
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
This one's for Mary Ricksen and Laurie Vachereau with all my thanks for reading so many versions of so many manuscripts.
"I'm counting to ten, and if you're not out of that lake with your hands above your head by the time I reach ten, I'll start shooting." Sheriff Gray White balanced a rifle on one shoulder and held a flashlight at eye level, effectively blinding the perp.
What the...? His eyes locked onto the most perfect pair of breasts he'd ever seen---rounded, uptilted, nipples pouting.
Gray's head whipped up. His jaw dropped; then he clamped it shut and swallowed.
Fuck.
Since when did a siren inhabit Lake Wickia? Wet hair plastered to skin the sun had never warmed, caressing each mound. His hold on the weapon slackened as drops of water, little love kisses, meandered down flesh so succulent and tempting, his fingers tingled.
The disciplined cop in him retreated as she advanced, slender legs spraying water with each step.
His eyes traced one translucent pearl as it dipped into a navel and wound around a silver belly ring dangling a delicate chain with a little heart on the end. It raced over a taut belly to its final destination, an Irish setter red triangle of curls. Oxygen didn't make it to his brain; blood crashed to his balls and his prick.
"My name's Sorcha McFadden, Officer, and as you can see, I've been skinny-dipping." She stood tall and proud, chin jutting, a fiery defiance blazing from eyes the word "blue" couldn't begin to describe. "I'm going inside to find a towel."
She turned around then and started up the stairs.
Gray's lungs had long stopped functioning; his reactions went on overdrive. Her scent intoxicated him. His mouth watered; he couldn't wait to taste her.
The white wolf in him roared and bellowed and seized control.
He sniffed and a whiff of her perfume, an intriguing blend of musk and cut lawn, went straight to his cock. Without a blink's hesitation he stalked after her, ogling her heart-shaped ass, his eyes darting from one cheek to the other as she mounted the three steps to the porch. High, pert, mesmerizing glutes with a hint of softness, the dimple in one winking as the other cheek tautened, hypnotized him.
Closing the distance between them, he stifled a growl when she twisted her hair to one side, exposing supple flesh pleading for his teeth, his tongue. The temptation to suck the honeyed spot and mark her with his scent dizzied him. He tucked the flashlight under the curve of his rifle arm and grabbed the banister with his left hand.
Steady, steady.
No way he'd get control over his raging hard-on during the interview made compulsory because he'd called in the trespasser. Gray planted his feet before the open sliding glass doors, gulping huge breaths of the chill April air, knowing the pine aroma should replace hers, but it didn't. Her fragrance sank into his pores; he inhaled her spicy aroma.
He had found his mate.
He was insane.
This wasn't possible.
This wasn't the way to find a mate.
Was it possible to erase a thought?
Willing his body under control, he stared as she pulled a throw off the edge of a sofa, her movements lithe, graceful. She stood no more than five feet three and yet had Vegas chorus-girl legs. His eyes found the source of her womanhood, locked onto one lone bead hanging over the cliff to the hood veiling paradise.
Hands shaking, he set the rifle and the spotlight down on a mahogany dining table. He couldn't choke back a groan as she hid all that delicious ivory flesh from his greedy gaze with a blue blanket, which she twisted in place above her breasts.
She spun around.
Her complexion paled. Her pupils dilated. She took a step back. "You."
What had he missed?
She knew him?
"You don't remember me," she said, her full lips pursed. "Figures." She snorted. "What do you want, Gray?"
The effort to pull himself together didn't affect his raging arousal. Focus, focus. Gray studied her profile as she picked up a towel lying on the granite counter and attacked wavy locks that trickled rivulets onto the wooden floor.
His brain finally wrapped around her earlier statement. Sorcha McFadden, his sister's best friend. An image of her and Susie playing with their Barbie dolls stained his pupils.
"Sorcha?"
She swung back to him. "Bingo."
A watershed of memories cascaded---a skinny ragamuffin of a girl, no breasts, not much of a backside, a mop of Shirley Temple ringlets, and the face to match. Sorcha had been a sweet kid, all quiet and shy, and she'd had the biggest crush on him for forever. She'd followed him around like an adoring puppy, never saying much, just staring at him with unblinking blue eyes as if she memorized his every action, gesture, word.
When had her hair gone from carrot to alluring auburn?
Why hadn't he noticed her eyes mimicked a Washington sky on the coldest, clearest winter's day?
"My condolences on your grandmother's death," he said in an attempt to take the sexual tension and her anger down a notch. Her flushed cheeks and her white-knuckled grip on the towel didn't bode well for his intentions. "Aileen was a good woman."
"She was." A shudder racked her body, and she hugged her arms. "I inherited the cottage."
She wouldn't meet his stare, her gaze landing here and there like a butterfly skipping from flower to flower. Through an enveloping sexual haze, Gray realized he'd set her nerves on edge.
The cloth slipped its tentative knot, giving him a ten-second glimpse of nipples as pink as the cherry blossoms that littered Twisp's Main Street every spring. She snatched the towel's ends together.
He had to adjust himself so baaad.
Ready to snap, ready to surrender to his wolf mating instincts, Gray knew he had to get her out of his presence---now.
"Why don't you go change, Sorcha? You look colder than a witch's---" Crap. He ground his teeth together. "Sorry---bad word choice."
"I am cold, and I'm not fifteen anymore, Gray. I've heard the word 'tit' before."
And have you heard the word "fuck" before?
He raked the outline of her hourglass figure. She had to be thirty, had to have fucked other men. But she wouldn't be fucking anyone else, not until he finished with her. Her aroma changed, the musk of her dawning excitement winding on a lake breeze curling around the log cabin. He gulped in her taste. His balls contracted.
"I repeat, why are you here?" Sorcha bent over and did that thing women did with a towel, wrapping her long hair into the cotton and securing it with a twist.
Gray's eyes locked on her neck. Not good to tempt a white wolf, honey, not when he can smell your pussy creaming.
"I spotted the lights from across the lake. This property's supposed to be unoccupied." He dragged a hand through his hair. "You're going to have to fill out some forms. I called it in."
"In that case, I'm going to have a hot shower and change." She threw him a look that could only be described as petulant and pissed, and marched in the direction of the bedroom.
As she reached the doorway, she glanced over one bare shoulder and said, "There's beer and soda in the fridge. Help yourself."
"Thanks." As soon as the solid pine panel clicked shut, he cupped his raging cock and shifted to the right. Relief made him slump on the table for a second.
How to get from here to fucking?
How fast?
Once wouldn't be enough, not with her scent ruling his actions, his prick.
When had she come back into town?
Aileen, her grandmother, had died two weeks ago. Tonight was his first night back on duty after two months of recuperating from a gunshot wound to his shoulder, and none of his officers had mentioned her arrival in town. He guessed she'd arrived either late last night or early today.
Gray checked his watch. After five---officially off duty. He wandered over to the fridge, plucked out an old-fashioned Coke bottle, and hunted for the opener. A fat candle on the two-seater breakfast table nestled in a floor-to-ceiling bay window drew his attention. Frowning, he edged over to stand beside the table. Miniature white roses in a squat glass, a single place setting of china, sterling silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and an antique lace napkin---all items he recognized from Aileen's collection.
A six-inch chocolate cake with fudge icing caught his attention, and his mouth watered. White letters spelled out Happy Birthday, Love, Miss L. Next to the torte stood a white box banded by a white bow and a white envelope with the words Happy Birthday to ME! A bottle of merlot from a local winery waited for decanting to the right of the card.
He knew the birthday present she'd get from him tonight.
Four or five times.
She'd tried to hide her reactions to him, but nothing, nothing, could mask the clear scent of her arousal, not from a white wolf.
Where was the food?
Spotting a bag on the counter, he set the soda down and pulled open the squished-together, familiar white bag.
"Did you get a...? Oh, I see you did." Sorcha's creamy complexion held shades he'd only ever seen in Arizona sunsets. The way the tawny golds feathered to pink on her cheeks fascinated him.
"It's your birthday," he said. "McDonald's?"
"Grams did the cooking." One shoulder lifted and she smiled.
Fuck, what a perfect smile, rosy lips lifting at the corners, sculpting twin dimples in her cheeks.
"I never learned. And I didn't figure on driving for two hours to get decent takeout."
"But McDonald's?" Gray knew he wore a pained grimace. Snatching the Coke bottle off the granite, he took a good slug of the icy liquid and waited for her reaction, hoping she wouldn't be offended.
"It's the closest," she said as she marched over to the table and grabbed the merlot.
"Sorry, didn't mean to upset you." Cock and brain connected. "Hey, I haven't had dinner yet. And I can cook. I'll throw something together, and we can have a nice meal and catch up."
How old were the condoms in the glove box? Crap, think, think.
Her jaw dropped open, and if he thought she blushed before, she put on a kaleidoscope show now. Did she blush like that all over? Oh gods above, if there is a heaven, let her pussy blush like that when he got up close.
And only then did he notice what she almost wore. Gray gulped. He blurted, "Honey, I hope that dress is an invitation."
"I was going to invite you to stay." She wouldn't make eye contact for more than a blink at a time.
He almost dropped the Coke, her words the conflagration that destroyed his self-control, the fulcrum of the life he'd built to deny his bestiality. His cock, already impossibly hard, thickened to the point of pain.
"But there is a problem."
Fuck no. Please, please, no.
Gray daren't get any closer, and he wished he had something in his other hand.
"Problem?" he croaked, his vocal cords strangling on the word, his prick weeping its loss.
"I arrived today, and I haven't had time to stock up." She chewed on a cherry-ripe bottom lip.
"That's the problem?" Hope pushed oxygen into previously choking lungs.
She nodded.
"There's no other problem?" The cop in him had to get all obstacles out of the way; the beast in him battered his rib cage, wrestling civilized veneer into a stranglehold.
She shook her head.
"Say it aloud, Sorcha. 'There is no other problem, Gray.'"
"There is no other problem, Gray," she whispered, the words directed at the wooden floor. One juicy big toe chased the line of the diagonal pine slat.
A thirty-second debate waged in his head as he stepped forward: try to get to home base, or be civilized and have dinner first.
He'd resigned himself to dinner when she said, "I'm not really hungry, though. I had a big lunch."
The Coke bottle clunked around in the sink when he dropped it. Two strides, and he had her in his arms, his mouth on hers, open, thrusting into sweet heat. The merlot hit his kneecap when he inserted his thigh between her legs. The pain brought him back from the brink. He took the bottle from her hand and set it on the counter.
"Condom... Car... I'll be back." He sat her on the granite kitchen counter, the image of his cock plundering her pussy his sole goal. "Stay." Tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, Gray could barely manage speech at all. An image of her rising from the lake stained his pupils, and at the door he turned and pointed at her halter straps. "Untie."
Mine.
Claiming Sorcha McFadden, scent-marking every inch of her delicious body, just the thought hazed his brain, and rational thought ceased.
Gray didn't remember the journey out or back, but when he skidded to a halt between her dangling legs, he saw she'd obeyed his last command and held the triangles of the halter in place only with her arms.
"Oh, honey. Thank you, thank you." He buried his face between her breasts and shoved the jersey material to her waist. Drunk on her flesh, he sucked his way up one rounded mound, lapping and teasing the taut cherry blossom, slowing for the return journey, inhaling soap and a flowery scent. "Oh God, you smell good. You're so soft here." He couldn't resist lingering on the underside when she whimpered a sweet little series of double moans.
A dog barked.
Barked again.
Let out a growl.
He heard, but the sounds didn't penetrate.
Loud, insistent barking continued.
Gray lifted his head.
"My dog."
Cradling her face, he licked the seam of her lips. "Bedroom, and no dog."
"Okay." Her mouth curled into that smile, the one that made his prick weep, and he wanted to drown in her twinkling eyes.
Turning her head to the left, she addressed the black Labrador. "Down, boy. Stay."
The dog obediently lay down and curled around himself, his tail flicking up and down.
Gray wrapped her legs around his waist.
"Arms around my neck," he ordered.
She complied, kissing his throat as he raced to the bedroom, toed the door shut, and stumbled toward the bed. Fuck, she felt good, her mound all soft and wet, slicking up the crotch of his pants. They fell on the mattress, him on top. All he could think about was being inside her, that first entry, how tight and hot she'd be. He bounded off the bed and put three condoms on a handy bedside table.
Her eyes followed his movements.
"We'll get more when we go shopping," he promised.
Spotting an alcove above the headboard, Gray removed his gun and holster and stashed them in the narrow space. Aware her blue eyes tracked his actions, he tried to get out whole sentences while stripping off his shirt, losing most of the buttons and not giving a crap.
"I'm on fire, honey. It's not going to be long the first time." The blasted belt finally unbuckled. "Second one will be better. Third will be a nice, slow one." Zipper down.
The bewildered look on her face made his stomach do a three-hundred-pound clench-and-jerk. "Sorcha, honey, listen to me---You're not a virgin, are you?"
Reddish brown eyebrows climbed to her hairline.
His khakis sunk to his knees. "Honey?"
She covered her face with her hands and mumbled, "No."
"That's great." He'd forgotten his boots. Crap. "It'll be okay. It'll work." His cock knew enough to let his brain continue coaxing as he finished undressing. Snatching a condom packet, he ripped the plastic open with his teeth, then began to slide the rubber on over the crown.
"I'm on the Pill. You don't really need that."
His mind shut down.
He could go bareback.
Gray shuddered, let the rubber fall from his fingers, and crushed the mattress with both hands. He couldn't look at her.
"Gray?" The little quiver in her voice crashed over him, and a smidgen of rationality seeped into his brain. His head bent, he inhaled deeply and shifted to face her. Wrong move. He groaned as the perfume of her sex emptied all thoughts from his skull.
"Scared?" He needed to know where her mind was at.
Her ivory complexion held no hint of roses, and her eyes widened as she gawked at his cock.
One white tooth clamped her bottom lip. She shook her head and raised those Washington blues to his. Mouth curving, dimples playing peek-a-boo, she replied, "Good scared."
A hell storm roared through him, boiling desire bubbled and danced in his veins, and he almost climaxed on the spot. Sweat bombarded his forehead, and he clenched his fists, willing himself under control.
Moving slowly, he lay on his side next to her, lifted the stretchy black material of the skimpy halter dress to her waist, and drank in his firsthand view of paradise. Wet and glistening like diamonds of dew on silk, her auburn curls made his mouth go dry. This first up-close-and-personal glimpse of her pussy would be fixed in his brain forever.
Fitting himself between her legs, Gray stilled for a breath, imprinting the sight of her glazed eyes, half-parted lips, the dreamy expression she wore, in his mind. His head fell back in sheer ecstasy, his balls hanging between her thighs, her cream polishing them so the little hairs quivered and pleaded for more contact. He nudged her with his knees, she let her legs fall open, and he lowered his mouth to her earlobe and bit.
"Yes," she moaned, the breathy little sound pure music to his ears.
Avoiding her neck, he feathered moist kisses over her face, touching down on arched brows, the ridge of one cheekbone, the corner of her lips. His lips outlined the shape of her rosebud mouth, nibbling on the full lower lip. Sorcha tangled a hand in his hair and opened for him. He swept in to taste her essence. Her hips arched off the bed when he tickled the roof of her mouth, when his tongue teased hers into a pulsing tango.
Her musk giddied his senses.
He couldn't think.
"Breasts. Give one to me."
Startled azure irises, tiny circles around dilated pupils, met his. She cupped her right breast and offered the globe to him.
Gray had to suckle the whole areola in, had to lap and lick and gnaw until she whimpered those little moans again. He knew the other mound needed him, ached for his mouth, so he let his hand torture the wet one while he persecuted the other rosy peak with his tongue and teeth.
A looong series of double moans.
His balls suffered unbearable cruelty with each cry.
He had to get to pussy.
Had to taste first.
His gaze fixated on her glistening reddish brown curls, trailed succulent, creamy pink folds, and his mouth watered. He'd never seen anything so beautiful. Rational thought vanished. His number one goal---savoring the tang of her cream, imprinting the scent of her musk in his brain forever.
Gray burrowed between her thighs and held them apart, balancing her knees in the crook of his elbows. Prettiest sight he'd ever seen. He buried his nose in her pussy lips, his tongue in her vagina.
She was drenched.
He was so ready.
A stamp of possessiveness rung through him.
Mine.
He lapped at her clit. Sweet honey, so thick, coating his nose, his mouth, his chin, glazing his face in her scent. He slipped a finger inside her clenching muscles, and she moaned his name---"Gray"---in a quivering voice, over and over, as if she knew she belonged to him.
So close, so close.
He bent to her nubbin and suckled and sawed, all the while thrusting in and out with his finger, increasing the pace, his cock twitching and mimicking the movements he craved. Her hips came off the bed; she clamped down hard on his fingers and yelped, "Gray, Gray, Gray."
Now.
Gray knelt, skittered up the bed until the head of his cock tipped her entrance, holding her thighs apart with his arms.
Slow, slow, savor.
The visual---his reddened bulb, her slick folds, his prick disappearing---blew his control.
When her internal muscles contracted and vacuumed the whole head in, he lost it. Charging in as far as he could, pulling out, feeling her sweet reluctance as she fastened around him, her channel begging and pleading, more, more, more.
On the second thrust, his cock hit her womb, and he surrendered to dominatrix pussy.
Sorcha's nails raked his back; she shrieked, "Gray!"
Her walls constricted, and he pumped and pumped, shooting hot jets over and over. Her internal muscles locked onto his prick, milking more and more cum than he'd ever ejaculated before. Her tight hold kept him erect, his throbbing cock fucked her through another orgasm, and he came again in short, sharp spurts.
"Gray," she mewled, her voice a throaty, low rumble, like a kitten's loud purring after feeding.
He collapsed, burying his nose against one breast, his eyes closed, his mind insolvent, every nerve howling its pleasure. He couldn't move, couldn't withdraw, didn't want to lose her tightness, her heat.
Gradually, his breathing slowed, his heartbeat stopped drowning all external sound, and he grew aware of slight nuances.
A thin film of perspiration on the cusp of her shoulder proved irresistible. Of its own volition, his tongue tasted the slight saltiness of her spent passion. Musk and semen and sweat perfumed the room.
She shifted her legs.
Gray tested her pussy's hold on him; he had to go easy, not scare her away. The lock formed by his cock's swelling and her vagina constricting in response had loosened, and he stifled a sigh, relieved and disappointed and grateful he didn't have to break the wolf news to her right away, but he really didn't want to leave her now.
He lifted his head, released his grasp on her thighs, and eased his prick free. "Sorry, honey. That couldn't have been comfortable."
Her half-shuttered blue eyes appeared a tad out of focus. Sorcha's lips had curved into a sleepy version of her perfect smile, and a long, indrawn breath elevated her generous breasts.
"Mmm," she murmured, eyelids fluttering.
Lying on his back, he fitted her cheek to his chest and arranged her leg, curving her bent knee over his pelvis. She sighed, and her minty exhale cooled the sweat on his skin.
"Gray?"
"Yes, honey."
"That was everything I'd dreamed." Her lips moved on his chest, her breath tickling the fine hairs around his nipple. She squirmed, doing this snuggling move with her shoulders, and burrowed into his embrace. Almost immediately her breathing slowed and evened, and her muscles lost all tension.
She'd fallen asleep.
Unable to resist, he kissed her temple.
One hand cradling his head, Gray stared at the ceiling fan, his mind whirring in time to the whizzing mahogany blades.
Crapola.
What a mess. What the hell had gotten into him? He never lost control, never. Yeah, nothing like being proved wrong in the biggest way. He'd never had such a sexual connection with a woman before. Her scent had devoured him, made him giddy. He'd acted on pure wolf instinct.
Satisfaction had never reigned so high on his senses.
Sorcha McFadden, go figure.
His baby sister's best friend had wrung him inside out.
Why had she done this to him?
His arm tightened around her waist. There was no way he'd let her go.
She was his.
All his.
What did it mean, the fact that he'd come more than once? Had it been an aftershock? A reaction to the way she'd milked him?
He knew better.
It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Finding your mate was a magical event. Cinderella-like.
Wasn't it?
So his sisters had claimed.
No, this wasn't mate-recognition.
He had overreacted. It'd been months since he'd had a woman. He was horny, and the first naked woman he'd seen had sent him over the edge. That was it. Gray pursed his lips in agreement with his rationalization.
Crap.
Who was he fooling?
He'd come twice, and he was still hard, still needy. His gaze traced her profile but didn't even make it to her bountiful breasts or her tiny waist or her wet curls. No, his stare stayed glued to her face, to the way her eyelids flickered as she entered REM, to the trusting way she rested her cheek on his chest.
Sometime in the last couple of years, he'd accepted the fact that he wouldn't find a mate.
Absently, he toyed with a strand of her hair, winding the lock around his forefinger. Attention meandering to her nape, he brushed her auburn tresses onto the pillow.
What next?
Have dinner, get out, make sure Sorcha realizes tonight never happened.
No, have dinner, fuck, maybe skinny-dip, with another fuck thrown in, then make sure she realizes tonight never happened.
Never happened.
Who the hell was he fooling?
He'd just jumped into a fucking tornado.
Sorcha stilled all movements, playing possum and listening to Gray's heartbeat, savoring the moment she'd fantasized about most of her adult life. Under her lowered lids, she studied his chest, itching to tweak a dark nipple, brush her fingers over his taut belly. He smelled exactly the way she remembered, dangerous and dark and smoky.
Wow.
When he'd started undressing and talking, she'd almost said forget it.
He'd been so intense with those one-word orders and staccato sentences that her lungs had stopped functioning and the room had spun a couple of times.
Her stomach gurgled; she sucked in her belly, hoping to muffle the low rumble. Truly, she'd forgotten to eat lunch, but she'd been so afraid he wouldn't make love to her later, she'd told a small white one. A really, really tiny white one.
All of a sudden she couldn't draw oxygen into her lungs, yet at the same time blood crashed through her veins so fast she couldn't hear but for the roaring in her ears.
Holy moley.
What had she done?
She'd done the one thing she had yearned to do since watching him screw Tonya Fields from the loft of an abandoned barn some seventeen years ago. She'd hopped into bed with Gray Theodore White within a few hours of returning to live in her old hometown.
What now?
"Stop playing possum." He nudged her shoulder.
Her tummy let out a growl that rivaled any dog's. She peeped up at him.
"I thought you had a big lunch?" He ran his fingers through her hair, and she wanted to purr. "Not that I'm complaining."
"I fibbed," she said. "I didn't want you to stop and think."
"Honey, the only brain that'll be functioning for a while is that one." He jutted a chin at his turgid cock.
"Oh." Whoa. Obviously penises came in varied sizes, and in Gray's case---she swallowed---the word "ginormous" didn't come close to describing his thick, glistening cock. Sorcha hadn't seen his organ all those years ago, as she had been too busy trying to remain concealed.
Her stomach rumbled in the silence.
"Food first." He kneaded her butt. "Then we talk."
Talk never meant anything good. Dread had her belly churning like a washing machine on spin.
So be it.
No matter what angle she viewed the situation from, ending their relationship before it began worked for the best for everyone concerned, especially her.
One quick cut.
Decision made, she sat up, snatching the sheet with her hands and covering her breasts. "You can just walk out of here. No worries. We can forget this ever happened."
"One thing wrong with that plan, Sorcha." He smiled, a lazy kind of one-sided curl of his mouth that did fluttery things to her insides. "This is going to happen a lot more times tonight."
Her pussy clenched, her face flushed warmer than Hades at the sexual intensity in his words, in his blazing black eyes, which remained manacled onto hers. Uncertain what to say, Sorcha clamped her lips together.
He reached out, and his thumb stroked her jaw and coaxed her to bend to him. Soft lips brushed hers; a tongue licked the seam of her mouth. She sighed.
Gray broke the kiss, shot her a grin full of the promise of more, and chucked her chin.
"Food first, honey. You shower. I'll check out the kitchen."
He rolled off the bed, rummaged in a black gym bag, and pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants. Where had the bag come from?
Fascinated, she stared as he adjusted himself and swept the sweats up his thighs and over his pelvis. He caught her gawking and winked. "Your turn."
"What?" Wanting to share his cheekiness yet unable to because this was Gray, after all, her first, most enduring fantasy lover, Sorcha chewed on her lower lip.
"Walk to bathroom. My turn to watch."
Heat scaled her neck and mushroomed up her cheeks. "Not on your life. A girl needs some privacy."
Sorcha bounded out of the bed the minute he disappeared from view and had the quickest shower on record. What did he want to talk about? God. What a major mistake. She thunked her head on the bathroom door. Her second start on life had just become very complicated. "God, please don't let me fall in love with him all over again."
A moist nose nudged her palm.
Sorcha stared at White, the abandoned pup she'd adopted two years earlier. Reflexively, she scratched the Labrador's head.
"I messed things up, boy." The dog tilted his head to one side and his tail swirled a vague question mark, as if prompting her to continue. "But God, it was a fantastic mess-up."
She didn't want to face Gray, didn't want to have the "talk."
"I might as well get this over and done with," Sorcha muttered as she finished dressing.
White slurped her big toe in agreement.
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee made her eyes close, and she followed her nose to the spitting appliance. White trailed by her side, going straight to his dog dish and sitting, his ears twitching.
"Ah, the protector," Gray quipped, waggling his eyebrows. "What's his name?"
She swallowed. "White."
I named him after you. I figured he was as close as I'd ever get to having a part of you.
"Ah, honey, not a nice thing to do to a black Lab. Think of his machismo." Gray stooped and scratched White under his chin. The canine's tail did a rapid side-to-side flick.
"I adopted him from the pound," she said, telling the absolute truth but knowing what conclusion he'd reach.
"So you had no choice. A dog like this deserves a rugged name like Thor or Mars." Gray flashed her a crooked grin as he levered to his feet, then picked up the glass coffee carafe and poured the fragrant liquid into a mug.
He sure knew his way around a kitchen. Sorcha's lips pursed. How many kitchens were familiar territory to him?
"Coffee, or would you prefer the wine?" he asked as he pulled another cup out of the cabinet and set the hand-wrought piece on the counter. He brought the mug in his hand to his lips and sipped.
