The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan

by Michaela Wright

  Maggie rushed up the steps, taking hold of her father’s shoulders to inspect him. Despite his gait, his face showed signs of violence – something had happened in her absence. She spoke softly to him, shooting Deacon one final wave before leading her father into the house.

  Maynard moved across the room, slumping down into his familiar chair with a loud protest of pain. Maggie shut the door of the cottage, watching the black SUV rolling down the long dirt driveway.

  “You shouldn’t be here, my girl.”

  Maggie stared out the window a moment longer. She knew every inch of the horizon, every tree and every rock of the beach, but this wasn’t home anymore, and as she replayed the moments in that council hall - the ease with which Richard severed her ties, the look on her mother’s face. It hurt her heart deeply, but she knew now the Passamaquoddy Reservation had never truly been her home.

  “I know. Theron texted me. Said you were hurt.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It is you I’m worried about. You cannot be here, girl. If Chief finds out -”

  “I’ll leave when you’re well, Papa.”

  Maynard growled to himself, muttering in Passamaquoddy as he hobbled across the front room. His gait was uneven and labored, and despite her not being a bear, she could smell blood on him. Whatever injuries he was hiding, they weren’t pleasant. Still, she knew her father well; he would not take kindly to her doting.

  “You must stay out of sight then. Hide yourself away. I fear I’m in no state to protect you from Chief’s wrath if he finds you’re here.”

  Maggie leaned against the door, her forehead cold against the glass. She imagined how far down the road Blue Eyes was, if he’d reached the Fenn gate yet. If he’d called his girlfriend to settle things. She took a deep breath, and despite the resolve of her actions just hours ago, almost regretted refusing the marriage.

  Don’t be silly, she thought.

  She couldn’t betray a man as seemingly good as Deacon Fenn, especially not from the moment they met.

  Maynard slumped through the kitchen and into his room, and Maggie listened to his familiar groans as he piled into his bed for the night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Do you really think it matters if we have an opening, Deac? Of course he’d have you back!” Lara said, gushing over the phone. Lara was Deacon’s friend and former partner from his days working as an EMT, days he missed often as he scanned bottles of red bull for stoners and displeased customers behind the counter of the convenience store in the North End of Boston.

  Deacon paused, trying to settle his stomach enough to finish the conversation. He’d texted Carissa several times since her last text. She’d yet to respond.

  It had been three days.

  In a fit of blind anger and despair, Deacon phoned up his former dispatcher, Hank Farrell, asking if he had any openings for EMTs. The answer had been yes, come in right away.

  Somehow, this answer only hurt his heart more. Taking the position was commitment. Taking the position was admitting his relationship of over a year was over.

  It couldn’t be over, could it?

  “I think you might have a bit more faith in my professional merit than I do,” he said.

  Lara laughed. “Clearly I’m not the only one. When’s your first shift?”

  Deacon glanced at the clock. “Tomorrow night, apparently.”

  Lara burst into exaggerated cheers. “Yes! We’ll be riding together again! I can’t even begin to tell you how good it will be to work with someone who isn’t a complete idiot, again!”

  “Is that so?”

  Deacon covered the phone with his hand and glanced across the booth to Bennett Calhoun, offering up a sheepish gesture of apology for taking the call in the middle of breakfast. His upbringing taught him better, but when the call from dispatch came in, Deacon felt compelled to take it. He hadn’t expected it to be Lara on the other end.

  “Hey, Lala – can I call you back? I’m actually having breakfast with Benny.”

  Lara offered up a few more thoughts, shouted a hello to Bennett, and finally hung up, letting Deacon return to catching up with his old friend.

  Bennett waved off his apology when it was offered, smiling up at Gracie as she appeared with his Lumberjack Breakfast. Deacon glanced across at Bennett’s plate. For a man that wasn’t a bear, Bennett sure as hell ate like one.

  “Sorry, continue what you were saying?”

  Bennett took the plate from Gracie, holding it between them for a second longer than necessary, and Deacon paused, glancing up at his cousin. She offered him the same smile, handing over his own Lumberjack breakfast – with extra blueberry pancakes.

