Chapter
Two
In the middle of a dark and stormy night, Connor
Macleod was sitting in his truck with a strange woman in his arms.
Why didn’t it feel odd? Instead, it seemed like the most natural
thing in the world, and that in itself was just plain
weird.
Resting his chin lightly on her head,
he had to admit that she fit very nicely. Zoey was shorter than he
was—so was almost everyone he had ever met—but she was taller than
most women. And not tiny and fragile by any means. She felt solid,
strong. Come to think of it, she had fought the wolf and would
probably try to kick his butt too if she
woke up and caught him cuddling her like this. Connor couldn’t help
smiling a little at the thought of her fierce amber
eyes.
So what did he really know about her?
Of course he’d recognized her name at once. As the new editor of
the Dunvegan Herald Weekly, she’d been
behind some major changes at the eighty-three-year-old newspaper.
The name banner across the top had been replaced with a new
full-color graphic. And her first front-page photo was not of the
members of the local service club presenting a check to charity.
Instead, it was an exciting action shot from the annual dogsled
races. Zoey Tyler had captured two teams running neck and neck,
snow flying, and almost every paw off the ground. The dogs looked
airborne, ethereal. Connor had clipped it and put it on the
bulletin board at the clinic, marveling at the talent of the
photographer. He kept meaning to order a print that he could frame
for his office.
And the updates to the Weekly went far beyond appearance. When residents pulled
the paper from their mailboxes, the front page displayed actual
news instead of instructions on how to make yet another version of
Saskatoon berry jam. And that first editorial—well, he’d wondered
what the hell was going on when he saw a large group of people
standing around talking at the post office. He hadn’t seen a
natural gathering that big since Murray Clements jumped off the
Peace River Bridge with a homemade parachute. Then someone had
handed him a newspaper. . . .
He had to credit Zoey Tyler—she really
knew how to get people involved. No sensationalism, no tabloid
tricks, just good solid research and the ability to shine a light
on an issue. Some of her editorials had gotten results too, like
the construction of new crosswalks on Fourth Street. But would
Zoey’s talent create a problem for the Pack? She’d just been
viciously attacked by a wolf in the middle of town. What would she
write about that?
Deep in thought, he ran his hand down
Zoey’s back—and jerked to attention. The woman in his arms was now
perfectly still, her shaking subsided, but he knew that wasn’t a
good sign, not so soon. He tipped her head back so he could see her
face. It seemed whiter than ever and her lips were pale and bluish.
He placed the back of his hand against her cheek. A human would
feel cool to him anyway—his ambient body temperature ran between
103 and 104 degrees—but he knew instantly that she was much colder
than she should be. If her core temperature had fallen. . .
.
The heater was already on full blast.
Connor often complained that the temperature control had two
settings, North Pole and Hell. He’d been too warm within the first few moments of
entering the vehicle and now he was cooking. Beads of sweat
trickled down his forehead and stung his tired eyes and yet the
oppressive heat was having no effect on Zoey.
“Hey there, wake up for me. Wake up
now!” Connor massaged her back through the blanket, ran his hands
over her arms, stroked her head, patted her cheeks. “Zoey!” Finally
he slapped her face lightly, but she remained unresponsive, her
breathing so faint he could barely hear it. Connor reached under
the blanket for her wrist. The weak and thready pulse, coupled with
his own preternatural senses, confirmed his worst suspicions.
Shit.
There was no lack of recorded incidents
in which accident survivors appeared completely unhurt, had even
walked around and tended to others, yet nonetheless died from
untreated shock. Hypothermia could be fatal as well, even to
Changelings like himself. A human being was far more
fragile.
“Come on, little falcon, I’m fighting
for you, but you have to help me. Just a little bit, honey.” Connor
sat her up, framed her face in his large hands. He usually held his
psychic abilities in reserve, declining to use them on humans out
of courtesy. But politeness be damned, he had to make a connection with this woman before it was
too late. “Look at me, Zoey. Listen to me. Come back.” His voice
was coaxing at first but rapidly hardened to commanding. He willed
her to respond, his mind reaching for hers as he had never done
with a human. Still he felt her floating away from him. Good
Christ, he was going to lose her.
No. The word
stood out in his mind as something within him stirred and came to
the forefront. Telepathy was every Changeling’s birthright and
Connor’s abilities were formidable. But his greatest power came
from his wolfen form. He couldn’t Change now, couldn’t become the
wolf. Yet the wolf had come to him,
unexpectedly lending its strength. Connor didn’t stop to wonder at
this strange occurrence. He focused everything he had on Zoey.
“Come back right now!”
He could feel her mentally resist him,
even slap at him. See her with his mind’s eye, adrift in a gray
haze. She was tired and cold, and wanted to rest in the soft, warm
depths into which she had spiraled. She had no way of knowing she
might not wake up.
“Come back!” he commanded her.
