SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  May's father. A Mr. Chester Ingram, a wealthy San Francisco magnate, a man Johanna had never mentioned. Bolkonsky had come to Silverado Springs to recover Ingram's daughter, lost to him two years ago. And he'd deceived Johanna in order to gain her trust before revealing his true motive for summoning her.

  That was why she'd taken May into town.

  Quentin set down the page and stared out the window. Johanna must have known of May's father, but she had deliberately not contacted him. She'd kept the child here, apart from Ingram, and was distressed at his appearance. Quentin remembered what she'd told him before he met May for the first time: "Her mother left her with us for treatment. I suspect her home life was not a happy one."

  No reference to the mother here. Only a description of May's visit to town, where something had gone terribly wrong.

  An hysterical fit. Terror. All because May's father had come into the room against Johanna's wishes and recommendations.

  The terse sentences Johanna had written here hinted at so much more than they revealed. The one point made abundantly clear was that Johanna did not want to release May to her father… and had no intention of doing so.

  Quentin swallowed the sourness in his throat and replaced the notes in their original order, then began a second search that took him to the bookshelves against the wall, and the boxes of older records.

  The ink was faded on the original entries, made the night May came to the Haven. Quentin read them through without stopping, every line, until he understood the cause for Johanna's apprehension.

  No proof, of course. Only speculation, the pleas of a frantic mother, the implications behind a young girl's bizarre behavior. Behavior that had changed when she was left alone to heal.

  Only to be reawakened when she met her father face-to-face.

  The sound of crumpling paper drew Quentin's unfocused stare to his hands. He'd crushed the sheets into balls in his fist. Releasing a shaky breath, he smoothed the paper flat on the desk.

  No matter. Johanna would know someone had been rummaging about in her private papers, and it wouldn't take her long to determine the culprit.

  Quentin reassembled the notes and restored them to their place in the box. The tight sickness in his chest was abating, replaced by the cold, metallic sting of compulsion. He left the room, and the house, in a body most would have mistakenly called human.

  No one stirred on the grounds of the Silverado Springs Hotel. The staff had retired, the guests were asleep, and the night clerk was completely inattentive to werewolves on the prowl. Quentin easily slipped past him and found the register that listed Mr. Ingram's room.

  He didn't know why he was here. He had ceased to think clearly from the moment he put Johanna's notes away. The fog in his mind had become so familiar that he hardly questioned it.

  Tonight it drove him to the doors of the hotel's best suite. But the occupants behind these doors were not sleeping. He could hear the creaking of furniture, the whispers, the guttural laughter.

  A man and a girl. He'd heard such whispers before.

  His urge to kick down the door subsided as quickly as it came. He retraced his steps to the lobby and out into the night, circling the hotel until he located the suite's windows, open to the cool air.

  Why should a man like Ingram bother to take precautions against intruders? What had he to fear? Quentin vaulted over the windowsill, avoiding the clutch of heavy draperies. He found himself in a darkened parlor only a room away from the voices—louder now, the man's whispering more insistent, the girl's strained.

  He crept to the connecting doorway and looked through.

  The girl could not have been more than fourteen, her maid's skirts bunched up around her thighs as she sat on Ingram's knee. She could have passed for much younger. She squirmed and leaned away from him as he nuzzled her cheek.

  "Don't pretend you're innocent," he said, running his hand over her stocking. "I know you want it."

  "Please, sir," she said. "I have to get home."

  He chuckled. "Don't you want the sweet I promised you? It's right here in my pocket—"

  Quentin's legs gave way. He caught himself against the wall, doubling over with dry heaves. The nausea and rage within him were such that he knew with sudden clarity what would happen if he walked through that door.

  He flung back his head and howled.

  Ingram's startled oath was muffled by the girl's scream of terror. Quentin crouched beside the window, waiting just long enough to hear the suite's outer doors slam and the girl's running footsteps down the hallway. Then he turned and leaped back through the window, his thoughts intent on one thing only.

