SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  "Your father must be an interesting gentleman," Quentin said, watching her face. "I confess that I'm a bit surprised that he sent you to deal with a strange male patient."

  The zealous light went out of her eyes. "My father is no longer seeing patients. I received a full medical education in the United States and Europe; you need have no fears about my competence."

  "I'm not afraid." He let his lashes drop over his eyes and lowered his voice to a seductive purr. "I shan't mind your company in the least, fair Valkyrie."

  She flinched. "Why do you call me that?"

  Well, well, well. Something else she was sensitive about, along with her patients, and her father. Had she been mocked for her height and hardy frame in the past? What blind fools men could be.

  "Because you remind me of those ancient Teutonic warrior maids," he said. "Girded for battle and prepared to sweep the wounded from the field. I suppose your hair ought to be blonde, but I quite like it just as it is."

  She actually blushed. It was the first typically female behavior he'd seen in her.

  "That was my father's pet name for me," she whispered. Was, as if her father were dead, though she'd said he was here.

  "It suits you," he said. "I mean that as a compliment."

  She scraped back her chair and stood, shaking off his hand. "If I am to be your physician, Mr. Forster, you had best realize that our relationship must remain strictly professional."

  He feigned surprise. "Naturally. If I am to be your patient."

  "We shall discuss that possibility at a more appropriate time," she said. "You will stay in bed for the remainder of the day; I shall bring you a healthy breakfast to restore your constitution. And put from your mind any thought of drinking while you remain in this house."

  The mere thought of alcohol made Quentin's gorge rise. He crossed his heart. "I promise I'll be good."

  That almost imperceptible smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. "I wonder." She turned briskly for the door.

  "Doctor—Johanna—"

  She stopped, hand on the doorknob.

  "Thank you," he said, meaning it. "Thank you for helping me."

  "I, too, took the Hippocratic oath," she said. "Rest well, Mr. Forster."

  Quentin was very tempted to test her composure by inviting her to join him under the covers, but long training as a gentleman quelled the impulse. Her dignity was not impregnable, but there was no point in wasting all his ammunition at once.

  "Until later, then," he said.

  He remained seated at the edge of the bed long after she'd left, working out the thoughts and feelings she had provoked in him. They were a mass of uncomfortable contradictions—the very sort of thing he'd avoided by moving on before there was the slightest chance of developing a relationship with anyone, or feeling much of anything at all.

  Reflecting deeply on his own emotions was hardly the sort of game at which he was expert. It led him too close to the shadows, like drink. He was more than a little alarmed at the intensity of his reaction to Johanna Schell.

  He fell back on the bed, pillowing his head on crossed arms. The ceiling above was a soothing, blank white, luring him toward oblivion. Why not sleep, as the doctor recommended?

  But sleep had never been his most reliable mistress—unless he was drunk. His thoughts chased round and round like a wolf after its own tail.

  Why did she attract him, unlike so many other women? It wasn't merely her curvaceous body; he'd sampled plenty of those in his time. No; the physical was only a small part of it.

  It was her strength—not so much of body as mind and purpose. She carried herself with all the confidence of a man, but no one could mistake her for anything but a woman. She knew who she was and lived in herself without shame or doubt. He couldn't imagine her confounded by any of the fears or petty cares that afflicted so many average lives.

  Perhaps she wouldn't be daunted by his demons—those demons he could never quite see, who hovered at the very edges of his consciousness. The ones who reduced him to a pathetic coward, terrified to look too deeply inside himself for fear of what he'd find.

  Was Doctor Johanna Schell strong enough to match them? Could her science of hypnosis bring him to the end of his perpetual flight?

  That was it. That was the heart of the subject, and of his sudden and half-unwelcome hope. Johanna Schell was like this place, this Haven… a sanctuary in the storm his life had become. Her touch not only moved and aroused him, it anchored him, drew him into a quiet place where his demons had no power.

  He closed his eyes. God, how he longed for such a place. But to take the risk, to ask for her help and everything that might entail… had he any right? Even if she offered, with all her poise and faith in herself… what if that weren't enough?

  Better to run. Better to spend one last day to be sure of his recovery, and leave this transient peace behind.

  He laughed, as he always did on those rare occasions when his ruminations led him to a state of such maudlin self-pity. Laughter kept the tears at bay, and there was enough of an English gentleman left in him to disdain the ephemeral solace of weeping.

  He wasn't that kind of drunk. He wished that he were. He wished that he could reconcile himself to a permanent ending.

  But that was another thing a proper English gentleman simply didn't do. Not until there was no other choice.

  Quentin covered his face with the soft feather pillow and laughed until no listener would have any doubt at all that he was quite insane.

  Chapter 4

  Whenever she was troubled, Johanna had always gone to her father.

  In their life together, since her mother's death, she had been the sensible one. She'd kept the books and most of the asylum records, saw to her own handful of patients, reminded Papa to eat and helped him dress—each and every task carried out with the same single-minded efficiency.

  Wilhelm Schell, for all his brilliance, had been the one with the touch of mischief, the ability to laugh even at the most serious moments. He could be annoyingly impractical. His mind made strange, unfathomable leaps from one concept to another, seemingly without logic. And he was the one who could explain and reassure on those rare occasions when her emotions got themselves in a tangle.

