PRINCE OF WOLVES

by Susan Krinard

  Grasping one clear word among the others—"Grand-maman"—Joey watched with tense fascination as the elderly woman and Luke exchanged a long, steady look. She could just see the resemblance there, though the woman's hair had long ago whitened, and the sharp angles of her face were soft and careworn with age and long experience. Joey sensed a kind of contest of wills between them, neither one broke the stare for an endless moment.

  Then, abruptly, the elderly woman glanced away. She peered at Joey, looking her up and down much as Claire had done. Joey endured this scrutiny as well, when the old woman's face cracked into a smile, it startled her.

  "Alors, petit-fils, c'est ça, ta derniere petite amie." The old woman put her hands on her hips and flashed a glance full of hidden meaning at Luke. Joey struggled to interpret it, startled when the dry voice switched suddenly to heavily accented English. "Didn't think you'd ever bring one here, boy. Something special, hein?"

  Glancing at Luke in mute appeal, Joey suffered a second shock. A dull red flush had appeared along the angle of Luke's cheekbone, his lips settled into a grim line .The old woman cackled, and Joey almost jumped.

  "J'ai raison, hein?" Once again the woman's attention was riveted on Joey. "Well, do the introductions. Where are your manners, boy?"

  Joey was aware of a sudden shift in the demeanor of the people who had watched the confrontation. It was as if all the tension had drained away, to be replaced by something approaching goodwill, all at once soft voices were exchanging comments and glances and nods as the small knot of villagers loosened.

  The deep tone of Luke's familiar voice was a relief, even sharp with annoyance "Grand-maman, this is my friend Joelle Randall." He turned to Joey for the first time, his expression easing just enough to reassure her. "Joey, this is my grandmother, Bertrande."

  Searching Luke's face for some clue as to a proper greeting, Joey took a chance "Bonjour—Bertrande. I'm very happy to meet you." When she extended her hand, the old woman took it in a surprisingly firm clasp. In fact, Bertrande's hand was so far from fragile that Joey blinked. The old woman grinned, revealing several gaps where teeth had been.

  "Joelle." The way Bertrande said her name was like the way Luke had said it once or twice, with a rolling lilt at the end. "A good name. It may be you'll do." Abruptly she dropped Joey's hand and winked broadly at Luke. "I was right, hein? Elle est differente. P't-être que c'est elle..."

  Once again Joey was treated to the rare sight of Luke's blush. If circumstances had been only a little different, she would have demanded a full explanation then and there—but one careful look at Luke's face told her clearly it was not the time. Explanations would have to wait. She understood enough to grasp that Luke's grandmother was a person of importance in the village, and if she accepted Joey, the others would do so as well.

  As if to confirm her guess, several of the villagers stepped up to greet Luke, many with hugs and slaps, which he returned with some reserve. In fact, Joey noted that there was always something a little odd in the way he met their greetings, with some, including the few children who circled about him like dervishes, he was openly affectionate, as he'd been with Claire. With the women he was gravely courteous regardless of their age, with the men there was more reserve, almost a kind of testing similar to what had passed between him and his grandmother. But none of it made much sense to Joey, and she allowed herself to be distracted from her thoughts when Luke brought a man of about his own age over for introduction.

  "This is my cousin Philippe," he said above the chatter of conversation that flowed about them. "Claire is his daughter. I'll be staying with him tonight." Philippe met her extended hand with his own callused palm, nodding to her gravely; his hair was jet black like Claire's. He murmured a greeting to her in French, looked at her for a long, searching moment, and turned at last to Luke. With a few final words to his cousin Philippe moved away, one by one the other villagers followed his example, until only Claire and Luke's grandmother accompanied them.

  It was then that Joey registered Luke's last sentence. "You said you'd be staying with Philippe. Does that mean I'll be staying somewhere else?" Her voice sounded challenging even to her own ears, but Luke hardly so much as glanced at her. His face was still grim and set.

  "You'll stay with my grandmother, Joey. You'll be comfortable there." He deliberately avoided her eyes.