  Bennett shrugged. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just the usual. Pops is slowing down a bit, but home is good. Life is good.”

  Deacon slathered butter across his pancakes, trying to seem nonchalant. “And how are you doing?”

  Deacon tried hard to make this question sound easy, but the question was loaded. Bennett Calhoun was the cousin of his brother’s wife, and an old school chum. He’d gone through hell the previous year. Deacon couldn’t imagine what Bennett was going through – Bennett’s father was Bodie Calhoun, the man responsible for the murders of at least four bear shifters, including Deacon’s Aunt and Great Uncle, Alison and Gregory Fenn. Had it not been for Catherine and Bennett Calhoun, Deacon and John Fenn might have been Bodie Calhoun’s last victims. Instead, Bodie Calhoun was dead, and Bennett carried the expression of a haunted man.

  Unless he was smiling up at Gracie, Deacon noted.

  “I’m as good as can be expected,” Bennett said, carving into his eggs with a disinterested air.

  The door to the tavern opened and a familiar figure caught Deacon’s attention. Maynard Talbot was making his way into the restaurant, his gait slow and staggered. Joe, his cousin Kirk’s very pregnant girlfriend, made her way across the dining room to greet him, showing him to a booth near the door. Deacon watched Joe move across the room, her pregnant waddle drawing a smile to his face. Many patrons commented on her still working when she was the size of a house. Joe rewarded curiosity with comments about swollen ankles and offensive gas, then just smiled and waddled away.

  She was one tough cookie, he thought. He wondered if anyone ever made the mistake of commenting twice.

  “Is the investigation done, then?” Deacon asked, still watching Maynard settle into his booth. The older man moved in a strange way, altered somehow since Deacon last saw him. Joe poured Maynard a cup of coffee and headed for the kitchen without giving the man a menu.

  “Yeah. Last I heard from anybody was back in March. They returned his rifles to the house.”

  Deacon wondered if they’d returned the pistol Bennett used that night – the one he used when he shot his father in the face.

  “All of them?”

  Bennett paused. “All but one.”

  All but the one used to hunt and kill Alison and Gregory Fenn, and the two girls from the reservation. The same gun that put a hole in Catherine Calhoun’s side when she threw herself in the path of a shot intended for Deacon – a shot that may have taken her ability to have children. Deacon stopped chewing for a moment.

  John still hadn’t told him. He could only imagine John’s heartbreak if it was true. Deacon watched the pregnant Josephine waddle by with a wide smile on her face and felt his chest grow tight.

  “Jesus. You sleeping alright, again?” Deacon said, fighting to distract himself from his thoughts.

  Bennett nodded. “That’s what pharmaceuticals are for, my friend.” And with that, Bennett shoved half a sausage link in his mouth and chomped down.

  Deacon chuckled. They sat together for a long while, chatting about life. Deacon confessed his relationship troubles, and Bennett his lack thereof. They devoured their breakfasts, Deacon finishing off what Bennett couldn’t put away, just as Maynard Talbot rose from his booth and turned for the door. Deacon watched as the man struggled to straighten by the booth. He was having trouble; troub
le Maynard didn’t have in Deacon’s living room. Deacon came close to hopping up and attending the old man. Yet, Maynard caught himself, shuffling silently toward the door. Deacon watched him, intently, catching sight of a dark patch that had appeared on the old man’s jeans.

  Bennett beamed up at Gracie as she came over to the table. Bennett offered up his credit card to pay for their breakfast.

  She shot him a sarcastic stare. “Put that away, fool. Your money’s no good here.”

  Bennett’s eyebrows shot up, and he glanced between her and Deacon.

  “Breakfast’s on me,” she said, and with an almost surreptitious gesture, scratched Bennett’s shoulder as she walked away from the table.

  Bennett watched her go, his pheromones kicking up around him like a cloud of fog.

  He wasn’t the only one giving them off, Deacon noticed.