She glanced at the open wine bottle breathing on the counter. "You're not having any?"
"Both my mother and father were alcoholics," he replied. "They sobered up eventually. But I found out in college that, like them, I like alcohol way too much. One drink was never enough. I haven't had a drink in almost a decade."
"Oh." Sorcha didn't know how to respond to his admission. Vague memories of his father unshaven, unwashed, and asleep on a front porch swing flitted through her brain. "Coffee, please."
"First things first," he said and hauled her into his arms.
Pure magic, his mouth. His tongue explored her teeth, grazed the roof of her mouth, stroked her cheeks. She melted, knees buckling, pussy creaming.
Sorcha had to grab the counter when he released her.
A blush roasted her flesh.
What he must think of her. What kind of woman slept with a man within---What? Half an hour of meeting him? She focused on the sink's white faucet and hunted her mind for the next appropriate move.
"Milk? Sugar?"
Whaaaat?
"How do you take your coffee, honey?"
"Um, I'll get it." She edged the mug over and picked up the shaker container of Splenda.
He handed her a teaspoon. "You should try honey instead of that manufactured crap."
Two hours together, and he wanted to change how she drank her coffee? Sorcha stirred the liquid hard, and the spoon tinkled against the porcelain.
A finger tipped her chin to him. "What's wrong?"
Pasting a smile on her face, she replied, "Nothing," and gulped a mouthful of too-hot coffee.
"We're not going there. Now tell me exactly what's on your mind."
Those black eyes of his roamed over her features. She had to tilt her head back to see him properly. Sorcha guessed his height to be around six-four; her head didn't quite reach the middle of his chest. He had a football player's build, broad shoulders leading to a muscled neck on one end and a tapered waist on the other. Like most Native Americans, his bronzed chest was devoid of hair save for a few strands punctuating dark chocolate areolae.
"Sorcha?"
Fighting the sudden urge to lick the tight points of his small nipples, she murmured, "Mmm."
"Honey, look at me," he ordered as he curled an arm around her waist, took the cup out of her hand, and set it on the granite countertop.
Why did her mind go blank the minute he touched her? What was it about Gray that made her chest ache, made her yearn to curl into him, delve into his mind?
Their eyes bumped and bolted.
Her lungs stopped functioning, her heart rolled over, and her pulse broke the record for an Indy 500 lap.
Gray swore.
She flinched.
"Sorry, honey." His lips brushed hers. "I'm used to being with the boys."
"It's okay. I've heard the word before." Thank God her mouth still worked, because her brain had gone on vacation the minute he'd pulled her into his arms. A sudden hardness made her eyes drop to the bulge at her belly.
Whoa.
Hadn't they just finished?
He wanted a second round?
She peeped up and found him grinning down at her.
"Did you think what just happened was a one-and-done?"
Not capable of restraint at that moment, she blurted, "I wasn't sure."
"I'm not going anywhere, honey. Now, let's focus on dinner and then we'll talk."
A ring sounded. Sorcha glanced to the phone hanging on the wall above the open counter that divided the dining and living room areas from the kitchen.
"That's me," Gray said, and he reached over and grabbed a mobile phone from where it vibrated on the granite. "Sheriff White," he snapped into the receiver.
Deciding to give him privacy, she ambled over to the corner and loaded two cups of hard brown pellets from a Purina bag into the dog's bowl. The Lab's tail swooshed the ground, and he shoved his nose into the chunks of chow.
By the time she'd finished filling White's water dish, Gray had ended his phone call.
"I hate to do this," he said as he dragged both hands through his thick hair. "I have to go in. I don't know how long I'll be. And I just trashed your hamburger and fries. Sorry, honey. I'll order you a pizza on the way in to the precinct."
An original exit line, she had to give him that much. Shame and humiliation seemed to shrink every body part. Determined he, of all people, would never know how much his rejection hurt, Sorcha jabbed her hands on her hips, surveyed the twin scarlet stains on his high cheekbones, and projected a nonchalance worthy of an Oscar. "Don't worry. White and I will manage. I'm probably the only woman in North America who really doesn't like pizza."
"I'll call you as soon as I get a handle on the situation." Gray threw the words over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bedroom.
Sorcha emptied both cups of coffee into the sink, and the brown blemish on the white porcelain seemed symbolic of her catastrophic actions tonight. Wishing she could avoid having to face him again, she wiped her hands dry and started walking to the couch, only to be swept off her feet when Gray tumbled her into his arms.
She blinked, and an immense rubber band tightened around her chest. Lips battened together to face the coming storm, gaze down, she had to meet his eyes when he tipped her chin. "I'll be back whenever I'm done. I intend to wake up in your bed tomorrow, honey. You have any objections to that?"
God no.
God yes.
God no.
Not able to trust her voice, Sorcha shook her head.
His cell rang again; he glowered and set her down. Before he answered the phone, he said, "I'm going to have to make a fast exit."
And he did.
Dazed, she stared at the closed door for long moments.
Had she dreamed everything?
Was she so far gone about Gray, she'd now begun to fantasize while awake?
She had actually made love to Gray White.
For a second, Sorcha wished she'd purchased brandy or scotch, alcohol capable of burning reality on the path down to her stomach.
Get a grip. First night in your new home. Sit, sip wine, try not to panic.
Breathing returning to normal, Sorcha poured a glass of the merlot and meandered over to the couch. After she sat, White climbed onto the sofa, curled into a ball, and dropped his jaw into her thigh. Absently, she scratched his head.
Mind numb, both unable and unwilling to contemplate the repercussions of screwing Gray within thirty minutes of their reacquaintance, she switched on the television and flipped channels.
The telephone on the wall rang before she'd managed three sips of wine.
Levering off the sofa, she ran to the counter and managed to answer on the third ring. "Hello."
"Sorcha, my love," said Miss Lillian Louisa Herrington. "I forgot to give you Harold's medicine, and he has to take it before midnight."
The LED clock on the microwave glowed 7:45. "No problem. I'll come and pick it up."
Five minutes later, as she bundled White into her 2007 Hyundai Sonata, Sorcha eyeballed Harold and Kumar's cage to make sure the dead bolt was in place. Both cockatoos were still awake; she drew an oversize woolen blanket over the birdcage.
Miss L, as Grams's best friend was fondly known throughout Twisp and the county, had kept the parrots after Aileen O'Riley's death.
When Sorcha arrived at Miss L's bungalow, the door stood wide open and she couldn't find the older woman in the house. Wandering back to the front porch, she caught sight of Miss L on the clay path leading to the house opposite.
She whistled, White heeled, and the two of them jogged across the road.
"Miss L, Miss L," Sorcha called, waving both hands over her head.
"Sorcha, my love," the petite woman said as Sorcha bounded in her direction. "The most awful thing's happened. Mr. Morgan's shop's been vandalized."
Mr. Morgan, Twisp's answer for clothing alterations, shoe reheeling, and other ad hoc repairs, had been around for as long as Sorcha could remember.
"Hooligans." The man standing next to Miss L raised a fist in the air. "This town's becoming like the big city. It's going to the dogs."
"Do you mind if I take a look, Mr. Morgan?"
Although Victor Morgan had run his shop for decades, he hadn't remembered her when she picked the cockatoos up from Miss L's this afternoon. Miss L had done a masterfully diplomatic reintroduction.
"Go ahead. Ain't nothin' left to steal, that's fer sure." About four inches taller than Sorcha and Miss L, Mr. Morgan had the stooped back of a man in his declining years. He waved a gnarled hand at the darkly shadowed steps bordering the porch, which fronted his cottage.
"Don't make another move!"
One foot in midair, Sorcha froze, and her pulse broke into a Kentucky Derby gallop. Hand to her chest, she squinted, chin tilted, trying to pinpoint the source of the barked command.
Peering, she made out the vague outline of a man.
"Idiot," Mr. Morgan mumbled under his breath, and he shuffled back a few steps in response to the belligerent tone of the cop's command.
No one bullied Miss L. She moved to stand in front of Mr. Morgan, arms crossed under her breast. "I don't see why you need use that tone of voice, young man."
"I apologize if I offended you, Miss Herrington." Sarcasm coated every word the man uttered. "You and Mr. Morgan and your friend need to wait elsewhere while I examine the scene of the"---he paused---"crime."
Ooooh.
Sorcha's nails hurt when they dug into her palms. She couldn't believe the obvious disbelief and contempt in the man's voice. He hadn't even attempted to hide his disdain. The audacity of the man. In unison, Miss L, Mr. Morgan, and Sorcha edged backward.
"You slept through this, old man?" Scorn and doubt laced the man's voice.
"Who is he?" Sorcha whispered.
"Newest member of the sheriff's department. None too smart up here, I reckon, as his mammy didn't manage to drum any manners into him." Miss L tapped a finger to her skull.
"I was out visiting." Mr. Morgan's low baritone held a defensive note. "And it ain't none of your business where I was. Your business is to find out who did this."
Sorcha didn't want to be part of a squabble with one of Gray's officers.
"Victor, you look like you could use a cup of tea," Miss L muttered as she curled a thin arm around the man's elbow. "Come on. Let's leave the police to their work."
Miss L dragged Mr. Morgan down the short driveway. Sorcha guessed the older woman intended to take him across the road to her house. But Mr. Morgan kept glancing over his shoulders and halting, and Sorcha feared he'd return to confront the policeman.
Her stomach growled, the sound as loud as cannon thunder in the quiet.
"Sorcha, my love, you haven't eaten, have you?" Miss L jammed her hands onto her hips. "And it's your birthday. Come on home with me, and I'll fix you up some meatloaf and mashed potatoes."
Determined not to put the older woman to such trouble, Sorcha countered, "No, you won't, Miss L. The diner's still open, and I'm more in the mood for dessert instead of meatloaf. Why don't I drive us all up there, and I can eat while you two have a cup of tea?"
Less than three minutes later, they were ensconced in one of the diner's red leather booths.
At eight forty-five, Twisp's evening meal rush was winding down. Most patrons had empty dinner plates in front of them, and busy busboys hurried here and there, the clinking of glasses against cutlery drowning the piped country music background. Redolent of the stale smell of fried onions, garlic, and beef, the diner had changed little in fifteen years.
Sorcha glimpsed a familiar face behind the counter. "Don't tell me Mr. Whitener is still the cook?"
"Bought the place out about ten years ago," Victor said. "Paid cash too. Always wondered how he came up with that money."
A waitress bearing a plate with a thick slice of pie decorated with a dollop of ice cream and a fat maraschino cherry whipped by. Sorcha sniffed. Pecan. Her mouth watered. "I remember his cooking. He made the best pies. I'm going to have a slice. Anyone else?"
They ordered three slices of pie; Miss L had apple, Victor had peach, and Sorcha had pecan.
When the waitress deposited their respective orders in front of them, Miss L made a derisive sucking noise with her lips. She and Victor exchanged a peculiar glance.
"What?" Sorcha dangled her fork over the piecrust, her eyes moving between the two individuals on the opposite bench.
"Look at the size of our portions compared to Victor's," Miss L ordered. "That's the reason we don't come here unless we have no other choice."
"I don't believe it," Sorcha exclaimed. "Yours is half the size of ours. Have you and Mr. Whitener been quarreling, Mr. Morgan?"
Petty feuds popped up regularly and without reason in Twisp, she remembered.
"That man ain't right in the head," Victor muttered.
"Mr. Whitener doesn't go to church, Sorcha. Most folks round here resent that."
All the claustrophobic small-town habits she hated welled up in her throat. Memories she'd suppressed for years surfaced.
Don't go there.
Sorcha fastened a smile on her face and asked Mr. Morgan how his daughter fared.
Some things never changed, Sorcha decided. Her one question prompted a bottomless well of county gossip and scandals. While she munched on molasses and nuts and pastry so light and buttery, her taste buds orgasmed with each bite, Miss L and Victor dished up the latest county scandals.
Mr. Whitener rambled around the diner greeting patrons, and when he stopped at their table, Sorcha shook his hand, even though the first whiff of him made her breathe through her mouth. The man had obviously cooked specials laden with onions and garlic that evening.
By the time Sorcha dropped Victor and Miss L off, exhaustion had seeped into every pore. Autopilot took her back to the cabin, and she shucked her shoes, stumbled to the sofa in front of the TV, and sat heavily. The doorbell rang the minute Sorcha cocked her bare feet on the coffee table.
"Honey, it's me. Open up."
An adrenaline surge shredded any hint of fatigue at the sound of Gray's deep voice. Blood strummed through her veins. Lurching off the couch, mind on empty, she marched to the door and opened it.
"Hell, it's good to see you." He hauled her into arms of steel. One hand stroked her back, the other curled one ass cheek and drew her against his aroused cock.
"I don't do this." The words fell out of her mouth. "I'm not a slut. I don't sleep with guys I don't know. I mean I haven't before. Oh God." Sorcha didn't know what to do with her hands and knew if her fingers made contact with those hard pecs or the ridges of his six-pack, she'd lose it.
"That makes two of us, honey. Stop worrying." His forefinger smoothed her forehead. "Let's get one thing straight. This is not a one-night stand. I plan to be around for the duration. Yeah, we got off to a fast start, but it's not as if we're strangers. I've known you since you were a little girl." Gray touched his mouth to the side of her neck and held her still in an openmouthed, toothed clamp.
Her heart just about leaped from her chest.
"Deep thoughts?"
"Yes," she whispered, feeling the wet swipe of his tongue on her nape all the way to her curling toes.
"Hold them for a while." He bent and scooped her into his arms. Stepping inside the cabin, he kicked the door shut and strode across the living room.
"Where are you going?" She met his intense stare.
"We're going skinny-dipping. I want to take my siren in the lake."
Gray had a strange set to his mouth, and he glanced at her every so often as if searching for answers to an unasked question. Planting her on the dining room table, he ran his thumb over her lower lip and said, "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
As he turned to open the sliding glass doors, he asked, "Did you miss me?"
She opened her mouth to tell him about Mr. Morgan and the breakin, but no words came out. After Gray'd opened the doors, he'd chucked his socks and boots and was working on his shirt.
The sight of him stripping made her swallow her answer. Sorcha commanded her dropped jaw back into place. She'd never been with a muscle guy before, and she ached to touch him, to glide her hands over the hardness of his biceps, his pectorals, his... She gulped.
Did cocks have muscles?
The tent in his underwear made her mouth water.
Gray stepped between her thighs. He nuzzled her nape, and then his eyes locked onto hers. "I want you to trust me, honey. I want you to know I'll always protect you."
She didn't know what to make of his words but remembered how he'd guarded and shielded his sisters and his mother. Until they moved when she turned fifteen, the Whites' house had been her second home. Maybe he lumped her in with his sisters in his brain.
No way, not after what they'd done tonight.
Gray carried Sorcha out to the deck and set her on her feet. He proceeded to undress her. His mouth scattered kisses over her face, her throat, as he unclothed her, slipping the buttons of her blouse free, sliding the soft cotton off her arms. Intent on his task, Gray tugged her jeans over her hips, his lips and tongue lingering over her belly ring before he took off her bra, then her thong.
When he hooked his fingers into the waistband off his boxers, she stopped him, capturing his hands. He gave her a strange look but released his grip on the cotton.
Sorcha knelt and inched the soft garment down his thighs, her face at his sex. A half-moon bathed his beauty, the long, muscular legs, the hollows of his hips, the ripples of his chest, his broad shoulders gleaming in the iridescent light.
His organ twitched, the wet tip brushing her cheek. She leaned into his groin, her tongue licked his crown, and he groaned aloud.
Her sex wept, ached, and burned. Her lungs rose and fell faster and faster. She'd never felt so aroused, so needy. Sorcha closed both hands around the base of his organ; his fingers tangled in her hair, urging her closer. She tasted him, exploring the head of his cock, sipping the seam, the saltiness of his precum lingering on her tongue, and she inhaled the spice and musk the dark curls nestling his prick emanated.
"Sorcha, honey." He pulled her up and cupped her buttocks, pressed her into his arousal, and growled, "No more. I need to be inside. Now."
Lifting her legs, he wrapped them around his waist, entered her in one hard thrust, and walked into the water until the lake lapped at her shoulders. She kissed him frantically, his throat, his ear, sucked on his lobe as a climax ripped through her in a kaleidoscope of white light, blinding her vision. Her nails raked his back. His cock widened inside, stretching her walls, and his teeth nipped her flesh.
The aftershocks continued, each climbing higher than the previous one. Sorcha's thighs trembled. A shudder racked him, shaking him so violently, she felt when his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the lake bed. He nuzzled the side of her neck, licking and nibbling a path to her ear; shivers and sparks spiked. Sorcha bit her lips to stifle a moan of sheer pleasure.
An icy wind whistled over her shoulders, cooling her heated flesh. She used all the energy left in her body to raise her head from his chest. His features were contorted in a grimace of pain.
"Gray?" She touched his face. "What's wrong?"
When he lifted his eyelids, she cringed. "Your eyes, Gray. They're sort of yellow and glowing."
"Night vision," he said, his voice feral.
Sorcha's pulse wouldn't stop hammering in her ears. Her chest ached from inside, and she knew he had changed and so had she. Fear started a panicked whimper in her throat that she couldn't stifle.
"Don't be afraid, honey. Shush," he whispered, his voice more normal, not as savage as before. "I told you. We'll work everything out." His mouth soothed the skin he'd bitten earlier, his tongue drawing small circles up her throat.
She shivered, more from a sudden trepidation than from the remnants of winter in the air or from his licking caresses.
"You're cold." Gray shifted, gripping her hips firmly. He rose and the lake cascaded from their skin, leaving trails and rivulets along her sides. Still locked together, he walked into the house, snatching towels and a blanket hung out to dry from the railing as they passed.
He lowered them to the carpet and sat, leaning against the couch. With a careful intensity, he dried her face, her neck, patting her nape gently.
Why wouldn't he meet her eyes?
She knew what they had just done was not normal, the strange color of his eyes, the fact they were still joined together.
All at once, all the old gossip came back to her. The whispers behind Gray's abnormal speed and strength, Susie always knowing ahead of time when Sorcha would appear, his mother with all her dire visions, which most everyone put down to her drinking.
"How are my eyes?"
Startled, she examined him and choked back a gasp when she found his irises all obsidian once again. "Fine. Black. Good."
Waiting, she rested her palms on his chest, relishing the strong beat of his heart as it strummed beneath her fingers. The steady rhythm took the edge off her rising alarm.
"You must have heard the rumors about me and the girls while you were growing up." Gray knuckled her cheek, touched a finger to her lower lip.
"The white wolf," she whispered.
Gray's skin gave off a clean spring aroma, as if the lake had cleansed him. An owl hooted nearby. Sorcha flinched and swallowed, trying to moisten her suddenly dry mouth.
"I can hear and see and smell and taste better than anyone I know. I could smell your arousal when you covered yourself with that blanket earlier. I could smell your fear before I left earlier, and in the lake a few moments ago. Our family has always had an affinity with the animals of this land. The members of my family have bonded with the spirit of the white wolf for generations. I am no different."
"I don't understand." Her palms grew damp.
He draped the throw around her shoulders, separating the blue fabric so it framed her breasts.
"I have all the magnified senses of a wolf." Gray tipped his head back and studied her through hooded eyes. "I don't run on all fours, but I can identify your scent in O'Hare on its busiest day. My night vision allows me to see for miles. My hearing is so acute, I heard you ask God not to let you fall in love with me all over again in the bathroom earlier."
Bitterness washed over her tongue; he knew, he knew she'd always loved him. She cupped a hand over her mouth, a move akin to closing the barn door after the horses had escaped. Shame channeled into a rising temper, and she smacked his shoulder with an open hand. "I'm not going to, you know. Not if I can help it."
"I don't think either of us is going to be able to control what's happening between us." His smile held a grim warning.
"And this?" She dipped her chin at their joined bodies.
"That's new for me. But I have talked about it with my cousins and my grandfather. Apparently, when a wolf finds his mate, this happens. Until we mate and there is a mate-lock, the males of our tribe aren't fertile. Our sperm shoots blanks."
"Mate?" she croaked. The throbbing at her temples doubled in volume.
"Mate," he said, holding her chin firmly with his thumb and forefinger. "You're mine now, just as I'm yours."
"This is crazy," Sorcha said.
"And you're terrified. Your pupils are so dilated, I can hardly see your irises. The roses are gone from your cheeks. I can smell not just fear but confusion, honey. Come here." He pressed her cheek to his chest. "What are you going to do now that you've returned to town? Jobs aren't easy to come by in this county, especially in this economy."
"Huh?" Her mind reeled, and she wanted to shake sense into him.
"Your heart's leaping." He rested his thumb on the hollow of her throat. "Let's try normal conversation for a while. What do you plan to do now that you've returned to Twisp?"
Go with the flow, she reasoned, try to figure out this craziness. Be logical. Right. Answer his question, concentrate. Sorcha took a deep inhale, closed her eyes, and replied, "I'm going to start my own business, an ad agency. I figure I'd kick off my company by producing a magazine guide to Okanagan County. This area's become quite a magnet for up-and-coming artists. There are eight semifamous potteries in the area, the same for jewelers, sculptors."
"How long have you been planning this?"
Since I started having the nightmare.
Sorcha had almost said the words aloud. She ground her teeth and went into the spiel she'd rehearsed for the bank. "Since Grams left me this cabin, I figured I could take out a mortgage, a small one, and use the money to keep going until the agency starts producing a regular income. I do have a business plan, and I did consult a financial analyst."
The fire crackled and snapped behind her back, and a spark hit her shoulder. She rubbed the spot, frowned, and turned her head. Roaring flames licked from logs in the shale fireplace. "When did you light the fire?"
"It seems that, unlike others of the species, the white wolf has an affinity for fire and water."
"Gray." She knuckled her forehead, but the pressure in her head kept building; the pounding grew to a painful roar. "This is crazy. Really, really crazy. How did you light the fire? Oh God, don't answer, don't answer." She bit her lip and braced for what she knew would be an impossible explanation.
"Watch the gas stove," he replied.
All the burners lit when he closed his eyes.
Damn, damn, double damn.
He idly rolled her right nipple between his fingers. "When the cherry blossoms are in bloom this spring, I'm going to drive into Twisp, gather buckets of flowers, and make love to you on a bed of them. I think it'll be our annual spring fling."
"What?"
Was the room spinning or was it her brain?
She cuffed his bicep. "You tell me you're a wolf. You tell me I'm your mate. You can make fire at will. And then you talk about cherry blossoms?"
Tilting his head, Gray coasted a finger along the ridge of her cheekbone and he said, "I'm trying to take your panic down a notch, honey. And to answer your question, the first time I saw your nipples, they reminded me of the color of cherry blossoms."
Cherry blossoms; automatically, she glanced at her nipples. Then her head snapped up so hard, a sharp pain lanced her neck.
"You have to take this seriously, Gray. I came back to Twisp to start a small ad agency and have a nice, comfortable life. One where no one will gossip about me. One where I can go to church, have tea with friends, and the occasional dinner with a glass of wine. I don't want this." She covered her face with her palms and thunked her head on his ribs. "I don't want this. I want a normal, middle-class Kellogg's life. Do you hear me, Gray White?"
"Honey, you happening to me was the very last thing I expected." He dashed her hands away, lifted her face, and his palms warmed her cheeks. "Look at me. I'm as scared as you are, maybe more. I've never made love like this before. The way I feel about you scares the crap out of me. Like now. We're not locked anymore, but I need to touch you, feel you around me. Hell, I hate having you out of my sight."
Sorcha searched his features and read the unease in his dark eyes. Three frown lines etched the space between his eyebrows. She smoothed them with her finger. "I can't think straight anymore. Between the sex and the wolf stuff, my head's spinning. Are you sure this isn't a dream?" She offered him her arm. "Pinch me. Go ahead."
He said, "I'll do one better." Gray slanted his lips over hers and began feasting, sucking her tongue, licking the ridges of her teeth. Sorcha melted into his taste, all smoky and sexy and him.
"How can you do that in two seconds?" she asked when he moved on to her earlobe. "Make me forget to think, make me feel as if I'm in this snug cocoon, all safe and secure."
"Snug, sexy cocoon, all safe and secure," he corrected and seemed to find something fascinating about the curve of her shoulder, nipping and kissing the spot as if he couldn't resist its lure.
"Gray?" Her hands pushed against his chest. "I have to...you know?"
"Nature call?"
"Uh-huh." When he stood, stalked to her bedroom, and turned in the direction of the bathroom, she jabbed a finger into his bicep. "Don't even think about it. I go to the bathroom alone, Gray White."
Sorcha leaned against the closed bathroom door, and the mental dam she'd erected burst. She felt as if she'd been in a mental hit-and-run, as if she had taken some sort of hallucinogenic drug, and reality, as she knew it, had ceased to exist. A fraction of her mind had already accepted his explanation---the hidden, intuitive part she'd learned to distrust.
How could she go back out there? How could she not? How could he have become an addiction after so few hours?
Gray scooped her into his arms the second she stepped through the door.
"I can walk. I have two legs."
"Beautiful legs and perfect feet." Dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose, he continued as if she'd never voiced a protest. "I'll order cable tomorrow and bring over a flat-panel, high-def TV." He carried her to the sofa and sat down, settling her sideways in his lap. "The Seahawks are playing, and I want to catch the game."
Whaaat?
TV? Cable?
A pulse in the back of her eye sockets leaped.
His cell phone on the coffee table vibrated and buzzed. Gray picked it up and answered, "Sheriff White."
Sorcha tried to get up while he talked, but he shook his head and curled his arm tighter around her waist.
His relaxed mouth stiffened, and he sat up straight. "When?"
She jumped at the opportunity to study him while his attention was elsewhere. A hint of dark stubble caressed the line of his square jaw. His Native American ancestry showed in the high line of his cheekbones and his black hair and eyes. As a teenager he'd worn his hair long, and she'd always envied his glossy raven locks.
"Have we identified the body?"
At the answer from the man on the other end of the conversation, he groaned.
"I'll be there in thirty minutes, Henry." He snapped the phone shut. "I gotta go in for about an hour, honey."
"Someone died?" she asked, a little wary of the grim expression he wore.