  Drink. Inebriety. Intoxication. The complete and total annihilation of all thought and feeling in the tender care of a bottle of whiskey. Even at this hour the Springs Saloon would still be open for business.

  Chapter 16

  "He hasn't come hack, has he?" Johanna turned at the sly insinuation in Irene's voice, letting the curtain fall from her hand. The rutted lane that led to the Haven's gate was as empty in late afternoon as it had been since early morning. Quentin was still missing, nowhere to be found in the house or the orchard or vineyard, not even in the woods where May had sought him when he'd failed to appear for lunch.

  "It's so touching to see you worry over him," Irene cooed. "Just like the faithful wife."

  The words struck more surely than any other insult Irene could concoct. Johanna stepped away from the kitchen window and met Irene's arch stare. "He is my patient, as you are. In fact, I have been neglecting you, Irene. I apologize."

  "Don't apologize. I haven't had to listen to your boring speeches." She sat down at the kitchen table, draping her body over the chair in a languorous pose. "But it doesn't really matter, after all. I won't be stuck in this place much longer."

  Johanna had heard this many times before, but for the past week Irene had been uncommonly quiet, even retiring—at least until last night.

  Now she wanted to talk, and Johanna knew that she ought to take advantage of the opportunity. The other patients had all been seen today; merely waiting around for Quentin was a waste of valuable time.

  Yet she was haunted by the fear that his absence was permanent. She'd told him of her plan to find another doctor for him, abruptly and without adequate explanation, chill as an alpine winter. Why should he stay, if she gave him no reason to do so?

  She diverted her attention to the situation at hand. "Would you care to join me in my office and discuss it?" she asked Irene. "I'd very much like to try another hypnotic session, if you are willing."

  "How predictable you are." Irene yawned. "Predictable, and stupid. You're so busy prying into people's heads that you don't even know what's happening right under your nose."

  Johanna knotted her hands behind her back. "Would you care to enlighten me?"

  "Why should I? You've always been so cruel to me." The older woman's eyes sparked with pleasure in her perceived power. "You've enjoyed torturing me. Well, now the shoe is on the other foot."

  "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."

  "Always that superior tone, as if you don't feel anything." Her voice began to shake. "Oh, yes, the great doctor. Just like God. So smart, so sure. Everything is so clear and easy for you. You look at people as if they were specimens in jars, and you can arrange them any way you like."

  "Irene—"

  "I'm sick of you and your hypocrisy! You're a whore underneath your starched collars. I know that you want Quentin Forster. But he won't have you, will he?"

  White-hot anger bolted through Johanna. Irene shouldn't be affecting her this way.

  "Go ahead, hit me again," Irene hissed. "I know you want to."

  Johanna unclenched her fist and spread her hand on the table. "No, Irene. I realize that you're suffering. If you'll only allow me to—"

  "You can't help me." The storm passed, leaving Irene panting and strangely rational. "But sometime soon you're going to find out what it's like to be help
less while other people take everything away from you, and there won't be anything you can do about it." She swept to the door. "As for Quentin," she threw back over her shoulder, "I saw him head for town late last night—after he was in your office going through your papers."

  Johanna absorbed Irene's words. Quentin going through her papers? She wasn't shocked at the idea that Irene had done so, and had considered locking her office after the woman's outburst last night. But Quentin—

  What had he said? "If it concerns May's well-being, it concerns me as well."

  If he'd gotten into Johanna's notes about May, he would have read of her suspicions. And if he'd gone into town…

  She nearly knocked over her chair in her haste to get up. She hurried to her room, changed her clothes and shoes, looked in on her father, and went out to the barn. No time to harness Daisy to the buggy.

  May and Oscar were half-heartedly mucking out the cow's stall as she plucked the old sidesaddle off its stand. Oscar put down the shovel to help her. May watched, her gaze darting about and her expression pinched.

  "Where's Quen'in?" Oscar asked. "May and I can't find him."

  "That's what I hope to learn," Johanna said. She checked the girth strap and patted Daisy's withers.