  Deacon and Bennett said goodbye in the parking lot, Bennett heading off to work as Deacon stood outside, fighting to still his racing thoughts. He’d begged Bennett to have breakfast as much for distraction as for a chance to catch up. Being alone was misery. Being alone meant stewing in his own pathetic juices, feeling sorry for himself and constantly debating over whether to text Carissa yet again or not. Now he stood in the parking lot of the Blackrock Inn and Tavern with nothing to do but wallow. He could call Lara back. That would be distraction, wouldn’t it?

  A beat up sedan kicked up gravel at the edge of the parking lot, its wheels stalling and starting as pressure on the gas wavered. Deacon caught sight of the driver, and hopped into his SUV to follow Maynard Talbot home.

  The man’s driving was erratic, veering a bit too close to the shoulder as he rounded corners. Deacon followed at a distance, keeping his phone close by in case the man’s driving became too troubling, and Deacon needed to call the police. He was sure Maynard wasn’t drunk, but he was certainly not at his best. They rolled over the boundary of the Passamaquoddy Reservation, heading past the first few trailers toward the center of the rez. Maynard turned down his own road, heading toward the water. Deacon rolled into the center of the rez and slowed down. He remembered the way from there. He didn’t want Maynard to realize he was being followed.

  Deacon rolled up outside the cottage just in time to see Maynard stumble and fall on his front steps, crying out softly as his gray hair fell over his face. Deacon lunged out of his car, hauling ass across the front yard just as the door to the cottage opened.

  “Papa, damn it!”

  Deacon stopped dead as Maggie Light Foot appeared in the doorway. They caught each other’s eye, her reaction betraying a similar discord at the sight of him.

  She didn’t acknowledge him with word, swooping down to her father as he grumbled on the cold ground. “You stubborn ass. You told me you wouldn’t go out!”

  Maynard fumed on the ground there, swatting at her to get off him. Deacon couldn’t understand a word he said; the older man was cursing in another language. Deacon settled a hand under the man’s arm as Maggie took hold of the other. Even as the man hollered at them both, they lifted him to his feet. Maynard ripped his arms free of both of them, almost throwing himself off balance again. Then, with several more words muttered in some native tongue, he limped up the front steps and flung open his door, disappearing into the house.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Maggie asked as soon as the door slammed behind her father.

  The tone wasn’t angry or accusatory. She seemed honestly curious. Deacon shrugged. What the hell was he doing there? “I saw your dad down at the tavern. He didn’t look so good.”

  “You don’t say?”

  Maggie marched up the steps and into the house. Despite not being invited, Deacon followed. His paramedic training was beginning to kick in and overtake his well enforced manners.

  “Did I invite you in?” Maggie asked, just as Maynard began to point at Deacon, waving and gesturing at him in angry dismissal.

  Deacon stood his ground.

  “Papa! Stop it! You shouldn’t have gone out! You’re not well enough.”

  Maynard continued fuming, muttering in that strange staccato of another language. Despite her feigned offense at Deacon’s appearance, she shot him an apologetic glance. She crossed to her father who was fighting with the recliner to lift his feet. Deacon caught sight of the dark patch on the man’s leg – blood was seeping through his jeans.

  Deacon moved forward without invitation.

  “What are you doing?” Maggie asked as Maynard roared at him. Deacon squat down in front of Maynard, quickly assessing the old man. His leg was seeping, his gait had an obvious limp that morning, and from his trouble with the recliner, his arm was injured as well.

  “Look, I just want to help.”

  Maynard glared at him and set off on a slew of angry words. Deacon glanced at Maggie for translation.

  She offered him a similar glare, but after a moment, sighed. “He says, ‘it’s just like the white man to think he can come onto tribal lands and fix everything. Hubris. Go to hell.’”

  “That’s what he said?” Deacon asked.

  She shrugged. “No. It wasn’t ‘go to hell.’ It was something worse.”

  Deacon exhaled out his nose in a half laugh and turned back to Maynard. “I’m a paramedic.”

  “Yeah, that won’t do you any good. He refused the ambulance when they were here last time. Says he’s not going anywhere.”

  Deacon stopped, turning to face Maggie. “Will he let me look at least? I can stitch him up best I can?”

  Maggie’s brow furrowed. “Why? Why do you care?”