  As they were now, due to Mr. Quentin Forster.

  Despite all that had changed, Papa's presence still gave her comfort. She went directly from the guest room to her father's room, opening the door a crack to gauge his condition.

  He was asleep. If she woke him, he'd only be more confused, and her trivial needs came a distant second to his. She closed the door. The patients had already eaten and were either outside, working in the garden, vineyard, or orchard, or resting in their rooms. She'd have time to make notes on the new patient.

  Her office seemed very quiet as she sat down at her desk and took out a notebook. Quentin Forster must have his own set of notes and records of treatments and progress, to join the others neatly stacked in the desk drawer. This record, like May's, would be written entirely in her own hand, without any contribution from her father. The feel of the pen in her hand never failed to calm her thoughts on those rare occasions when they spun too fast for her to discipline.

  Her heart gradually slowed from the rapid pace it had set ever since he touched her. Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she made a cool assessment of her new patient, point by logical point.

  Quentin Forster. Age, estimated thirty years. Of English descent, probably aristocratic by his accent and general mien. Apparently in good health, in spite of his recent bout of delirium tremens. Clearly he was not the sort who drank constantly, or he could not be in such excellent condition.

  In all likelihood he was here in the United States because he was the younger son of some wealthy landowning family, sent to make his fortune conveniently far from England. Such young men were hardly more than parasites, like the idle children of aristocrats everywhere.

  Did he drink because he was in exile, or due to some personal weakness
in his nature? No need to speculate; she'd learn that soon enough, during one of their first sessions of hypnosis. If she decided to take his case.

  That was the question. He might very easily disrupt what they had here. Disturb the others.

  Disturb her.

  His laughing cinnamon eyes flashed in her mind. He was charming and handsome, of that there was no doubt. Intelligent, too. Proficient at reasonable conversation, if one discounted his jesting.

  How long had it been since she'd had a truly rational conversation? One that lasted more than a few minutes and didn't leap wildly from subject to subject, or drift off into silence? She'd spoken to a few fellow doctors during the lecture in San Francisco, but they were apt to condescend to her because of her gender, if they paid any attention at all.

  Quentin Forster didn't condescend. Except for his one inquiry about her father, he seemed completely unruffled at being attended to by a woman.

  If anything, he seemed to relish the prospect.

  And that was the challenge he presented. She must keep a professional distance from him, remain unmoved by his teasing and flirtation—something she could do easily enough with other men. Not so easy, perhaps, with him.

  You are a woman, she told herself—something Papa had reminded her of on occasion, in the old days. It is quite logical that you should find a man attractive, sooner or later. In spite of what some male physicians and social arbiters claimed, she had always believed that women were sexual creatures. Even Johanna Schell.

  Simple physical attraction explained much of her sense of discomposure. But why this man? Why now?

  She shrugged and closed the notebook. There would be a day or two to decide; she certainly wouldn't turn him out so soon after his initial recovery. She'd make the correct decision…

  "Well, what's he like?" Irene came into the office—dramatically, as she always did, floating through the door in her silk dressing gown. Her faded red hair was loose in practiced disarray, and she wore enough face paint to be seen from the farthest rows of a large theater. She planted herself in front of Johanna and struck a provocative pose. "Come, now," she said in theatrical tones. "Don't even think of keeping him all to yourself."

  "I suppose you mean the new patient," Johanna said dryly.

  "Who else, in this dreadfully boring place?" Irene said with a sniff. "He's the most interesting thing to happen here in ages. Such a handsome one, too." Her eyes narrowed. "But you wouldn't notice that, with your withered spinsterish ways. You never notice anything important."

  Johanna was used to Irene's narcissism and occasional vindictiveness. One didn't have a conversation with Irene unless it was entirely about Irene. "I noticed," she said. "But I have been somewhat more concerned with the state of his health."

  "But he's better now, isn't he?" She stroked her hand—its delicacy marred by bitten fingernails—down her thigh. "You must introduce me to him as soon as possible. I can speed up his recovery."

  "I'll introduce him to everyone once he's ready," Johanna said, her voice calm and authoritative. "For now, he needs rest."

  "Don't try to fool me, Johanna," Irene said, tossing her head. "You just want to keep him away from me. You're afraid that when he sees me, he won't even notice you. Who would?" Her ravaged face took on a faraway look. "When I was on the stage, no man could take his eyes off me. I was the toast of New York and every city I visited. My dressing room was always filled with flowers and suitors on their knees." Her gaze sharpened and focused on Johanna. "It will be so again. Soon I'll have all the money I need to get me back, and then—" She broke off in confusion and hurried on. "But you want to keep me here, a prisoner, because you're jealous." She hissed for emphasis. "You're plain and dull and dried up as an… an old prune. You want to make me the same way—"

  "I don't want to make you anything, Irene, but happy," Johanna said. Irene's delusion was such that she could not look in a mirror without seeing the promising young actress she'd been at twenty—the girl she'd left behind thirty years ago, sexually exploited and abandoned by a former "protector," lost to the stage and left to make her living through prostitution. She'd been declared mad and eventually found her way into the Schell's private asylum as a charity case. Now she was a part of the "family," if an occasionally difficult one.