"One of my men just fished a body out of the lake," he answered and feathered a kiss on each eyebrow. "I have to go. I don't want to, but I have to."
"It's okay."
"Let's get this house locked up tight. Have you used the security system yet?"
She shook her head.
Less than a quarter of an hour later, a railroaded Sorcha, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, watched Gray shrug into a black leather jacket.
Holy moley, she'd never had instructions drilled into her so fast and so insistently before: set the alarm the minute he left, check the doors before going to bed, make sure the outside lights were on.
She gave him her key to the front door, and he muttered something about bars for the sliding doors on Monday.
Sorcha sat on the couch and propped her head in her hands. What had happened to the safe, cozy life she'd planned in Chicago two weeks ago? White jumped onto the sofa and rested his jaw on a cushion. At his insistent nose nudging, she scratched his ear.
"Have I gone completely insane, boy? How did my Gray fantasy turn into this nightmare?"
White licked her leg.
Sighing, she stared at the glowing logs in the fireplace, following stray embers as they whirled up the chimney. "I've never felt so confused in my life." The Lab grunted.
"Why do you think Grams moved us away in the first place? And why'd she come back after that horrible night?"
Don't go there.
She hit a canine sweet spot, and the full weight of White's head suddenly rested in her palm. "Come on, boy, this is no time for wallowing in self-pity. Let's get ready for bed."
Shaking her head and gritting her teeth, she stood. White gave her his favorite why-are-you-moving-when-I-just-got-comfy wounded look but trotted behind her as she headed to the bedroom, toenails clicking on the wooden floor.
After changing and shrugging a long white T-shirt over her head, Sorcha trudged back into the living room. She picked up the remote, hit Power, and the ancient TV flickered to life. Slumping on the couch, she channel surfed idly, her thoughts tangential. She sat up and blinked as an image caught her attention.
"Was that Gray, boy?" She backtracked two stations and squealed, "That's him. He's on TV."
Gray's features vanished, and the camera focused on a slender male reporter in his midtwenties. "Earlier this evening, Sheriff White confirmed a third vandalism incident at Leader Lake. Are these crimes connected to the body discovered in Lake Wickia only hours ago?"
An uneasy sense of doom crawled from her toes to her scalp; she wriggled her shoulders, trying to shake the feeling away. Less than a full day after she'd returned to Twisp, population: 935. Mr. Morgan's shop had been burglarized, and someone had turned up dead.
The reporter continued, "In other news, in a surprise move, local football hero Bruce Hazard's thrown his hat into the senate race. He's favored to win an overwhelming victory in his home seat of Twisp, Washington. Recently made partner in one of Seattle's most prestigious law firms, Mr. Hazard's announcement caught most political pundits off guard."
She remembered Bruce Hazard---quarterback of the high school football team, a conceited show-off, and the town's darling. A shot of the blond-haired, blue-eyed Bruce, now a good forty pounds heavier than fifteen years ago, flashed onto the screen.
"Mr. Hazard's wife, a former Miss Washington, announced the formation of a foundation to benefit underprivileged children in Okanagan County."
Sorcha stopped listening as Tonya Field's perfect face graced the screen.
A visual of Gray, naked and humping between the cheerleader's thighs, brought bile to her throat. So Tonya had married Bruce. Figured.
She couldn't prevent the reflexive balling of her hands.
God, she'd have to face Tonya again. She'd never expected the town's richest, most perfect daughter to remain in Twisp.
Was Gray still attracted to Tonya?
Don't go there.
Sorcha stabbed the remote. Another news anchor materialized, this one a male with that singsong accent so peculiar to the Canadians of eastern British Columbia and western Alberta. This close to the border, the residents of Okanagan County received many Canadian stations.
Sorcha's lips twitched as a man dressed in the red and black uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police filled the screen. A black bowl of a hat with a ridiculous chin strap framed a rugged jawline as the camera zoomed in and the Mountie spoke. "At this point we're targeting individuals suspected of smuggling illegal aliens into the US."
Mexicans being smuggled into the US made sense, but Canadians? Intrigued, Sorcha punched Volume.
"There are rumors the Mounties and Homeland Security are involved in an undercover cross-border sting. Can you confirm or deny these rumors at this time?"
Sorcha snorted, as if any member of the RCMP would be stupid enough to answer that loaded question.
Sure enough the Mountie refused to comment. Something familiar flickered in the background, and all at once Sorcha recognized the Main Street the man stood on.
"That's Penticton, boy." She rubbed her arms as memories of the three years she and Grams had spent in the small Canadian town flooded her brain.
"What about the string of politicians and law-enforcement officials recently arrested in Vancouver? Are they linked to the international pedophile ring rumored to be number one on your hit list?"
"No comment."
The station cut to commercials, and she switched channels.
"Today, Chinook Council officials expressed concern over the development of rival adolescent gangs in Okanagan County. Could these gangs be connected to the Leader Lake vandalisms? When I posed that question to Lieutenant Douglas Wicks of the Twisp sheriff's office earlier, this is what he had to say. And I quote, 'I wouldn't be surprised. It's their territory, after all.'"
Sorcha cupped a hand over her mouth. What a politically incorrect thing to say. She winced, not envying Gray having to deal with the repercussions from his lieutenant's comment.
A still photograph of a little girl with brown hair and great big doe eyes flashed across the TV monitor. "No developments in the case of Hailey Dressner, the two-year-old who disappeared from her parents' hotel room last week. Criticism of the couple is mounting, and the case is being compared to that of Madeleine McCann. Like the McCanns, the Dressners are a professional couple who could have hired a hotel sitter to watch their daughter while they dined in their hotel's restaurant. More when we return from the break."
Grinning when an ad for Subway's "$5 footlongs" came on, she squared her shoulders and pride welled up her throat. Officially, she hadn't been credited for her contribution to the jingle or compensated for the lyrics, but everyone in the industry knew she'd cocreated the catchy phrase. The success of the tune had boosted her self-confidence and made Sorcha believe she could go it on her own.
When the commercials ended, a sports newscaster graced the screen. "With the expectation that Tommy Houndtree will be sentenced to the maximum of two years, the Cougars' chances of making it to the state finals now appear to be dashed. The parents of the high school quarterback have started a petition for a retrial on the grounds that an officer in the sheriff's department planted the cocaine found in Tommy's Jeep."
Man, small towns had become microcosms of big cities. Honestly, the news in Twisp reflected Chicago's on a bad night. She switched stations and discovered that after the news on a Saturday night in Twisp, the choice of programming varied between God and paid infomercials.
Surrendering, she grabbed a magazine, headed to the bed, and slipped under the covers. White settled on the daybed in the sunroom, doing a few of those loud Snoopy yawns she loved.
Sorcha listened to branches scraping the roof, a few unexplained squeaks, and the wind knocking something on the porch. In Chicago, the hum of ever-present traffic masked scary noises at night.
She'd read the same paragraph three times and had about decided to turn off the lights when she heard a weird noise like a child moaning. White woofed, and she heard his toenails click against the sunroom's tiled floor.
"Come here, boy," she whispered and patted the bed. The Lab ignored her command and went straight to the front door, tail and ears stiff. In the glow from the lamp in the living room, she saw the dog's hackles rise. He growled, baring his canines.
The sound came again, closer this time, and goose bumps rose from wrists to nape, making her cold all over. She hugged her arms.
What was that?
White barked and scratched at the door.
She lived in Twisp now, population: 935. Nothing happened in Twisp. Oh yeah right, only wolves and mate-locking and a man whose eyes turned yellow and glowed after he climaxed.
A yelping cry that mimicked a child in pain shattered the silence. She jumped because the sound came from behind her, from outside the window at the head of the bed.
White leaped onto the mattress, barking up a fury.
A loud crack.
She twisted this way and that, trying to pinpoint the source of the explosive sound.
Another bang.
Shots?
On the front porch?
Could someone have broken one of the sliding glass doors?
Be coming into the cabin?
Sorcha held her breath.
Footsteps.
Oh God.
Her temples throbbed.
Fear strangled her ricocheting thoughts.
Please let it be Gray.
Footsteps coming her way.
She thought she heard the clack of shoes on the wooden floors. Her fingers curled around White's collar.
Her brain screamed, Run, run, run.
Her legs wouldn't move, as if someone had cemented her feet to the floor.
Gravel crunched as a car rolled down the driveway.
Finally, Sorcha's legs obeyed her brain and she ran into the bathroom, dragging White with her. The door had one of those button locks, and she knew it wouldn't stop whoever prowled through the house. She opened the cabinet above the sink and studied the shelves. Toothpaste, her razor, shampoo---She could spray shampoo in the intruder's eyes. Sorcha grabbed the razor and flicked off the safety cap.
"What the---"
Gray's voice. Her legs wobbled and she collapsed onto the bath mat.
The front door slammed open.
"Sorcha! Sorcha!" Gray bellowed.
She couldn't get out a word; her throat had closed in on itself.
White barked twice.
"Honey? Open the door. It's me."
She crawled around the pedestal sink and opened the door. A tangle of legs interweaved with her arms, and a dog tail whipped her face. Gray dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her nose in his chest and inhaled. He smelled so spicy, so real, so wonderful, so safe.
Lights flashed on.
"Are you okay?" He brushed her hair back from her face and raked her features. "What the hell happened?"
"I heard a sound, then a loud bang. Then glass broke, and I heard footsteps. I hid in here." She clutched the razor and the plastic bottle convulsively, her knuckles whitening around the items. "These were all I could find."
"Those are good weapons to choose, honey. Probably the best in this spot." Using his elbow, he nudged the door fully open, levered to his feet, marched to the bed, and sat. "I can't go through this again." His complexion had lost its golden hue and he gulped in oxygen, his chest lifting and falling in tight, short bursts.
"Was someone on the porch?" Her lungs stuttered as she waited for his answer.
"Yes. Honey, are you going to be okay if I leave you here while I check things out?"
"No. I'm coming with you." Sorcha's trembling fingers clutched his cotton shirt.
"Honey?" His voice wavered.
"No." She shook her head. "You're not leaving me alone in here. Oh God, Gray. I froze. I heard someone coming and I couldn't move."
"You did move, honey." He tucked a lock behind her ears. "You got into the bathroom, and you armed yourself with the best weapons you could find. You did good, hear me? You did fucking great." He crooned the words and feathered kisses on her cheeks, her nose, both temples.
"I want to learn how to shoot a gun," she said. "I never want to feel like that again."
"That's my mate. First thing I added to my to-do list when I saw the mess on the porch." He licked her neck.
"Gray, you're going to have put me down."
"I can't. Not yet." Gray's hands tightened their hold around her shoulders and her knees; he marched into the living room and thudded onto the sofa. Pressing his lips to her forehead, he stroked the length of her spine over and over until her shivers stammered to a halt.
How could his touch erase her fears in an instant?
From terror to security in zero to thirty seconds.
Under her palm, his heart beat in an irregular rhythm.
Her eyes focused on the leaping pulse in the center of his throat.
"Gray?"
Through half-hooded eyes, he scrutinized her face. "How long ago did all this happen?"
"Minutes, I think. I don't know exactly. Time sort of stood still when I froze." She bit her lower lip. "Can you teach me how to react right? I always thought I'd be smart, think fast, and do the right thing."
His features settled into an expression she recognized. Eyes narrowing, he muttered, "First of all, you are smart, you did react fast, and you did do the right thing. Right. Let's backtrack."
He took her through the sequence of events leading to his finding her in the bathroom. His calm questions and logical approach soothed her nerves. "Honey, I have to take a closer look at the glass. You'll be able to see me at all times. Okay?"
"I'll be fine, Gray. It was the first shock of it."
After settling her on the couch, he kissed the tip of her nose and rose to his feet. White trotted to Gray's side and sat on his haunches while Gray edged one sliding glass door open. Dog and man strode onto the wooden porch fronting the lake.
Covering her legs with the blanket, she blew out a long sigh.
What a day and a night.
She peered through the half-misted glass and spotted Gray scowling while sweeping shards into a plastic container.
White meandered across the deck and nosed his arm. The Lab nudged him again; Gray tilted his head and stood, a frown furrowing three grooves on his forehead. The animal trotted to the left side of the porch leading to the carport, gave a low woof, and pointed, lifting his nose in the air. Gray obeyed the canine's not-so-subtle, insistent follow-me command.
Pausing at the six-inch opening he'd left in the sliding glass doors, he said, "I'm going to check the back perimeter. I'll lock you in for now. If I'm not back in ten minutes, call the precinct."
He made her repeat the phone number twice, and then man and dog vanished around the far corner of the cabin. Pulse spiking, she drummed her fingers on the side table. Minutes ticked by without either Gray or White reappearing. She concentrated on the view.
Streaky rays peeked over Lake Wickia's eastern horizon.
A slight mist curled along the pines lining the opposite banks. Even through the muting effect of the floor-to-ceiling glass entrance, Sorcha listened to dawn's shroud of silence descend. Birds slipped into slumber, frogs retired, nocturnal animals ceased their movements, and the rippling shale surface of the water smoothed into a downy reflection of the skies above. She stared at the postcard-perfect Washington vista of lake, hills, and trees, and in the eerie quiet, the humming of small kitchen appliances thrummed like a low drumroll.
White preceded Gray through the doorway at the same moment she decided to go and check on the two of them. The minute she saw the expression on Gray's face, her breathing slowed to a turtle's pace.
"What is it?"
"When did you get into town?" He knelt in front of her and covered one hand with both of his. She shivered, though not from the chill of his callused palms.
"Around ten. Why?"
"Did you come here right away?"
"No, I went to Miss L's to pick up Harold and Kumar, stopped at the gas station, and then I hit the McDonald's drive-through." So much had happened since she drove into Twisp yesterday.
"Harold and Kumar aren't in their cage, honey. The door's wide open, and there are an awful lot of feathers in the cage. Almost as if they fought each other."
She shook her head. "No, that can't be true. I distinctly remember putting the dead bolt in before I covered the cage with their cashmere blanket."
Her grandmother's cockatoos had been her pride and joy. Both birds conversed like human beings and had extensive vocabularies. They could imitate almost every sound they heard, including kitchen sounds, car and boat engines, and a host of other noises common in and around Twisp. Harold played a mean sax, and Kumar had Aretha Franklin down to a tee.
"Besides, those birds are too spoiled. They might take a short joyride flight, but they don't know how to forage for food." Goose bumps peppered her forearms; she squeezed his hand. "They'd never survive in the wild. I have to go look for them."
"It's near sunrise. Neither of us has slept. We're not in any shape to go hunting for them now."
"I know you're right, but it doesn't make it any easier to accept." Sorcha remembered the original reason Gray had been on the porch. "And the lights?"
"Shot out. Looks like a BB gun. I'm sending the glass and the bullet to the county's central lab."
"A BB gun?" Sorcha didn't realize how much she had tensed until her shoulders slumped. "Teenagers? All the guys had them when I was in high school."
"Except the only teenagers in this area I can think of who would do something like this were in my lockup at that time." Gray dragged both hands through his hair. He checked his watch. "Church is at ten. If we hop into bed now, we can catch a couple hours of sleep."
"I don't think I could fall asleep. My mind's buzzing like a whole hive of bees."
"You'll sleep. Come on. I've cleaned up outside, and I left the birdcage open. There are still fruit and nuts in the cage, so hopefully Harold and Kumar will come home when they're hungry."
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Head hurting?"
"A tad. I'll take a couple of Aleves."
"No you won't, Sorcha McFadden. You'll be trying the Gray White cure." He winked. "Designed to make headaches and sleeplessness vanish like this." Snapping his fingers, he leered at her.
He shampooed her hair. The words sounded so simple. Gray massaged her scalp to the point where she purred and stretched and arched under his caresses. Then he dried every inch of her skin and combed her long hair in front of a blazing fire. As her tresses dried, he switched to a brush and stroked her locks until they shone like spun gold and she melted like molten lava.
By the time he laid her on the plush rug in front of the fireplace, relaxed couldn't begin to describe her limbs or her skin. Each stroke of the hairbrush shouted his feelings, his care for her, his devotion. She felt cherished, loved, aroused.
Gray cradled her head in his big, rough palms and parted her lips with gentle nips, his tongue delving past her teeth. He teased her with short, quick strokes into her mouth, drew her hips off the thick carpet with long, hard thrusts, had her moaning and pleading, weeping moisture.
"Please, Gray. Now, now. I need you now." She reached for him; he captured both wrists in one hand and stretched her arms above her head.
"My way today, honey. My way." He rolled her over, edged her onto her knees, and entered her from behind in one powerful plunge.
"Oh God. Oh Gray. Yes, yes," she moaned when he began to drive into her, long and hard, then short and fast, delaying her climax until she swore at him and thrashed her ass, meeting his cock with contracting muscles clamping tighter and tighter, fighting him for her peak, working his prick.
"Mine," he growled, and his teeth locked on her neck as her pussy knotted his shooting cock. "Mine."
Sorcha turned, her mouth clamped his bicep, and she echoed him, "Mine."
They crashed onto the rug, flesh sweat-slick, bodies a puddle of intertwined legs and arms. Sorcha grunted when Gray's muscles slackened and his weight crushed her. She muttered into the soft fleece, "Heavy."
Obligingly, he rolled onto his side, wrapped his body around hers, and nuzzled her nape. When his lungs settled into a deep, even rhythm, she knew he'd fallen asleep. Sorcha passed out minutes later.
"Honey." Warm hands shook her bare shoulder. "Wake up, honey. We have to get dressed for church."
Sorcha straightened her legs, reached both hands over her head, and arched. A silly grin captured her mouth, and she opened her eyes, blinking him into focus. "Morning."
Sun streamed through the sliding glass doors, the bright rays twinkling silver and gold into the navy waters of Lake Wickia. "I feel delicious."
"You are delicious." His lips trailed her collarbone, leaving her skin moist and tingling. "So, how do you like Gray White's headache cure?" Toothpaste spearmint wafted to her nose, and his hot breath tickled the hollow of her throat.
"I think I may plead a headache every night." She outlined his mouth with her fingertips, then thumbed the crinkles bracketing his dark eyes. "Is it always so primitive? I can't believe how wild I was. I swear I've never been so aware of everything in my life."
"Neither have I, Sorcha." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Never forget this is new to me too."
"Are we really going to church?" She rubbed against him, and her nipples tautened into hard little points.
"Yes, we are." He slapped her butt. "You shower first."
Ten minutes later, Sorcha studied her likeness in the mirror. Too much makeup? She wiped off the blush on her cheeks with a tissue. Too much perfume? Sniffing her wrists revealed only a hint of the lilac scent she used. She hadn't seen anyone in the White family for more than a decade. The dress looked okay. Modest neckline, short cap sleeves, tailored with a small belt at the waist. Her hips looked too heavy; she smoothed the material around her ass.
"Honey, what are you doing in there? It's five to ten. We're going to be late."
Sorcha rolled her eyes at her image in the glass, picked up her Dooney and Bourke tote, walked across the carpet, and opened the bedroom door to find Gray standing near the couch, legs shoulder width apart, hands jammed onto hips.
"The birds aren't back. White's in the sunroom. I refilled his water and food."
"And good morning to you too," she retorted.
That devilish grin she loved curved his lips. "Not a morning person, I see."
He hustled her out of the cabin and into the Durango.
Even though he drove five miles over the speed limit, they arrived ten minutes late.
Sorcha kept her back straight and her shoulders squared as they swept up the middle aisle to the White family pew amid a sea of seated churchgoers. Whispers followed their entrance; she heard "Sorcha" several times but kept her eyes fixed on the faded red carpet that seemed to separate all church pews.
As they slipped onto an oak bench in the second row, she caught Gray's sister's gasp of surprise. Susie grinned and mouthed, Later.
The minute the minister launched into his sermon, images of the past day and a half intruded: meeting Gray's eyes for the first time, sitting joined to him in front of the fireplace, being on her knees as he took her from behind.
Bad, bad, bad woman---not supposed to think about sex in a holy place.
Half-asleep and more than a little dazed, time both blurred and stood still, and she jerked into full consciousness when everyone rose for the final hymn.
Gray kept his arm around her waist as they followed everyone out of the red-bricked building.
As soon as they cleared the doors, Susie curled her fingers around Sorcha's forearm. "Sorcha McFadden, you rotten person, you. You stopped writing and then your letters came back to me. Where have you been? What are you doing here? It's because of Grams, isn't it? Come and meet my kids. They're in Sunday-school class."
"Chill, Susie," Gray ordered. "Give Sorcha a break. We're coming back to the house for lunch, so you'll have lots of time to catch up. Breathe and go get the brats."
"Brats," Susie huffed but went around the side of the edifice muttering to herself.
Sorcha couldn't keep the smile off her face. Susie hadn't changed a bit, still gregarious and honest to a fault.
It seemed everyone wanted to meet her. While she may not have shaken 935 hands, it sure felt like it. The crowd had whittled down to five or six stragglers when a red pickup squealed into the parking lot.
"Crap," Gray muttered. He fixed his gaze on the three men who exited the vehicle.
Sorcha guessed the shortest of the trio to be six-four. All wore faded denim jeans, checkered red and blue shirts, and headbands. Two looked to be in their early forties, the other his late twenties. Belligerence and testosterone dominated their body language. Eyes narrowed, hands balled into fists, every step the Native Americans took spelled trouble; the word should have been tattooed on their foreheads.
Gray met the three men in the middle of the parking lot.
"Uh-oh."
Sorcha hadn't noticed Susie's return.
"Who are they?"
"Howie Houndtree's the middle one. Gray arrested his son Tommy a while back, and the boy's scheduled to be sentenced in a few days. The others are Howie's cousins."
Sorcha remembered the TV report she'd seen. "Tommy plays football, right?"
"Star of the local high school team," Susie answered. "He was being scouted by the big-name colleges. Had a brilliant future until his arrest."
Sorcha digested the news while watching Howie brandishing a fist not inches from Gray's face. "Howie looks like a man with a temper."
"Believe me, he is. I'd better get some help." Susie jogged away.
The situation had deteriorated during their fifteen-second conversation.
The Houndtree males formed a half circle around Gray, and all of them seemed to be shouting at the same time. She couldn't decipher a word.
Howie threw something to the ground, whirled around, and headed to the truck with his cousins in tow.
"What was that about?" she asked when Gray returned to her side.
"Idle threats. Let's dash. The kids will be hungry."
He bundled her into the white Durango emblazoned with the word SHERIFF.
"You okay, honey?" he asked when she didn't say a word after they'd been driving for five minutes.
"Just thinking about the past," Sorcha replied, trying to shake off memories she didn't want to face.
"Your parents?"
She sneaked him a glance. "I wasn't sure if you'd even heard. It was only big news in Twisp."
"You wrote Susie about it. I read the letter you sent after you were released from the hospital." He captured her hand and kissed her knuckles. "You really remember nothing?"
"Nothing at all. I've lost the first fifteen years of my life. I can't remember my parents, my birthdays. I have vague flashes---I can remember spending time with Susie, playing Barbie dolls, but anything chronological related to my parents is beyond me."
"Is it physical?"
Sorcha flinched, taken aback by his bluntness. "Do you know you're the first person to actually ask that question? I knew everyone wondered, but no one had the guts to voice what they thought." She shook her head. "No. The bullet took a small chunk of my skull, which they replaced. I was given a clean bill of health. All the shrinks back then said my amnesia is purely mental."
I wish I remembered what happened that night. I hope I never do.
"Is that why you left town? Because of the gossip?"
"I don't know why we left. Three days after they released me from the hospital, Grams and I moved up to Canada. We lived in Penticton until I graduated high school. When I was accepted to college, Grams came back here. I know she wanted me to come and visit, but I just couldn't."
"Why now, honey?"
"I turned thirty the day Grams died. It's time for me to face my past, and all roads seemed to lead to Twisp." Her lips pursed. "Somewhere deep in the back of my mind I knew, no matter how much I fought it, I'd end up here."
They had arrived at his mother's house.
Apples and cinnamon and warm air and squeals greeted their entrance. Surrounded immediately by four little girls dressed in varying hues of pink dresses and pants and tops who all seemed to be squealing, "Uncle Gray, Uncle Gray," Sorcha froze as the wind slammed the door behind their backs.
One grubby hand grabbed Sorcha's. The palm in contact with hers contained something wet and slimy. Sorcha swallowed.
A raven-haired moppet, lips stained poppy red by the scarlet Popsicle she gnawed on, muttered, "Mybef."
Entranced, Sorcha asked, "Pardon me?"
"You're her new best friend forever," Gray translated. "This is Ariel, Susie and Joe's oldest."
"Something's moving in my palm," Sorcha muttered, sotto voce. "I think she has something live in her hand."
Gray grinned, rolled his eyes, and then stooped. "Show, brat." He held out an upturned hand.
Ariel mumbled something around her Popsicle®, released her tight grip on Sorcha's hand, and deposited a lime green grasshopper on Gray's palm. Antennae quivering, the insect promptly leaped for its life. Ariel ran after the bounding insect, emitting high-pitched shrieks Sorcha couldn't decipher.
Stifling the urge to rub her hand on her dress, Sorcha flinched at the sound of a throat clearing . Another young girl stood in the spot Ariel had vacated. Clear black eyes, rife with intelligence, inspected her head to toe. Shoulder-length, glossy raven locks framed a heart-shaped face dominated by a long, straight nose, which led to a full mouth bordered by a stubborn jawline that shouted determination.
Uh-oh.
"I'm Jaclyn. Are you Gray's girlfriend?" Slender to the point of thinness, the child, around seven, wore cowboy boots, pink pants, and a purple long-sleeved shirt. The young girl crossed her arms, tapped her foot, and demanded, "Well? It's a simple yes-or-no question."
Sorcha tried to keep her face neutral but knew her eyebrows had climbed to her hairline. She glanced to Gray for guidance.
"This is Jackie, Melanie and Mike's oldest. Jackie wants to be an investigative reporter when she grows up. We're still on the reporter, right, brat?"
So much for guidance. And Jaclyn wasn't finished, because one cowboy boot did a rat-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor.
