Blackberry Wine

by Blackberry Wine [MF] (epub)

  ****

  After I found Stag and helped hang the carcass to bleed, the little sexy female was working to sweep up the mess in the still where sunlight bathed the space's billowing swirls of dust motes in golden light. She covered her mouth to cough before returning to man the broom handle.

  Mine, Wolf whined.

  Oh no. Don't start that again. Let's help her and be ready to leave when Buck returns. But how to aid her when she's so dogmatic. She isn't the type of Normal to tire easily. Nor did she give in and quit. No. She's the reason Normals survive. Thrive in the face of extinction. And not just because she's the most attractive woman I've ever seen. No, Wolf. She's simply determined.

  She doesn't want anyone getting in her way. I will try to remain at a distance.

  Play, Wolf whimpered.

  Quiet. Or we'll head out to guard the outpost and leave Stag here to deal with everything.

  Wolf groaned.

  At least he knows who's calling the shots. Now, to help the little bird. Well, maybe she's not exactly a harmless little bird. Ravens are tricksters in legends. Maybe I should buy into those old tales and keep on my toes around her.

  She caught my entrance and froze stiff as a board, watching me.

  Awe spreading across her features again.

  Wolf whimpered and kicked me in the gut.

  Why does everything have to be some kind of torture in life?

  She turned away to lean the broom handle against the wall before turning back to face me.

  Something like resolve had claimed her beautiful features. Thank the Gods.

  "We should work on the still." She shot me a don't-argue glance and walked back toward the open doorway I'd entered.

  Fine. I've seen that look before and can bend to the will of greater things. Things that set little birds flitting about. On their guard. Yes. She's on her guard. Probably because she realized I'm an ass and she wants me to know she wants Buck. I followed that sexy little tail back into the disaster area.

  "My shoulder is sore," she confessed without looking over her shoulder. "I'd appreciate it if you could help me move the still's debris outside. Thomas will want to get another system up and producing as soon as possible." She stepped sideways and swung around to shoot me a serious gaze. "He needs to stay busy."

  "Alright." I turned to the large torn vat's pieces.

  ****

  Standing here for three minutes was enough to kick my knees out from under me. I noticed it when they began to quiver. Watching him work, move, lift, flex those muscles in the act of helping me was just too much. I couldn't hold back the awe. Couldn't deny I'm undeniably attracted to Colt. Couldn't do anything but return to cleaning the room because he's going to see he's my weakness. And nobody can know that all I can think about is watching him. I turned to some small chunks of debris and tried to focus on not getting cut.

  Just scrap to toss in the recycle bin. Metal. Thomas does things with metal scrap. He melts it down. He trades it. Just pick up another piece. Try to appear busy. It's not like Colt's gaping back at me. No. He's busy too. I need to try to look mad so he won't think I'm watching him.

  "Raven?" Thomas called from a distance.

  What is he doing? Shouldn't he be quietly recuperating? Just go help him. Besides that wound needs to be checked. Then he needs a good shot of morphine and antibiotics.

  "Raven!" the call came again.

  Almost accusatory like I'm out here kissing big gorgeous Shifters and ignoring my duties. Uncles. I shot Colt's back a quick glance. "I'll be right back." Besides, I could use some fresh air without swimming in a bottle of totally mind-numbing Colt.

  That's so not a good thought. I shook my head and strode quickly out the door into dying sunlight.

  The deepening orange of the sun seemed stuck on the distant line of the forest's edge.

  "Raven!"

  There he stood, in a clean red plaid shirt, waving at me like a man trying to catch a bull's attention from the corner of the porch. Uncles. I'd shout coming but the point seemed redundant given he and I had made eye contact.

  Thomas leaned his pelvis against the porch's rail and pointed at the sun to my left. "It's getting late. Have you checked the roast?"

  I hadn't even thought about dinner. "Go back inside and sit down. I'll bring the food inside." If it's still edible. Hopefully the solar oven hadn't bit the bullet with flying shrapnel.

