Dark Moon Wolf

by Sarah E Stevens

“Okay, don’t you worry about a thing.” He smiled kindly, then took a few steps away and made the call.

  ****

  Erin and Liam arrived in under ten minutes.

  “Julie,” Erin cried in dismay, leaping out of their SUV almost before it came to a full stop. “Are you really okay? What happened?”

  I explained to the best of my ability, and their faces grew grim.

  “Describe the car again?” Liam said.

  “A dark blue sedan, kind of medium-sized. That’s all I noticed—I really wasn’t in much of a state to pay attention to the details and I’m not much of a car person.”

  “You didn’t see the driver at all?” he asked.

  I screwed my eyes shut, trying to remember. “Male. I’m pretty sure it was a man. Dark hair, I think. But that’s all from glancing at him in my rearview mirror…and from a distance, when he stopped over there.” I pointed, then shrugged in apology. “I’m a bad eyewitness.”

  Liam walked over to where I had gestured and cast about in the dirt at the side of the road. After a minute or so, he shook his head and walked back over to us.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Erin reassured me. “No one would have gotten a good look in those circumstances. I just wonder…” She trailed off, with a quickly averted glance at the man who’d stopped to help me.

  I sat up a bit straighter and smiled at the rancher. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid after all of this, I didn’t even get your name. I’m Julie. Julie Hall.”

  “Thom Gardiner.” He nodded. “I’m from Worland; headed back there tonight. Do you folks need any more help? If not, I’ll take myself off.”

  “Thanks, Thom.” Liam shook his hand firmly. “I think we’ll take care of things from here. We appreciate all of your help.”

  After sincere thanks from all of us, Thom headed back down the road. The three of us—four, counting Carson—sat for a moment in silence, letting the emotion of the moment subside.

  “Should we move Caron’s car seat into the SUV? We can send a tow-truck to pick up your car and bring it to a shop. I think it’s going to need some work.” Erin put an arm around my shoulders.

  I nodded. “Yes. I need to get a new car seat, though—I don’t think you’re supposed to use it if it’s been in an accident.”

  “We’ll do that tomorrow. We can drive into Sheridan.”

  “Right.” A haze of exhaustion blanketed me.

  “Julie, I think it would be a good idea to have a doctor make sure you and Carson are okay.” Liam’s brow creased in concern. He reached out to touch a rapidly rising bump on my forehead. I flinched, feeling the injury for the first time. I must have hit my head on the steering wheel when the car stopped in the ditch. Various other minor pains started to surface, mostly muscle aches from being wrenched about in the car. Poor Carson, did he feel the same way?

  Erin nodded in agreement. “There’s a hospital in Basin, about fifteen minutes away.”

  ****

  Two hours later, Carson and I left from South Big Horn County Hospital. The smallest “hospital” I’d ever imagined, by the way, with only a dozen or so patient beds. After clean bills of health, an admonition to come back if I felt dizzy or nauseated, a prescription for muscle relaxers, and both adult- and baby-strength painkillers, out the door we went. I’d already prophylactically dosed Carson and taken a double dose of ibuprofen myself. I’d also made a report to the Greybull police, though I couldn’t give much information about the man or the car that forced us off the road. I was bleary-eyed as we drove back to the MacGregor’s house. The combination of high emotions and the car accident had depleted my energy.

  When we reached the house, Erin showed me to a room and I used all my remaining strength to put Carson into his pajamas and to make sure the bed was safe for co-sleeping. The bed rested against one wall, so I made sure Carson couldn’t get stuck in the crack, moved the pillows and blankets away from his side, and gratefully climbed into bed, still wearing that day’s t-shirt. I fell asleep without even brushing my teeth.

  Chapter Five

  Although Carson woke up frequently in the night, I dealt with him while half asleep so morning dawned before I looked around the room and realized I slept in what must have been Mac’s childhood bedroom. Carson continued snoozing away, sprawled on his back like a green-striped starfish. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked around, feeling a lump rise in my throat. Erin and Liam must have removed some of the detritus of Mac’s childhood in order to make the room into a guest bedroom. Nonetheless, on a shelf high on the wall sat a couple of football trophies, a model car, and three framed pictures. Above the shelf, hung his old Boy Scout sash, full of badges. A pennant proudly proclaiming “University of Wyoming” hung above the mirror. I stood up—groaning a bit as my muscles screamed at me—and crossed the room toward the shelf to examine the pictures. In the first, a young Mac carried a preschool-aged Ian on his shoulders. The camera had caught Ian in the act of yanking on Mac’s curls, and Mac’s face was twisted up to look at his brother. Both boys were laughing, with a clear kind of rough-and-tumble love. The look on Ian’s face, the ease with which Mac’s hands held his ankles; all of this made me understand some of the desperate ache Ian must feel at the loss of his brother.