"You know Gramma's not going to give you any apple pie if you keep calling us brats, Uncle Gray. And my name's Jaclyn, not Jackie. Mom says she's always been goopy for you, and that you wouldn't have brought her to church to sit with us unless you're serious. Just so you know, we've decided---I'll be the first flower girl at the wedding, and I'll be in charge of the rings. And we're all wearing pink. No ruffles."
A hold button stamped Sorcha's whirling thoughts to a halt; she sneaked Gray another peek.
He winked at her.
Omigod. If the little girls had talked about a wedding, what had the adults discussed? Sorcha stifled a wince. Her temples throbbed, and the room's gradient dipped out of focus.
"I'm Jenna, and I'm the second oldest." Jaclyn moved aside and another dark-haired girl took her place. This one had twin dimples and wore a smile that dazzled and spoke of future glamour.
"Jenna also belongs to Melanie and Mike," Gray said as he and Jenna high-fived.
"I think we should have pink ribbons in our hair, and I like ruffles." Jenna ended her pronouncement while batting the kind of thick and lush eyelashes only men seemed to inherit.
Sorcha barely had time to recover from the two J's when a tiny hand tugged her forefinger.
A miniature of Ariel, minus the stained mouth, stared up at her. Mesmerized by flying-saucer eyes, one the shade of After Eight chocolate, the other a light hazel with a hint of emerald, Sorcha returned the little girl's hesitant smile with a broad grin.
"I can count to fifty." The toddler looked unsteady in a big, poufy dress and tottered on glass Cinderella shoes---pink, of course. "One, two, free, four."
What would her daughter look like? Would she have dark eyes like Gray's or blue like hers? Omigod. Where had that thought come from? Logic told Sorcha her heart really couldn't turn over in her chest, but the sudden ache in that spot sure felt like it had.
"This is Taylor, Joe and Susie's youngest. Here's fifty cents, brat." Gray stooped again and closed a small hand around two shiny quarters. "Go put it in your piggy bank, and I'll throw you up in the air later."
Letting out an earsplitting screech, the child spun around and sped across the room.
A cacophony of sound contributed to Sorcha's dizziness. Someone plucked a piano in painful discordance, dishes and cutlery clinked in the background, deep male baritones conversed, and children hollered and laughed.
Two hours later, her brain reeling and spinning from the White's Sunday family lunch, Sorcha stared unseeing out the Durango's passenger window. She jumped when Gray's hand captured hers.
"Overwhelmed?" Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat. "The family can be a handful. Especially the first encounter en masse. Think you can get used to Sunday lunches?"
"I think you're very, very lucky, Gray White. And I would be proud to take part in Sunday lunches. And yes, I am overwhelmed. How can they accept me just like that?" She snapped her thumb and forefinger.
"The way it happened with us is the way it happened with all of them." She liked watching the way his large hand controlled the steering wheel. "Mate-recognition happens in an instant. The minute I set eyes on you, I knew."
"But all of you have the wolf spirit in you, don't you?" She shot him a glance. "I don't."
"I hadn't thought about that." He squeezed her fingers and yanked the hand brake on the car. Facing Sorcha, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. "I'm still staggering, and I know you must be too. Let's just take this one day at a time, okay?"
Letting out a long sigh, she replied, "More like one second at a time." All at once, Sorcha noticed her surroundings.
"We're here," she said and glanced at the birdcage. "Harold and Kumar haven't come back."
"They will."
Gray hustled her into the house, muttering something about the Seahawks. He settled in front of the new flat-panel TV that had somehow materialized during the time they were gone. The minute he turned on the television, she lost his attention.
White trotted into the living room, past the kitchen to where his leash hung on a hook, and captured the leather with his teeth. Sorcha smiled as the Lab walked over, dropped the leash at her feet, and sat. She scratched his head and said, "Five minutes, boy."
"Where are you going?" Gray frowned at her.
"It's time for White's walk."
"I'll come with you." Dark eyes flickered to the TV.
"You stay and watch your game. I'll be fine."
A whistle blew; he looked at the screen and grunted, half turning away from her.
She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt and put on her running shoes.
"Come here," Gray said when Sorcha returned to the living room. "Put this around your neck." He handed her a whistle attached to a string. "The first hint of anything suspicious, send three short blasts. Repeat every twenty seconds until I'm by your side."
Sorcha dropped the whistle around her neck. Gray's palms warmed her cheeks as he held her steady for an openmouthed kiss. "Tomorrow, we start shooting lessons. Which way are you going?"
"To Goose Point."
"Perfect choice. Ten minutes there, ten back." He checked his watch. "Five fifteen. I'll set my timer. Careful on the rocks."
She loved evenings like this on the lake. The sun hung above the horizon like one of Hercules's fat golden balls, turning the middle of the lake a brilliant silver, making the thick bands of trees lining the water shadow the banks dark and mysterious. A flock of geese flew in a formation so perfect and tight, any F-4 squadron leader would be envious. Eyes following the birds' flight, Sorcha missed her footing, and she slipped into a puddle of icy water.
"Damn." Her socks, shoes, and the bottom half of her jeans were soaked. "We'd better head back, boy." Sorcha glanced up to find White had disappeared.
She whistled.
A muffled bark reached her ears, then another, and another, and then a long, mournful howl.
Not once since she'd adopted him had White ever howled.
The noise came from a clump of trees just ahead and inland. She ran toward the grove of evergreens. The sun's rays didn't penetrate the dense thicket of pine and brush, and she stumbled around trunks, squinting and bending to avoid branches.
Sorcha fell into a narrow opening. White's howling had climbed to a higher pitch, and she literally stumbled over her dog sitting next to a tree. The stench of rotting flesh thickened the air, and she pinched her nose to stifle a gag. At first she couldn't make out what animal had died; then she saw the white plumes stained a gruesome scarlet.
Gray grabbed his gun and flew out the door when he heard the first whistle blast. He patted his shirt pocket to make sure he had his cell phone on him.
Fuck.
He should never have let her go alone.
Fear turned his saliva bitter and churned his stomach raw. He picked up her scent, not along the banks, but more inland, and let his stride lengthen. White's howling drowned the lower noises, but when the Lab paused, he picked up Sorcha's sobs.
His lungs burned, but he pumped his arms and legs faster and faster. Dusk fell as he sprinted across boulders, weaving through the dense forest. Night vision heightened his amplified senses. As he closed in on Sorcha's position, her scent broadcasted her emotions, fear, sorrow, anger, saturated his nostrils.
"Sorcha." He kept his voice low, not certain of the danger ahead.
"Gray," she said, his name uttered on a sob.
He spotted her turning from side to side, hunting for the source of his voice.
"Behind you."
She spun around but still couldn't see him as the sun had vanished. Gray reached her; he caught her to him and held her tight against his chest, burying his nose in her hair. For one deep inhale, he wallowed in her essence, relishing the feel of his mate in his arms.
Safe, she was safe.
A twig snapped, Gray's head whipped up, and he froze.
Another aroma reached him.
Death.
A body?
"The birds." She hiccupped. "Kumar, Harold---" Her voice cracked, and she burst into tears, dampening the front of his shirt.
Stroking her back while his eyes swept the thick-leaved carpet dusting the narrow oval clearing, Gray spied the carcasses of two white cockatoos three feet away from Sorcha's sneakers.
Lying almost at a ninety-degree angle to the other, one bird's underbelly concealed the other's head. Closing his eyes for a second, he prayed one of the animals lived.
"I need to look, honey." He set Sorcha next to the Lab and wrapped her arms around the dog's neck. "Hold on to White."
Crap.
Someone had broken the smaller cockatoo's neck. A clean break similar to the one Native Americans used on old roosters. Running his fingers gently over the other cockatoo's body, he almost shouted his relief when the bird's chest lifted and fell.
"Kumar's alive. I need to make him a splint. Talk to him. Scratch his head if you want. It's not injured."
"Who would do this? They're harmless pets." She broke into a series of muffled sniffles. "Everyone in town loved these birds. At least they used to."
The cockatoos had accompanied Aileen on her daily chores about town. Most Twisp residents did their damnedest to train either Kumar or Harold to imitate them. Gray couldn't think of a single individual who would injure either parrot.
He listened absently to Sorcha's disjointed reminiscences, his mind on fast-forward. He worked steadily, gathering twigs and branches while drawing in deep breaths. He didn't pick up any unusual scents, saw nothing other than the regular nocturnal animals, heard nothing but what he expected---the occasional howl, insect chirps, and the slithering and hissing of a nearby snake. Yet his every sense jangled and sparked. Danger and death lurked and lingered on Sorcha's skin.
"Honey, it's ready. I know you can't see very well." He reached for her hand. "This is the splint. I'm going to put it on the ground. I want you to hold the top down so I can slide Kumar onto it. We're going to have to leave Harold for the time being. Will White stay and guard?"
She nodded. "Yes. White, stay. Guard."
With a little fumbling, they managed to place the bird on the makeshift splint.
"Here's the way we're going to do this. I'll carry Kumar. You hold on to my belt loop and follow. We need to go slowly so we don't jar his wounds."
Halfway to the cabin, he slipped his cell phone out of his pocket while balancing Kumar on one palm. "Our vet, Jimmy Plant, is only ten minutes away from here. I'll give him a heads-up."
Sorcha's intermittent weeping quieted by the time they reached the cabin.
"Honey, can you grab the keys while I put Kumar in the car?"
Her tearstained, grubby cheeks tore at his heart. She nodded and broke into a jog. By the time Sorcha returned with the keys, he had Kumar wedged into a box resting on the front passenger tray.
Taking the keys from her clutching fingers, he said, "You need to hold the box steady with your feet and hands, okay?"
"Yes." She never spoke another word and stared at Kumar for the entire five-mile journey.
Gray thanked the gods when they burst into the animal hospital and Jimmy Plant himself greeted them. One look at the injured bird, and the vet took charge. Within seconds, they were in an operating theater with Jimmy issuing commands in machine-gun fashion.
As soon as the vet began working on the bird, Gray excused himself and went outside.
He called the station. "Henry, it's me. Listen, we've had a small incident at the cabin." Gray filled in his deputy on the situation. "I left the cabin wide open. Get Ted to watch the place. Shouldn't be for longer than a couple of hours."
"Done, boss."
When Gray went back into the vet's office, he discovered Sorcha had insisted on staying in the room for Kumar's operation, which was expected to last an hour.
Gray didn't hesitate. "Tell Ms. McFadden I went back to get the other bird and her dog. Make sure she waits here. Call me as soon as Dr. Plant's finished."
Her mouth opening and closing like a dying trout, the receptionist blinked but nodded.
Ten minutes later, Gray found Ted, his lieutenant, pacing the cabin's graveled driveway. As he cleared the Durango's running board, he flipped the front-door keys to him. Ted raised a hand and nabbed the jangling metal ring.
"Any special instructions?"
"No. Cable's hooked up in the cabin. Beer's in the fridge. Help yourself. I'll probably be a couple of hours still. That okay with you?"
"No problemo, boss." Ted waved a hand and then turned around.
As soon as the other man stepped onto the cabin's porch, Gray broke into a run.
Following a zigzag across the area, he searched the woods for a three-mile radius east of the cabin.
About a third of the way to Goose Point, he discovered the hint of an unfamiliar, repulsive aroma, acrid to the nose, clinging to a short shrub he didn't recognize. Gray uprooted the plant using his ankle knife and bare hands. Wherever his skin came into contact with the bush's leaves, a rash appeared.
After he picked up Harold's body, he and White jogged back to the cabin. After washing his hands to the elbows, he applied calamine lotion to the raised red splotches dotting his skin. He packaged the shrub and the cockatoo's remains in separate airtight plastic bags, sealed both, and stored the items in the Durango's rear.
White accompanied Gray to the vet's. He found the doctor and Sorcha standing and chatting in the lobby.
"How did it go?"
"He's a tough little bird. Nothing crucial was damaged. I think he'll make it."
"He opened his eyes and squawked once." Sorcha gave him a half smile. Gray smudges under her eyes emphasized her reddened corneas, and even her rosy lips had paled. "Someone will call us if he worsens."
"I brought you a friend," Gray said, and he whistled for White, who bounded in through the open front door.
"Hi, boy," Sorcha mumbled and knelt to hug the Lab.
"I need to get these two home and in bed, Jimmy." Gray drove his fingers through the knots in his tangled hair. "Honey, you want to hop in the car and settle White?"
As soon as Sorcha left the office, Gray muttered, "I brought the other bird. Can you do an autopsy? It looks like his neck was broken, but I want to know for sure. I'm pretty sure she'll want to bury the bird, so fix him back up, will you?"
"No problem. I presume the results are not to go to Sorcha?"
"Bingo."
"I'll call your cell."
"Thanks. Later."
When they entered the log cabin, Ted was watching the second football game.
"Yo, boss." He greeted them with a nod. "Everything okay?"
"We're good," Gray replied, and he hurried Ted out while thanking him for filling in on the fly.
His neck had knotted and bunched, and he kneaded the stiff muscles as he secured the front and back entrances.
Sorcha had already fallen asleep when he made it to the bedroom. Her features had softened in repose, and her mouth had lost the pursed, tight set she'd worn all evening. After he stripped, he slipped under the covers and tucked her head onto his chest, lifting her leg over his groin. Hot, soft skin erased the chill in his bones.
He traced the curve of her cheek with a finger. A whiff of the flowery perfume she favored wafted to his nostrils. One wavy lock, darker than auburn, fell across a breast, making her nipple a pale shell pink instead of the usual bright cherry blossom. Her lush lashes cast a smoky shadow on her ivory cheeks, and Gray let out a long, long sigh.
He couldn't remember a more disastrous thirty-two hours.
Since meeting his mate, one calamity after another had blasted through their lives. He stared at the ceiling fan, his mind wandering and hopping over the last twenty-four hours.
Start from the beginning.
Fifteen years ago, Sorcha's father killed her mother, attempted to kill his only child, and then turned the gun on himself. Only Sorcha survived. She lost most of her childhood memories, and she remembered nothing of the night of the murder/suicide.
Though the house had been turned upside down, nothing appeared to have been stolen. Because born and bred locals considered anyone not of the same ilk eccentric foreigners, the Twisp police and the coroner ruled it for what it seemed to be---an obvious murder/suicide.
What about tonight's events made him think of the past?
His eyelids grew heavy.
Aileen, something about Aileen.
The next thing Gray knew, his cell phone woke him. He'd left it on ringer.
"Crap," he grumbled. Eyes shuttered, he reached across the mattress, his fingers fumbling until they closed around the blasted appliance. He flipped the cell phone open and muttered, "Sheriff White."
He lifted one eyelid and groaned when he caught sight of the digital readout on the alarm clock, 5:30. He needed twenty-four hours more sleep.
"We've identified the body. It's Kevin Hazard."
Crap.
"This is all we need. Coroner finished with him?"
"Coroner hasn't even arrived. He's finishing up a case near the border."
"We're dropping the ball on this, Henry. Bruce is going have a shit fit, and I can't blame him. How'd we ID him?"
"Wicks took prints off the body and ran them through the files. We printed him and his twin when Whitener insisted on going on record last year after one of them threw a fit in the diner and destroyed all that furniture."
Unfortunately, they'd never been able to pin one twin for the offense, as they had only been able to locate the brothers several hours after the incident.
"Where're we at now?"
"Trying to establish the deceased's chronological movements over the last twenty-four hours. So far we have Kevin and a group of friends partying in a sports bar in Malott. Ken barged in, and a fight broke out between the twins. Their friends got involved, and all of the boys were literally thrown out."
"What was the argument about?"
"Something about a cult. A Satan-worshipping cult practicing near Leader Lake."
"It's not as if there aren't any number of religious cults hidden in the Washington hills. Why fight about it?"
"This one's members are Native Americans who sacrifice animals and wear black wolf pelts during their ceremonies. According to the bartender, one of the twins had gotten involved with the cult, and the other one disapproved. Since they're identical, the barkeep couldn't identify who thought what."
Gray's blood congealed, slowing to a mere stammering through his veins and arteries.
His grandfather had eradicated the black wolves decades ago.
"E-mail me the details you got from him. Tox results in yet?"
"No."
"Parents notified?"
"Couldn't reach either one on their cells or their house phone. I left voice mails asking them to contact either you or me. I warned everyone to keep their traps shut."
"You done good, Henry. If either Hazard calls, redirect them to me."
"I hear you. I'll leave a note and put it in the file."
Gray snapped the phone closed. A swift glance through the bedroom curtains showed a sky as clear and blue as Sorcha's eyes.
Like a magnet drawn to the North Pole, his gaze returned to Sorcha. She'd curled into a little ball and hugged her pillow to her breasts.
Fucking lucky pillow.
Clutching his phone, Gray eased out of the bed like a thief stealing away from a robbery and padded through the cabin. Needing to clear his head, he opened the sliding glass doors and took a deep breath, relishing the early-morning chill, the clean scent of mud, dew-drenched leaves, and pungent pine. Stretching his arms above his head, he stepped onto the wooden deck, eyes sweeping the deserted bay.
Water lapped at the deck, the soft swishing breaking nature's momentary silence. As he mentally replayed the events of the previous two days, Gray thumbed One, the number preprogrammed to Chad's cell.
"It's frigging five thirty in the morning, Gray."
"Yeah, well, I happen to know you do Vixen's five-in-the-morning feeding." Married to Gray's oldest sister, Lizzie, Chad had mellowed with the birth of his first child seven months earlier. A white wolf from Arizona and a prime in his own pack, Chad's investigative expertise and renowned reputation underestimated his actual skills.
"When a man has a baby, he loses all his dignity. Not to mention he never has a frigging secret ever again."
Gray got right to the point. "Rumor has it there's a Native American satanic cult living near Leader Lake."
"Can't be. Your grandfather destroyed every last one of the black wolves years ago."
"Suppose he didn't? I'm heading up there as soon as I can. I want you, Joe, and Mike covering my back. How much notice do you need?" Married to Susie, Joe hailed from a Colorado wolf pack while Mike, married to Melanie, had been born and raised in northern Michigan. Both men were powerful alphas with honed wolf senses.
"I'm good. Hour or two?"
"I wasn't thinking of today. Maybe tomorrow. What about Joe and Mike?"
"Joe doesn't need notice. Mike has a couple of pending cases, nothing crucial. You driving? We carrying?"
"Yeah to both."
"I'll wait for your call. Later."
"Yeah." Gray slipped the cell onto a side table.
He needed to be clean, to wash this newest stain from his skin. Gray found a towel they'd used the day before and dropped it onto the porch banister.
Like most of his family, Gray loved the water, found solace under the surface of any cool Washington lake. He dived off the deck, his entrance quiet, unobtrusive, the requisite minimum disturbance diving contests required. The cold lake gave him a brain chill.
Treading water, he shook his head, and icy droplets flew in all directions. Adrenaline pumping, he took off, doing a record freestyle to the opposite bank.
When he stood in the shallows on the other side of the lake, Gray stared at the cabin, willing Sorcha to appear, preferably nude.
White trotted onto the porch wagging his tail.
Gray grinned and foolishly waved at the Lab. He pushed off a rock and did a butterfly stroke across the breadth of the lake. Exactly in the middle, he smelled the acrid aroma that had so repelled him the night before. He dog-paddled, swimming a circle in place, gulping in air, trying to pinpoint the source of the scent.
Nothing. He saw nothing unusual, heard nothing but birds chirping early-morning gossip. Yet every hair on his body, even his pubes, stood at right angles to his flesh. That lizardlike, back-of-the-neck niggle turned into a waterfall of sensation.
Who or what stalked Sorcha?
He had to get back to his mate.
Gray made it onto the deck in less than five minutes. Since mating with Sorcha, his strength and speed had doubled. None of his brothers-in-law had ever spoken of such a reaction. All had mated and married women bonded to the spirit of the white wolf.
It didn't make sense.
If his powers were affected by his choice of a human mate, shouldn't his strengths have waned rather than increased?
He toweled off before entering the cabin and found Sorcha dressed in jeans and a bright blue tank top, studying a book at the breakfast table. She never even noticed his stealthy entrance, and he realized even this talent had magnified.
"Morning, honey," he said, then licked her neck and breathed in her soapy flower scent. "God, I love the way you smell."
She almost fell out of the chair.
"Don't do that again." She glared at him before clamping her lips together. "My heart just 'bout jumped out of my chest."
"What are you reading?" He tried to decipher the title of the book from the top of an open page.
"Nothing," she replied, color climbing from throat to cheekbones as she stared at his twitching arousal.
"Dare I hope it's some sort of light porn? Sex-toy catalog, maybe?" She looked so pretty this morning, auburn hair all curly and tousled, eyes a tad sleep-fuddled. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose begged for his kisses.
She snorted. "If you must know, it's a cookbook. Explain to me why there are two methods for making the perfect hard-boiled egg."
"Why do you want to learn to cook?" He loved watching her skin turn rosy, the naked, honest expressions crossing her face, the way she cocked her head and frowned when frustrated.
"Because you like it so much." Her blush deepened, and she averted her eyes. "I thought it might be fun to help you in the kitchen."
How had he been so lucky?
A surge of pure joy drove him to blurt, "I am so falling in love with you, honey." The words simply popped out of his mouth.
Her sky blues widened, and she smiled that fucking perfect smile. "You are?"
"Fuck yeah. You know, we haven't had a shower together yet."
She winced, and reflexively, he did too.
From now on he'd watch his language.
Slamming the book closed, Sorcha grinned and retorted, "You did shampoo my hair."
"Ah, but a shower is mutual, honey."
Sorcha pulled her tank top over her head, and she wasn't wearing a bra.
"God, I love your breasts. Last night, these," he murmured, pausing to worship and lave a taut point with his tongue, "were a pale shell pink. This morning, they're cherry blossoms again." His arm curled around her waist, and his eyes blurred as he stared at her nipple until he suckled the tip into his mouth.
Sorcha whimpered and tangled her hands in his hair, pressing him closer.
Gray scooped his arms under her knees. His mouth bolted onto her breast, tongue lapping the swollen underside, trailing the circumference of the pink areola, before his teeth joined the party and nipped the turgid point.
She yelped.
"Hurt?" he asked around a mouthful of slick flesh.
"Do it again," she begged. "The other one."
"Anything my mate wishes," Gray promised. He headed for the bathroom.
All the phones started ringing as soon as they'd lathered up.
Gray groaned. "We'll have to speed this up, honey. I'm on call."
He detached the showerhead and sprayed the soap bubbles off her body.
"My turn," she said, her eyes twinkling at him. She changed the setting from shower to pulse and held it between his thighs.
Gray choked back a curse, braced his hands on the tiles, and edged his legs farther apart. The jets hit his groin, and he growled. She reached around and held his cock firmly at the base and aimed the spurting water stream at his crown.
His balls tightened painfully.
"Not a minute more." He grabbed the showerhead, helped Sorcha into a position he'd long fantasized about, lifting one foot onto a low stool, and spread her legs. Curling his fingers around both of her wrists, he lifted her arms high above her head and held her in place with one hand. Sorcha leaned her forehead on the wet ceramic wall.
Gray entered her slowly, savoring the visual of her exposed and distended sex, cupping one palm around a breast and tugging at the nipple.
"You're so tight, honey. So wet for me. So hot inside." He adjusted her bent leg, widening the angle. "Now I can reach everywhere." His fingers stroked her folds while his thumb circled her clit.
Sorcha shuddered. "Oh God, Gray. Please, faster, harder."
"Turn your head a little, honey. I want to kiss you through your orgasms." Gray's tongue fucked her mouth, his fingers teased her pussy while his cock pillaged her vagina. Neither of them lasted through nine strokes, the stimulation too much, too everywhere, too potent.
Sorcha fell off the stool when she climaxed, and Gray's arm clamped her waist, supporting her through the explosive contractions. Yet he never broke their kiss, the deep, sensitive dueling of their tongues.
"I'm going to perish of pleasure," Gray muttered when the blood returned to fuel a mouth and brain connection.
"I think I just did," Sorcha said. "I never know what to expect. It's so different each time."
"I hate to break the mood, honey."
"I know. You're on call." She giggled. "There's a small problem with this position. How do we get out of the bathroom?"
"Carefully, honey. Very carefully."
A few bumps and bruises and many laughs later, Gray and Sorcha collapsed onto the mattress.
"Shush now. I have to call the station." He checked the LCD on his mobile.
"I hope Kumar's okay." All the worry of the night before returned to her eyes.
Gray kissed the tip of her nose.
"Call Jimmy on the house phone," he suggested. "Hang on. I'll roll us over so you're closest."
Unable to resist, he ate at her mouth while suiting his actions to his words.
Breaking the kiss, Gray ordered, "Call Jimmy."
He hit Redial. "Ted, you called?"
"Thought you might want to know the coroner arrived not five minutes ago."
"Great. Any updates?"
"Everyone's out trying to track the boys' movements."
"No word from either Hazard parent?"
"Not a peep. We've kept everything battened down."
"Good. The minute we hear from a parent, call me. Don't even hint about Kevin. Media hound that he is, Bruce will call a news conference, and his spin on what's happened is not likely to paint the 400th Precinct in a favorable light."
"Understatement of the year," Ted mumbled. "Howie Houndtree's called twice demanding to speak with you."
"Next time he calls, connect him to my cell." His early-morning vigor ebbed, and he heaved a big sigh.
"Gotcha, boss."
"Later." Gray stared at the phone and debated phoning Bruce Hazard for three seconds before abandoning the idea.
Sorcha shifted off his cock; the mate-lock had loosened.
He hated losing her warmth.
"I take it you have places to go to and people to see?"
He gave her a quick summation of the situation with the Hazards, Houndtrees, and the Leader Lake cult.
"How awful," she said when he finished. "I've never liked Tonya much, but I wouldn't wish this on anyone. I didn't know Bruce."
He hadn't even realized she remembered Tonya. Fuck. He flicked Sorcha an imperceptible glance. No way she could have heard about his brief fling with the head cheerleader, he decided. He stifled a sigh.
"You haven't missed much, believe me. He's been linked off and on to almost any crime related to large sums of money---drug laundering, Ponzi schemes---you name it, he's done it. But he's as slippery as an eel. We haven't been able to pin anything on him."