Confused, angry, but finally unable to resist him, he sensed her
swimming slowly up through layers of awareness, a great gray sea.
Come on, Zoey, just a little closer, you can do it.
Come back.... Finally she neared the surface where he could
reach her with his energy, wrap it around her like a lifeline and
anchor her to him, keep her from again drifting
downward.
Connor sensed the change in her at
once. He cradled her close against his chest and sought her wrist
again. The pulse was stronger, there was no imagining it. He closed
his eyes and brought her wrist to his lips, then held her hand to
his cheek. He could hear her breathing, steady and deep. He
breathed easier too. The wolf within him, apparently satisfied with
Zoey’s condition, receded, but not very far. Connor could feel it
just beneath the surface of his human self, watchful and alert.
Christ, was it guarding her? Connor had
lived a long time, yet his wolf had never emerged unbidden, never
behaved like this.
This night could not get any
stranger—
And then it did. A sudden rapid blur of
images flashed across Connor’s mind. He saw creatures of all
kinds—deer, bear, puma, fox, elk, eagle, even a falcon. All glowing
with the strange silvery light of farsight .
. . and in their midst stood Zoey Tyler.
The vision lasted mere seconds, then
vanished. What the hell was that? Connor was
sweating and this time it had nothing to do with the heat in the
truck. His farsight was usually literal, not
symbolic—after all, it had told him that a human woman was in
trouble and then led him directly to her. Why would he see a parade
of unrelated animals surrounding Zoey?
Had to be a brain fart of some kind.
Had to be. Obviously he was a lot more tired
than he realized.
Strands of Zoey’s hair dried in the
heat and curled out from under the blanket. Connor seized a stray
lock and wound it around his finger. The darkness couldn’t hide the
color of her hair from his acute vision and he found himself
marveling at the hue. Not red, not gold, but a deep blend of both,
like an autumn apple. Russet. It suited his
fierce little falcon.
His?
He shook his head to clear it. He was
just oversensitive to this woman after the strong psychic
connection he had made, right? That had to account for the powerful
sense of familiarity. He really didn’t know her, not
yet. Now that she was a little more stable,
he needed to get her home and look after those bite wounds
properly.
And apply silver
nitrate to them as soon as possible. . . .
Carefully Connor lifted Zoey away from
him, easing her over to the passenger seat once more. As he did so,
the blanket fell from her head, pulling her russet hair back from
her face. Much of her color had returned and now he saw a riot of
golden freckles that marched across her nose and over her
cheekbones in such numbers that they met in places. He was
instantly captivated, and his fingers found themselves wandering
over her face in a kind of caress—
Suddenly she jerked awake. Zoey’s gaze
snapped and smoldered as she turned to regard Connor, fury in every
cell of her body. Slowly he pulled his hand away, his eyes never
leaving hers, fully aware he had overstepped a major boundary. And
glad that she didn’t know she’d just spent a considerable amount of
time in his lap—at least, he sure as hell hoped she didn’t know.
Zoey’s eyes didn’t waver, although she
shoved a hand roughly through her long hair and brought it forward
to curtain the left side of her face. The defensive gesture
bothered him deeply and he quelled an impulse to brush the
beautiful hair back over her shoulder, touch her face again, soothe
her frown. Kiss every one of those freckles. . . .
“What did you think you were doing?”
Her voice was low, almost shaking with anger. Both hands were now
fisted in her lap; her body shifted just enough to let her use
them.
Connor eased back behind the steering
wheel. “Some of your color’s come back, so I happened to be
checking your skin temperature. And I admit it, I was admiring your
freckles.”
She blushed furiously then, which only
charmed him further. “Do you always look with your hands?” she
demanded.
“Well, yes, I guess I do.” He nodded,
considering. “Checking out cows and cats and dogs and whatnot every
day—I never really thought about it, but I guess I use my hands as
much as my eyes.” And he did. Although there was no point
mentioning he had the ability to sense what the animal was feeling
by touching it. Or that he had used some of the same ability to
forge a psychic link with Zoey.
“I see.” She looked away from him and
rubbed her hands over her face. “Geez, I feel awful. My leg hurts
and it’s boiling in here.”
“I’ll bet you feel worse than awful.
But the fact that you’ve noticed it’s hotter than the seventh ring
of hell in here is encouraging,” said Connor. Gratefully he turned
the heat down and opened his window a little to let in some fresh
air. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was getting worried.” There’s an understatement. You scared the bejeezus out of
me. “Now that you’re warmed up and not so shocky, I’ll take
you home. You’ve got a real nasty bite, and we need to look after
that leg properly.”
“Shocky? Is that
a word?”
“You are an
editor, aren’t you? Ask any EMT—it’s probably classed as slang, but
they use the word all the time.”