  The second picture was much more stilted: a tuxedoed Mac at what must have been his senior prom. His wrists stuck out of the jacket cuffs and he looked like a gangly puppy dog, not yet grown into himself. His curls tightly sculpted to his head and his ears seemed to stick out. I snorted softly at his powder-blue vest, which exactly matched his date’s long, ruffled dress. As well as her eye shadow. The dress hung asymmetrically off one shoulder. Ah, prom fashion. I stepped even closer, searching the girl’s face. Who was she? Had she been Mac’s girlfriend? I tried to read into their pose and frozen smiles, wondering if they looked awkward from the scripted moment of professional picture-taking, or if they had been uncomfortable and nervous with the date itself. These small glimpses into Mac’s life shouldn’t hurt, yet I ached with the reminder of how much I didn’t know. I hadn’t had enough time with him, and now I never would.

  The third picture wasn’t Mac at all. In the forefront, grasses and sage brush spotted the reddish dirt and led my eye toward what must be a creek, hidden by its banks and lined by cottonwood trees. I searched a minute before I saw the figure standing in the dappled light. She looked perhaps fifteen, caught in that moment between being a girl and claiming her womanhood. The girl stood poised, silent, contained in herself. Mac—for it had to have been Mac who snapped this shot—photographed her from behind, with one hand resting on the cottonwood next to her, the line of her spine as graceful as the tree trunk, her fawn-colored hair cascading in a straight stream down her back over a plain white t-shirt. The picture captured an essential sense of tranquility. An utterly private moment.

  I looked back and forth between this and the prom picture. No, definitely not the same girl. Who was this, then? The picture—both the moment captured and the place of prominence in Mac’s room—bespoke intimacy.

  Carson stretched, opened his eyes, and squealed. He craned his head around, then relaxed as he saw me standing across the room. His little feet kicked in unison. I let loose a deep breath and smiled at him.

  “Good morning, sweet baby.” I climbed onto the bed next to him and gave him zerberts until he screamed with laughter. I gingerly untangled his hands from my hair, pushed back to kneel at the side of the bed, and frowned in mock seriousness.

  “Now, now, Carson, you crazy imp,” I scolded, “I am a very serious Mama and I expect you to be a very serious baby.”

  I accompanied my words with lots of tickling, causing Carson to squirm and squeal.

  We played Serious Mama a little longer. Then I stretched a bit, trying to loosen my sore muscles. Actually, I was surprised I didn’t hurt more and reminded myself to indulge in a few more ibuprofen, just to head things off. Carson seemed in fine fettle himself. I felt like a bit of a real Serious Mama, though, as I tho
ught about my poor car. What the hell had that been about? Car terrorism?

  Well, first things first definitely meant a shower and—I hoped—coffee. Or perhaps coffee first. I dressed Carson in one of his little rompers, pulled on some pants myself, and headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  Almost 8:00—pretty much a miracle when Carson slept that late—and the Wyoming June sunlight implied another hot day. I found Erin holding a cup of coffee and staring out the window over the kitchen sink.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Erin turned and gave me a preoccupied smile. “Good morning, Julie. I hope you and Carson slept okay? How do you feel? Are you in a lot of pain?”

  I rolled my shoulders. “We slept fine and I’m actually better than I feared—sore, but that’s all. Carson seems okay, too.”

  As I spoke, Erin looked out the window again, before snapping back to me.

  “Good, good… Would you like some coffee?”

  What a silly question.

  I helped myself to a large mug of black gold, snobbily eschewing the cream and sugar, and sat at the table. I balanced Carson against one shoulder and sighed blissfully into my mug. After a moment, I noticed Erin’s hands clenched on the counter.

  I cleared my throat. “Did Ian come home yet?”