"It must be very frustrating," she commented, tilting her head to one side. "I watched a news report the other night. Is he really running for the senate?"
"Yeah---Can you believe the bastard's gall? And he'll probably win, even though we're not the only office after him. I know he's on the Feds' short list."
"Really? It's hard to imagine anyone from Twisp being important to the FBI." She frowned. "What about this cult?"
Automatically, he smoothed the lines between her eyebrows and replied, "My guess is it's bored teenagers on spring break."
"Will you be at the station all day?"
"Nah, I have meetings at Central." He chucked her chin. "What did the vet have to say?"
Sorcha broke into a big, happy smile. "Jimmy thinks Kumar's going to make it. I'm going up there later on to visit him."
His phone rang again. Gray saw the caller ID and asked Sorcha, "Would you get me a cup of coffee for the road, honey? I take it black."
"Sure."
Gray waited until she disappeared from view and then stabbed Answer. "Jimmy, any news?"
"Both birds had traces of chloroform on their feathers."
"Chloroform?" He shook his head. "That means they were deliberately taken."
"I know. It doesn't make any sense. Why would someone steal valuable birds simply to kill them?"
Satanic cults sacrificed animals as part of their demonic rituals.
Gray's grip on the phone tightened. "Thanks, Jimmy. Let's keep this between the two of us. Can you do up an official report and e-mail it to Henry at the station?"
"Sure. Catch you later."
He hung up.
Crap.
Someone from Twisp had joined the cult.
Who else would know about the birds?
Sorcha picked that moment to bring in his coffee. "Something wrong? You have a funny look on your face."
"Work." Gray flashed her a grin and hoped she didn't notice how stiff he was. "Honey, how long ago did your grandmother get the birds?"
A shutter descended over her normally honest and open features. Gray had never noticed the muscle jumping under her eye before. "Grams adopted them after that night. My parents gave me the pair for my tenth birthday."
Less than half an hour later, Gray kissed Sorcha good-bye. White trotted alongside as she walked him out to the SUV. She stood watching the car's bumper disappear around a bend, wishing she could pinpoint what bothered her about his actions after he ended that second phone call.
Why was he so secretive? Why was it necessary for him to be secretive? She couldn't shake the feeling that Gray lived in a world of half-truths. Immediately, her conscience reared.
And you don't?
If she hadn't offered him spurious reasons for returning to Twisp and instead told the truth, he'd have committed her on the spot. Yet Gray had shared his most dangerous secret with her. Yeah, right, as if he could have hidden his true white wolf nature after they'd made love. Sorcha rubbed an aching temple. With the constantly resurfacing rumors about the White family, any confirmation, even from someone with her reputation, would be enough to unseat Gray as sheriff.
White nuzzled her palm; she stooped and scratched his chest and his ear at the same time, and the Lab whimpered.
"Now if men were only as easy to please, huh, boy? It's a gorgeous day. The sun's shining, there's not a cloud in the sky, and I'm positive it's going to be warmer than yesterday."
Deciding to address the issues that had brought her to Twisp, Sorcha spent two hours unpacking her files and documents and organizing a small part of the main dining room as her office area. She could have used Grams's study, but the thought of entering that room made her want to retch.
She had yet to go through her grandmother's possessions, most of which Miss L had stacked in the study prior to her arrival. The two women had been best friends for as long as Sorcha could remember. Grams and Miss L, both of Irish origin, had shared a near obsession with Irish folklore and leprechauns, fairies, and pixies. Superstition and magical beliefs influenced both women's lives, much to the amusement of most of Twisp.
No one had ever taken either her mother, Catriona, or Grams seriously. Grams, because of her preoccupation with all things "fae," her mom because she was so "hippiefied," the word Twisp residents used to describe her daydreaming, artistic mother.
"Well, that's that," she said, dusting her hands as she emptied the last crate of manila folders. "Now I can get down to work."
The landline rang.
Sorcha stared at the phone suspiciously. She hadn't bothered to change the cabin's number. Who could be phoning her?
Her voice wavered as she answered, "Hullo."
"Hi there. It's me---Susie. You free for lunch and a walk through Wildflower Park?"
Sorcha's pulse jumped. It'd been so long since she'd met with someone for a fun activity. "Sure. What time?"
"I'll pick you up in thirty minutes. And I'm warning you, my daughters will be with me. Wear jeans and anything you can bleach. I swear---they're magnets for mustard and ketchup."
Remembering Ariel's poppy-stained chin, she grinned. "Okay, I'll see you at ten thirty."
Sorcha changed her old jeans for a pair minus holes. Donning a clean white T-shirt and socks and sneakers, she tied her hair in a high ponytail and tucked a white baseball cap around a belt loop. A layer of sunscreen finished her preparations and two minutes later, she sat down at the dining table.
To Do
1. Twisp Guide Mock-up
2. Catchy Title for Guide
3. Chamber of Commerce---join, get list of businesses
4. Prioritize who to approach by week
5. Figure out what Grams's message meant
The last item nose-dived her logical thinking.
Why would Grams mail a key secreted in a songbook to her seven days before she died?
Sorcha nibbled on the tip of her pencil.
And the note Grams had written?
Four lines that made the hairs on her neck salute even now. Sorcha read the list and erased the fifth item, entering instead Buy office supplies. For some reason, writing down her secret made unease lizard-creep across her shoulder blades.
Unable to sit any longer, Sorcha went to her walk-in closet and pulled out the note she'd hidden in her left black winter boot.
Lassie,
Remember when I took you to see The Sound of Music for the first time and we bought the soundtrack with the book of lyrics? I came across the CD and the book the other day and thought you might want to have it.
You are my pride and joy, Sorcha. Never forget that.
Your loving,
Grams
At first, Sorcha had thought the envelope the message came in contained some marketing ploy. Then she'd noticed the stamps and the postmark were Canadian, from the town of Penticton, British Columbia. A thousand spiders had crawled over her flesh as she'd read Grams's perfect penmanship.
Sorcha called her grandmother the minute she'd digested the message, but the phone just rang and rang. Grams didn't believe in voice mail or answering machines.
When Grams's lawyer called the day after she received the missive, Sorcha knew before he uttered the words the news he had to impart. Grams had died.
Sorcha jumped when the doorbell ding-donged. She stuffed the letter and the key back into her boot and tucked the footwear in the back of her closet.
White wagged his tail when she reached the door, as if saying, What took you so long?
Ariel and Taylor stood on the first step in front of Susie. Both girls wore identical pink jeans and white Tshirts, pink socks and pink sneakers.
"Oooh---doggy," Ariel squealed. She darted around Sorcha's legs and threw her arms around White's neck. Not to be outdone, Taylor flung her body through the door, tripped on her sister's feet, and crashed into the Lab. The dog promptly bathed her cheeks with a long pink tongue.
Taylor chortled and lifted her face for more.
Ariel said, "Mine." She tried to pull White's head to hers.
"You'd better set the rules or that dog will be quartered and drawn in the next five minutes." Susie shook her head.
Whoa.
Sorcha's mind whirled; she glanced from the wriggling girls and White to Susie. Susie angled her chin. "Rescue your poor dog."
Between the two of them, they managed to separate the dog and children, and Sorcha told the kids not to hit White or pull his tail.
Susie chimed in. "What Aunt Sorcha means is no pulling anything of White's, not his ears, not his nose, not his tongue. No stuffing anything up White's nose or in his mouth or in any other holes you may find."
"O-fiches," Ariel said and let out a long sigh.
"Orifices," Susie translated. "Joe made the mistake of using that word once, and she locked onto it like a barracuda. She's a devil for any questionable word."
Orifices? Oh God, she didn't want to think where that might lead. Sorcha ran her fingers through the strands of her ponytail as if that might steady the dizziness in her head. She didn't know how Susie managed the next fifteen minutes. Her thoughts scattered with each discombobulated question the two girls threw at her, but somehow they were finally out the door and on the road.
By the time they reached the park, and White somehow managed to inveigle an invitation for the trip, Sorcha had figured out the basics. If the girls only asked a question once, an actual answer didn't prove necessary. If the question was repeated, however, it required a reply or an explanation.
Each of the girls had agreed to hold White's lead for five minutes at a time. Though Taylor---the little devil---couldn't read the numbers on her mom's watch, she sure measured the period with remarkable accuracy. The party strolled through the lakeside park. A cool, stiff breeze blew off the water, and spring perfumed the air with hints of lilac and lavender.
Glad she'd added a sweater to her outfit, Sorcha slipped the top button of her navy cardigan into its hole.
Robins and sparrows, perched on tall pines and naked willow branches, argued territorial borders. As the two children scampered around them, skipping, hopping, and running, Sorcha couldn't help but notice how green Taylor's one hazel eye appeared in the sunlight. An only child and on her own for the last ten years, she'd interacted principally with adults. Kids remained an unsolved mystery for her to unravel.
"How do you manage the girls and a career?"
"I work out of the house. I can write cooking articles from anywhere, and I stick to a strict schedule. Enough about me." Susie grinned at her, black eyes flashing. "Dish, woman. How did you and Gray hook up? When? Don't give me that look. You know I'm relentless."
They hit a small play area littered with sand and trucks, and the girls squealed and dived into the powdery dust grains. White curled into a tight oval in the shade of a pine tree. While the kids played, the women took a seat on a bench shaded by the spreading branches of an oak.
"You must know everything by now," Susie stated. "About the white wolf spirit, I mean."
Yeah, right. Trying to be diplomatic, Sorcha ducked her head and searched for a response that wouldn't betray her confusion or Gray's. All that had happened between them seemed part of a parallel universe until now. Susie's questions anchored everything but made her throat dry and scratchy with fear.
"It's been less than three days," she answered. "And I'm not sure how things will work out between us." Susie scowled, and Sorcha added, "Put yourself in my place. How would you react to being told you're mated for life to a man you met hours before?"
Susie nodded and gave her a sympathetic half smile. "That part's a bit unnerving, I agree. And their possessiveness and protectiveness is overwhelming. I may have been born with the spirit, but I was raised to do what the media, the schools, and society demands of every modern woman---be independent. Then you meet a man who's bonded to the white wolf, and all your notions tumble upside down."
"This confusion's normal, then?"
"Yeah. But there are lots of pluses. For example, I bet sex with my big brother makes up for any little inconveniences." Susie elbowed Sorcha. "Nudge, nudge, wink, wink."
"You are incorrigible."
"Seriously, sweetie, you need to come to terms with everything. I fought Joe for a long time, but the results were inevitable. You and Gray are mated for life. Accept that and deal with it. Be proactive. Don't let the circumstances control you. Jaclyn's printing out vows from the Internet. Take my advice---set a date and plan your wedding. Don't tell a single soul until the morning of the event. Just make sure you coordinate the flower girls with Jaclyn, and don't worry, that little tyrant can keep a secret."
"You're scaring the living you-know-what out of me." A muscle she'd never known existed started to jump under her right eye. Sorcha clenched her fist to resist jamming her fingers against the stupid tic.
"All of us feel that way at the beginning. Try going with the flow for a while. When it came down to it for me, I had to accept the fact I couldn't face the rest of my life without Joe." She shrugged. "I'm only a phone call and fifteen minutes away if you need to talk."
"I may take you up on that," Sorcha said as she remembered what she wanted to ask Susie. "Did you see Grams often?" She tried to approach her inquisition with subtlety.
"She worked the Goodwill store the same hours as Miss L. I volunteer there once a week and hand over to the two of them. So I saw her at least once a week. Tuna or chicken?" She held out two Ziploc bags.
"Tuna, thanks." Sorcha grabbed a whole-wheat triangle from the bag Susie wriggled. Her mind functioned one step behind a fast-forwarding reality. "Her death seemed so sudden. She never mentioned feeling sick."
Susie tilted her face to the sun. "You know, your grams was a naturally wiry person, but she lost a lot of weight during the last two months of her life. I remember thinking the last time I saw her that her dress needed taking in."
"And Miss L said Grams cut all her hair off two days before she died. That woman was so proud of her hair." When Sorcha had found that out the day before, she'd wanted to throw up. Grams would never cut her hair voluntarily.
If she'd come to visit when Grams wanted, if she hadn't been such a coward, maybe Grams would still be alive. The sandwich tasted bitter, and the wonderful aroma of flowers and grass all at once smelled like sulfur.
"Truly, it shocked everyone in town, including me. But, sweetie, she was getting older, and her hair had started to fall out in clumps."
Susie's words flash flooded an antarctic ocean over Sorcha's entire body. She'd read enough murder mysteries to know hair and weight loss were two common symptoms of poisoning.
"I wish I'd come to visit when Grams asked me to at Christmas."
"Actually, sweetie, I'm surprised you came back at all. I know I wouldn't have had the guts to come back here."
"I'd have avoided it for my whole life, I think. Except about seven months ago, I began having a recurring nightmare. It got to the point where I was afraid to go to sleep. At the end of twelve weeks, I was barely managing two or three hours of rest a night."
Sorcha suddenly realized her sleep had been undisturbed since her return to Twisp. It must have been exhaustion; it had nothing to do with the feeling of safety she felt in Gray's arms. She shook her head. "I eventually went to a therapist, who told me I had to face the nightmare or live with it for the rest of my life."
"And the nightmare happens here?"
"Mom, Mom, Tay hath to go potty and tho do I." Ariel appeared in front of them, hopping from one foot to another. The little girl flicked her hands and bit her lip, her black eyes luminous.
Going potty proved traumatizing. Sorcha knew she'd never be able to handle kids.
"Why don't we head back?" Susie suggested after she finished reclothing the children. "The girls are going to run out of steam soon."
"Sure."
They started the return journey to the car, taking a different route up a steep incline. Ariel, Taylor, and White gamboled ahead of them, weaving their way through flower beds studded with sprouting greenery. The wind had shifted and carried a hint of Mother Nature's earthy scent.
"Remember all those fairy tales Grams used to tell us?"
Sorcha grimaced. "For a long time I believed everything she'd told me. I remember staring at the wild mushrooms that sprouted every spring, waiting for a fairy to climb down their stems."
Noonday sun blazed in the clear blue sky. A bead of perspiration trickled down Sorcha's back. She shrugged off her cotton sweater and tied the sleeves around the waist of her jeans.
"And what about those stories about the hobgoblin who lived in your house?" Susie chuckled. "She used to make you set out milk and cookies for him."
"Don't you repeat that to anyone. Grams was one superstitious lady."
"And when you put her together with Miss L..." Susie shook her head. "I can't tell you how many times I interrupted a quarrel when I took over their shift at the Goodwill store. Those two would sit and argue for hours about seelies and the Tuatha Dé Danann."
"The Irish Fairy Court," Sorcha murmured. Memories of bedtime tales of magic and mayhem peppered her mind. "I think I must have been almost fourteen before I finally stopped believing."
Had Grams's superstition prompted her mysterious note?
Her grandmother had seen enemies everywhere and had been paranoid about Sorcha's safety. Had Grams lost it at the end?
Susie's expression sobered. "I know we were awfully naive teenagers, and I know it's better to prepare children for the big, bad world as early as possible. But sometimes I wish I could bring my kids up with that kind of innocence still intact."
A shadow danced across the path in front of them.
"Mommy, Mommy!" called Ariel. "Why is the sky blue? Taylor wants to walk on the clouds. Can we?"
Nonstop questions heralded their arrival at the parking lot thirty minutes later. Susie and Sorcha managed to tuck the two girls into their car seats. Both Ariel and Taylor were in deep slumber before they hit Highway 20.
A pending headache made Sorcha pinch the bridge of her nose. She hit the window switch. Mountain air frosted with the aroma of fresh-cut lawn filled the vehicle.
Squaring her shoulders as the question niggling the corners of her brain sprouted a life of its own, Sorcha blurted, "Susie, can I ask a very personal question?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
"This mate-lock thing. Is there like a time range before it goes away?" She knew Susie better than any other woman in the world, so she shouldn't be embarrassed, but she couldn't stop the heat scalding her cheeks.
Susie's dark eyebrows tried to meet in the middle. Her mouth formed an O. "Five minutes or so. It lasts as long as your mate still has sperm. I take it that's not been your experience?"
The last time the mate-lock had lasted almost twenty minutes.
Sorcha shook her head.
She and Gray mated abnormally.
They were abnormal in an abnormal world.
A giggle escaped her mouth. She pressed a balled fist to her lips and still couldn't stifle the mirth.
Thank goodness, they'd arrived at the Rural Route 166 cutoff.
"Let me out here," Sorcha demanded.
"Gray will kill me."
"I have White with me. I'll be safe." Before Susie could open her mouth to argue, Sorcha opened the door as the car slowed to take the sharp turn onto the rural road and hopped out. White jumped over the front seat and bounded onto the gravel.
Lips flattened, Susie said, "I wouldn't, if I were you. Gray's going to be really angry about this."
"I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself. Thanks for a lovely time." She waved. "See you soon." Spinning around, she jogged around the corner, slowing only after she heard the car accelerating.
Sorcha whistled to White. They began the short walk to the cabin. Everything caught up to her---Gray, wolves, her reaction to him, the mixture of intimacy and distrust, the poignancy of a long-ago friendship revived.
Her heart skipped a beat and her control, long precarious, fled.
The beautiful spring afternoon mocked the undercurrents and the darkness circling her soul. Sorcha turned her face to the sun, and pangs of regret pierced her core. Tears escaped, blurring the pine trees lining the dirt-and-pebble road.
White whimpered and licked her hand. When they reached the carport, Sorcha spotted a pumpkin-shaped bucket; she snatched the black handle and swung the orange container in one hand on the short walk to the cottage.
After taking off her shoes and socks and placing them neatly on the first porch step, she spent an inordinate amount of time picking perfect skipping stones. Rolling up her pants, Sorcha whistled for White, who seemed to be attempting to break the Guinness World Record for the most shrubs fertilized in one go. Woman and canine meandered to the end of the pier.
White rested his jaw on her thigh, and she skipped stones, discussing each throw with him. Maybe if she decided to live here permanently, she could set markers in the lake to measure her reach.
Sorcha lay on the deck, head cradled in her hands, legs dangling off the jetty, the baseball cap shading her eyes and face from the sun.
Grams had to have known she was dying.
Why would she drive to Canada to post her last communication?
What was the key for?
Where did The Sound of Music fit in?
She and Gray didn't do the mate-lock right.
Did Gray know it wasn't normal to be stuck together for almost a half hour?
But if felt so good.
She wrote damn good jingles.
Lying here feeling sorry for herself wouldn't solve a single problem or riddle.
She wrote damn good jingles.
The Sound of Music.
Sorcha sprang to her feet.
"That has to be it. Come on, boy. We've work to do."
By five thirty, she'd heard the damned CD eleven times and read every line of lyric in the entire songbook. When she and Grams had come home from seeing The Sound of Music, Sorcha had decided to write her own song.
She remembered starting with "The Lonely Goatherd," but her lyrics wouldn't rhyme, and rhyming had been very important at that time of her life.
Sorcha tried free writing to "Do-Re-Mi." Nothing. "So Long, Farewell" didn't inspire a word. Neither did "Edelweiss."
Crumpled sheets of paper littered the dining table and puddled around her chair.
"Sorcha?"
She stared at Gray, but her mind didn't register his arrival. "Hi."
"I've been calling you all afternoon, but your cell kept going to voice mail, and the house phone is ringing busy."
"Hmm." Sorcha knew it wasn't a Julie Andrews solo she'd used for her lyrics. What was the missing connection? Maybe if she watched the movie something would click.
"Sorcha, are you okay? Look at me, honey." Gray's palm cradling her chin warmed her insides.
Her mind refused to relinquish The Sound of Music.
"Is there a DVD-rental place in town?"
"What?"
"I want to watch The Sound of Music."
"Why do you want to watch The Sound of Music?"
"Because I want to remember a lyric I wrote a long time ago." Sorcha noticed he carried two cloth bags. Groceries---he had mentioned before he left that he'd stop at the supermarket. "Is it that late already? Sorry, I'm a little absentminded when I'm composing."
Gray set the bags on the kitchen counter and bent over. "Why is the phone on the floor? Have you been dipping into the wine?"
"What? Of course not." Full reality returned when his hands cupped her shoulders from behind. She angled her head back to meet his eyes.
"Stand up," he ordered, his low tone gentling the command.
Using her bare heels for leverage, she pushed the chair away from the table, stood, and turned to face him. The pinched set of his mouth made her frown.
Sorcha tiptoed and brushed her lips over his. Instantly, he surged in, and the first touch of their tongues made her knees wobble. She clung to his arms.
He broke the kiss way too soon. "You really haven't had a drop of alcohol."
"Of course not. I was working on a lyric. I told you before, I'm a little absentminded when I'm composing."
"You didn't hear me the first two times I spoke to you."
She grimaced. "That happens. My boss wouldn't allow me to answer the phone when I was composing because I'd agree to anything to end a conversation."
"Where's your cell phone?"
"In my purse." She always put the phone in her purse.
"Where's your purse?"
"On the bed?" she asked, praying that was true. Let's see, she wore it as a backpack in the park, but she'd swung and looped the long leather straps from one wrist while walking down the gravel road. "No, wait. I think I might have left it outside. Maybe in the garage? Or it could be at the end of the dock. I've tried to teach White to fetch it, but he won't. Does newspapers, though."
Instead of curving into a smile, his lips flattened. "Stay here. I'll go check."
Sorcha surveyed the dining table littered with crumpled paper, pencils, one dictionary, and a thesaurus and wrinkled her nose. Next time she must remember to hang a garbage bag from a chair. She had most of the mess cleaned up when Gray shouldered through the doorway. In one hand he had the plastic pumpkin bucket, in the other her purse and her shoes and socks.
"Where were they?"
"The shoes were on the porch step. This was at the edge of the pier." He brandished the plastic pumpkin. "And your purse was on top of a bag of cement in the carport."
"That makes sense. I started thinking about The Sound of Music on the walk down the driveway."
"You walked down the driveway? Susie didn't drop you at the front door and make sure you got in the cabin and locked the door?"
"Course not. It was the middle of the day. Oh damn. I forgot to visit Kumar. I didn't even phone to see how he was." The thunderous look on Gray's face finally sunk in; his clenched jaw, the strange glitter in his black eyes, and his slashed eyebrows silenced her nervous babbling.
Uh-oh.
"Are you angry with me?"
"Now why would you think that?"
"Because your face is the color of a tomato, and your lips aren't really moving when you speak. And well, you look kind of scary."
"Are you insane, woman?" he roared. "Last night someone killed one of your birds and shot out your security lights. You thought you heard footsteps inside the house. And you choose to walk down a remote driveway to your house this afternoon by yourself?" Arms akimbo, a scarlet hue staining his bronzed flesh, his roar changed to a bellow as he continued, "And this afternoon Wicks tells me you went into Twisp unaccompanied that first night? Without even phoning to let me know where you were going?"
"But everything turned out okay," Sorcha protested as she mentally speared a bucketload of outrage at this Wicks's chest.
"Let's see if you feel that way after your punishment."
"Punishment?" Those Washington blues he loved, lived for, widened. Sorcha's full, rosy lips quivered.
Good.
She needed to be scared. Terrified. Petrified.
As terrified and horrified as he had been for the last seven thousand two hundred and seventy-five seconds.
He couldn't remember ever being so incensed. If he touched her right now, he'd shake her to death.
"Strip."
"What?"
"You heard me." His jaw ached from being so clenched. Gray inhaled, relishing the aroma of her confusion, of her apprehension.
"Gray, you're scaring me," Sorcha said as she took two steps back.
"Good." Fucking good.
"I don't understand." Her hands fluttered around her throat.
"Strip."
Gray shuttered his eyes as the iciness he needed for the next few hours flooded his veins. He lifted his lids to find Sorcha had put the dining table between them.
"Your eyes are glowing." Her voice wavered.
"I'm not going to say it again, mate. Strip." He walked to the door, shut and locked it, and drew the drapes.
Sorcha stood fully clothed on the other side of the table.
Gray leaped the five-foot mahogany surface, clamped one hand around her hips, bent over, and jerked her torso over his shoulder.
"Gray?" she squealed. "Put me down. You're scaring me."
"How scared do you think I felt today when I couldn't get ahold of you?" With her pussy so close to his nose, he scented her ebbing fear and her growing arousal, could almost taste her cream. He deposited her none too gently onto the mattress.
"Stay. Don't move an inch." Gray didn't look behind him as he entered the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror; his eyes were black once more. He had himself under control, and he would need it for the coming lesson. When he'd showered earlier, Gray had discovered her vibrator hidden in one of the shuttered shelves of the brass space expander above the toilet. Grabbing the tools he needed, Gray reentered the bedroom.
During his brief respite in the bathroom, Sorcha had stripped, and she lay in the same position he had left her. Her obedience took the edge off his icy rage but didn't deter his plans.
The absolute quiet in the room, broken only by her shallow, rapid inhales and the low whirring of the ceiling fan, set the tone he wanted. Her pupils dilated as he mounted the bed and straddled her waist, her gaze locking on the rope dangling from his hand. He tied her wrists together and looped the cord around one of the carved slats in the wrought-iron headboard. She didn't say a word and didn't look at him.
When he blindfolded her, she didn't quite manage to choke back a whimper. Sorcha clamped her lips together; Gray firmed his mouth and stifled a small, satisfied smile.
He couldn't do what he had to with her blue eyes staring at him.
His mate's fear had dissipated almost entirely. Desire and curiosity dominated her aroma.
This would be harder on him than it would be on her. The temptation to suckle her taut nipples had him salivating, but he avoided her rising and falling breasts and bound her splayed legs to opposite ends of the bed.
She flinched and tensed when he slid the finger-thick vibrator into her pussy.
"Gray?" Soft and wavering, her tentative question bombarded his resolve.
Balling his fists, he allowed the terror he had felt earlier to return. The thought he had found his long-sought mate only to lose her for all eternity cascaded through his veins. Swallowing the sympathy constricting his gullet and threatening his willpower, Gray avoided glancing at her face, her mouth, and focused on his task.