  "But why? Why do we have to stay—in separate places?" Joey realized with a start what she was revealing with her words, but they came of their own volition. Before Luke could answer, she felt her hand being clasped once again in Bertrande's warm, crepey palm, the old woman flashed her uneven grin.

  "Crains rien, petite. I will take care of you." Joey bit her lip and willed Luke to be helpful. He turned to meet her anxious gaze at last and almost smiled.

  "She likes you, Joey. If my grandmother likes you, you have nothing to worry about."

  Joey could have cursed his deliberate obtuseness. She felt a tug on her hand and found herself being led away while Luke trailed after. "That still doesn't explain," she called back softly between her teeth, "why we're being split up."

  In several long strides Luke came alongside her. "It's the way things are done here," he said at last. There was still something strange and remote in his bearing, and he still looked everywhere but into her eyes. "The people here are very old-fashioned. Un—uh, unmarried couples don't—live in the same house."

  The awkwardness of his explanation was so uncharacteristic that Joey almost stopped; Bertrande tugged her back into motion with the breath of a laugh.

  "Oh." Joey tried to imagine this tough old woman standing guard over her with a pitchfork or something, guarding her virtue. The image was so hilarious that Joey lost her bad temper all at once. She smiled at Luke with honest amusement. "I see."

  Abruptly the old woman let go her hand and came to a stop so quickly that Joey collided with her. She was surprisingly solid. She turned her penetrating, amused stare to Luke and back, lightning quick, to Joey. "I was right, wasn't I, boy? After all this time C'est bien elle..."

  Luke froze into utter rigidity where he stood, every muscle taut and poised for violent action. The words he spoke then were so rapid and harsh that Joey lost the thread of them almost immediately, the mere tone of his voice and the ferocious light in his eyes would have shaken most people to the core, but Bertrande merely regarded her grandson with cool dispassion until the last of his angry tirade had run its course.

  Then, as if nothing at all had happened, she grabbed Joey's hand again, grinned broadly, and nodded. While Joey looked helplessly back over her shoulder at Luke, who was shaking with barely controlled rage, his grandmother towed her firmly across the village clearing. Joey felt as if she were being swept away by some primal force of nature she had no hope of stopping. The expression on Luke's face as he stood staring after them told her that he was, in that moment, just as lost as she was.

  Luke had been right about one thing, his grandmother made every effort to make Joey feel welcome. The small wood-frame house Bertrande brought her to was not unduly primitive, though it was heated by an old-fashioned cooking stove and lighted by candles. There were only two rooms, one of which contained both kitchen and living area, the attached sleeping room had two small beds, the frames beautifully carved and painted with forest animals.

  It was only after Joey had had ample time to rest, to bathe with water heated on the stove and relax with a steaming mug of broth, that Luke came for her. Bertrande had already insisted, with gestures and a few words in French and accented English, that Joey should remove her soiled clothing; she was given a pair of over-large but warm wool pants, long johns, and a bulky knitted sweater to replace them. The warm clothing wasn't fashionable, but it made Joey feel almost like one of the villagers, and that seemed important.

  Luke arrived at the door, and it was only then that it came to Joey with a shock how strange it had been to be away from him. She hadn't noticed the lack until it was filled by his presence,
as his big, lithe frame filled the doorway. Now for a long moment their eyes met and held, Joey felt her pulse rising to a crescendo that surely he would hear.

  Suddenly Bertrande pushed between them. "He bien, allons mangeri." The old woman's voice was comically querulous. Luke rolled his eyes, smiled at Joey, and offered his arm to his grandmother. As Joey closed the door behind her, she found him waiting, his gaze on hers was as inviting as his extended elbow. The feel of his hard muscle under her hand sent a shock wave coursing through her, and for a moment she leaned on his arm because she would have fallen otherwise.

  Luke seemed not to notice. He was casual, relaxed, as if the presence of family and friends had broken once again through his outer shell. "I hope you're hungry," he said, looking down at Joey. "You're going to get a chance to see how much the people of Val Cache like to eat."

