Chapter
Four
Zoey headed down the hall to the front door,
determined that her next editorial would be in favor of legalizing
the murder of people who knocked at ungodly hours. True, she was
usually awake at those hours but still . . . The
building had better be on fire.
She flung open the door, expecting
anyone but Connor Macleod. At least, she assumed that’s who was
nearly filling her doorframe. She didn’t remember him being quite
that tall, or so wide of shoulder. Didn’t recall the dark, glossy
hair that fell forward into his face and tumbled over the collar of
his denim jacket. Or the strong angles of his jaw line, now
accented with dark beard stubble. But those pale gray eyes . . .
Those she remembered very well.
“Hello, ma’am. I’m conducting a survey
to see how many people will answer the door this early in the
morning. I’ll just put you down as a yes.”
“It’s six A.M.
on a Saturday.” She stared up at him warily for a long moment.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m a desperate man. The Finer Diner
doesn’t open ’til six-thirty and I might die if I don’t find coffee
soon.”
Her mouth curved but she kept a hand on
the door. Yesterday she’d been too nervous to phone him and here he
was today in the flesh. Damn sexy flesh too. Did she really want
him to come inside? “So I’d be saving your life if I let you
in?”
“God, yes.”
What could it hurt? “Well, I couldn’t
possibly refuse an emergency like that. I’d be violating some sort
of Good Samaritan law.” She waved him inside and led the way to the
kitchen.
He squeezed into a chair behind her
little bistro table, then his eyes widened and he gave a low,
appreciative whistle. “That’s a hell of a setup you’ve got here. I
may never go to the Finer Diner again.”
“I take my coffee seriously.” She did
too. The kitchen was small but one half of the counter space was
devoted to espresso and latte machines in addition to a regular
coffeemaker, two different grinders, and an assortment of glass
canisters containing dark beans. Huge bright coffee mugs marched
along a shelf, while colorful paintings of steaming cups were hung
on the wall. “But you can’t discount the Finer Diner entirely. The
food is incredible there.” She knew it for a fact. She’d made a
habit of eating there frequently and was already on a first name
basis with Bill and Jessie Watson, the couple that ran the
place.
“True, Bill’s an artist when it comes
to food. He’d rather cook than breathe.”
“You know them? Oh wait, I guess you’ve
been here a lot longer than I have.” She kept forgetting that
people in a small town knew each other. In Vancouver, she’d lived
in an apartment building for years without knowing the names of the
people who lived on the same floor.
“Well, it’s true that we’ve been
friends for a long time. But it was inevitable—where else could a
single hardworking vet go to eat around here with the kind of hours
I keep?”
She didn’t miss the fact that he was
telling her outright he was available, and the news sent a pleasant
tingle through her. “So does this hardworking vet prefer his coffee
plain or would he like a mocha grande with double
espresso?”
Connor hesitated for a moment and she
realized that he looked tired. Very tired. “I’ll tell you what,”
she decided. “I’ll get some strong coffee going because it’ll brew
fast. After you’ve had a cup, I’ll make you that
mocha.”
“Thanks. That sounds
great.”
Long practice had the coffee brewing
within moments. Zoey found the biggest mug she had and placed it in
front of him, scooping her pile of papers off the table before she
sat down. The table looked a lot smaller than usual with a
good-looking man looming over it. Suddenly she remembered her
appearance and ran her hands hurriedly through her hair. God, here
she was entertaining in her bathrobe! Worse, beneath it were
turquoise flannel pajamas with little green frogs on them. She
tugged the collar of the bathrobe higher in a useless bid to hide
them—the pant legs were plainly visible below the robe. So were the
furry slippers. . . .
“It’s pretty.”
“What?”
“Your hair. It’s nice. The color, the
waves.”
“Thanks.” Maybe the pajamas were okay
after all. “So were you out delivering a calf?”
“Probably.”
“You don’t know?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and
grinned. “This morning I wouldn’t swear to anything without
checking with the dispatcher first. I’m pretty much running on
automatic pilot.”
“I’ve done that myself a few times.
Sounds like veterinary practice can be a lot like the newspaper
business.”
