Dr. Schell's brilliance, spirit, and compassion lived on in his daughter. And Wilhelm Schell bore no resemblance to the ruling figure in Quentin's childhood.
Tiberius Forster, the late Earl of Greyburn.
Quentin's mind slid away from the image like a raindrop on the skin of a perfect grape. Tiberius Forster was long dead. That was another life, another world.
"We're not moving!"
He came back to himself at Oscar's plaintive observation. Daisy had stopped to graze on the golden grasses at the side of the lane, taking advantage of Quentin's inattention.
Quentin shook his head. "She's a wily one, isn't she? Would you like to take the reins, Oscar?"
"You bet!" He reached for the lines eagerly, and Quentin carefully placed them in the boy's hands, covering the much larger fingers with his own.
"C'mon, Daisy!" Oscar crowed, and soon they were on their way again.
Quentin had seen Silverado Springs from a distance but had never entered the town. It was as Johanna had described it to him: neat, peaceful, respectable, and well-provisioned enough for the flocks of moneyed resort-goers who came to the hot and mineral springs to bathe and improve their health. Aside from the springs and the attached hotels and amusements, it was much like a thousand other such towns that Quentin had visited, in California and elsewhere.
Retrieving the reins from Oscar, Quentin followed Johanna's directions to the general store on the main street. It would have been impossible to miss. The usual idlers lounged, smoked, or talked on the wooden porch, looking for something to alleviate their perpetual boredom. Quentin was mindful of their stares as he tied Daisy to the hitching post.
Johanna had warned him to expect a certain amount of wariness from the local populace. He couldn't help but laugh to himself; these good people might have more reason to be wary if they knew what he really was.
Oscar was oblivious to anything but the prospect of tasting the licorice Quentin had promised him. He bounded up the stairs, nearly upsetting one of the lounger's chairs.
"Damned idiot," the man muttered to one of his fellows, aiming a chewed wad of tobacco through a hole in the planks of the porch. "Shouldn't let him run loose."
Quentin paused on his way up the stairs to glance at the man, an ill-shaven lout whose belly protruded from between his suspenders. "Did he do you any harm?" he asked.
"Damn near knocked me out've my chair," the man said. "Who're you?" He snickered. "Another one of them loonies? You sure don't look like it."
"You'd be surprised," Quentin said. "My name is Quentin Forster. Young Oscar there is my friend."
The man debated how best to reply and decided to err on the side of caution. "You some hired man of the doc's?"
"I am boarding at the Haven," he said.
Another man, at the end of the row, made a low sound. "I'll bet," he whispered to his nearest companion. "Wonder how many male 'boarders' the lady doctor takes on there? Wouldn't I like to find out. She sure ain't picky…"
Quentin's vision dimmed, and the blood pounded in his ears. He sucked in his breath. "I shall pretend I didn't hear that remark," he said.
Clearly the speaker hadn't intended it to be heard. He took a hasty swallow from his bottle.
Before he could be tempted to take more definitive action, Quentin followed Oscar into the store. The boy had his nose pressed to the glass of the candy counter, practically ready to devour the glass in order to reach the treats within. The counter creaked ominously under Oscar's weight.
The gray-haired storekeeper seemed relieved when Quentin paid for the licorice and Oscar scampered outside to enjoy it. Quentin looked at the door, wondering if he ought to leave the boy alone with the insolent loafers.
"Don't mind them," the storekeeper said, heaving a sack of flour onto the counter. "They're all bark and no bite."
"They seem to dislike Dr. Schell," Quentin said. "Why?"
"She doesn't come into town much, so no one's gotten to learn much about her. A bit of a mystery, so to speak. People around here only know that she has lunatics at her place who would usually be in the State Asylum. Worry they might scare off the tourists, or that her patients might run mad and hurt someone." He shrugged. "And there's some who just plain don't trust a woman doctor. But she's always paid her bills, and I've found her right pleasant, if the quiet sort. I've never heard any harm of her or the people up at old Schell's place." He regarded Quentin curiously. "You can't be one of her patients."
