Chapter
Five
After the trip to the clinic, Connor drove Zoey
back to her apartment to pick up her camera and her truck. He’d
hoped to talk her into having breakfast with him, but she insisted
she had to go to work. He knew full well that the newspaper office
wasn’t open on Saturday, but maybe she just wanted to get some
writing done. Or maybe she just needed to assert
herself.
He’d been prepared for a hell of an
argument over going to the doctor, and then over whether or not he
could drive her there. She did not like
being told what to do. He felt her bristle at his words, saw her
plant her feet, fist her hands at her sides, resist with every part
of her being. She’d glared at him eye-to-eye when suddenly the
ferocity slipped away, replaced by something akin to his own
farsight. The power of it had radiated from
her like the electrical energy that heralded the Change from human
to wolf. It had lasted only a few seconds, but it was long enough
to change her mind. Long enough to make him wonder.
Now he slipped into the back door of
the clinic, headed up the stairs to the living quarters where he
knew his friends were waiting. He could smell Earl Grey steeping,
Bev’s favorite. She was a pediatrician while Lowen was actually the
area’s coroner as well as a surgeon. Rather than retire, the couple
had chosen to leave the big city and their lucrative practices to
set up a clinic in a small town that needed them. With the nearest
hospital two hours away and doctors in short supply in northern
Canada, little Dunvegan was extremely lucky to have them. Connor
felt lucky himself to count them as friends. Particularly because
they knew what he was.
He was barely through the door when Bev
handed him a mug of fragrant tea and pointed to the living room.
Lowen wandered in a few moments later and tossed Connor a small
empty bottle before ensconcing himself in his favorite
recliner.
“You oughta keep that one,
wolf-boy.”
“This?” Connor looked at the
bottle.
“No, that long-legged gal you brought
in. She’s a smart one. I like her editorials. So this silver
nitrate you palmed me is supposed to stop her from becoming what
you are?”
“Yes.” Legends and folk tales claimed
that anyone bitten by a Changeling would become one. They were
absolutely right. The secret was in the saliva. A single bite, even
a very small one, sent saliva into the bloodstream. The saliva
activated an otherwise innocuous gene already present in all
humans. Only silver nitrate could stop the process, and only if
used in time. Treatment had to be started within twelve hours or
all the silver in the world wouldn’t help. “Injection is more
effective because you only need to do it once, but it’s pretty
tough to explain to a human patient what the shot is for.
Especially when we’re talking about a hundred or so
cc’s.”
“That’s a damn big shot,” snorted
Lowen. “So that’s why you decided to go with a topical
application?”
“Exactly. More applications but easier
to pass off. Two’s usually enough as long as it’s started within
twelve hours of the bite, but there was a full moon behind the
clouds the night Zoey was bitten. A Changeling’s bite tends to be
more virulent then, so I’m playing it safe by giving her three
applications.”
“The whole thing sounds like a damn
B-movie.” Lowen shook his head. “Well, I followed your instructions
to the letter, doused every puncture with it. Acted like I was
flushing the wounds. The stuff looks just like distilled
water.”
“Colloidal silver is touted for its
antibiotic properties.” Bev came and sat on the couch next to
Connor. “People often take it internally.”
“Yeah, well, people take a lot of
questionable things internally,” grunted Lowen. “Too much of that
silver nitrate stuff and you turn into a giant Smurf. Skin’s blue,
permanently. I once had a case where—”
“So has Zoey had the three applications
now?” Bev cut her husband off with such practiced ease that Connor
had to hide a smile. It was likely a talent she’d developed in
self-defense, since Lowen could reminisce for hours once he got
started.
“I gave her one the night of the
attack. Lowen gave her the second one this morning. Ideally they
should be a day or two apart, so I’ve got to find a way to get her
another one Monday or Tuesday.”
“Ha. That won’t be hard.” The old
doctor slurped the last of his tea and banged the cup down on a
side table. “I suggested she let you check
her leg and change the dressings.”
Connor was surprised. “Why would you
tell her that? I’m a vet.”
“And the most talented healer I’ve ever
come across. The medical profession lost out when you decided to
patch up cows instead of people.”
“Thanks but still, it’s one thing to
pinch hit in an emergency and—”
“But there’s no emergency,” replied
Lowen. “Exactly. She’s due back in a week so I can officially look
at the wound to make sure there’s still no infection, but until
then she’s on her own. And that’s where you come in. I told her I
want the dressings changed frequently, the wounds washed and
treated with antibiotic cream. So you’ll have plenty of
opportunities to apply the silver nitrate and ask her
out.”
Connor laughed then. “You’re devious,
Lowen.”
“So my poker opponents tell me. Now
reassure me of one thing.”
“What?”
“That there’s no chance of rabies from
this bite. I know it’s rare in this part of the country, but it’s
still standard procedure to ship a bite victim off to the city for
shots when we can’t locate the animal and test it.”
“Changelings don’t carry
rabies.”
“And you know for certain it wasn’t a
real wolf?” asked Bev.
“Better. I know who the wolf was.”