For two hours, he teased her with the sex toy and deprived her of his touch. She begged him to stop, begged him to touch her. It killed him to refuse her pleas, his heart ached, and he had to bite his tongue so hard, he tasted his own blood.
"I won't do it again," she finally moaned. "I promise. I'll never scare you that way again."
Thank God. He couldn't have gone another minute.
Gray cut the ropes and untied her wrists. He gathered her onto his lap and held her while she cried. When Sorcha's weeping calmed and she eased into a deep sleep, he stroked her back, her arms, her legs, her feet, kneaded her buttocks, and she relaxed into him.
Gray licked her throat, nuzzled her neck, bit her earlobe. She slept through it all, but he knew his touch had permeated her soul, her spirit.
Staring at the ceiling fan, at the slow turn of each wooden blade, Gray thoughts blurred and spun with each oscillation. His chest expanded and he drew his mate's scent into his lungs, letting his lids close to savor their mingling odors. Sorcha had accepted him. His hand cupped her breast, and his thumb caressed the pink tip that haunted his every waking minute.
He'd never expected mating to be so all-consuming. When he hadn't been able to contact her this afternoon, morals, ethics, training, the self-control he'd battled for all his life, evaporated. Seeing her sitting at the dining room table only vaguely aware of him spiked his internal beast's anger. His wolf instincts reigned supreme, and only one need drove him.
Domination.
"Gray?" Sorcha's warm, minty breath caressed his jaw and tickled his nostrils.
Framing her face with his palms, he kissed her, licking every inch of her warm moistness. Her small hands linked behind his neck, and lithe fingers skipped across his nape. She broke the kiss and leaned her cheek against his chest.
"I want you to throw that thing away," she mumbled, sending a scowl at the vibrator lying on the bedside table.
"Done," he agreed, his voice gruff with remorse.
His cell chose that moment to ring, and he glared at the phone. Her arms fell away, and she sat up and away from him.
"I know you need to get that," she muttered. Without meeting his gaze, she rolled off him and the bed and marched to the bathroom.
His gaze followed her receding form. She had shut down on him. He couldn't read her aroma, couldn't guess at her feelings.
The phone's vibration continued. Gray snapped the cell open and barked, "White."
"Gray," Henry said. "You need to get here right away. I'm at Miss L's. She's dead. Murdered."
Mind numbing, Gray stared at the closed door to the right of the bed.
"When?"
"Earlier tonight. Body's warm."
His gut nose-dived to the bowels of the earth.
"I'm on it."
Gray dropped the phone onto the mattress and dragged his hands through his hair, his thoughts skittering in a million different directions.
Miss L murdered so soon after Aileen died? Were the two deaths linked? How?
The tap in the bathroom squeaked, and his stomach hollowed and dipped.
He had to tell her. If Sorcha heard the news from someone else, she'd never trust him again. This would break her heart. First her grandmother, now Miss L.
Swallowing the acidity rising up his gullet, he swung his legs off the bed. His hand shook as he knocked on the bathroom door. "Honey. I need to talk to you."
The door opened.
She wore a robe the exact color of her auburn hair. Staring at his bare feet, she muttered, "I don't get time to lick my wounds?"
Gray tipped her chin.
Blue eyes with no hint of vitality met his.
Gray stifled his automatic curse and scooped her into his arms. He walked to the living room, fumbled with the front door, and strode onto the porch, pacing up and down the length of the wooden deck.
Honey, Miss L's dead, didn't seem the right thing to say.
Too bald, too stark, too fucking awful.
"Gray?" Her warm hand cupped his shoulder. "Stop. Stand still. Something terrible has happened, hasn't it?"
He avoided her searching glance and nodded.
Clouds bracketed the three-quarter moon, and a thin sliver of light formed a circle in the middle of the lake. An icy blast gushed around the deck, and Sorcha shivered.
Gray gulped in air and tensed every muscle in his body.
"There's no easy way to say this, and I wish to God I didn't have to. Honey, Miss L's dead."
She sucked in a breath and bowed her head.
"Sorcha? Look at me, honey. I need to know what you're feeling," Gray pleaded.
Misty eyes met his, and she gave him a sad little half smile. "I've been expecting this. She and Grams were like an old married couple, and they were both in their eighties. I didn't think she'd last long without Grams around. I can't say that it still isn't a shock---it is."
Bolting her gaze, Gray said, "She didn't die a natural death, Sorcha. She was murdered."
"What?" Alarm dusted her aroma, along with rising panic. "Who would want to hurt Miss L? She's the sweetest person in the world." Sorcha shook her head. "No. No. I refuse to believe this. It doesn't make sense."
Gray sat on the bench and held her close, stroking her back. "That was the call I just took. Henry's at Miss L's store. It happened earlier tonight. I have to go to the scene. I don't want you here alone. I'll call Susie and ask her to come and stay with you."
Sorcha pushed away from him. "No." She shook her head again. "No. I need to be alone for a while."
"Are you sure?" Her reaction didn't make any sense.
"Absolutely."
"I'll post Ted here while I'm gone."
"Fine. I'm going to get dressed." She tightened the belt holding her bathrobe together and then stood.
Bereft didn't begin to describe the emptiness invading his core as Sorcha walked away, bare heels slapping the teak. Gray frowned and studied a knot in the wood. What the crap had just happened? Her reaction to the news Miss L had been murdered made no sense at all. Every instinct told him she was hiding something. What?
By the time he reentered the house, Sorcha was dressed and in front of the kitchen sink, the faucet running.
"Sorcha?"
"While I can't cook, I make a mean salad. Neither of us has eaten. I'm almost done."
"You don't have to bother. I'll grab something on the way."
"She's dead, Gray. Henry's there. Taking five minutes to eat isn't going to sully the crime scene. There. It's ready." She turned off the water and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. When Sorcha turned around, she held a wooden bowl in her hands.
"I have two forks." She shuffled forward and deposited the bowl in the middle of the breakfast table. "It's already dressed."
"Be right there. I need to call Ted first." On autopilot, Gray headed for the bedroom, picked up his cell, called Ted, and gave him strict instructions.
When he returned to the kitchen and sat down at the round table, Sorcha was chewing absently while staring out the window.
"Looks good," he said and picked up the fork lying on the place mat.
"Susie told me yesterday that Grams had lost a lot of weight during the last few weeks."
Sorcha's intent scrutiny raised whorls of hair on his scalp. What now?
"Did you think so too?"
"I haven't seen Aileen in more than a month," he replied, spearing a fat strawberry. "I've been on medical leave for the last eight weeks."
Her lips pursed. "Medical leave?"
"Two months ago I interrupted a drug buy on one of the campsites. Took a shot in the shoulder." He couldn't scent anything---no fear, no worry. Gray listened to her even breathing. Not a hitch, not a stutter. Hooding his eyes, he studied her even features.
"Which shoulder?" Three horizontal lines appeared on her forehead, the first sign of anything other than the bland expression she kept in place.
"Left. Why?"
"I didn't notice a scar."
"I never scar. Part of the genetics."
"I see. So you weren't about much for the last few weeks." Sorcha went back to staring out the window. She did a shiver-shake; then her lips curled in the worst imitation of a smile he'd ever seen, as she faced him. "Finished?" Reaching for the bowl, she pushed back the chair and rose.
"Yeah. Thanks. Very tasty." Gray watched her place both forks in the bowl and then move over to the sink.
The tangy salad had tasted like beach sand; the food grated down his gullet.
Was she even listening to him?
"I'd better get going." He stood and took two steps to stand behind her, rested both hands on her waist, and licked her neck. She tasted different. Gray licked her again, and she arched a tad, giving him more access. He couldn't refuse the subtle invitation, nibbled a path to her earlobe, and bit the plump flesh.
Sorcha whipped around and tiptoed. Her fingers curved over his jaw, she slanted her mouth over his and ate at his lips as if he were her last meal. Surprise dulled his reaction for a second, and then he exploded, making love to her with his tongue and teeth, kissing his love into her over and over.
A loud banging on the door broke his sensual trance. Gray lifted his head, his lungs gasping for oxygen. "Sorcha, honey, tell me what's wrong."
She blinked and the wild look in her eyes vanished.
Gray choked back a curse.
He'd almost gotten through to her.
Grim foreboding tugged his mouth into a thin line.
She'd shut down on him again.
"That'll be Ted." He kissed her forehead. "I'll be off as soon as I let him in."
Forcing his arms from her proved harder than expected, and Gray knew he had to leave right away or else he'd push her too far. Without allowing his focus to wander, he strapped on his shoulder holster, shrugged into a worn leather jacket, and opened the door for Ted.
"I want you inside for the duration. If she goes into the bedroom or bathroom and closes the door for longer than five minutes, knock. If she doesn't come out, break the door down. Got it?"
"Sure, boss." Ted raised an eyebrow.
"Keep me updated."
"Sure thing."
Until tonight, he'd been able to read her instantly. Sorcha had donned some kind of shield the minute he mentioned the word "murder." She'd controlled her scent, her breathing, her reactions. And then that fucking scorching kiss, all passion and flame, all emotion, almost---Gray squeezed his eyes shut---almost as if she was saying good-bye.
He raised his lids to find he had arrived at Miss L's shop. Located at the top of Main Street, the yellow and white bungalow, mirror image of the dwelling opposite, housed Miss L's Sweet Stuff 'n Such specialty dessert shop in the front and her residence in the back.
"'Bout time you got here." Butt propped on his vehicle's driver door, Henry whittled a long stick of teak. He straightened, reached through the car's open window, and set the carved wood and the knife he was using into a black gym bag on the passenger side. "I called Central. A team's on the way, including the county coroner. Doug's taking shots for our records."
"Same as the others?" He had to take shallow inhales as the coppery taint of blood reached his nostrils.
"Worse. One leg chewed off."
"He's escalating." Gray took the cottage's steps two at a time; he surveyed the shop. "Nothing touched in here?"
"Not as far as we could tell. I bought a box of toffee for my nieces and nephews around three today. Place looks pretty much the same as it did then."
Henry handed him a mask. "Trust me, you'll need it."
"Thanks," Gray said, snapping the rubber over his head and adjusting the nose guard. Henry preceded him through the passage connecting the front and back of the house. He understood why the detective had kept the door closed the minute he entered what was left of Miss L's combined kitchen, dining, and living room.
"Crap." What had once been a charming, cozy space had morphed into a horror-movie nightmare. The walls, furniture, cabinets, even the ceiling, looked as if a machine gun filled with red paint had sprayed the room. "The body?"
"Scattered." Henry pointed to the back of a lemon sofa with a half-inch-thick red streak from end to end. "Leg's in front of that. The torso's near the fridge. Baseball-sized chunks of flesh in the bedroom. She was dressed for work. The torso's still wearing part of that polka-dot yellow apron she used in the shop."
"One person couldn't have done this," Gray muttered.
"I agree. But there isn't a single footprint in here. Not that I could find, anyway."
This didn't look like the work of human beings.
Avoiding the blood staining the wooden floor, Gray picked his way to the front of the sofa and choked back bile. Unable to stare at the mangled leg for longer than a few seconds, he turned his head and noticed the cheerful, daisy-patterned drapes had not been drawn.
Swallowing hard, he inspected the leg again. A jagged, uneven cut had severed the thigh from the torso. Chunks of flesh had been gouged out of the quadriceps. Bone showed in places. The skin over the knee was in scraps. The shinbone glistened wet and an unearthly white in spots. The second toe hung at a drunken angle to the instep; the right big toe had been severed entirely. All the other toes were intact.
"Back of the house?"
"Nothing. Not a blade of grass trampled," replied Henry.
"The timing's off. We were expecting something on the twenty-ninth. All of the others have been exactly the same number of days apart. This one's early."
"First one where the body's not whole," Henry remarked.
"Thought I heard voices," Doug Wicks said as he came in through a door off the kitchen. "Nothing in this room, boss. All the knickknacks are in place."
Miss L's locally famous collection of porcelain fairies and mushrooms decorated every spare inch of the cottage, including the shop. Gray surveyed the room. "Nothing broken?"
"Not that I could see," Doug answered.
"She had to have put up a struggle. So why isn't anything broken?" Miss L would have screamed at the top of her lungs.
Unless Miss L knew the killer, trusted him or her, and she'd been drugged or severely restrained and gagged.
And the drapes hadn't been drawn.
Gray'd had dinner here often, and he knew Miss L's methodical habits well. In the summer, she drew the drapes at eight, in the winter, at six. Summer for Miss L began on the summer solstice, almost eight weeks away.
That meant she'd let the killer in after the shop closed at five and before six. Miss L kept to herself mostly. She was friendly and knew everyone in Twisp, but she invited few people into her personal life.
"They're here," Henry announced, pulling Gray out of his musings.
Crap. He'd been so lost in thought, he hadn't heard the approaching vehicles.
No slipping up, not now; Gray tunneled his fingers through his hair. "Let's leave them to it, Henry. When we get back to the station, dig out the old shots of the other murders. Maybe we'll notice something with the scene fresh in our minds."
Located at the other end of Twisp, a one-minute drive down Main Street, the station had been recently constructed and boasted state-of-the-art equipment.
The minute he started the Durango, Gray dialed Ted.
"What's up?"
"Hang on a minute," Ted replied, his voice low.
Gray heard the muffled footsteps.
"Sorry, boss. She's a mite short-tempered, and I didn't figure she'd relish hearing me talking about her."
"Everything okay?" Gray switched off the ignition and exited the car.
"At first she didn't want me in the cabin. But then she started working on something, and now she doesn't notice me at all."
"Crumpled pieces of paper on the table?" His lips curled as he shoved the inner door of the 400 open.
"No, she's putting them in a garbage bag hanging off the back of one of the chairs. I'm fricking sick of listening to the same CD over and over, though."
"Keep me posted." He hung up and automatically went through the motions of brewing a fresh pot of coffee.
What was Sorcha doing? What was so important about this lyric she wanted to remember? And why The Sound of Music?
"I put the files of all the murders in the conference room," Henry said as he poured coffee into a mug.
Gray jerked; he realized he'd been standing there staring into space. He scowled. Crap, he was acting like a lovesick fool.
Forcing his mind onto the case, he ordered, "Dig out the file on the McFaddens as well. And pour me a cup, will you?"
"The McFaddens? That was a murder/suicide."
"I know, Henry," Gray said as he accepted the proffered mug.
"Aye, aye, boss. I'll bring the McFadden file in and tell Doug to hightail it to the conference room."
Silence reigned in the conference room when he strolled in and took a seat. Both Doug Wicks and Henry glanced his way for a few seconds.
Gray pulled out the McFadden files and began reading. Fifteen years ago on a sultry summer night, Alistair McFadden brutally murdered his wife, Catriona, shot his daughter, Sorcha, in the head, and then turned a gun on himself.
Catriona McFadden's body had been hacked and stabbed over thirty times. Aileen O'Riley discovered the bodies, called 911, and ultimately saved her granddaughter's life. Sorcha had been hospitalized for over two months, the doctors at first opting not to remove the bullet from her skull until her condition stabilized.
The neighbors on either side of the McFaddens saw nothing out of the ordinary, heard no screams or disturbances from the house. According to the coroner, Catriona's death would have been agonizing, and she had been alive until a final blow almost severed her head from her torso.
No weapons of any sort had ever been discovered. The coroner's report suggested the use of both a machete and a long, thin knife on Catriona. A .38 bullet killed Alistair McFadden, while the bullet from a .22 injured Sorcha. No weapons had been found at the scene of the crime.
Gray checked the coroner's name and frowned. "Wasn't John Fowler the coroner for the county before Donald Henley?"
"Yeah, Fowler was in his last year when I joined the force," Henry said. "Why?"
"Who is this Dr. Rooks? His signature's on the McFadden autopsies."
"Never heard of him," Henry replied.
"Wasn't it a high profile case?" Doug asked. "Maybe they called in someone from Spokane."
Gray grunted in acknowledgment of the logical suggestion even as his stomach pitted.
"Where are the crime-scene photos? And the tox-screen results." Gray rifled through the first file, the second, and then checked through the whole box.
"Should be there. Those are the only two boxes in the back listed as McFadden. That info's over fifteen years old. None of it's been entered into the computers."
"There are no pics or tox reports here, Henry. Check with Central. Maybe they've been digitized or are pending digitization." His gut churned. That icy, back-of-the-neck feeling settled over every inch of Gray's flesh; no coincidence, an unknown coroner signing the McFaddens' autopsies and the tox reports missing.
The black-and-white typing blurred as he remembered Sorcha asking about her grandmother losing weight. Did she suspect Aileen's death wasn't natural?
"Henry, who found Aileen O'Riley's body?"
"Miss L. Why?"
"Who was on the scene?"
"Me."
"Was an autopsy done?"
"She died in her sleep. Why would there be an autopsy?"
"So there was nothing suspicious?"
"Heck no. The cabin wasn't touched. The bed was hardly mussed."
"Here's something," Doug announced. He had five files open in front of him. "Three of the four initial bodies, Frank, Taunton, Spring, and now Miss L, have one thing in common---a toe missing from the right foot."
"What?" Gray pushed away from the table. "Let me see that." He walked to the other side of the table and studied the reports. "How'd we miss this?"
"It's noted in the coroner's reports but isn't mentioned in the write-ups." Doug stroked his jaw with a thumb and forefinger. "Each one's written by a different officer, and I don't recognize any of these names."
"Retired before I joined." Gray touched one open file, then the other. "Both of them. And Henry only began to suspect a serial killer after the last murder. Henry, how'd you miss this?"
"A case goes cold after eighteen months in this county, and the files are forwarded to that department," Henry replied. "Those records were stored at Central until I requested them a while back. I've been meaning to go through them." He shrugged. "Didn't get around to it, or I'd have noticed the toe thing."
His phone rang. Gray glanced at the LCD and groaned. He snapped open the phone.
"Susie, what's up?"
"There's something you need to know about Sorcha," his sister replied.
Gray ambled over to a chair tucked into a corner and sat.
When he ended the conversation, Gray propped his chin in his palms and considered the new facts. A recurring nightmare had brought Sorcha back to Twisp.
Not Aileen's death?
This deep-sixed all his theories into next week. Nothing made sense.
And how in the hell did The Sound of Music factor into the big picture?
Sorcha knew what she had to do.
Figure out the lyric.
Get rid of Gray.
For his own sake.
His damned guard, Ted, refused to leave her alone. He planted his huge form on the sofa in front of the television.
She'd heard The Sound of Music soundtrack at least fifty times. White trotted into the living room and nudged her dangling hand with a cold, wet nose. Obeying the canine's implicit command, she followed him to the kitchen and opened the sealed bag of dog food.
Knees bent, leaning against the wall, she waited for White to finish eating his food and listened to the haunting "Edelweiss" solo for what seemed like the zillionth time. When Julie Andrews's chirpy rendition of "My Favorite Things" began, the proverbial lightbulb lit; she bounded to her feet and headed straight for the dining table. Without any forethought, she sat and began writing on a blank slip of paper.
When the pen finally stopped forming words, Sorcha studied what she'd written.
Sorcha McFadden's Favorite Things.
Miss L's cupcakes and Mama's sweet kisses
Papa's big fat hugs and Grams's fae wishes
Caroling and snow and sleigh bell rings
These are a few of my favorite things
Pixies and brownies and gnomes and hobgoblins
Halloween ghosts and apple bobbings
Easter eggs and bunnies and my dog, King
These are a few of my favorite things
Grams's hidden fairy mound
Where lost treasures can always be found
Soaring with dragons and visiting realms
These are a few of my favorite things
When the sun shines
When spring brings
Flowers and Susie and confetti ice-cream cones
And then I won't ever have to be alone
The world closed in; her rib cage battered her lungs, her heart. She wanted to round into a tight ball and ignore the crickets chirping, White snoring, the sound of love leaving her life in a roaring she couldn't ignore. Sorcha rose and headed for the bathroom. A watershed of memories clashed over her, around her, enfolded her.
She curled into a fetal ball on the bath mat and rocked her body back and forth as memories long dormant crowded her brain: Mom and Dad watching her first ballet performance, her father giving her hot and cold clues during their annual Easter-egg hunt, Mom helping her press her first Santa cookie.
How in the name of the Lord had she blanketed this for so long?
She couldn't think, the images staining her pupils too vibrant, too real. She grew drunk on memories, on happy times, on idyllic times.
Gradually, reality seeped into her brain. Little bits and pieces---White's whimper, a knocking on the door, the television blasting in the background. Sorcha stilled all movement and prepared to face the world.
Grams's message. There was more to it than the return of her memory.
Sorcha uncurled, dashed the tears from her eyes, and stood. She had to be gone before Gray returned. He would take one look at her face and know she'd remembered. But the memories excluded her father. Because she had too much of him in her?
For so long she'd avoided thinking those words. Sorcha swallowed, grabbed a towel, and blotted the tears from her face.
Oh God. She understood those four lines.
Grams's had left her a message, and it was in Spokane. Her parents and Grams had loved Spokane---the theaters, the restaurants, the cobblestoned streets. The four of them had spent many a weekend in the city.
On her eighth birthday, Grams had taken her to Spokane to see the play The Sound of Music. They had left early in the morning, had eaten lunch at an outdoor café, and then Grams had taken her to a bank. They'd gone into a little room with a metal box. Grams had explained that people used safe-deposit boxes like fairy mounds, storing their treasures in them for safety.
She'd extracted a black velvet pouch, emptied the contents into Sorcha's cupped hands and said, "Happy birthday, my love. This is the luck of the O'Riley's."
Sorcha remembered fingering the gold locket all night, tracing the four-leaf clover embedded on the front, loving the feel of the oval pendant. Grams had told her that the O'Riley luck passed from generation to generation.
The key must fit that safe-deposit box.
Was that bank still around?
What had happened to that locket?
An insistent knocking on the bathroom door drew her attention.
"What do you want?"
"Are you okay, Ms. McFadden?"
"I'm fine, Detective. I'm going to have a shower. I'd appreciate some privacy."
"Of course, ma'am. Sorry."
She turned on the shower. The heated water steamed the room in no time; curling vapors warmed her neck, her arms. Sorcha stripped, her mind whirling from one tangent to another. For fifteen years, her mind had blocked her childhood memories. Would remembering this lyric trigger other revelations?
Everything pointed to that fateful night, the night her father killed her mother and himself, and tried to kill his only child. The night she still couldn't remember.
Temples throbbing, she showered, lathering three times, and wished she could scrub away the black film hazing her early childhood as easily as the soap bubbles washed off her skin. A band compressed her lungs, and she had to take short, quick breaths to alleviate her dizziness. It took all the energy she had left to towel off. Her long white T-shirt hung on a hook from the bathroom door. She tugged it over her head.
Stumbling across the bedroom, she crashed onto the mattress and slipped under the covers. Her eyes chased the slow circling of the ceiling fan visible only because the moon hit the roof's skylight at a certain angle. She'd always thought Grams moved them to Penticton to get away from the gossip and the rumors, to give her a chance at a normal adolescence.
Could there have been other reasons?
And the recurring nightmare?
How did it all fit together?
"Sorcha?" Gray's low baritone penetrated her mental wanderings.
"I'm awake." She sat up. "Has Ted gone?"
"Yeah." The one word shouted his exhaustion.
She switched on the lamp. "I can tell from the look on your face. It was bad, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
"Let's go sit on the porch for a while. I think I need some fresh air," Sorcha suggested. Too many thoughts buffeted her mind for sleep, for clarity. First Grams, now Miss L.
But Miss L had been murdered; Sorcha balled her fists so hard she winced when her nails bit into her palms. Don't picture it; don't think about the smell of blood; don't think about her fear, the pain.
"Are you sure you're up to this?"
No. But she had to hear the details from him, and it had to be right now, tonight. "I owe it to both of them, Gray. To honor their deaths." She flipped back the sheets and rolled off the bed.
His arms curled under her knees, and he lifted her into his arms.
She should resist, should insist he put her down, should walk alone.
She loved being held safe and snug by this man.
"Gray." Sorcha splayed her palm on his shirt. Distance---for his sake, she had to keep her distance. She squared her shoulders and tried not to inhale his comforting scent, tried to keep her muscles tense, but her body craved his contact and she melted into his embrace.
He'd opened the sliding glass doors before he entered the bedroom. A stiff wind greeted them, lifting her loose hair, ruffling his dark locks. Sorcha buried her nose in the soft cotton covering his pectorals. God give her the strength to be brave, to leave him.
Gray thumped onto the long bench lining the west half of the dock. He nuzzled her neck, his tongue drawing a tight circle in the hollow at her throat. "Why did you ask about your grandmother's weight earlier?"
Damn, the man had a way of zeroing in that proved particularly annoying. She stared unseeing at the lake, the surface a series of enigmatic, rippling obsidian waves.
"You decided to leave me tonight, didn't you?"
Oh God. How had he known? She bowed her head, bit her quivering lower lip, and willed back the tears.
"How did you know?" Sorcha whispered, her voice wavering as she picked at his third shirt button.
"The way you kissed me earlier. The way you shut down on me." He tipped her chin up, and his dark, fathomless eyes held pools of moisture. "You are my mate. The only one I will ever have. If you leave me, I'll spend the rest of my life alone. There's no worse fate for a wolf. I'll crave your touch. Every time I scent you, I'll be bereft. Every time I see you, I'll mourn your loss. Would you willingly do this to me? To us?"
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she couldn't get out a single word.
"Let me tell you what I think you're thinking." His lips crooked up. "You don't think your grandmother died a natural death. Miss L's murder made you panic and decide to run for the hills. You're having a recurring nightmare that somehow relates to this town and, I'd guess, your parents' deaths." Gray's warm palms crept under her T-shirt and around her waist. "How'm I doing?"
He hadn't once allowed her gaze to drift from his, and Sorcha knew she couldn't leave him, wouldn't leave him. She took a deep breath. The truth then. "I have something to show you." Her fingers toyed with his collar, followed a vein beating in his corded neck. She offered him a hand, and he twined their fingers together and kissed her knuckles.
"Lead on, Sorcha."
She pulled Gray to his feet and tugged him into the living room. "Wait here." Sorcha made her way to the walk-in closet, retrieved Grams's note and the key, and returned to the dining area. Gray had focused on the lyrics she'd left lying on the table. His head whipped up, and he asked, "This is the lyric you were trying to remember?"