"Because I'm too normal?" Quentin smiled and shook his head. "We all have our oddities, Mr. Piccini. Some of us are simply better at hiding them than others."
"Can't argue with that." The storekeeper filled a wooden crate with the smaller items on Mrs. Daugherty's list, set it beside the sacks of flour and sugar, and wiped his hands on his apron. "I'll go ahead and take this out, and you can square up with me afterward."
"That would be most—" Quentin stopped in the act of lifting the sack of flour to his shoulder and cocked an ear toward the door. "Excuse me just a moment."
He stepped outside to find the loiterers crowded at the porch railing, watching a scene that bore all the earmarks of a disaster.
Oscar stood in the middle of the street, turning in a bewildered circle, while a pack of boys yelled taunts at him from every side. The gang, its members ranging in age from perhaps fourteen to twenty and too well-dressed to be vagrants, had already done some damage. Oscar's licorice lay trampled in the dirt at his feet.
It couldn't be the first time he'd been mocked for his childlike slowness, but the Haven sheltered and protected him from such abuse. His eyes swam with tears. He would have made two of any of the boys, but he was heavily outnumbered. He didn't know how to defend himself against such an assault.
"Come on, you big dummy!" one of the pack bellowed. "Can't you fight at all? Or is your brain the size of a walnut?" The others joined in his raucous laughter.
Quentin dropped the sack of flour and started down the stairs. The men on the porch made no move to interfere. If they had planned to incite the bullies in their game, they thought better of it now and remained silent.
One of the bullies feinted toward Oscar, shouting and whistling, while another played at bear-baiting with a stick. Oscar flailed with one big hand and knocked the stick away. A boy, watching for his chance, maneuvered behind him and landed a punch to Oscar's backside.
With a howl, Oscar spun around, lashing out at his attacker. By simple good fortune, his fist connected with the boy's face. Blood spurted, and an explosion of dust shot into the air as the bully landed on his bottom. Oscar staggered back, not understanding what he'd done. The boy screamed in pain and rolled on the ground, clutching his broken nose.
All at once the rest of the boys flung themselves on Oscar, wolves pulling down a great bull elk. But no wolf would behave as cruelly as these humans did. Dust rose in choking waves; the smell of blood from the bully's nose filled Quentin's nostrils. He waded into the melee and thrust the boys aside with measured swipes of his arms, making a deliberate effort to leash his strength. The ringleader had pummeled Oscar to his knees, his blows striking past Oscar's upraised arms.
It was Oscar's blood that spilled now. The odor was maddening. Quentin lifted the bully by his collar, dangling him in midair like a pup held by the scruff of its neck in its mother's jaws. The boy's contorted face was the last thing he saw clearly.
Rage. Searing, mindless rage filled him. It turned his vision red and his reason to utter chaos. Shouts came to him distantly—adult cries of alarm and warning and threat. He ignored them like the squawks of so many cowardly birds.
Vultures, waiting for the carcass. Scavengers ready to attack anything too weak to resist.
They'd hurt Oscar. Hurt him…
"Quen'in?" Someone tugged on his arm. His gaze focused on Oscar's tear-streaked, upturned face. "I'm scared. I want to go home!"
Something in that woebegone voice reached him as nothing else could. He opened his hand and let the bull
y boy fall. Like a terrified rodent, the boy scuttled away.
What is happening to me?
His mind cleared, and he realized that he hadn't lost himself. He remembered: the rage, the desire to hurt. He hadn't gone anywhere near the saloon.
Sick fear gathered in the pit of his belly. He took Oscar by the arm and pulled him toward the buggy. Motion surged at the edges of his sight, townspeople curious and angry and ready to blame Oscar for what their own children had done. Blame Quentin as well.
Oscar scrambled up into the seat, unable to hide his terror. "Come on!" he sobbed. "Quen'in—"
"Loonies!" a man yelled. "Go on back to the madhouse!"