Connor’s gray eyes darkened. “And I also know he won’t be a wolf
again. Ever.”
Lowen’s eyebrow went up. “Sounds
personal.”
God, yes, it was personal. “He would
have killed her, Lowen.” No sooner had he formed the words than his
inner wolf began snarling and snapping. With enormous effort,
Connor leashed it firmly, startled at the strength of it, puzzled
by its purpose. The wolf clearly intended to protect Zoey Tyler. No
matter what.
Zoey spent most of the day at the
office, then took photos at a service club meeting where
scholarships were being awarded to some bright and promising high
school seniors. After supper she returned to the office to download
the photos and write up an article.
The Dunvegan Herald
Weekly office was silent except for clocks ticking and the
dripping of the staff room faucet. She liked having the place to
herself. How on earth had she ever gotten anything done in the
middle of a big busy newsroom? It was so much easier to work when
it was quiet. Easier, until she played her phone messages and found
one from Connor. It was nothing much, just a simple request that
she call him, but his deep melodious voice did strange things to
her insides. God, he even sounded hot. Did
he do that on purpose?
It ruined her concentration for
writing. She’d barely get a sentence down before she began thinking
of Connor. His eyes for instance, and how they were almost silver
at times. With such a color they should have seemed cold, even icy,
and yet they were anything but. There was warmth and ready humor in
them. Until—
Zoey contemplated the glimpse she’d
gotten of another side of Connor Macleod. The one who’d stood in
her kitchen ready to do whatever was necessary to get her to the
clinic. His eyes had been different then, darker. The warmth was
gone, replaced with a decided coolness. Yet there was no chill
directed toward her. Of that she was certain. It was more like the
coolness of metal armor, the determined chill of a sword, as he
readied for battle. As he stood to protect her, even from
herself.
She shivered at the sheer sexiness of
it, of him. Ran her hands through her hair and rubbed them lightly
over her face, feeling the heat that had flared in her cheeks.
Heat. In his truck, she had awakened to the
sensation of Connor stroking her cheek. In her kitchen, he’d placed
that big hand over hers. She could still feel the unusual heat that
had radiated from his skin on both occasions. Not the parched heat
of a fever but more like the banked coals of a campfire, something
that beckoned her to relax, to stretch out and simply bask in the
pleasure of it.
Sitting behind her desk as she had sat
at her bistro table, her hand resting palm down on the smooth
surface, she smiled. The table had been so tiny, she could have
reached out and touched Connor easily. Could have indulged the urge
she’d felt to brush the glossy dark hair from his face, indulged
that wish to slide her palm over the stubble on his jaw. She
imagined stirring her mocha slowly, lazily, and skimming the
chocolate froth onto the spoon. Licking it off with quick little
flicks of her tongue while he watched her with silvery eyes. . .
.
Omigod. She put
a hand on her chest where her heart was pounding and took several
deep breaths. If she was going to make a habit of fantasizing about
Connor at work, she’d have to start keeping a vibrator in her desk!
Zoey looked up at the clock, then at her laptop screen. She had a
whopping six and a half sentences to show for an hour’s work. Crap.
Crap, crap, crap. Desperate to get her mind
off a certain tall, sexy veterinarian, she seized her camera bag.
Maybe the fresh evening air would cool her down. Maybe a short walk
would ease the stiffness that had set into her aching leg and work
off some of her unexpected, uh, tension. Oh
hell. Maybe she’d be really lucky and find another wolf to beat up.
. . .
There were no wolves wandering the
streets but Zoey enjoyed the fresh spring air. Temperatures had
risen to normal and the only evidence left of the freak ice storm
was a scattering of twigs and branches on the ground, some sawdust
where the fallen tree at the top of Main Street had been removed,
and a few puddles. She walked slowly, favoring her injured calf.
Lowen Miller had ordered her to stay off it, but she’d been in a
chair all day—surely it wouldn’t hurt anything to stretch a
bit?
The sun was low in the sky when Zoey
reached the little park by the fire hall. It was too early in the
year for flowers. There didn’t seem to be anything worth
photographing and she was ready to turn back when Lucinda Perkins’s
minivan turned the corner. Mabel Rainier was riding shotgun. The
pale green vehicle was festooned with homemade signs identifying it
as the DNP–Dunvegan Neighborhood Patrol.
It took only a wave from Zoey for the
van to pull over. Lucinda and Mabel were from the local senior’s
lodge, where in recent months a small group had formed the DNP in
response to a rash of vandalism. The seniors worked hard to repair
or replace the many flower boxes, both in the park and along the
downtown streets, and were determined to protect them. So far, the
patrol idea seemed to be working.
The women willingly posed by a newly
built planter, excited that they were going to be in the newspaper.
Zoey couldn’t help being charmed—it wasn’t an attitude she’d
encountered much as a journalist in the city. People just seemed to
be more cynical there, either unimpressed by attention from the
media or demanding it as their due. She diligently took down
information and quotes for what would be a nice little story for
Page Three.
“I’m so glad we have an editor who
takes an interest in community events,” said Lucinda.