“Not here, surely.”
“No, thank God. It’s a lot quieter
here.”
“Is that why you came to Dunvegan? For
the quiet?”
Not exactly,
Zoey thought, but if she told him about that little ability she’d
inherited, the one she was trying to leave behind, he’d surely
think she was weird. She didn’t want to take a chance on chasing
him off, not yet. He looked just too good in her kitchen. . . . So
she gave him the same standard answer she’d given her former boss
and co-workers, her new publisher, everyone in fact. “Big city
journalism is not your career, it’s your life. I wanted a slower
pace and a chance to write more human interest stories, instead of
just pieces about murders and robberies.”
“Instead, you got wolves.”
“Beats the heck out of human wolves,”
she countered. The coffeemaker beeped and Zoey took off the pot,
poured Connor’s cup.
“Thanks.” He brought it to his face and
inhaled deeply. “Smells like heaven.” Sipped. “Tastes like it too.
I’m saved!”
“The miracle of freshly ground beans.”
She poured herself a cup as well.
“Really? I didn’t see you grinding
any.” His eyes were full of humor as they looked at her over his
coffee mug.
She paused with the pot in her hand and
sighed. “Okay, I’ll come clean. I was already awake, been up for
over an hour. I’m one of those annoying morning people and I get my
best writing done around five. Go ahead”—she waved a hand at
him—“recoil in horror.”
He laughed. “My mother always said
there was something magic about mornings. Must be true, since I’m
sitting with a pretty woman and drinking good coffee. But I’ll
confess too. I saw your lights on when I was driving by and knew
you were up. And what I really came here for is to make sure you’re
okay.”
“I am okay,
thanks to you. As much as I love wrestling wolves, I admit I was
getting a little tired when you came along the other
night.”
“Did you get that bite checked at the
clinic?”
“I called a couple of times yesterday,
but neither of the doctors was in. By the time I called again, the
clinic was closed.”
He frowned. “The message machine has an
emergency number. The doctors aren’t that hard to
reach.”
“Well, it didn’t feel like an
emergency. I checked my leg—it looked clean and it wasn’t bleeding.
I washed it and doused it with peroxide just in case.” That had
stung like crazy at first but at least the peroxide hadn’t foamed
up around the punctures, as it would have if they’d been dirty or
infected. “So I thought it could wait until today.” She smiled but
for some reason he was still frowning. Excuses suddenly came
tumbling out of her mouth as if she was in grade school facing a
glowering teacher. “I’ve been pretty busy. In case you didn’t
notice, I have a newspaper to run and deadlines to make. I had to
assign someone to take photos of the damage from the ice
storm—there was a fallen tree blocking Main Street. And there were
other calls to make, stories to be written. I just lost track of
the time and well, forgot.” Crap. That
sounded completely lame even to her. And why was she trying to
explain herself to this man?
“Pretty tough to forget that a wolf
used your leg for a chew toy.”
“Well, of course I didn’t forget
that. My leg feels like it was caught in a
bear trap, okay?” She couldn’t keep the defensive tone out of her
voice, and that pissed her off. She glared at him, wondering how
the hell this man had managed to knock her off-balance so easily
with less than three sentences.
There was a pause. Then his mouth
twitched so slightly that she wasn’t sure she’d seen it. “I see
I’ve left my manners in the truck. Can I have a do-over if I
apologize and promise to stop grilling you?” He held out his cup
and grinned. “I really don’t want to risk losing out on more of
your great coffee.”
She rolled her eyes but topped off his
cup, her anger deflating like a balloon. “I’m sorry too. I’m just
stressed, I guess. I can put a lot of things to the side—like
making repeated calls to doctors’ offices—when I have other
priorities, and my main priority has been to try to convince people
that there’s a dangerous animal out there. I’ve been on the phone a
lot.”
“Yeah? Who did you call?”
“The usual. The cops and the mayor’s
office and the Fish and Wildlife guys for starters. Most wouldn’t
even listen. Well, the RCMP listened enough to send an officer
over. He was nice about it but it was obvious he thought it was a
dog attack. Said they’ll definitely keep their eyes open. If an
animal is found and its owner is determined, they’ll lay charges.