  "Are you going to town?" Oscar asked. "Can I come?"

  "Not this time, Oscar." She smiled at May. "I'm going alone. I'd like you both to remain here, in case Quentin comes back while I'm gone."

  May's shoulders sagged with relief, and Johanna realized that she'd feared being forced to return to Silverado Springs.

  Not while I'm here, Johanna thought.

  Or as long as Quentin was capable of interfering.

  "Quen'in didn't read to us today," Oscar complained. He sensed Johanna's worry even though he didn't know the reason for it.

  Johanna positioned an old crate she used as a mounting block and swung up into the saddle. "May, you're an excellent reader. Can't you read to Oscar this evening? I would consider it a favor."

  May took a step toward her. "When will you be back?"

  "No later than sunset. Can I rely on you to look after Oscar?"

  May hesitated, glanced at Oscar, and nodded firmly.

  "Sehr gut." Johanna guided Daisy out of the barn, May and Oscar trailing after. She waved good-bye and set off at a trot for town.

  Silverado Springs buzzed like a jostled hornet's nest. A far larger than ordinary number of idlers stood on the street and porches, men and women who'd left their posts at store counters and desks to gossip over some new and exciting occurrence. Heads turned, as usual, when she rode in, but the stares lingered, and the hum of conversation stilled in her wake.

  She didn't have to look far for someone to enlighten her. Bolkonsky stood under the awning of Mrs. Sapp's dressmaking shop, deep in conversation with a man in an officious-looking suit. He glanced up, caught sight of her, and waved acknowledgment. Johanna dismounted and tied Daisy to the nearest hitching post.

  Bolkonsky finished his conversation and came to meet her. His smooth, handsome face bore the marks of recent strain.

  "How are you, Johanna?" he asked. "Well, I hope?"

  She saw no purpose in polite chitchat. "What is going on here?"

  "We had best find a more private place to talk."

  She folded her arms across her chest. "What has happened?"

  "I'd thought you might have heard. Mr. Ingram was attacked and injured last night in the hotel."

  "Attacked?" Her heart jumped. "By whom?"

  "No one is sure—yet." He took her elbow and led her away from the prying eyes and ears of the locals. "Ingram didn't see his face. One maid at the hotel said… but that can wait."

  Johanna remembered to breathe. "How badly is he injured?"

  "He suffered a broken arm and a large collection of bruises. It could have been much worse, according to his report. But he was able to defend himself, and his attacker fled."

  "A robbery?"

  "Nothing was taken."

  "I assume the authorities have been called in," she said. "Why was he attacked, if not in the course of a theft?"

  "That is the question." Bolkonsky pursed his lips. "That is what the entire town is discussing. Apparently this has never happened before in Silverado Springs; it has deeply upset the residents. Since Ingram is a stranger here, no one can determine a motive for such an attack. And some of the speculation—" He stopped her and looked deep into her eyes. "It involves you, or more specifically, your patients."

  Johanna forgot to breathe again. "What do you mean?"

  "Some say—you know how these ignorant, small-town folk can be—that one of your patients might have come to town and attacked Ingram."

  "That is ridiculous." She stepped back and turned in a small, agitated circle. "None of the Haven's residents would have done such a thing. When has any one of them ever come here and caused trouble?"

  "Johanna," Bolkonsky said softly, "I agree with you. I know as well as you do the misconceptions held about the insane. But I have been listening to the gossip. Quentin Forster and one of your other patients caused a minor disturbance here several days ago. A matter of fisticuffs with local children."

  Of course. Johanna hadn't forgotten. She'd known all along how that one incident could feed the fire of any prejudices the local folk already harbored.

  "Oscar wouldn't hurt anyone," she said. "He was the one attacked. He merely defended himself."

  "But he is certainly big enough to do damage if he wished, according to what I've heard. It's much easier for the ignorant to place the blame on outsiders than look among themselves for a culprit. And then there is Quentin—"

  Quentin. The crux of the business. Quentin, who'd been missing all day. Who'd been worried for May. Who might have learned of May's father, and her acute misgivings about him.