Quentin climbed in and took the reins. He saw with a start that the buggy's boot already held the sacks and crate from the store. The storekeeper edged up to the buggy, one eye on the growing crowd.
"I saw how it happened," the storekeeper whispered.
"I've loaded up your supplies. I know the Doc's good for it. You'd better leave now."
"Thank you," Quentin said. "I'll remember your kindness."
"Don't judge us all by these few," Piccini said. His fleshy face grew sad. "My sister was never right after she had her last baby. Folks are too quick to cast out those who are different. But you might want to warn the Doc not to let that woman—Irene—come into town for a while, until things settle down."
Quentin nodded, withholding his hand for fear that he might bring the crowd's wrath down on a decent man. He slapped the reins across Daisy's flanks and turned the buggy for home.
"Don't judge us all by these few," the storekeeper had said. Quentin knew too much of men to believe they were all alike. But how was he to judge himself? He'd brought trouble on Johanna by trying to help her. How much more harshly would Silverado Springs regard her now?
And as for Irene… if she'd been visiting the town so frequently as to be noticed, Johanna must know.
He and Oscar were a solemn pair as they unharnessed Daisy and put the buggy away. In the privacy of the barn, Quentin looked over Oscar's injuries and found no worse than a few bruises and a small cut that would heal on its own. Oscar had done the greater damage without even trying.
Quentin shuddered. If Oscar hadn't stopped him…
Johanna would have to know of this, but not right away. Put it off as long as possible. "I think you should go and play, Oscar," Quentin said gently. "Forget about what happened in town. It wasn't your fault."
Oscar sat down on a bale of hay, head in his hands. "I was stupid."
"No. You're not—"
"I am stupid. I am!" He lumbered to his feet and charged out of the barn. Quentin let him go. He had much to learn about children—or those who thought like children—and Oscar was not without pride.
The house was quiet when Quentin carried the provisions inside. Lewis was reading in his parlor corner. He looked up, searched Quentin's face, and seemed about to speak. Quentin slipped past him, through the hall, and out the back door. The peace of the woods beckoned.
He Changed, assuming his wolf form with relief. He shook the taint of anger from his red coat and ran up into the hills. After a span of time that his human side estimated as half an hour, he returned to the edge of the Haven's clearing and Changed back. He was just buttoning his shirt when he realized he was being watched.
The scent was that of dry, cool skin, leached of nearly all its natural odor, and an overabundance of soap. Lewis Andersen. Quentin turned his head to watch for the betrayal of movement. Leaves rustled, and a black-clad figure fled with a snapping of twigs and branches, noisily skirting the edge of the clearing until he was out of view.
Lewis Andersen. Quentin grimaced and finished dressing. He should have taken more care, but all he'd thought to do was Change and leave his human problems behind for a short, precious time.
Had Lewis seen him Change? He wasn't the kind to report such knowledge to the world at large, but given his state of mind, Quentin very much feared such a bizarre sight would only worsen his condition. He'd surely see a shapechanger as a creature of the devil—if he weren't convinced of his own madness.
Can you possibly make matters worse? he asked himself. He was very much afraid he knew the answer.
He walked back to the house, too preoccupied to sense Johanna until she met him on the garden path.
"Quentin! I'm glad you're back." She smiled—actually smiled at him, oblivious to what he'd done. His heart lodged in his throat.
"The goods are in the kitchen," he said. "Oscar is somewhere about." He summoned up his courage. "Johanna, you and I must talk—"
"Yes, we will attempt another session this afternoon. But I wished to tell you that Harper has agreed to let you observe my work with him, and we are about to begin."
The timing could not have been worse. He was in no state to concentrate on Johanna's techniques, not when he had so much to explain.
She saw his reluctance and misinterpreted it. "I know that our meetings have not been as productive as we hoped, but I believe you may benefit from this. Harper is another excellent hypnotic subject. All our work thus far has been most promising. This is the first time I will ask him to talk of the War itself." She touched Quentin's arm lightly; the hairs stood up all over his body. "He trusts you, Quentin, and that is why he wishes to have you present."