He’s going to refer my case to the local bylaw official, but I
don’t know what good that will do. I’d already called him myself.”
“You told all those people and no one
believed you?”
“Hey—city girl, media type, new in
town—what do you think?”
“No credibility at all,
eh?”
“Not a shred. So I figure I’ll write up
the story as if it was a big nasty dog, say it was acting
strangely—no exaggeration there—and maybe people will think it
could be rabid, maybe they’ll be a little bit worried.” She stopped
and thought then. “What am I saying, I
should be the one that’s worried. What if it did have rabies?” Her
hand went to her head. Stupid, stupid,
stupid. She should have crawled to the damn clinic if she
had to and gotten herself checked out.
“I doubt that you have to worry.
There’s very little incidence of rabies in this part of the
country. I haven’t seen a case in ten years.”
“Really? That’s a huge relief. Well, I
can still write the story so at least people will be on the lookout
for a weird dog, and maybe no one else will get
bitten.”
“Sounds like a plan. Are you sure
you’re going to be okay with that, with letting people think it was
a dog? You know what it was.”
“I know what it was.” She looked at him
sharply then. “Hey, so do you!” Why hadn’t she thought of it
before? “I don’t have any proof that the wolf was a wolf but maybe
you could back me up. The village officials would listen to you. Or
maybe you could give me a couple of quotes I can use in my
article.” She couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of her voice. A
hope that faded as Connor shook his head slowly.
“It’s true that it was a wolf, but the
truth can be misused. The local farmers and ranchers are likely to
get gun-happy and wipe out every wolf they can find. Wolves aren’t
a protected species here,” he explained. “I’m not happy that one
attacked you but it’s out of character for wolves in general. It
may have been sick, or too old to hunt regular game.”
Like some lions that become man-eaters
in Africa, she thought with a shiver. “I guess humans are very easy
prey.”
“Unless they have windshield
wipers.”
She snorted at that. Still, she
couldn’t help agreeing with what he’d said. “Look, I don’t want to
start a wolf extermination either. I just want people to be safe,
and a dog attack story will probably do the job. But it bothers me
that no one will be looking for this animal. Old or sick or just
plain crazy, it should be stopped.”
“That much I can promise
you.”
“But the authorities—”
“Are not the only people capable of
tracking down a rogue wolf,” he finished. “Trust me, my family and
friends are on it as we speak. The wolf will be dealt with.” Connor
placed his hand over hers.
She hoped her hand wasn’t shaking. It
was completely swallowed by his. She could feel the heat of it, and
the rough palm that was the signature of a working man. It was sexy
as hell and she caught herself wondering what that hand would feel
like sliding slowly under the bathrobe, stroking her bare skin. . .
. Her cheeks heated suddenly and she pulled her hand
away.
“I promised you a double-shot mocha,”
she said as she got up and began pulling out canisters. She risked
a quick glance at his face as she worked. There was humor in his
eyes, as if he was laughing at her for pulling her hand away. Thank
God he didn’t know what she had been thinking. Yesterday she’d felt
nervous at the thought of seeing him again. And here she was in her
pajamas and bathrobe, making him coffee in her own kitchen while
thinking bedroom thoughts. And hoping like crazy she wasn’t
blushing.
“You know, there’s another reason why
the town officials didn’t take you seriously.”
“What would that be?”
“They don’t want the stories about
werewolves to start up again.”
“Excuse me?”
“Werewolves. Two years ago the paper
carried a number of stories about werewolves attacking area
residents.”
She stopped dead and stared at him, the
carafe forgotten in her hand. “You’ve got to be
kidding.”
“Nope. Wish I was. Of course, there
were only three people interviewed, all of them regulars at the
same bar, mind you. Didn’t stop some of the bigger city papers from
picking up the story. We even had a television crew visit the sites
of the alleged attacks. Dunvegan ended up on the national news and
for a while it was impossible to go to the post office without
running into reporters. It was all very X-Files.”