  "When did this attack occur?" she asked.

  "Last night, well after midnight. A few drunks from the saloon claimed to have observed someone running away from the hotel, but no one clearly saw him, except a maid who was able to describe his general height and build."

  Johanna didn't ask for the description. She felt cold all the way to her bones.

  Why? Why should she jump to the same conclusions held by these unenlightened townsfolk? Quentin had exhibited occasional lapses into a darker state, a side of himself that hinted of undispelled pain and anger. He claimed, under hypnosis, to be a lycanthrope. He'd suffered periods of amnesia related to his drinking. He'd even admitted to concern for his own occasionally erratic behavior.

  But he was not dangerously insane. He'd never acted overtly violent in any way—not with her, or the others. Surely reading of Johanna's suspicions about Ingram wouldn't be enough to send him tearing into town to attack a stranger.

  But if that possibility were as ludicrous as it seemed, why was she trembling?

  "What is it, Johanna?"

  She shook herself from her bleak thoughts and met Bolkonsky's gaze. "If feelings against my patients are running so high, I must return to the Haven."

  "Johanna—are any of your patients unaccounted for?"

  "No." The lie came far too easily, but she felt free of guilt for the transgression. "I must be getting back."

  "Why did you come to town, Johanna?" he asked, too insistently. "We still have the situation with May to resolve. You understand that in light of what has happened, Mr. Ingram is most anxious to leave Silverado Springs as soon as he is able to."

  "We agreed upon a week at least, Dr. Bolkonsky."

  "Did we?" His upper lip twitched. "I can make no guarantees, Dr. Schell."

  His renewed formality came as a warning. She nodded and turned to collect Daisy. The pointed stares of the townsfolk made unpleasant sense, now. She could only pray that the residents of Silverado Springs were mistaken in their conjectures.

  Once home again, she gave Daisy into a curious Oscar's care and began another circuit of the Haven's grounds, on foot, starting with the vineyard and ending at the orchard
.

  That was where she found him.

  The half-conscious man slumped against a young apple tree was not the one she'd known for the past two weeks. He bore more resemblance to the stranger she'd rescued on the lane to the Haven, clothes dirty and abraded, face unshaven, hair matted and tangled. He raised his head from his chest to look at her through bloodshot eyes.

  "Johanna," he croaked.

  He had been drinking. She smelled it on him, but she would have known even without the stench. It was amazing that he could be in such poor condition after only a single day of imbibing.

  Unless his state had to do with other, less benign activities.

  "Quentin," she said, shaping each word distinctly. "Where have you been?"

  He tried to get up and fell back, head rolling against the tree trunk. "At… the saloon." He coughed out a laugh. "Can't you tell?"

  "Is that all?"

  "I… don't remember."

  Such a simple, terrible phrase. "Tell me what you do remember."

  On the second try his efforts to stand were more successful. He propped himself against the tree, swaying.

  "I went into town," he mumbled.

  "Did you go through the papers in my office?"

  "I wanted to find out about May."

  "And you did."

  He took a step toward her and paused to catch his balance. "I found out about her father."

  Lecturing him on the impropriety of viewing private documents was the furthest thing from Johanna's mind. "And you went into town to do what, Quentin?"

  "To… see him."

  "Did you see him?"

  "I think—" He clutched at his head. "Don't. Please."

  He wasn't talking to her, she was certain of it. "What did you do when you saw him, Quentin?"

  With uncharacteristic awkwardness he spun on his foot and staggered back to the tree, hugging it with both arms. "I went and got drunk."

  "Something happened in town last night, Quentin, while you were gone."

  His profile was stark and pale, cheek pressed to rough bark. "God."

  Johanna came to a decision. She couldn't leave him like this, or allow both of them to remain unaware of what he'd done and unprepared for the consequences. Patient or not, she must continue to treat him to the best of her ability until this crisis was past.