  By the time I'd skirted the side of the house to where the oven box stood elevated by four legs against the house, I could see it stood as pristine as the first day it was operational--a Plexiglas box containing a black bottom and reflective metal sides. The two Dutch ovens inside the box weren't as hot as they would have been earlier in the afternoon. But you don't need to have the food boil all day. Just most of the sunlight hours. Long enough to make a 4-pound beef rump roast fall apart. And the vegetables in the other pot would probably resemble mush. But I doubt anyone will care after today's events. I opened the Plexiglas lid and used a wooden spoon's handle to lift one pot's heavy lid.

  The carrots had cooked so long they were no longer long slices. But pieces are fine. And the halved potatoes were eighths or quarters swimming in a sea of over-cooked green bean bits. But the explosion of vegetables was the end result of food cooking at 400 degrees all afternoon. Yet, the roast was completely different. Perfectly fallen apart. I don't know why people didn't use solar ovens before the aliens came. They operated on the greenhouse effect, using nothing but sunlight for fuel.

  "How does it look?" Thomas called.

  Uncles. I placed the lids back on the large cast-iron pots and shot him a glare. "I told you to go inside."

  He snorted. "If I'm hungry, the rest of you are. Bring those pots inside."

  Still shouting commands. "Shouldn't you be taking it easy? Go lie down."

  "Hurry, Raven." He shoved off the rail and disappeared beyond the house's edge.

  Fine. I'd have my say when I'm ready. I carried the vegetables around the long porch, up the steps, and through the doorway to find a mischievous uncle seated on a bench at the table in the waning sunlight the windows allowed to brighten the murky lodge interior.

  He's far too sneaky for a man who should be suffering from intense pain. "What are you doing?" I asked, placing the pot on the table's solid wood.

  "Waiting for supper."

  More than waiting. He'd stacked deep plates at one end of the table, forks, spoons, and cups. The pot containing the leftover cornbread from yesterday waited beside the plates. I locked a serious gaze on him. "You shouldn't be lifting anything. You shouldn't be walking. You shouldn't be sitting there--"

  He waved me off. "Stag asked if he could help. He gathered the things for supper. All the while, making me sit out on the porch."

  Still, he's too well for an amputee. "Why aren't you in pain?"

  He shot me a wink.

  Playing games with me. "Why?"

  "Oh, don't go staring me down with your hands on your hips, Raven. I took some morphine."

  On his own? Patient's can't be trusted with something like morphine. "No wonder you're wandering around like a foolish child, Thomas," I snarled where I stood beside the kitchen table inside the house.

  He rolled his eyes.

  Like I didn't have a need for an answer. "How much?"

  The door swung wide, casting the room in extra brightness. Illuminating the weary troughs and bulges time had carved into Thomas' face. "I'm waiting, Thomas."

  "I drank three spoonfuls."

  Nobody needed that much in an afternoon. "Thomas!"

  Chapter 3

  Floorboards creaked at my side where I glared at the old man who keeps acting like he can make sane decisions. The sound produced Colt and my other cast-iron Dutch oven. The muscles in his arms bulged every direction as he lowered the black pot to the tabletop.

  "Evening, Colt. Will you be joining us for supper?" Thomas smiled at him.

  Like the Cheshire cat in that book he loved to read me when I wa
s ten. What was the lesson he engrained into my memory? Never trust a Cheshire cat! And then there's that book about the girl and the wolf. Her grandmother was the wolf…Another relative. So he thinks he an get away with a morphine addiction out here. Where's my wine?

  The door swung wide again with a high-pitched creak.

  Stag. Supper's on. Better get it over with so I can tie my drugged uncle to his bed so he won't accidentally bleed out when I'm not looking. Both Shifters better man the ropes since they're somehow in cahoots with Thomas about supper. I need to lock myself in the wine cellar and sleep the day's insanity away. Right after I impale Thomas with a good dose of penicillin. Oh yes. With a very large needle. It's not like he'll feel the injection in the self-medicated state he's in.

  ****

  Something had set off Raven again. Somewhere between the old brick house and the kitchen table. Maybe it was the old tinker. Or she preferred wild game to the evening's roast beef? But Stag and I just walked into the main house to find her ready to shoot everyone where she stood at the end of the long homemade table.