  A rather loud rumble of her stomach answered before she could. "Everyone eats together?"

  "Usually." Luke steered the two women toward a building larger than most of the others, a long construction of wood from which light and noise poured in abundance. "This is a close-knit community. Meals are an important time for gathering, discussion, even doing business. And for the most part, it's more economical to prepare and eat meals in one place."

  As Joey digested this, Luke stopped at the broad wooden door of the building and held it open, waving the women in ahead of him. The blast of heat, delicious smells, and raucous noise was almost overwhelming. Almost at once Bertrande detached herself and hurried across the room to gossip with a crony, Joey simply gazed about and tried to take it all in.

  It seemed likely that every member of the village of Val Cache was here, laughing, talking and generally having a good time. There was a brief lull while the people acknowledged Luke's appearance, but almost at once the dull roar resumed.

  Luke took her elbow and steered her over to a table near the front of the room, closest to the fire and the wonderful smells that emanated from the corner where the cooking was done. He leaned close to her and pressed a piece of bread into her hand; Joey nibbled it absently. A hundred questions came to mind one after another, too many to be asked, at last she gave up and simply accepted.

  Only the serious business of eating seemed to quiet the rambunctious crowd. Matrons with gray-shot hair and a few younger women moved among the long tables, serving generous portions of stew, freshly baked bread, and corn to the people who had finally found their seats. Joey shut her eyes and breathed in the smell, so welcome after three days on the trail. Without realizing it, she leaned into Luke where he sat beside her. His warm solidity made everything perfect, completely right, and all at once she was no longer a stranger, but in some strange way belonged.

  Suddenly a small warm body pushed against her, and she found herself tipping sideways—somehow, in the process, ending up very comfortably steadied in Luke's arms. A laughing Claire materialized on the bench beside them, two other children accompanied her, a boy of five or six and another several years older. They were all talking at once, adding to the general din. The eldest paused to give Joey a long, appraising stare of the sort she was beginning to become accustomed to, then he fell silent and looked expectantly at Luke.

  Easing Joey away from him gently, Luke smiled at the boy. "Bonjour, Jean-Paul. How are things at school?"

  As if his words had been a kind of signal, the boy grinned while ducking his head and glancing up under long lashes "Tres bien, cousin Luc. Mais les gens du Dehors..." The boy broke off with an embarrassed glance at Joey. "I mean, sometimes things are strange Outside." Jean-Paul reddened and dropped his gaze.

  Luke's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I know that well, Jean-Paul." He turned to Joey, still smiling. "Jean-Paul speaks fluent English—he's been attending school in East Fork. One of the few who's done so. That's something we have in common." He gave the boy a gentle, reassuring punch on the shoulder.

  Jean-Paul shrugged with the awkwardness typical of boys his age, glancing shyly at Joey. "I am very pleased to meet you, mademoiselle." The words were accented, pleasantly so, Luke had no accent when he spoke English, and Joey never would have guessed, knowing nothing of his background, that he had grown up with any language other than her own.

  She grinned at Jean-Paul and said admiringly, "That's very good. I wish I could speak French as well as you speak English!"

  The boy blushed deeply and, as if the praise were too much, backed away with a final half-apologetic glance at Luke. Luke waved him off, and the boy vanished, tumbling straightaway into a game with a small knot of children near the fireside.

  Abruptly Claire, who had been listening to the conversation with impatient squirms, slid off the bench beside Joey and reappeared at Luke's side, worming her way into his lap. "Raconte-moi une histoire des gens du Dehors, Luc!" Her voice was demanding, but Luke shook his head.

  "Plus tard." And at the girl's pout, he added, "Promis." Joey caught the gist of the words and envied the little girl that she could settle so comfortably into Luke's embrace and look forward to hearing him tell her bedtime stones—that their relationship was so warm and simple. So painless.

  As if the brief exchange had satisfied her need for attention, Claire wriggled free of Luke's arms and dashed off to join the others in their play, accompanied by the younger boy.

  Joey sighed, her contentment tinged with melancholy. "Claire is a beautiful gir.l She'll grow up to be a real stunner someday."