Zoey shook her head slowly. She was in
the news business—how had she not heard about the story before she
came here? Had she been so intent on avoiding the paranormal that
she had missed it? Of course, she would have been focused on “real”
news, automatically filtering out anything that reeked of tabloid
tales. “No one ever mentioned a word of it at the newspaper. I had
no idea—wait, wait just a minute.” She held up a finger as several
puzzle pieces clicked into place.
“Oh. My. God. I’ll bet that’s why the
publisher asked me during the job interview if I’d ever reported a
UFO story or interviewed a dead celebrity! I thought he just had a
bizarre sense of humor.” She laughed as she said it, but she’d been
terrified during the interview, fearful that Ted Biegel had heard
rumors, had somehow discovered the truth behind her reputation for
breaking stories or worse, had discovered her real last name. What
a relief to know that the man’s odd questions hadn’t had a thing to
do with her, her psychic ability, or her unusual
family.
Connor chuckled. “I imagine old Ted
feared a repeat of history. He was on vacation when the werewolf
stories came out. When he came back, the editor responsible not
only resigned but left town.”
“I imagine that’s resigned as in fired.”
“That’s what everyone
figured.”
“I’m really glad you told me this
before I wrote about the attack.” She wanted nothing to do with any
supernatural stories. No werewolves, no woo-woo, nothing that might direct any attention her way. Sure,
she’d changed her name years ago, but one whiff of the paranormal
around her and another reporter would have little trouble
uncovering who she really was. “I could have destroyed my
credibility as a journalist without even knowing it. No wonder the
deputy mayor was so rude.”
She’d have to shelve all the research
she’d done on wolves, along with the draft of her article. Maybe
she could rework it and sell it to a magazine—in another part of
the country. And the “dog attack” story for the newspaper? She
would have to choose her words carefully so as not to remind local
residents—or her publisher—about those werewolf tales. Or anything
else of that nature. . . . Zoey put a pair of frothy cups on the
table and tried to lighten things up. “God, can you imagine the
headlines if a bigger paper picked up the story? Werewolf Attacks Editor, Town Under Siege by Wolfman.
That would be great for my career—not!”
Connor awarded two thumbs up to the
mocha, then asked, “So, can I drive you over to the clinic now and
get that wound looked at?”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I
haven’t even checked to see if they’re open on a Saturday. I really
should have done it yesterday.”
He smiled and pulled out a cell phone,
waggled it in his hand, then went out onto her balcony. A few
moments later, he returned and pocketed the phone. “Lowen says to
bring you in. He’ll open the place in twenty minutes.”
“I—what? Who’s Lowen?”
“Lowen Miller, husband of Bev Miller.
They’re the doctors here. And my friends.”
“That’s a wonderful offer
but—”
“It’s not an offer, it’s an order from
Lowen. He’s threatening to come down here if you don’t show up.
Says a bite like that is nothing to fool around with, and I happen
to agree with him.”
Zoey stared for a long moment, slightly
stunned. The amiable and charming Connor Macleod had just neatly
transformed into a brick wall. The expression on his face was still
pleasant yet something in his eyes had hardened. Her lips were
forming a protest—hopefully something more mature than you’re not the boss of me—when a familiar tingly
sensation settled over her. And expanded. Her gift, usually so
tiny, flared brightly as she looked at the man standing in her
kitchen, giving her a sudden clarity of perception.
He wasn’t threatening her, she could
feel that. There was only good intent. But no mistake, Connor
Macleod was fully prepared to do whatever was necessary to get her
to the clinic. If she argued, she would not win. If she refused, he
would probably carry her. That rankled more than a little but then
she shook herself mentally, letting the gift show her more.
He was afraid for her—
The gift winked out abruptly and she
wondered how long she’d been staring at Connor. “You’re right,” she
said simply. And he was. She’d been an idiot
for not getting her leg looked at—what had she been thinking? It
was just like that time she had gotten so involved with covering an
ongoing murder trial that she’d neglected to eat for a day and a
half. And had fainted on the courthouse steps like a ninny.
Mortified, she’d made a promise to take better care of herself. It
was just that she got so darn focused, so intent. . .
.
She thanked him and went to get
dressed.