  Thomas leaned onto his good elbow with a pleading mask. "Come on, Raven. Take pity on us. I've had a difficult day. Just sit down and eat something."

  Food just might do her attitude some good.

  She pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees to face the sink's window and marched away from all of us.

  Thomas sighed, rubbed his forehead with his hand, then shot us an exasperated stare. "We'd better eat before the room's chill freezes our suppers to our plates."

  I would have laughed aloud but dishes crashed in the sink.

  Thomas rolled his eyes and nodded at the plates. "Pass the dishes around, boys. Only a fool would miss a meal in The Wild."

  Stag stepped toward the plates as Raven whirled.

  "How is anything I did today foolish?" she seethed in the window's sunbeam.

  Thomas shrugged and eyed the contents of the pot. "Oh," he grabbed the end of a long metal spoon. "I'd say you looked pretty foolhardy swinging from the windmill."

  "I can't even begin to count the times you slipped while working up there. Don't try to make me out to be a child. Show some respect for the person who repaired the gate." She swung back to the window.

  Catching me with one hell of a glare. For only a moment. Just long enough to let me know not to coddle her.

  Mine to coddle, Wolf snickered.

  Okay. Bad subject. I joined Stag and Thomas at the table, shoveled myself a large helping of stewed beef, and tried to ignore the angry woman across the room.

  It's not the easiest thing to do when her uncle catches your gaze and flicks his back and forth between you and the long curvaceous and lick-ably delicious morsel who could use some special attention. Especially when your brother was the one who had the right to calm her down. Oh, yes. Wolf, she's Buck's girl. Just load down with stew. I shoved a spoonful into my mouth and chewed on the savory saltiness of potato and soft meat.

  Perfection. This is the kind of food a man yearned for at the end of a hard day.

  Surprisingly, Raven suddenly quieted and helped herself to a serving, ignoring the man who'd lit her fuse.

  Would she explode? That's a tough call.

  She descended into a seat next to me and studied her meal.

  Play, Wolf chuckled and scratched at the underside of my ribcage.

  You better keep it quiet, or I'll make you run it off after nightfall.

  Wolf whimpered and settled down in the chasm where a good Wolf kept to himself.

  Thomas nodded toward Stag. "Help yourself to some cornbread, boys," he lilted.

  And so went dinner. Wolf didn't peep. Thomas chimed about a few things like a man who'd lost his arm ages ago. Stag and I listened. And Raven kept to herself. I should have complemented her on her exceptional work around the homestead though. The windmill now spins. The gate was shut tighter than a clam could hold its shell closed. She did deserve some recognition for her efforts.

  "I love this cornbread," Thomas broke my train of thought and marveled at the side of the piece he held. "Can't say I've ever had anything as light and fluffy. And it's absorbed just enough melted butter to help it slide down the throat." He sighed. A half smile pulled his moustache into a curl. "You know," he met my gaze, "I can't think of anything Raven cooks that's better than this cornbread."

  "Stop," she groaned and dropped her fork onto her plate without looking sideways. "No more selling the farm or the livestock." She shoved off the table with a piercing stare finally locked upon the old tinker.

  "How can you say that?" Thomas begged. "I was merely complementing you on your fine cooking."

  Her mouth pursed into a pucker that hinted some very sour if not flaming retort was about to spew.

  "It is exceptional cornbread," Stag blurted.

  A little too quickly so the uncle's attempt to smooth things over with Raven through a little praise smeared into a shallow comment.

  Raven began to turn toward Stag.

  Not good. "Stag, it's time for you to head up to the cabin. Make certain those Normals aren't lurking. And then keep an eye on things until I come up to fill you in on Vermin's decision."

  Raven stopped in her tracks. Thomas didn't even exhale. And Stag blinked, slowly, holding his empty fork, then lowered it to his plate.

  Rising, Stag nodded at the tinker and Raven. "Thank you for supper." Then he nodded my direction and left.

  Before anyone chanced a word. It's like the room fell into a strange trance-like moment. Just a moment though.

  "I'll close the gate," Raven said and strode off in Stag's wake.