Zoey smiled. “Isn’t that what an editor
does?”
“Well,” said Mabel. “You’d think so,
but nothing’s quite the same as it used to be. Everyone’s been
looking for the sensational ever since those werewolf stories
started up all over again a couple years ago.”
Again? Zoey
lowered her steno pad. “I heard a little about what happened then.
Have there been stories before?” Connor hadn’t mentioned any
earlier episodes.
Lucinda patted her arm as if to soothe
her confusion. “Well, it’s one of those things, dear. Every area
has its local legends, stories you tell around campfires on a dark
night.”
“Except here, instead of ghosts, it’s
werewolves,” supplied Mabel. “Usually it dies down in a little
while and people forget all about it. Then those men—”
“Those drunks
you mean,” sniffed Lucinda.
“Those drunks,” amended Mabel with a
chuckle. “They said they saw the wolf right in the middle of town,
and this time the story just didn’t go away.”
Lucinda nodded. “It was the TV that did
it. Some news station really put Dunvegan on the map this time and
I imagine we’ll stay on it. Now we get all sorts of visitors coming
here, asking questions about wolves. Why, there’s been an
investigator here for a week now, interviewing everyone he can
find.”
“Really? He hasn’t come by the
newspaper office yet,” said Zoey. Strange—it was the first thing
she would have done as a reporter in a new town.
“Oh that’s likely because Ted Biegel
would string him up on sight. Ted’s part of the Chamber of
Commerce,” said Mabel. “The whole werewolf thing really steams them
up. They don’t want to be like that little town on the border that
put in the UFO landing pad.”
Zoey’s eyes widened. “They did
what?”
“Some say it was foolish, but I think
it was sharp as tacks,” said Lucinda, sitting on a park bench and
tugging Zoey down beside her. “Some folks claimed to be seeing UFOs
in the area. The Chamber there noticed that it brought a lot of
business to their little town, so they built a big round concrete
pad. Put up colored lights and signs to invite UFOs. They get all
kinds of tourists now who want to get their picture taken standing
on it. Local stores sell a lot of souvenirs. And you can bet when
somebody claims to see a flying saucer, it makes their local
newspaper.”
“Not like here. Ted wouldn’t publish a
story like that at gunpoint,” declared Mabel, folding her arms.
“That one poor editor who wrote about the werewolves while Ted was
on vacation? Fired on the spot. A shame, really.”
“So Dunvegan has its very own urban
legend?” pressed Zoey.
“It’s an old
legend,” corrected Mabel. “Dates all the way back to before
Dunvegan existed.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial
whisper. “The museum on Third Avenue used to have an old diary on
display, and cross my heart, it’s got an entry about a man becoming
a wolf.”
The other woman gasped. “Don’t let
Kathleen Summers hear you telling people that! She’ll have a
conniption if anyone comes asking about it. That diary’s been under
lock and key in the archives ever since that page got photographed
and put in the paper.”
“She doesn’t want people to know?”
asked Zoey, trying not to smile at the wealth of information
Lucinda had just blurted.
Lucinda shook her head. “Kathleen just
doesn’t want to lose her job. She likes running the museum. You
seem to be good at your job too, and if you want to keep it, you
ought to know that the town’s of two minds. Half would like to
cover up the wolf stories, and the other half knows better. I don’t
mind sharing the stories, but I don’t want to see Kathleen in
trouble.”
“So what do the stories say exactly? I
promise I won’t bother your friend.”
Zoey saw them exchange glances. Some
unspoken agreement seemed to be reached and Mabel was the first to
speak. “We’ve got some coffee in the van. It’s too cool out here
for such a long story.”
Zoey’s brain felt like a hamster in a
wheel as she walked slowly back to the office where she’d parked
her truck. Lucinda and Mabel had been eager to tell her everything
they knew about the local werewolf legends—which was
considerable—stopping only when Mabel remembered it was movie night
at the lodge. They’d left Zoey with plenty to think about, and a
new understanding of Dunvegan. It made even more sense now why none
of the village officials wanted to hear about her wolf encounter.
No doubt about it, she’d have to write the story up as a dog attack
if she wanted to stay here. Her goal was still to warn people, and
she had cautioned the ladies before they’d left to be watchful for
big aggressive dogs. They’d clucked over her bandaged leg, given
her plenty of advice—then looked at her strangely. Surely they
didn’t suspect that she wasn’t telling them the truth? She felt a
twinge of guilt but Mabel had been right; if Zoey wanted to keep
her job, she had to step carefully.
Maybe Connor was stepping carefully
too, only telling her about the most recent episode of the ongoing
werewolf tale. He certainly hadn’t mentioned that his own family
was linked to the legend! According to her new friends, rumors had
surrounded the Macleods since the family first homesteaded in the
area over a century ago. Was that the real reason he didn’t want
her to write about the wolf? Maybe he had a vested interest in
preventing the werewolf legends from surfacing again.
And maybe she had more in common with
Connor Macleod than she had thought. After all, she knew only too
well what it was like to have your family considered different . Or strange. And to be tarred with the same
brush.