  “What? No.” Erin turned to me and smiled weakly. “Sorry to be curt. No, he hasn’t come home yet, Julie, and I’m trying not to be too anxious.” After a pause, she asked, “May I hold Carson?”

  “Sure.” Carson transferred happily, wrapping his fat little fist around Erin’s braid.

  “Is it unusual for Ian to be gone for so long?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s unusual, but not unheard of. I really don’t need to be so worried. I just don’t know—I just don’t know what I would do if something happened to him, too.” Erin finished in a near whisper, then swallowed hard and turned a bright but wavering smile to Carson.

  “Oh, Erin.” I crossed to her and gave her a hug. “I’m sure he’s—well, I mean, I’m not sure—but I’m sure—he’s probably fine. Just blowing off steam. You know how teenagers are. He probably hasn’t even thought you might be worried.”

  Erin blotted her eyes with her sleeve and nodded.

  “Did Liam leave for work already?”

  “No, Full asked him to go over to the Sanchez’s house, to be with them for a bit. Since we’ve recently been through this same type of loss, we all thought he might help. I’ll be fine, Julie, really. You’re right, I’m sure Ian will be home soon.” She visibly collected herself. “Do you want to take a shower? I’d be happy to watch Carson.”

  The idea of taking a shower without worrying about Carson screeching as my hair was full of shampoo sounded heavenly, so I didn’t take much convincing.

  ****

  Half an hour later, feeling like a new woman, I went back downstairs, tucking slightly wet curls behind my ear. I was very ready for a second cup of coffee. I was not ready for the sight of Ian, sitting at the kitchen table, balancing my son on his knees, and cooing in a high-pitched, animated voice. Carson chortled and waved his feet.

  I stopped short and Ian started, falling silent in mid-coo.

  “Hi, Ian, good morning,” I said and tried to seem nonchalant as I crossed to the table.

  Ian mumbled something and glanced at me from underneath his bangs. He started to hold out Carson in my direction, but I waved him aside.

  “No, no, Carson seems really happy with you. It’s fine.” I tried not to laugh as Ian rather awkwardly resettled the baby in his arms. “Do you want some coffee? I thought about getting myself another cup.”

  “Um, sure,” said Ian.

  Wow! An intelligible word from Ian. I busied myself with two mugs and the coffee maker.

  “Milk? Sugar?” I asked.

  “Um. Yes. Both. Please.”

  I thought about how much I dreaded the day Carson would turn into a teenaged boy—oh, for Pete’s sake, a teenaged Werewolf—when Erin and Lily Rose walked into the kitchen.

  “Ian,” Lily said. “Outside, now.”

  Eyes momentarily widening, Ian stood up and handed Carson to Erin before following Lily. The door closed loudly in his wake.

  “Full’s going to rein him in a bit,” said Erin. “He needs to hold it together better, for his own sake and for the well-being of the pack.”

  “And his mom,” I added, and we exchanged a smile.

  Suddenly, Carson squawked and rolled his head around to look for me. I enjoyed the moment to sit quietly, drink my coffee, and snuggle my baby. Erin sat across from me with her own mug and perused the newspaper. I felt a brief pang as I imagined what it would be like to have Mac sitting here, too, just like a real family. Would Carson have brought us together? Would things have been different, if Mac had known?

  My cell phone chortled at me, and I pulled it out to see Sheila sent me a text. Well? it said. I swallowed hard, feeling the gulf between me and my past life—dammit, my real life—widening. I texted back, Mac’s dead. I’m with his family. I can’t talk about it yet. I’m ok. I imagined Sheila’s arched brows raising higher and higher, then furrowing with worry over me. After a minute or two, she texted, I’m sorry. I’m here, whenever, however. Love you.

  How was I ever going to explain this?

  Lily spent fifteen minutes or so talking to Ian and then walked back into the kitchen. Today, she wore a sleeveless lemon-yellow blouse and chunky turquoise jewelry set in gold. Ian stayed outside. When I glanced through the window, he stared toward the tree line and kicked at the dirt with one toe.

  “Good morning, Julie,” said Lily, accepting a cup of coffee from Erin’s proffered hand. “Tell me about your accident last night.”