  The door clapped with the last squeak of the floorboards.

  Alone. With the old man. And a needy Wolf. So, I'm not really alone.

  "I apologize for Raven's irritability. She should wake in the morning with a better attitude. But for now, we should eat." He waved a pointing finger toward my plate. "She might have a bitter bite, but Raven can cook better than anyone I've met."

  True. I'm just glad she wasn't around to deal with another barrage of her uncle's double entendre. She's right. He is selling the farm. I wouldn't want to be the heifer on the auction block. All the more reason to keep Wolf under control until Stag returns.

  ****

  That insufferable old coot. How dare he try to pawn me off on those Shifters with a pan of cornbread. I thrust my hand beneath the warm black-and-white striped feathers of Elsa, my favorite laying hen, and checked my anger-induced thrust before tightening my fingers around her egg.

  Well, there's three curved surfaces. She's still sharing the nest with the two Rhode Island Reds. Rhode Island is back East. Damn Thomas. Somehow, I managed to safely extract all three eggs whole from the scratchy hay and hen fluff and carefully placed them in the wire egg basket half full of eggs.

  Because I'd need every damn egg I could juggle back to the kitchen for breakfast.

  Breakfast for one large muscular man who suddenly haunted my every move and thought. That's truly something I can't ignore. Except for when my uncle's traitorous acts overshadowed the images of Colt. Someone needs to open the gate and set that young horse free. Save me from myself and my traitorous subconscious that Thomas always boasted had a mind of its own.

  Yes. It does. Because I really like that Stag likes my cornbread. That means Colt might too. And Colt ran off Stag and Buck. Yes. He ran them off and stayed. Why? He's not in the way and taking over when I work. No. He's helpful when I require assistance. Then he disappears. Maybe he likes me too. But he doesn't stare.

  Why doesn't he stare?

  Because he doesn't care. Because the cornbread impressed Stag. Not Colt. Well don't I sound intelligent, subconscious? I'm pathetic, dying with the day's last ray of pale orange sunlight.

  Dying. Turning into some sobbing mess thankfully buried deep down inside me all because I find a particular Shifter magnificent. But he doesn't return the interest.

  He must be mated. That's it. Mated Shifters don't care
about females.

  Fine. I'll just stop now, subconscious. The waning sunlight must be a signal to let all go and prop my humming feet up with a bottle firmly in hand.

  Wine. How funny it sounds just like whine. It would look really bad if I drank too much and whined about my loss of Colt. Like I ever had him.

  My traitorous subconscious coughed up a snort.

  Because I didn't do it. It's funny what a subconscious can make a person do. I locked Elsa's door and pivoted to the still, right around the corner from the barn's chicken coop.

  ****

  The old tinker had settled down for the night after his niece vanished. Probably numb from all of that morphine. I guess I can't hold the use of the drug or his state against him. Losing a limb has got to hurt like hell. So, I just kept busy, clearing off the table, washing the dishes, and placing the stew pot back next to the fire. The heat would keep the food fresh until someone wanted more.

  "Do you mind checking on Raven?" Thomas suddenly resonated with concern. "It's dark. She's usually inside with the door locked by now."

  Protect, Wolf whined.

  I'm going. Mutts. "Of course." I shot him a glance to see if he still laid peacefully on his bed.

  Surely he won't get into any more trouble while I'm searching for--

  Mine! Wolf started leaping like a wild thing.

  Keep quiet. Damn dog. Like I don't have enough problems already and my Wolf won't give it up. I locked a commanding gaze on the old man's wide eyes. "Stay in bed. You don't want to upset your niece any more tonight."

  He nodded. "That seems like the wisest choice yet. I don't want her to run off."

  Good to hear. A few long strides found me pulling the door wide. Night hummed its late summer song on a breath of a cool breeze. Not one note of cicada or cricket indicated Raven's whereabouts. Perfect. Wolves love to hunt. Not a problem when mine needs a hobby. I pulled Wolf into my eyes and softly closed the door behind me.

  My heat vision noted the plants' warmth still lingered in glowing patches of orange and yellow. But nothing took on the form large enough for a human.