She nodded.
Dark brows met as he frowned and shook his head. "I don't get it."
"You remember how obsessed Grams was with anything fae?"
"Yeah, everyone knew about her and Miss L and their leprechauns and fairies. What does that have to do with you wanting to leave me? With your Grams's death and Miss L's murder?"
Sorcha handed him the note and the key and told him how she had interpreted the lyrics, about her eighth birthday and the bank in Spokane.
"Why didn't you tell me about this?" He didn't look angry, but instead confused and irritated.
"I didn't know what it meant until I remembered the lyrics tonight." She swallowed. "I just had this feeling that something was wrong the minute I got Grams's note."
"You suspected Aileen was murdered from the first." Gray drew her onto his lap, and three lines etched the space above the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"All my life I've been that strange girl whose daddy tried to kill her, the girl with no memory. Wherever I went, if the story came out, people began to look at me as if I'd escaped from a mental hospital." She shrugged. "I've learned the hard way to always appear normal. To never do anything that would draw attention or cause gossip."
"And I came along and claimed you as my mate. Told you I was part white wolf. That's why you shut down on me tonight." Gray tunneled both hands through his hair. "At first I thought you were pissed at me because... You know."
"The punishment? You'd better not ever do that to me again, Gray Theodore White." Anger resurged, blazing through her veins and arteries. She jabbed her palms onto her hips.
"You've every right to be furious with me, honey. I went too far." A stain of a tantalizing ruby-rose hue crept up the hollows formed by Gray's ridged cheekbones, and her sudden fury ebbed like a Washington-coast tide.
Sorcha recognized the apology took a lot out of Gray. His wolf nature revolved around domination, on inherent leadership and control. On impulse, she leaned forward and suckled the spot where his thick, corded neck merged into broad shoulders. Gray's skin tasted of the salt of his sweat; he smelled of coffee and the outdoors and the spiciness of his arousal. She loved that she did that to him. Turned him on in a heartbeat.
He growled. "Hold that thought, honey. Miss L's murder changes everything. We need to be very focused and very careful. I'm taking it only you and I know about this key?"
She nodded, twirling a lock of his hair around her forefinger. "I think maybe Miss L might have known. She and Grams were so close."
"Explain to me how you only remembered the lyrics and the bank tonight." His arm curled around her waist, and he drew her closer.
"I wish I could." She shook her head. "I don't understand how I could lose my childhood entirely. I know this all centers around the night my parents died." Knowing she could never share her agonizing anxiety about inheriting her father's violent traits, she skated over her next words. "Up until now, I couldn't remember anything related to my parents before I turned fifteen. It's funny---I have clear memories of playing with Susie, of Grams, of Kumar and Harold, but not much else. Nothing at all. Until tonight. All of a sudden, I remembered little things---making cookies with Mom, my first dance recital."
"Remembering the lyrics triggered those memories?"
Concern for her creased lines in his forehead, crinkled fine lines in the tanned skin bracketing his black eyes. She blinked away threatening tears and stroked the back of her knuckles along his jaw. Not capable of speech, she nodded.
"And you think this key fits a safe-deposit box?" Gray said as he glanced from the key to the note to the lyrics.
"If the bank is still standing." She studied his features, waiting for the slightest hint of disbelief or scorn, the narrowing of his eyes or the thinning of his mouth, but his features remained even, composed. "I think someone poisoned Grams, and at the end, she knew she was dying. And I don't think it's any coincidence Miss L's been murdered. This has something to do with me."
He kissed the tip of her nose and let out a long sigh, his breath feathering her lips and chin. "I'm going to put on a pot of coffee. Want a cup?"
"No, I'll put on the kettle for tea. I don't think that look on your face means you have happy news to impart."
"I wish I did, honey." His lips, warm and dry and soft, brushed hers. He carried her to the kitchen and deposited her on the granite counter. "During the last fifteen years, we've identified the work of a serial killer in and around Twisp. Five murders, all with the same MO. The bodies are hacked apart."
A serial murderer? In Twisp? Population: 935?
"Whaat?" Sorcha asked. "But I've never heard of a serial murderer in Twisp. Grams never mentioned anything."
"We actually didn't put everything together until about three and a half years ago." Gray turned on the tap and filled the coffee decanter with water. "And then only because we had to enter all records for the last fifteen years into the computer."
"Why are you telling me this, Gray? A serial murderer couldn't have anything to do with me." A grimace darkened his features, Sorcha winced.
He filled a stainless-steel kettle from the faucet and placed it on a burner. Flames flickered to life under the appliance. Pouring water into the coffeemaker's well, he continued, "Miss L's murder fits the MO of the serial killer to a tee."
He set the carafe under the coffee spout and hit Start. A loud whirring punctuated the silence in the kitchen. The pungent aroma of the brew percolating permeated the cabin.
"Around fourteen years ago, the body of one Yaeger Schmidt, a German businessman, was discovered by his girlfriend in a rented log cabin near Waterville. He had ax and stab wounds. Blood was everywhere inside the cabin. No fingerprints, footprints, no sign of a breakin."
When the kettle whistled, Gray asked, "Tea?"
"Above the toaster. Peppermint, please." Sorcha pointed at the cabinet. "So two foreigners on vacation, one murdered nastily. Was anything stolen?"
"Yes. Robbery seemed to be the clear motive. No one had any reason to suspect anything else."
Something he'd said earlier tweaked her memory. "What did you mean about finding out because of having to enter the records into the computer?"
"When the new station was built, all our written records had to be computerized. Henry loves math puzzles. He did most of the data entry of our records and noticed the similarities in the MOs. One night when he was bored, he calculated the days between the murders." Gray spooned the teabag out of the mug and held the cup out to Sorcha. "Turns out there are exactly one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days between each murder. Kristen Frank, a Canadian college student on holiday, was the next victim as far as we can figure. She was found at a campsite on Osoyoos Lake."
"One thousand three hundred and sixty-eight days later?" When Gray nodded, she continued, "That's right on the border, isn't it?" Sorcha blew the liquid in the cup; moist heat warmed her chin. "Was she stabbed too?"
"Hacked, multiple stab wounds. The tent was covered in blood, yet not a drop outside, no footprints, nothing. She and her boyfriend and another couple had come down on spring break. The guys went duck hunting while the girls relaxed. The other girl found Kristen's body and called nine-one-one."
"So we have a college student and businessman," she mused. "I'm guessing a big age difference between the two?"
"Fifty-three and twenty, respectively," Gray replied. "Again, exactly one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days later, the body of one Donna Taunton was discovered by her new husband on the second day of their honeymoon."
"How awful. The second day of their honeymoon? Poor man. He must have been devastated. Was she hacked and stabbed too?" Sorcha sipped her tea, amazed she'd managed not to vomit so far.
"Yeah." Gray leaned against the counter, one palm cradling his mug. "Donna was a late bloomer, first marriage at forty-three. Husband was a suspect for a while, as he was thirteen years younger and a bit of a drifter, a construction worker. But there was no insurance, and her will left everything to a niece."
"That's two women and one man, a twenty-year-old, a woman of forty-three, and a man of fifty-three." She could see no common link between the three victims. "And nothing was stolen in any of these crimes?"
"Schmidt had just under ten thousand in cash and several credit cards, according to his girlfriend. All of it was taken. The women didn't have much cash, but none of it was taken. Taunton had a couple of credit cards, which were still in her wallet. She was still wearing an engagement ring that set her husband back at least two months' salary."
"I guess you've been over this a thousand times?" Sorcha studied his grim expression, the dull bleakness of his dark eyes.
"I've only been on the job six years, honey. Henry's been the one obsessed with this. All of the murders happened on his watch. Only one's happened on mine until tonight."
Miss L's beautiful, lined features rose in her mind. Sorcha bit her lips and pushed forward, determined not to break down. "Go on. Who was next?"
"The fourth victim was one Mark Spring. Interior designer from Seattle on vacation with his significant other, a chemical engineer."
"And this one was exactly one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days after Donna?"
"Yeah."
"And Miss L's murder?" she asked. "Same timing?"
"No. We were expecting another one on the twenty-ninth. That, plus the fact that all the bodies have been intact prior to Miss L, leads us to think he's escalating. "
Sorcha inhaled the fragrant peppermint steam curling from the teacup and managed to swallow the sourness rising up her throat. She would not think about Miss L in pieces; she would not picture all that blood. The teacup jerked brown liquid onto the counter.
Gray's hands enfolded the cup and saucer. Her grip loosened. Sorcha slid to the floor and raced to the toilet.
Dinner spewed out of her mouth. Sorcha vomited compulsively, tears flowing down her cheeks. Gray's arm supported her waist. Twisting her hair, he curled the locks around one hand and held it away from her face.
"Let it all out, honey. Let it all out." Knuckles dashed away the tears from her skin. When her heaves subsided, Gray placed a glass to her lips. "Take little sips."
"I feel like I'm living in a horror movie." Sorcha hiccupped. "Like I have no control over anything. As if someone's directing everything."
He didn't say a word, didn't try to deny her words, and his silence ate at her soul. She lifted her head and met his studied stare. "It's true, then?"
Long fingers trailed her neck caressing Sorcha's cheeks. "We have no proof, but my wolf instincts tell me someone or something is after you. Ever since that first night we met again, I haven't wanted you out of my sight, not for a second. That alone tells me my inner wolf senses danger for you. Right now we have a whole bunch of parallel events that may or may not be related." He sighed and stood, lifting her high against his chest, and elbowed the bathroom door open.
"I don't understand," she said, trying to read meaning into the grim set of his full lips and the fierceness dilating his pupils, making his eyes obsidian, devoid of any lightness. She stroked his face as he settled on the mattress with her on his lap, her legs curled around his hips.
"We have the four identified victims of the serial killer. We have the note Aileen mailed from Penticton, your suspicions about her death, and Harold's and Miss L's murders. Are these all parallel events, or are they interconnected in some way?"
"Oh. I hadn't thought of it like that. What about Kevin Hazard's murder? Is that related?" His hand curved up and down her spine, trailing warmth across her back.
"Only if he's been stabbed. Tonight, we discovered one thing the murders had in common---a toe severed from the right foot. Most serial killers I've studied take mementos. I'm guessing that's his."
"That's so sick," she mumbled. Her eyelids suddenly became anchors. Sorcha snuggled closer to his chest, and a huge yawn captured her mouth.
"Tired?" His lips and nose fit into the spot where her shoulder connected with her neck. Hot breath spiked goose bumps down her arms. Her lids fluttered and she folded her hands under a cheek, relishing the safety of Gray's embrace.
"Mmm," she murmured.
"Do you remember being happy as a child?" He couldn't keep the curiosity out of his voice.
She smiled, and a stray chest hair tickled her lips. "I think I was. I was an only child, so I must have had a lot of attention. I know Grams spoiled me. Everything I remembered tonight about my mom was happy. And those lyrics I wrote as a child, those all point to me being happy."
"But you're not sure because there's a hole in your memories---your father?"
Sorcha couldn't think about that, and she didn't want him to probe further. "What are we going to do next?"
Gray's eyes swept her face.
Schooling her features into a tranquility she didn't feel, she waited for his response, holding her breath.
"Tomorrow we'll visit the bank and see what we find in the safe-deposit box. It's my day off, so we can spend the day brainstorming." Gray glared at the cell phone vibrating on the bedside table. "Fu---frick. What now?"
Sorcha reached over, grabbed the rectangular metal box, and offered it to him.
"Sheriff White," he barked into the receiver.
She knew instantly he'd be going out again.
Gray shifted her off his lap and grabbed a notepad and a pencil from the bedside table.
"When?"
Head and shoulder holding the phone in place, he scribbled furiously.
"Any word on the parents?"
Hand hovering over the notepad, he listened for a minute.
"Wonderful." Sarcasm laced the one word. "I'll be there in a few."
Sorcha searched his features as he continued to listen to the person on the other end. After Gray hung up, she asked, "What's wrong?"
"The other twin's turned up."
The flat set of his lips told the whole tale.
"Dead?"
Gray nodded. "The shit's gonna fly tonight."
"Is there anything I can do?" She hated the feeling of helplessness making her shoulders slump and her mind fog. Poor Tonya and Bruce, their family destroyed in the space of less than two days.
"Let me drop you over at Susie's. I don't want you here alone, honey." Sorcha's eyes flickered to the alarm clock's digital readout as it glowed steady and certain on the bedside table. "It's almost six. Why don't I leave when you do and run up to the vet in my car? I know he opens early so folks can visit their pets before going in to work. I can check on Kumar and meet you later at the diner for breakfast."
For a few seconds, she thought he'd object. But he let out this long-suffering, patently male sigh and said, "On two conditions. One, I follow you to Jimmy's and make sure you get in the front door. Two, you call me before you leave Jimmy's for the diner."
Sorcha rolled her eyes. "Paranoid doesn't begin to describe you, Gray White. Deal."
"We'll hit Spokane and the bank right after the diner. Make sure you take the key."
Gray surveyed the once-handsome Hazard teenager, his face bloated, slate-tinged complexion blotchy and marred by uneven cuts and nicks.
"Can't tell until the autopsy's finished, but if he was as drunk as he smelled, he didn't last long in the lake."
"Which one's this?" Gray asked, shaking his head. "What a sin."
"You think?" Henry retorted. "I figure this saves the taxpayers money in the long run. According to his driver's license, this one's Kevin."
"He's only seventeen. You never know... He could have turned around," Gray argued. He loathed the scents of the morgue, never could get accustomed to the smell of formaldehyde and the aromas of all the other chemicals needed to preserve bodies and parts. His wolf sensitivity, he supposed. Gray cricked his neck, tilting his head right then left. "Any kid Kevin's age should be just starting out, beginning the adventure of life."
"He began the adventure of drugs and binge drinking at eleven. With his parents and the environment he's been raised in, this kid was doomed from the start." Henry drew a blue plastic sheet over the boy's body. "The parents still haven't contacted us."
"Fucking Jim Dandy. Where are we on his movements?" The fluorescent lighting in the morgue made the bleak events even starker and worsened his brooding mood. He hurried out of the room with Henry in tow.
"Not much new. After they left the sports bar in Malott, the kids must have headed to Logan's Point. Neighbors on the south end of the lake opposite the point called in a noise complaint. Ted and Paul had gone on a run to Leader Lake, so it was an hour before they got to the point." Henry halted in front of the coffeepot.
Leader Lake?
Site of the Native American satanic cult?
Gray scratched his scalp in an attempt to alleviate the sudden tingling ringing through every follicle on his body. The urge to interrupt had him biting his tongue, and he missed what Henry said next.
"Repeat that," Gray ordered and glowered when his colleague smirked.
"Not getting your eight hours, boss?" The detective grabbed two mugs and poured coffee into both.
"Stop being a smart-ass." Gray accepted the proffered cup and gulped a couple of mouthfuls of the hot brew.
"As I said two seconds ago, by the time Ted and Paul got to the point, it was deserted. Plenty of evidence of a party. A dozen-or-so empty booze bottles, roaches, and needles. They walked the perimeter and found Hazard lodged between rocks. At first they thought he was alive. Ted said it looked like he was staring at the moon."
Gray couldn't begin to imagine how Bruce Hazard would take the news of both of his sons being murdered. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was face either parent.
"Ted spoke with the neighbors. They identified three vehicles at the point. Kevin Hazard's Corvette, a pickup, and a neon green Toyota Celica. The last vehicle belongs to George Brown's nephew, James. He's been staying with his relatives since the week before Christmas." Henry propped his feet on the desk and crossed his ankles. Head resting on his linked palms, he said, "Neighbors got out the megaphone when we didn't show right away. The way I figure it, the bunch of them hooligans was partying, and when the neighbors announced they'd called the cops, they hightailed it out of there."
"Nothing out of the ordinary there. Where's the 'Vette?"
"In the impound under examination."
"Why were Ted and Paul at Leader Lake?" Gray asked the question burning his gut.
"Another vandalized camp store, according to Chief Perce. This time near the north end. Perce is also complaining about unusual wolf activity. Says there's been nonstop howling and other"---Henry drew quotation marks in the air---"peculiar noises."
"They find anything?" He massaged his knotting neck muscles.
"Campers' belongings hacked to smithereens. Feces and urine covering the ripped-up tents and the whole perimeter of the campsite."
Scats and pee; the way any alpha wolf scent-marked his pack's territory.
His grandfather had eliminated the last of the black wolves, Gray reminded himself.
Gray reasoned that fact meant either some loony who believed he was a Satan-serving black wolf had recruited followers, or a group of bored, macho teenagers who wanted the shock-fame associated with shitting and urination had committed the vandalisms.
Either way, the news didn't sit well with him. "When did we find his twin?"
"About forty minutes ago."
"Coroner finished with the body?" Gray slumped into the high-backed chair behind his desk.
"Hasn't started as far as I know," Henry answered. "Central's not too thrilled with 400, and they're overwhelmed at the moment."
"I bet." Letting out a long sigh, he muttered, "Been a few fucking incredible days." Gray kneaded the small of his back with his fists. "The other twin's Ken, right?" When Henry nodded, he asked, "Where'd we find him?"
"Don't know for sure. We barely got Wicks's report on the body before static drowned him out. There's an electrical storm in the area."
Gray hit Speaker and punched his computer dispatcher's extension.
"Yes, boss." Eden Harold always sounded as if she smiled when she spoke.
"Edie, I want to know the second Wicks is back on CAD."
"Sure thing, boss," Edie replied. "I can't even raise his GPS, and CAD doesn't show him signed on."
Half the county's budget had been spent replacing their local computer-aided dispatch system with the state's satellite-based version. Since going live some three weeks ago, software glitches had plagued Okanagan County.
A state-of-the-art station came with many irritating drawbacks, and one particularly bothered Gray: almost no windows. It was impossible to tell the time without checking a clock. His stomach growled, and he glanced at his watch. Seven fifteen---the sun should be peeking over the horizon. "There's not much I can do here. I'm going to grab a bite at the diner. Buzz me if the Hazards contact you."
Gray called Sorcha once he left the station, and they agreed to meet at the diner in fifteen minutes. Feeling the aftereffects of too little sleep and too much emotion, he decided a walk in the fresh air would clear his fogged brain.
Golden rays highlighted glistening dewdrops on pink petunias draping jute baskets that decorated the twin columns fronting Miss L's shop. Gray halted in front of the bungalow, thinking of the innumerable heated discussions he and the older woman had enjoyed over one of her home-cooked dinners.
A mental memory jerk had him twisting around to stare at the matching cottage on the other side of Main Street. Victor Morgan's shoe repair had been vandalized, and less than two days later, Miss L had been murdered. It would be so easy to mistake one bungalow for the other, especially if the perp entered from the lakeside.
What if Miss L hadn't been the intended victim?
Shaking his head as if the action would clarify his scattered thoughts, Gray continued on his journey, sifting through different scenarios. He added Kevin Hazard's death and the shoe shop vandalism to the five parallel tracks he'd related to Sorcha earlier. Although he'd only been sheriff for the last six years, he'd learned the hard way never to discount or disconnect one seemingly unrelated event from another.
A chill gust ruffled his hair and bent the recently sowed bedding plants lining the pathway to the diner at a diagonal angle. The scent of bacon mingled with potatoes and onions frying perfumed the air, and his mouth watered as his appetite kicked in. Hunger cramps gnawed at his belly.
Gray spotted at least four empty booths once he entered the diner. The spot he favored stood empty, so he didn't wait for the waitress-cum-hostess to seat him. He slid onto the vinyl bench that faced the doorway and searched the place mat/menu for today's specials.
Hans Whitener appeared in the periphery of his vision. Gray stifled a groan when the diner's cook and owner took off his apron and headed in his direction. A butcher by trade, Hans had purchased the establishment years ago. He hadn't liked the man from the get-go. And after he returned to live in Twisp, he'd recognized the reason behind his dislike. Hans was the kind of person who would set fire to a cat's tail or slice the wings off a butterfly.
"Sheriff White," Hans boomed, his hand outstretched.
The stench of blood mixed with onions and garlic assaulted Gray's nostrils.
His palm connected with Hans's moist, beefy flesh, and he tensed against an automatic shudder reaction.
"We have another murder?" Hans asked in a guttural accent that turned the w in "we" into v, and the v in "have" into an f.
The man actually hoped he would say yes, Gray realized. He hated to reward Hans, so he replied, "We won't know anything until we get the coroner's report."
"What about Miss Herrington? Dat was a murder, yah?"
"Yes." Gray pointedly looked at his watch. "I'm in a bit of a hurry. Why don't I fill you in another time?"
"Yah, of course. You are busy with suspects."
Gray headed straight to the bathroom, washed his hands to the elbows, paper toweled his skin dry, and returned to his seat.
Sorcha's scent mixed with Kumar's hit his nostrils seconds later. His lips curved into a smile before he lifted his head and found her blazing blue eyes.
Beaming at him, she wound her way through the tables and slipped onto the opposite seat.
For long seconds he drank in her essence, wishing he could touch her mind with his. Life to date had not prepared him for this intense yearning to climb inside her and know every crevice, every pore, every thought.
"Coffee?" A waitress in a white shirt and skirt and a red-and-green-checkered apron hovered at the edge of their table.
"Please," Gray replied. "Tea for you, honey?"
"Nope. I like coffee in the mornings and tea at night." Sorcha tapped a Splenda packet on her palm as the waitress filled her cup. "Jimmy's positive Kumar's going to make it. He's a little dopey, but he's eating." She fell silent as she tore open the packet and emptied the powdery contents into the dark liquid.
"That's great news, so why the sad smile?"
"He keeps asking for Harold." Sorcha stirred the brew.
Gray captured her hand and squeezed her fingers. "It's only to be expected, honey. Those two were together most of their lives. He's bound to miss him."
"I know. I hope he won't pine away in the end."
"When we get him home, keep him in the house instead of the cage. Maybe he'll bond with White." Gray deliberately changed the subject. "Are you starving? I am."
"Me too." She checked the place mat. "Ooh, I'm going to have the Sweet Tooth Special---blueberry pancakes, Belgian waffles, and cherry blintzes. My mouth's watering thinking about it."
"I'm going for the Hungry Man Special." Her eyes sparkled and shone with happiness, and he vowed to keep her looking like this forever. The wind had tousled her hair, and the sweet disarray framing her heart-shaped face enchanted him; he could have sworn his heart turned over in his chest.
Before they could place their order, Susie and Joe walked in and made their way directly to the booth.
"Sis?" Gray recognized the expression on his sibling's face. "What's wrong?"
"Mind if we join you two?"
"Of course not," Gray replied. He motioned for Sorcha to shift down, slid onto the opposite bench, and draped an arm around his mate's shoulder.
Joe and his wife exchanged good mornings with Sorcha as they took the seat opposite.
The waitress appeared, poured two more cups of coffee, and then scribbled their orders on a flip notepad.
"What's up?" Gray asked.
"Was there another murder?" Susie shivered, and as if she needed warmth, her fingers curled around the ceramic mug.
"You had another vision?" Gray's stomach contracted, and the coffee he'd consumed threatened to vault into cyberspace. He knew before she nodded.
"Who?"
"You tell me," he demanded.
"I didn't want to say the words out loud." Susie's lips quivered. "Miss L."
Gray nodded. "I'm afraid so, sis."
Susie's face crumpled.
Joe muttered, "That doesn't make sense." He threw an arm around his wife's shoulders and hugged her close. "Ah, sweetheart, I'm so sorry."
Susie buried her face in her husband's chest. She sniffed a few times and then looked directly at her brother. "It wasn't like the others."
"What's going on?" Sorcha asked, her features pinched, eyebrows inching to her hairline.
"Every time the serial killer's struck, Susie's had a vision," Gray explained.
"What kind of vision?"
"A very vague impression of blood and limbs." Susie's voice broke. She swallowed a couple of times, shifted to face Sorcha, and continued, "For the first time wolves appeared, black wolves."
Fuck.
"Was anything else different about this one?" Gray hesitated to ask the question; he would have preferred to hear Susie out first and then filter what information he gave Sorcha. Wrestling his inherent overprotectiveness into a corner, he balled a fist under the table. Knowledge is power, he reminded himself, and knowledge mirrors safety under these circumstances.
"I felt her surprise at the first blow. She knew she wouldn't survive right away. She wanted to leave a message." Susie reached across the table and clutched Gray's hand. "Was there a message?"
A message? Gray's pulse accelerated. Idiot, idiot. All he'd wanted to do was get out of Miss L's cottage, he hadn't wanted to comb through everything, to let the agony of her death sink in. Screw him for being so weak as to leave it to the crime-scene personnel.
"Gray," Susie snapped. "Was there a message?"
He shook his head. "We haven't found anything yet. But I promise you, sis, I'll go through that cottage with a fine-tooth comb until I find something."
Two busboys shared meal delivery responsibility. Gray's hunger had evaporated, but he ate everything on his plate, even though the steak went down like tender rubber, the eggs and toast and hash browns like tofu, devoid of any texture or flavor. No one spoke much. Sorcha asked after the kids; Susie replied in abrupt sentences.
When the waitress deposited the bill on the table, the women went to the ladies' together.
As soon as they left, Gray said, "She only had the one vision?"
"One? What d'you mean, one?"
"At this point, I'm almost certain both Hazard boys were murdered."
"Fricking hell, what is happening to this town?" Joe growled. "Enlarge on the 'almost certain.'"
"We fished Kevin's body out Logan's Point yesterday. Cause of death is multiple stab wounds. A couple of hours ago, Wicks reported finding the other twin dead. Until the coroner's report is in, I can't be certain."
"Maybe you shouldn't run for reelection. I'd love to see dumb-ass Howie Houndtree inherit this mess." Joe let out an audible sigh. "Susie wouldn't keep anything from me. 'Sides, she can barely function when she wakes up from one of these visions."
"I guess that automatically disconnects the boys' deaths from our serial killer."
"Chad told me you're heading up to Leader Lake to investigate this satanic wolf cult. I'm in. When're you leaving?"
Gray dropped a twenty and a ten on top of the bill tray.