  Deacon paused. He wasn’t sure of the answer. “Tell him I have my first aid kit in the car. I can at least bandage him up so he doesn’t bleed through his clothes like this.”

  Both Maynard and Maggie turned their attention to his wounded leg, Maggie gasping as Maynard’s face went pale. It was clear Maynard understood English, even if he refused to speak it. It was also clear that Maggie hadn’t realized how severe her father’s injuries were. Maggie spoke in a hushed voice, her father’s glower softening only slightly as he nodded, offering up no more than half a grunt of agreement. Deacon was pulling the First Aid Kit from his car a moment later.

  Despite Maynard’s initial protests, Maynard begrudgingly let Deacon look at his leg. Deacon was glad he did.

  Maynard was a bear, his wounds would heal swiftly. Knowing this, Deacon flinched at the sight of the massive gash in Maynard’s thigh.

  “Mr. Talbot, this needs sutures,” he said, meeting Maynard’s gaze as he spoke. Whether Maynard Talbot would speak English or not, Deacon was sure he understood it. Maynard frowned, ready to protest.

  “I can do them here, if you really don’t want to go to the doctor. I shouldn’t, but I can,” Deacon said.

  The gash was across the inner thigh, and Maynard’s attempts to bandage it himself had resulted in soiled and folded over strips of gauze getting caught and dried against the wound, pulling it open more than keeping it shut. The flesh was torn and jagged there. Deacon recognized the pattern – teeth marks. Maynard Talbot had been mauled by something big.

  “Are these the result of a Kalmud?” Deacon asked, letting his voice rise so Maggie could hear him from the next room. She appeared in the doorway just as Maynard snatched the pillow from his seat, covering his bare legs and his wound as quickly as he could. She caught sight of it nonetheless.

  “Oh, Papa. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “These are definitely teeth marks. Were you a bear when this happened?”

  Maynard shot him an angry glare, wordlessly hollering at him to shut his meddling mouth.

  Deacon shrugged. Wordlessly say all you like, old man. I’m telling Maggie everything, he thought.

  Deacon paused, glancing up at Maggie’s tan face.

  “There hasn’t been a Kalmud, no. Papa, who did this?”

  Deacon turned his eyes back to Maynard’s leg, pulling alcohol wipes from his kit. Maggie and her father conversed there as D
eacon prepped to suture the old man’s leg, unable to understand their words. Still, despite the unfamiliar language, their tone was clear. Maggie was not happy with her father.

  “No, he wasn’t a bear. God damn it,” Maggie said, and disappeared out of the small room. They could hear her rattling around the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors as though for the sheer fun of it, rather than in search of something. When she returned a moment later, she handed Maynard a small glass of what looked like whisky, then she headed for the front door.

  Maynard shifted in his seat, calling after her with fierce words.

  “I don’t care. I need some fresh air, damn it! I’m going outside.”

  Then, she was gone out the front door, leaving Deacon to suture the man’s torn leg in silence.

  Maynard did not protest again as Deacon checked him over. His shoulder was badly bruised, and there was another small gash on his scalp, but that had already begun to heal. Maynard gave Deacon a curt nod when the examination was over, and the old man turned his attention to the television. Deacon packed up his kit and headed out onto the porch.

  Maggie was sitting on the steps there. She’d been lounging around the house that morning in a tank top and sweatpants, and her arms were now bared to the cold air. Deacon thought to give her his jacket, but thought better of it. He could only imagine the look she’d give him at such an offer.

  “Well, I sewed him up best I could, and I left him a few packs of bandages so he – or you, maybe – could replace it if need be. I told him not to do too much walking around. Placement of the wound makes it easy to reop -”

  “Thank you,” she said, almost dismissively.

  Deacon took a deep breath and turned for his car.

  “Why’d you come out here?”

  He stopped, his kit banging against his leg as he turned to face her. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Why did he come out here?

  “I saw your dad down at the tavern. He looked to be in rough shape so -”

  “So you followed him all the way home to check on him?”

  Deacon swallowed. “Yeah? You sound surprised.”