  Johanna opened another notebook and consulted the week's schedule. "I think we should have another session soon."

  Irene primped and preened. "No time for that," she said. "I must go back to rehearsals. I'm to play Juliet, you know, with Edwin Booth himself."

  She turned to go, swirling her dressing gown in a clumsy arc that was meant to be elegant. "Send the gentleman to me when he's rested. You'll rue the day if you deprive him of the opportunity to worship at my feet." She laughed girlishly and swept back out of the room.

  Cherishing the renewed quiet, Johanna closed her eyes. Irene had relapsed over the past several weeks, convinced that she was in the midst of rehearsals for a play that would never open except in her own mind.

  Though it might require many more months, Johanna intended to help Irene become capable of living in the world on her own, even if it was as something of an eccentric. Irene was a gifted seamstress. If she could be made to leave some of her delusions behind, she could put her skills to good use and earn a respectable living. And she could rediscover some measure of happiness in herself.

  But that meant facing what she didn't want to face—the fact that she was fifty years old and completely forgotten by her supposed hordes of one-time admirers. If she could only see that there was a different kind of worth that did not depend upon the transience of the flesh…

  Johanna rose and went back into the hall. She paused to look in on Harper, who sat in his chair, unmoving and unaware of her fleeting presence. Then she continued on to Papa's room. He was awake now, and had pulled himself up into a half-sitting position, propped up on the layers of pillows at the head of his bed. Thank God he had regained some use of his left arm and leg, though they were still extremely unsteady.

  Oscar had helped Johanna build the special bed rails that kept him from tumbling out at night. It looked like a cage—a cage such as his own body and brain had become.

  "Papa," she said softly, closing the door behind her. "How are you feeling?"

  He peered at her, his left eyelid slightly sagging over once-bright blue eyes. "Johanna?"

  "I'm here." She sat on the stool beside the bed and took his left hand. It shook a little, the tendons and veins carved in sharp relief under the fragile, spotted skin. "Did you sleep well?"

  "Hmmm," he said. He patted her hand with his right one. "You look tired, mein Walkürchen. Working too hard." His words were slurred, but comprehensible. That, too, had improved over time. "What day is it?"

  "Wednesday, Papa."

  "Good. Good." His bushy white brows drew together. "Where is my schedule, Johanna? I can't remember now if it's my day to see Andersen."

  "Don't worry about that, Papa. I'll see to it."

  "Ja. You always do." He chuckled hoarsely. "Where would I be without my girl…" His chin sank onto his chest. Johanna rose to adjust his pillows.

  "Are you hungry, Papa? Some nice fresh eggs for breakfast?"

  "I don't know." He moved his good hand irritably. "Have you any strudel?"

  She smiled, swallowing. He'd always had a terrible sweet tooth. "Not today, Papa. But I can have Mrs. Daugherty bring some from town, perhaps, tomorrow morning."

  "Don't bother. I can get it myself—" He struggled to rise, found the bed rails in his way, and tried to move them. The effort exhausted him. "Where are my clothes?"

  She fetched the loose, comfortable clothing she'd had made for him, removed the bed rail, and helped him dress. It was a slow process, though not as slow as the bathing, which would wait until this evening. She encouraged him to do as much dressing as he could on his own, but the buttons always defeated him. While his feet were still bare, she checked them for sores or swelling, then pulled on his stock
ings and his soft shoes.

  Such painstaking care took several hours each day, time taken from the patients, but she could not pass it on to Mrs. Daugherty. Except for the housekeeping and cooking, which took all of Bridget's considerable energy, Johanna could trust no one but herself to do that which must be done at the Haven.

  When she was finished with Papa's feet, she worked his left arm gently through a series of exercises, and did the same for his leg. He bore it passively, adrift in his own world.

  "Send in my next patient, Johanna," he said. "It's Dieter Roth, isn't it? He's a difficult one, but we're coming along." He patted her arm. "We're coming along."

  Dieter Roth was one of their former patients at the asylum, who had been helped enormously by Papa's techniques and gone home before their move to California. But Papa often lost track of time, confusing the past with the present.

  "We've a new patient, Papa," she said, fetching a glass of water from the pitcher on the washstand. "He's a dipsomaniac, by all appearances. I haven't treated one like him before."

  "There is no reason why inebriety can't be treated as well as any other form of insanity," he said with sudden clarity. "The influences that drive a man to drink are not as simple as some would have us think. I have never believed it is merely a weakness of character."

  "Nor do I," Johanna said, her heart lightening. "I haven't taken on a new patient in some time, however. I'm not sure how much he can pay, or if we can afford another charity case."

  "We are doctors. We can't turn away those who need our help." The old fire lit his eyes. "And our methods work, Johanna."

  "Your methods, Papa," she said, holding the glass to his lips.

  "They all laughed at me in Vienna," he said. "But I've proven them wrong—" He choked, and Johanna rubbed his back until he was breathing normally again. His face was very pale.