  All business, she leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she listened to the story. She then proceeded to interrogate me: Did the car have round or square headlights? Two doors or four? She asked me about ten different questions about the shape of the sedan and the exact shade of its paint. By the time she finished, she’d wrung every scrap of memory from me. Then she made me tell the whole story from the beginning for a second time. Only at one point, when I described the helpful rancher Thom Gardiner, did she turn to Erin.

  “Worland?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Erin confirmed. “And, no, I’ve not met him before. I didn’t notice anything unusual about him or his truck.” With a glance at me, she added, “By sight or smell.”

  I made a mental note to find out more about what Werewolves might be able to smell.

  “Any scent from the car that hit her? Or the driver?” Lily asked.

  “No. I bet the windows were closed,” said Erin.

  Lily sat back and looked at me for several minutes before she spoke.

  “Julie,” she said. “I don’t think this encounter was an accident or random. I believe you were targeted.”

  I shook my head and frowned.

  “Targeted by whom? And why?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Lily said. “I suspect the same person—or group of people—that killed Roger and Carlos Sanchez.”

  “But why? Why me? None of this makes sense. Why was Mac murdered?”

  Lily and Erin exchanged glances.

  “Julie,” Lily said, in a voice akin to what you’d use to comfort a skittish horse, “Right now, you just need to trust us. After the pack meeting tonight, I may be able to tell you more.”

  Small comfort.

  I looked down at Carson, who turned his head and gave me a smile. With or without the help of the pack, I was damned well going to protect my baby. That was certain.

  ****

  The remainder of the day passed quickly. Erin and I took two hours to drive into the bustling metropolis of Sheridan, population sixteen-thousand-and-some. The sign off the highway proudly proclaimed, “Sheridan, Wyoming: The West at Its Best!” and I hadn’t comparison shopped around the state enough to disagree. Sheridan had a historic downtown, lots of Western shops, and plenty of attractions vying for the
attention of tourists. Well, plenty considering the size of the town. Sheridan also had a superstore, our real destination since the first order of the day was a new car seat for Carson. I’d called the manufacturer’s 800-number this morning and received a strict warning: “The impact and force of a collision can cause unseen structural damage to the interior of your car seat.” Carson was close to the length-limit of his baby bucket seat anyway, so I needed to get him one of those plush rear-facing/front-facing convertible ones.

  Half an hour later, I picked out a seat from a reputable company with, almost more importantly, an adorable Holstein cow print. Erin did some shopping of her own, so we met up at the check-out, paid for our purchases, and left the store.

  Half an hour after that, I had not managed to safely install the now-very-annoying-and-not-so-cute car seat. Erin jiggled and danced Carson around the car in a baby-soothing two-step, while I sweated profusely, knelt on the damned seat and pushed with all my might, trying to get the seat belt tight enough. For icing on the cake, there was supposed to be some type of floor latch to anchor the top of the seat when rear-facing, but Erin’s older SUV didn’t have such a thing. The company provided some weird piece of belt with metal loops to wrap around a stable portion of the car in order to make my own top anchor. Yeah. Not as easy as it sounds, believe me.

  By the time the seat was finally strapped and anchored to my satisfaction, lunchtime had come and gone, so Erin suggested we drive into downtown Sheridan to eat at Sanford’s Grub Pub. After a pretty decent chicken Caesar salad for me and a tuna sandwich for Erin, we were ready to head back to Greybull.

  Or almost ready. As we walked to the car, I noticed a coffee shop around the corner. I know some people hate the proliferation of coffee chains with over-priced drinks and trendy menus. Me? I’m overjoyed I can get a great cup of coffee no matter where I am.

  “Erin, can you put Carson in the car while I grab a latte to go?” I asked, gesturing. “Do you want anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.” She held out her arms for the baby, already cooing to him.

  On my way out of the coffee shop, latte and espresso brownie in hand, I noticed the dark blue sedan across the street. I missed a step, nearly falling, and my heart started to race. Almost as suddenly, however, I realized this couldn’t be The Blue Sedan: it showed none of the dents or scratches my mystery hit-and-runner must have accumulated. I stood for a moment on the sidewalk and stared at the car. For a brief moment this morning, I forgot the recent happenings, distracted by this trip to Sheridan. But this car brought it all flooding back. Someone had really, truly tried to injure me—or kill me—last night.