow on her ivory cheeks, and Gray let out a long, long sigh.
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