"I wouldn't desert a comrade in arms," Quentin said with a humorless smile. "Lead on."
The chaise longue with which Quentin had become so familiar was now occupied by Harper, who looked fully relaxed, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes closed. Quentin knew that emotion seethed under Harper's skin; no human being could suffer as he had and mend so quickly.
Johanna insisted that the acceptance of one's past held the mind's true cure. Quentin's stomach knotted with dread more intense than any he'd experienced when he was Johanna's subject. God help him, he didn't want to visit Harper's past, see into Harper's soul.
But it was too late to back out now. He took a second chair behind Johanna and concentrated on her routines as she darkened the room and led Harper into a trance. Her voice was rich and persuasive, tender as a mother's.
The muscles in the former soldier's face went slack. His breathing slowed, hands rising and falling with the steady motion of his chest.
"Harper," Johanna said. "Do you hear me?"
"Yes." Harper's voice was deeper than usual, slightly slurred but intelligible.
"Good. You will now remember all the things we discussed and practiced in our previous meetings. You know there is nothing to fear."
"Yes."
"As we agreed, I am now going to ask you to remember the days when you served with the Twenty-second Indiana Regiment. As you talk of this time, you will feel no distress, nor fear, no pain unless that is what you wish. You will be able to separate yourself from all you experience if you find it too difficult. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Then I would like you to think back to the time when you first volunteered to serve. How you felt when you joined, and why you made the decision to do so."
Harper was silent for several moments. "I didn't want to go, you know," he murmured. "I never was much of one for fighting. Everyone in town knew that. My friends—they were all ready to join up as soon as the first shot was fired. No one said anything to me, but they looked. I always felt them looking. And all I wanted was just to stay home and blacksmith like my pa." He sighed. "It was a good life, working with horses. I didn't think I'd like shooting people."
"That was quite natural," Johanna said. "Please go on, Harper."
"I was seventeen when I decided that I had to serve."
"What made you decide?"
"Jimmy Beebe came over to talk to me the day before. The regiment was forming up. He was all fired up to go and get him some Rebs. He gave me his pouch of tobacco and promised he'd share it with me, even-Steven, if I came along. That's when I knew."
"Knew what, Harper?"
"That if I didn't go along, he wa
s going to die."
Johanna had no doubt that she'd heard him correctly. She paused to consider her next question, listening to Quentin's muted breathing behind her.
She was glad to have him there, someone who understood what she was doing and could lend a measure of support. Not that she required such support. But she'd missed his company over the past few days, while she'd been so fully occupied with the other patients.
Yes; she could admit it, if only to herself. She'd missed Quentin. His conversation, his grin, his friendship. Oh, they saw each other at meals and during the walks and parlor gatherings, but only in passing. Not even long enough for Quentin to disquiet her with one of his vaguely salacious comments.
She'd recognized the need for distance between them, and had gotten what she wanted. Only it wasn't what she wanted after all.
What she wanted, and what was right, were two different things.
For Quentin had surprised her once again. He was very good with her father, as he was with May and Oscar. He accepted each of them for what he or she was, expecting no more. He asked nothing for himself, and if not for his complete lack of progress in their sessions, she could not have been more pleased. Pleased… and very much aware of her growing admiration for him.
At least the work that kept her away from Quentin also prevented any more uncomfortable scenes between them. But she couldn't forget those that had already occurred: the kiss; Quentin's strange possessiveness on their walk; his fierce, almost violent desire to protect her after the altercation with Irene in the parlor.
The consequences of those moments had not disappeared. They had simply gone dormant, as if waiting for some new spark to bring them back to the forefront of her mind. And emotions.
Emotions she couldn't afford to dwell on now, no matter how much her heartbeat accelerated at his mere proximity. This was another test of her discipline, and she would not fail it.
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