  "Much like my mother," Luke murmured. "With the same wildness. She won't be content to stay here forever."

  There was such sadness in his voice that Joey turned to face him. She longed to ask him then what brought that distant regret to his eyes, to link her arm through his and lean her head on his shoulder. But she contented herself with feeling his thigh and shoulder against hers, in knowing he did not pull away from the contact.

  "The children here are beautiful, Luke. And it's pretty obvious they're loved." And that they adore you, she added silently to herself. "But there seem to be so few of them."

  She knew she'd hit close to the mark when Luke focused on her suddenly, though without surprise. "Yes. Too few" He dropped his eyes to the half-empty bowl of stew on the table and lifted a spoon to stir it absently. "This is a very old village. It hasn't changed much in a hundred years. The people here are content to keep it that way." He looked up with the distant expression that meant he was gathering his thoughts. "They're used to hardship and to living the same way their forefathers did. They're survivors. But in spite of all that, the village is slowly dying."

  Joey glanced around her at the clumps of chattering people clearing away dishes and making a game of cleaning up. Someone was tuning what sounded like a fiddle, and laughter rose frequently above the dull roar. It was hard to think of these people as dying. They seemed so full of life.

  "It's because there are so few children," Luke said, so softly that she had to strain to hear him. "The people here are nearly all closely related. Very few women have more than one or two children. Often, sometimes every year, Val Cache will lose a young man or woman to the Outside. And Jean-Paul is not the first to be educated, to learn things that may tempt him to leave one day."

  Drawing in a deep breath, Joey settled closer to Luke, resting her fingers on his arm. He hardly seemed to notice. "You came back, didn't you?"

  "Yes." The word was heavy, laden with regret. Joey knew there was more to that one word than she could guess. She looked around again, at children clearly indulged and greatly valued, at adults who treated them with respect and open affection. But there were few of them—and fewer still of babies and toddlers.

  Biting her lip, Joey hesitated on the verge of offering comfort she was not quite sure how to give. After a moment she decided she wanted to see him smile again, to regain that relaxed warmth the children had brought out in him. She squeezed his arm.

  "The kids are very fond of you," she teased gently. "I didn't know you were the paternal type."

  Her remark had t
he unexpected effect of making. Luke duck his head in obvious embarrassment. "The children are important to all of us," he muttered.

  Joey couldn't quite keep the amusement out of her voice. "And I've noticed that everyone pronounces your name differently here. 'Luc.' "

  Clearly relieved by her shift to a more neutral subject, Luke looked up, the drawn lines of his face relaxing. "My mother named me Luc, but I found it more expedient to anglicize it when I grew older. Most Outsiders manage to mangle even so simple a name."

  Joey drew herself up in mock offense "Are you implying I couldn't pronounce your real name properly?"

  At Luke's wry headshake, she added, "And do you think of me as one of these 'Outsiders'?"

  The question carried more significance than she had meant it to. Luke's muscles tensed where her hand rested on his arm. For a long moment he looked into her eyes in that way of his, so intently that her breath caught, and she could not pull away. At last, with a deep sigh, he dropped his eyes again. "I don't know."

  Almost of their own volition Joey's fingers slipped from his forearm. She felt stung by his answer, but also more deeply puzzled. As in the conversations she had witnessed between Luke and his grandmother, she knew there were subtexts to his words—vital ones—that she was missing. More missing pieces that must be found.

  She deliberately turned away from searching for them. There was still time "You should help me with my French, so I won't be such a stranger," she said lightly. The momentary tension between them relaxed. "Val Cache—that means Valley..."

  Luke shifted his elbow on the table to allow one of the village matrons to clear away his plate "Hidden Valley." His smile was a little crooked, but it was a smile. "A simple name, but appropriate."

  "Very appropriate," Joey concurred. "How many people even know about this place?"

  Touching her shoulder lightly—a touch that sent a stab of sensation all the way down to her fingertips—Luke pushed away from the table and stood. "Not many," he admitted quietly. "And that's how the people here prefer it."