She objected most of the way to her
apartment building, insisting that she could drive herself if he
would only take her to her truck. It was
obvious that she didn’t feel well enough to do more than complain,
but still, Connor was relieved to hear it. Human or animal, if the
patient was putting up a fuss, they were going to be fine.
With a little help, he reminded himself as
he patted the pocket of his coat where he always kept a small
bottle of silver nitrate.
Zoey’s protests fell on deaf ears. Not
only did this man not take her to her Bronco, but he insisted on
carrying her up to her apartment, wrapped in a blanket like
somebody’s invalid granny. She lived on the top floor of what was
jokingly referred to as “Dunvegan’s Skyscraper,” a four-story
complex that was just slightly taller than the lone office
building. The guy wasn’t even winded when he got to her door and
set her on her feet. He must work out, she decided. With shoulders
like that, he probably bench-pressed cows or something. And he was
so warm. . . .
Get a grip, girl. It’s
dark, you’re tired, and no one’s ugly after midnight. Zoey
shook her head, hoping to clear it, as he produced her keys from
somewhere and opened the door. The man—damn, she’d forgotten his
name—had told her repeatedly that she hadn’t been drinking, but her
body felt like she’d spent the entire evening guzzling shooters in
a bar. Acted like it too. She stumbled as she crossed the
threshold, but then, missing one high-heeled boot probably had
something to do with that. The man seized her arm and steered her
carefully into the living room and onto the couch.
“I can work on this leg a lot better if
you lie down,” he said as he knelt beside her and started to take
the blanket off.
Suddenly, Zoey jerked and just as
quickly gritted her teeth to suppress a groan. She wasn’t fast
enough to fool this guy, though.
“What’s wrong?” he
demanded.
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
He frowned, his pale eyes darkening
into a stormy sea. “Like hell. You’ve gone even whiter than you
were. Spill it or I’m taking more than the blanket off. Did you get
bitten somewhere else?”
“No.” Pain was sawing at her now, and
she just didn’t have the strength to argue. “My ribs are just sore.
I think it’s from climbing the roof rack. It’s
nothing.”
“I’ll tell you if it’s nothing. I don’t
want you to puncture a lung when you roll over in your sleep
because we didn’t check for broken ribs.”
Zoey blinked and wondered if she had
passed out for a moment. She was sitting on the edge of the couch
with her shirt open and large, warm hands were gently skimming her
battered rib cage. A stranger’s hands, she
reminded herself but her instincts refused to agree. Instead she
felt curiously safe. She frowned and grasped the edges of her shirt
to yank them together. Considered decking the guy, just on
principle. Instead, she did absolutely nothing. The man’s touch was
feather light. Soothing. Wherever his fingers trailed, the pain
seemed to ease. She could breathe easier, and was surprised to
realize how difficult breathing had been up to now.
“You’ve got some bruising, but no
breaks.” Deftly he buttoned her shirt and eased her back onto the
couch so he could turn his attention to her leg. “Take it easy
tomorrow, okay? You’re hurting now, but the second day is usually a
lot worse. Do you have some ibuprofen around, something for
pain?”
She nodded. “Hell, yeah. I get
migraines so I’ve practically got my own pharmacy on
hand.”
“You’re shivering again.” He searched
the bedroom, came back with an armful of quilts, and tucked them
carefully around her. Zoey protested a little at having to lie down
but she was far too tired and in too much pain to resist. The last
thing she saw was the tall man pulling a roll of gauze from his
pocket.
The pickup bounced over unseen potholes
as Connor drove into the abandoned farmyard. Rows of broken-down
granaries and sheds floated in a sea of yellowed grass made golden
in the early morning light. The two barns were leaning, their roofs
losing shingles like dying dragons shedding scales. The house alone
was still square, its cracked windows curtained with patched and
dirty blankets. All the buildings were a uniform weathered gray
with not a speck of paint among them. Not a sign of ice or even
rain. Last night’s freakish weather hadn’t reached this far. Or
perhaps even nature avoided this place.
The tall vet walked to the door and
rapped it sharply, his senses alert, his gaze flicking over the
windswept grass as if he expected something to leap from
it.
“Go to hell, Macleod.” The voice from
within the house was low and gravelly. Human hearing would have
missed it but Connor could pick it up easily.
“We need to talk, Bernie. I’m betting
you need some patching up, too.”
“I don’t need nuttin’ from you. Get off
my property.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. After we’ve talked—”
Connor rattled the doorknob. “You know damn well I’m not leaving,
so open up.”
There was a long, long silence. Connor
was patient by nature but the attack on Zoey had brought out
something else. He had been every bit a healer as he cared for her,
held her, warmed her, tended her wounds. But once he’d left her
apartment, a cold, hard anger had taken hold. His mind was made up,
his resolve certain.
He was about to kick in the door when
suddenly it flew open. Frowning, he stooped to fit under the low
doorframe and disappeared into the dark interior.