"I have to wait for the coroner's report and the parents to arrive."
Joe rolled his eyes. "I don't envy you that one. Dealing with Brucie ain't my idea of fun. The tribe banned him from the resort last month. Caught him cheating on camera."
"Bruce? Caught?" Gray asked. "Hell must have fucking frozen over. I have an appointment in Spokane right after this, so today is out. Let's plan it for tomorrow, noonish." Gray caught a glimpse of Sorcha's auburn curls. "Tell Chad and Mike, will ya? And not a word to the women. Not until we know what we face."
Gray stood.
"We all ready?" Susie asked.
"Yeah, come here, sweetheart," Joe ordered, crooking his finger at his wife.
Susie smiled at him and slipped under his arm. "Why don't you two come over for dinner tonight?"
"Can't." He needed, craved, time alone with Sorcha, time spent loving each other. He sensed Sorcha's surprise, the little peek at his face. "Too much on my plate right now. Another time. Promise."
Outside the diner, Gray and Sorcha murmured their good-byes to the other couple and made a quick getaway.
"We'll take my car. I'll have one of the guys drive yours over later." Gray flipped his palm over and wriggled his fingers.
She shot him a baleful look and pursed her mouth, but dropped a ring of keys into his hand.
Sorcha remained silent until they hit the A20.
"I remembered the key for the box."
Gray realized he'd been brooding, puzzling through each murder. He twined their fingers together and rested her knuckles on his thigh. "I knew you would, honey. You approach everything professionally."
"Do you mean that?"
Her tone prompted Gray to study her profile. "Why would you ask that?"
Gray set the SUV on cruise and adjusted the air conditioner as they turned west and the sun hit the front windshield head-on. He turned the radio to an all-news station and lowered the volume to a hum.
"You won't let my feet touch the ground when we're alone. You cook our food, shampoo my hair. It all points to you thinking me helpless and incompetent."
He couldn't stifle his guffaw. "Oh, honey, that's the wolf in me. Have you ever watched a documentary on wolves?"
"Not really." Sorcha crossed her legs and adjusted the flower-patterned skirt she wore.
"We're affectionate to a fault. Touching, licking, biting, sniffing are vital to us, to me. I have instinctive urges that I managed to control until I met you. I'm the oldest in my family, and I'm the alpha of my pack. I have a compulsive need to dominate and protect. To command and ensure my commands are obeyed. Carrying you, caring for you, cleaning you, all of these are essential to me. That doesn't mean I don't respect your intelligence or your competence. I do."
"I see," she said. "I'll bear that in mind the next time I want to thwack the back of your head."
"Say again?" What the heck did she mean?
"I guess you don't watch NCIS. The commander of the unit, Gibbs, taps the back of his employees' heads when they do something dumb." She grinned at him and aimed an open palm at the back of his head, making a slight brushing contact. "Like that, only harder."
"I love your sense of humor," he said, batting his eyelashes at her.
"You think I'm joking?'
He knew she wasn't and that she wouldn't let him forget how much she resented his punishment. Fuck, he'd screwed up and he'd admitted it; she'd better move on. Silence fell. A quick glance showed her chewing on her plump bottom lip.
"What's on your mind?"
"I keep wondering what we'll find at the bank."
"Have you remembered anything else?" He'd deliberately avoided thinking about Sorcha's past, about her parents. They had enough to sort out.
"Not really." Sorcha let out a long sigh, and he inhaled the mint from the Altoid she'd sucked after their meal. "No matter how hard I try, the memories are vague. Everything I remember is blurred. I imagine it's the way a person who normally wears glasses would see a page. You can see the black-and-white words, but you can't read a single one."
Gray couldn't imagine being so calm in the face of so much uncertainty. By now, he'd be baring teeth and snarling and snapping at everyone. Yet he couldn't scent rage, just worry and confusion.
They entered the outskirts of Spokane.
"My, it's grown, hasn't it?" Sorcha glanced from her window to his. "I don't remember any of this."
"When was the last time you were here, honey?"
"The weekend before my fifteenth birthday. Grams told me later that Mom had taken me on a shopping spree here in the city. She kept the clothes Mom had bought me that weekend. I couldn't even look at them. I know Grams kept them. They're probably in one of those boxes in her study."
His heart ached for her. That explained why she used the dining room table instead of the spacious study in the cabin.
"Here we are," he said as he pulled into the parking garage for the Bank of Spokane.
Within the half hour it took to access the safe-deposit box, Sorcha's composure deteriorated to the point where her hands shook. Her trembling fingers couldn't get the key into the locked box.
"Let me," he said as he relieved her of the key.
The attendant left them in a small room off the safe area. Gray dumped the gym bag he'd brought in anticipation and then placed the metal box onto a counter.
Sorcha stared at the closed container. Dread and alarm rolled off her body in waves, battering his nostrils.
"Do you want me to do it, honey?" He captured her hand between both of his and rubbed warmth into her icy, damp flesh.
"Please," she answered.
Letting her hand fall away, she motioned for him to go ahead.
Gray flipped the lid up and took out a brown, legal-sized envelope to reveal a weathered, leather-bound book. Three fat purple velvet pouches bordered the tome.
Sorcha gasped.
He turned to her and immediately curled an arm around her waist. "Are you okay, honey? You're whiter than new snow."
She met his glance, and he winced at the sheer terror dilating her pupils so wide, the blue of her irises almost disappeared. Panic radiated from her pores, and he knew she teetered on the verge of complete hysteria.
He had to get her to a familiar, safe environment. Keeping his arm fixed around her waist, he stuffed the contents of the box into the gym bag. Keeping up a steady murmur of coaxing and reassurance, he grabbed the container and the bag and hipped the door open.
Gray scared the crapola out of the bank's staff, but he achieved his sole objective: getting Sorcha into the SUV before she fainted. He knew her mind had shut down, that she might hear him speaking, but the words didn't register.
Maintaining a steady stream of conversation, he activated his sheriff's lights and broke all speed limits. Sorcha curled sideways on the passenger seat and sat staring into space for the entire journey. When they arrived at the log cabin, Gray scooped her into his arms and headed for the front door. While he fumbled with the key, her breathing changed, all the tension seeped out of her body, and she went limp. One glance at her slackened features confirmed all the symptoms---Sorcha had passed out.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the sliding glass doors. White greeted them as he stepped into the living room, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
"Hey, boy," Gray whispered. "Stay."
In quick order, he had Sorcha in her sleeping T-shirt and under the covers. He drew the blinds and half closed the bedroom door. Leaving the front door ajar, he jogged to the car and retrieved his gym bag and Sorcha's purse.
After setting both items on the dining room table and checking on Sorcha, he brewed a fresh pot of coffee. While waiting for the coffeemaker, Gray phoned Henry.
"Coroner finished?"
"Yep. Shit, this is getting weirder and weirder."
"Spill it." What had gone wrong now? He dragged a hand through his hair.
"Hazard had a number of stab wounds in his back. Coroner says a long, narrow blade made the wounds. Wanted to give me ten-to-one odds that the same blade was used on Miss L." Henry blew out a long sigh.
"And we never noticed he was stabbed before because...?" Gray ground out, his jaw clenching.
"We're trained not to interfere with a crime scene, and the coroner's men loaded him back down onto a stretcher, and transferred him to the slab the same way," Henry snapped. "The wounds were small enough, Wicks thought they were cuts. He was cut up all over. Only the coroner could tell how deep they were."
Gray closed his eyes and counted to ten. "My bad, Henry. This is all screwed up. The serial killer shouldn't have struck again, not so soon anyway. And this is not his MO."
The coffee machine sputtered, and he grabbed a mug from the dish drainer.
"Yeah, I know. I've been going nuts trying to figure out what the fuck we're missing." Henry sounded as exasperated and frustrated and pissed as Gray was.
"I don't know when I'll be in, but it won't be for a while. Call me if anything new comes up."
After he poured the heavenly-smelling liquid into the mug, Gray fed and watered White, and then settled down at the dining room table.
The legal envelope contained one single slip of paper of a quality akin to vellum. Gray rolled his eyes---Aileen's obsession with the Fae continued from the grave. For long seconds, he debated not reading the document, but curiosity and his supreme overprotectiveness crowed victory.
My darling Sorcha,
If you are reading this, it means I am no longer alive. It also means I can no longer protect you. You must look to protect yourself. Trust no one.
But I must begin with an ending.
Darling girl, the night I discovered your parents dead and you wounded, but still breathing, was the worst night of my life.
You must forgive me, Sorcha. Seeing blood seeping from your head near made me insane. I'm afraid to say I panicked and the only thought in my brain was keeping you alive. In my near hysteria, I barely paid attention to what is now called "the scene of the crime."
Over the last three months, I have bitterly regretted not glancing more than once at that living room more times than I can count.
My darling girl, I have come to believe that your parents were murdered.
And no, before you leap to conclusions, this isn't part of my "fae obsession," as you so expressively put it the last time we had lunch over a year ago. This Christmas, I finally unpacked your parents' possessions, the four trunks that have sat in storage for over fifteen years.
I found your mother's diary on Christmas Eve.
Naturally, I turned to the last entry in the book.
Gray's pulse accelerated. He glanced at the open gym bag and spotted the hardcover volume he'd taken from the safe-deposit box. Swearing a blue streak under his breath at the potential Pandora's box, he gritted his teeth and returned to reading Aileen's letter.
To my dismay, the last entry was dated two years earlier. I read through the diary, and it confirmed everything I had always thought. I knew and loved your father from the time he first stepped foot in my house to the day he died. I have never ever been able to come to terms with what the police said he did that night.
He loved both his girls, and he was inherently a gentle man. Yes, he was well-known for his temper, but he wasn't a killer, darling girl. And never would he have harmed a child of his loins.
Reading your mother's thoughts, reliving those days, made me restless. I went to the main library in Spokane, and a kind young lady there helped me look through the microfilm copies of the newspaper articles about the "murder/suicide."
So many things so obvious in hindsight.
My good friend, Donald Henley, was the county coroner at the time. Yet he wasn't called to the crime scene, and he didn't perform the autopsies. Only after I read those articles did I remember he had left several notes in my mailbox during the two months you were in the hospital. Donald had always had a "thing" for me, so I hadn't bothered to reply. He had moved away when I returned to live here, and at first, I couldn't locate him
That nice young lady in Spokane helped me find him on the Internet. I called him and spoke to him for some time. Donald had been taken off the case, the order issued from above, though no one could actually say who gave the order.
The whole thing bothered me. I mentioned my suspicions to Lilian, who agreed with me that the situation warranted more investigation. Then something remarkable occurred.
About a year ago, a young couple bought your parents'old house and began renovating, one room at a time. Two months ago, they brought three boxes of goods they'd found in the attic to the Goodwill store. Your mother's last diary was in there.
I read the words she wrote the morning she died.
Your mother, my daughter, had that day discovered she was pregnant. It had long been her wish to have another child, but though they tried and consulted doctors in Spokane, she never conceived. She was ecstatic, Sorcha, and she wrote about the joy and happiness she and Alistair had shared upon hearing the news.
Gray shook his head. He reread the sentence. Her mother had been pregnant? Nothing made sense if this was true.
Sorcha's whimper brought him out of his wandering musings. His sight zoomed in on her sleeping figure, and he waited and watched. Her chest rose and fell in a smooth, regular rhythm, and he relaxed, circling his head left, then right. Gray refocused on the thin vellum on the table.
I wish now I'd kept my suspicions to myself, but I was too anxious to learn more and thought if I spoke with the older members of the community, one of them might recall something that could help me.
It has been some six weeks since I felt well. It started with the occasional belly cramping. Before I knew it, my hair began shedding, my fingernails grew thin and brittle, and the cramping paralyzed me several times a day. I only suspected poisoning during the last three weeks.
Lately, I cannot shake the feeling of being followed.
I dare not mention this to anyone, as all the gossip seems to be of Louisa and I and our "fae obsession."
I have little energy. I eat only the meals I cook. I am avoiding even Louisa's confections, though I dare not hurt her feelings by letting her find out.
Today, I made the journey to Spokane to leave this for you. Tomorrow, I will take the train to the border and post you the key and an obvious clue to this box.
I am dying, Sorcha, because I stirred a hornet's nest when I began to question how your parents died. Trust no one, my darling girl.
I leave you everything I own and these jewels, passed from one O'Riley generation to another.
My time is approaching, I ken it well. Grieve not for me, Sorcha, but look to your future. See in your mind your sons and daughters and weave them a world better than you have known.
I will always be in your dreams, Sorcha. You have only to close your eyes and I will come to you if you need me.
Your loving,
Grams
Sorcha fought waking up. She chucked the pillow on top of her face and squeezed her eyes shut. The silky cotton pillowcase smelled of Gray, smoky and spicy and all male. Every inhale seemed to cover her in a coat of protection, safety.
All at once, the events of the day before crowded her mind, and she flung the pillow across the room and sat up.
Something bad was going to happen today.
Snippets of the forgotten night, the banned night, the night her parents died, seeped into her brain: Miss L's famous chocolate cheesecake, the smell of coffee, a familiar face, a welcome face, a dissolving face. Panic welled an acid bitterness up her throat. Sorcha grabbed the other pillow and crushed it into her stomach. She would not vomit. No way.
White's gentle snoring wafted on an early-morning breeze, and the familiar, comforting noise made her pulse slow; she slumped against the headboard.
"How're you feeling, honey?" Gray, dressed in low-slung sweatpants, sculpted ripples showcasing his bared chest, strode into the room carrying a mug in one hand.
She jerked, hit the back of her head on a metal rail, and wondered for the umpteenth time how such a big man could move so silently.
"Coffee," she said and held out a hand.
He sat on the mattress and wiggled back and forth until she moved over a half inch and gave him room to settle. She liked the way he managed to touch her in every way possible, one arm around her shoulder, his hips stacking hers.
"Coffee," he agreed and held the mug to her mouth.
She sipped and sighed as the liquid made its way down her throat, hot, soothing, bursting with flavor.
And in that moment she realized Gray would always be domineering, would always strive to facilitate her every move, would always carry her instead of allowing her feet to touch the ground. Yet the familiar anger and irritation at his overprotectiveness didn't ring through every nerve, didn't have her teeth grinding. Instead, she snuggled closer, laid her cheek on a bunched pectoral, and inhaled.
Oh God, she loved the way he smelled.
"Sorcha?" His finger tipped her chin. "How do you feel, honey?" He had set the cup on the bedside table.
Reality. She had to face the facts and the world. Sorcha knuckled her eye sockets and mumbled, "Okay, I guess."
She cupped a hand over a wide yawn, met his gaze, and a sliver of trepidation crept millimeter by millimeter up her spine. "What?"
Without saying a word, he handed her a sheet of paper the texture of the finest silk. Sorcha read Grams's handwritten letter, and the barometric pressure rose with each word she digested.
"Can it be true?" Sorcha'd never allowed her mind to wrap around her father murdering her mother or trying to kill her. Even in the enforced therapy required before she left the hospital, she'd never articulated the words, refused to discuss it with the shrink.
"I don't know, honey," Gray replied, his fingers rubbing a slow circle on her hip.
"When I woke up this morning, I had flashes about that night, but nothing I could identify except Miss L's chocolate cheesecake. We had Miss L's cheesecake most Sundays, so I'm not sure if it's actually a memory of that night or not," she muttered. "When will my memory return?"
"I don't know. I did some research on amnesia. It's fairly unpredictable." Gray drew her closer and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Maybe your return to Twisp will trigger more flashes, and you'll eventually remember. What about your childhood? Do you remember more?"
"Not really, but it's nice to have a clear image of my mom in my head. For so long every time I tried to picture her, her face was blurred or distorted." She fiddled with the cover sheet. "And I've never once tried to picture my father. I made Grams hide all their pictures."
"I don't know how you grew up to be so well-balanced." One finger tipped her chin. "It says volumes about how strong you are internally. I'm not sure I could've lived thinking that my father killed my mother and then tried to kill me. It was hard enough living with two drunks."
"We never spoke about it once we moved to Penticton. We bought everything new for our town house. Grams made it into a big adventure. There were no pictures, nothing from the past." Her throat constricted, and she couldn't get any more words out.
"You weren't in therapy in Canada?"
He had shaved, she noticed; his jawline held the tiniest hint of stubble. "Grams made a deal with me. The therapy sessions would be scheduled around any extracurricular activities I was involved in. I joined every club in sight. Between academics and swimming, ice-skating, chess, I never had the time."
"You think she gave you an out?" Gray licked the side of her neck, and a delicious shiver slid from her nape to her pinkie toe.
"Mmm. I think she knew I was on the brink." What had he done in the fifteen years since she'd last seen him? "What about you? What did you do after leaving Twisp?"
"The usual---four years of college followed by a couple of jobs in various cities."
"When did you become the sheriff, then?" Being awake meant being confused, Sorcha decided and wished she could resort to sweet dreams instead of nightmarish waking moments.
"Around six years ago." He dragged one hand through his hair. "Susie and Joe had moved back to Twisp, Lizzie followed, then Melanie. I came to visit and sort of never left. When the position of sheriff opened, I put my hat in the ring."
"Why?"
"The previous sheriff was a prejudiced redneck who encouraged his fellow officers to harass and pressure the Native American tribes in this area. I took the job to even out the odds."
"Has it worked?"
"Mostly." His mouth curved. "A few of the tribes in the state object to one of their own doling out the 'white man's justice.'" Gray mimicked quotation marks. "Bruce Hazard's refused to endorse me, not that I consider that a negative. Other than that, I think most people think I'm doing a good job."
"I think you're doing a great job," she said and couldn't prevent the fierce edge to her voice.
"Three murders in one week might tip the scales out of my favor." A series of shadows skittered across the room as the light from the window receded when a line of puffy charcoal clouds floated over the rising sun. The expression Gray wore changed as his pupils constricted and he squinted in the momentary gloom.
Sorcha's stomach clenched. "What's wrong?"
"I'm reopening the case on your parents' deaths."
A numbness slo-moed her thoughts to a stuttering halt. "You think Grams's suspicions might have merit?" She could barely get the question out and didn't know if she could survive his answer.
His fingers and thumb firmed around her chin, and she fell into the tempting lagoon of his dark, fathomless eyes. "I don't want to get your hopes up, honey. Let's take it one step at a time."
"Can I see the details of the case?" All at once the need to know, to see in black-and-white the details of that night, conquered her fear. "Is it allowed?"
"I'm the sheriff, honey. I can give you access. But," he said, giving her jaw a little shake, "I call the shots on this one. I decide what you see and what you don't. Deal?"
Gray wouldn't hurt her; she knew that. He wanted control to protect her, to shield her from the more graphic and destructive information.
"Deal." As she said the words, Sorcha realized she'd crossed a threshold; she'd given him her trust. He knuckled her cheek, the ephemeral caress a promise of things to come.
"At least now I understand why Grams went to such trouble to send the package from Penticton, why she hid the key." Sorcha bit her lip at the sudden threat of tears. Gray's arms tightened around her, and he rocked back and forth. "She loved you, honey. And in a strange way, her death brought us together. I'd like to think she left you in my care."
Sorcha raised her head, and their eyes tangoed. "Why, Gray Theodore White, you're a romantic at heart."
"Yeah." Color suffused his face. "Only with you, honey. Only you." Gray nuzzled her neck; his tongue tickled her nape.
Unable to stop stroking his warm skin, which undulated under her tingling fingertips, she opened her mouth over a chocolate nipple and suckled. The arm around her waist tightened, and he let out a low growl.
"Honey?" Desire laced the word, his voice gruff and edgy.
She answered by capturing the taut point between her teeth and biting lightly.
Gray wrestled with her T-shirt and yanked it over her head. "I know we need to talk more, honey, but I have to love you, to be inside of you." He slid her down on the mattress, and his heated body covered hers. His lips slanted over hers and his tongue swooped in, dueling with hers, tracing the roof of her mouth. Sorcha's toes curled and her sex wept.
When Gray broke the kiss and centered his attention on her breast, her hips arched of their own volition. The fierce tug of his suckling went straight to her pussy, and she creamed and squirmed beneath him, angling for that perfect friction.
She ached to feel that first penetration, his powerful cock stretching her. Sorcha tugged at the waistband of his sweats, her hands cupping his ass and squeezing the hard mounds. In two rapid moves, he swept the pants off his torso and settled on top of her, his knees nudging her legs apart.
She fell back on the pillow, savoring his slow penetration, the way the head of his penis distended her walls. An inferno ignited Sorcha's insides. Her entire body contracted around him.
Gray's teeth clamped the sensitive curve of her neck and shoulder. He bit and swept the spot with his tongue as his cock pushed past her contracting muscles. She needed him closer, needed more of him, yearned for him to thrust hard and fast, to pound away the ugliness of the world, to make her his, make her safe.
"Now, Gray, now," she ordered and wrapped her legs around his waist. The angle deepened the reach of his invading penis, and she rose to meet his first, fierce plundering. His hands cupped her buttocks, his hold on her neck tightened, and he plunged into her, his cock lengthening and thickening as his strokes took on a frenetic urgency.
He inserted his hand between their sweat-slickened bodies, and his fingers plucked at her sex.
"Gray," she mewled as her nails dug into his back. That sweet, painful flame swept through her, and she convulsed around him, sucking his cock in, milking him.
"Mine," he growled. "Mine."
She locked around his penis, the convulsions coming in tsunami waves that destroyed any semblance of rationality. They held each other, arms wrapped tight around flesh covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. The aromas of musk, semen, and sweat perfumed the room.
Sorcha didn't know how long they remained bound to each other. She gave in to the ferocious craving to learn him, and she licked and nibbled his chest, nipping at his small male nipples, tongue laving the hot, salty buds.
One finger tipped Sorcha's chin, interrupting her explorations.
"Hmm?" she mumbled, her eyes half-shuttered, a sated trance making her movements and her mind sluggish.
The house phone rang.
One corner of Gray's mouth quirked; his glance darted to the phone on the bedside table. "Ah hell, let it go to voice mail. It's too much work to try and roll our way there."
He dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Gray, Susie says this locking thing is only supposed to last five or ten minutes," Sorcha muttered, not quite brave enough to meet his stare. A fingertip outlined his areola. "How come it lasts double that time with us?"
Before he could answer, Jimmy's voice filled the room. "Hi, Sorcha, it's Jimmy. I just wanted to let you know that Kumar can come home anytime today. He'll be on antibiotics for the next seven days, but other than that he doesn't need any special care. I think the little fella is anxious to be in a familiar environment. Give me a buzz when you get this message, so we can arrange everything."
Sorcha stared at the phone and wondered why she wasn't elated at the good news.
Gray chucked her chin. "You okay?"
She forced her lips into a smile. "Sure. That's wonderful news about Kumar."
"It is, and we can pick him up whenever you like. Look at me, honey." He fondled the side of her face. "We wolves mate with females of our kind. As far as I know, there has never been a wolf and a mortal mating in our tribe. Maybe our prolonged locking is the result of two different species mating. I don't know. We're going to have to muddle our way through things. Does the locking bother you?"
"Actually, I like it, except for the fact that we don't know how long it's going to last." Her forefinger swirled the seven hairs around his nipple to the right. "It's almost like enforced cuddling." That made her grin. "Does it bother you? Most men like to get away as soon as they're done."
His black eyes narrowed, and he shot her a fierce look. "Never remind me you've been with other men. Never." He nibbled her shoulder. "I love the locking, the way you milk me, staying hard inside you. Your scent changes when I'm inside of you. Each time we're together, my mark grows stronger. My instincts drive me to make love to you as often as possible, to fill you with my sperm, to plant a cub inside your womb."
Gray's words shrouded her in a warm cocoon, and the world faded away as she drowned in eyes made pure obsidian by the merging of dilated pupils with irises.
"Will you marry me soon, Sorcha?"
Her stomach caved.
Marriage?
Her heart thudded so hard against her rib cage, the room dipped, righted, then dipped again.
She knew he'd become more possessive and protective if they married.
He wanted children.
Would she be a good mother?
What if Grams wasn't right?
I need to know.
I need to be positive.
Everything had happened too fast.
"Couldn't we live together for a while? We've only known each other for a few days. And they haven't exactly been normal days either. I mean, what about the whole dating, move in, then get married stages? Must we skip all of them?" Sorcha stopped babbling at the stunned hurt radiating from despondent, half-shuttered eyes. She touched her tongue to the seam of his flattened lips and whispered against his mouth, "I need more time, Gray."
Gaze fastened onto hers, his palms slid up her throat to caress her cheeks. "How much time?" The feral tone of his voice made her mouth go dry.
"I don't know," Sorcha answered. "Please try to understand." She covered his hand with hers. "I don't really know who or what I am. Half the time I feel like I've entered another dimension. For the past fifteen years, I've denied the truth about my parents' deaths, about what my father tried to do to me. Now there's a chance everything I've lived with is a lie. I still don't have memories of that night or most of my childhood. How can I be a whole person if I don't remember half of my life?"
As she spoke, Gray's jaw stopped clenching, and the scowl drawing his eyebrows together gradually softened. His eyes raked her face, and he let out a long sigh. His coffee-scented breath warmed her skin.
"We don't have time, honey, not if black wolves are involved." He kissed the tip of her nose, and all at once the muscles in her vagina relaxed and he slipped out of her.
Without thinking, she cupped his bottom and tried to prevent him from leaving.
"It's for the best. We have a lot to do today." Gray brushed his lips against hers, rolled onto his side, and off the bed. "I'll cook breakfast. You shower."
Sorcha waited until he was out of sight before she headed to the bathroom. After showering, she pulled on her oldest jeans and a navy-and-white-striped sweater. Barefoot, she wandered into the living room and made a beeline for the dining table. Three pouches of a royal purple color lay on the burnished mahogany surface. The soft packets seemed to throb and pulse and demand her touch.
Untying the gold cord that held the first sack closed, she turned the small bag upside down, and a strand of cream pearls fell into her hand. The cool balls heated her palms. A 360-degree video played around her as her fingers curled around the smooth pearls. The images flashed from left to right in a chronological replay of her childhood. Her mom in a flowered dress wearing the pearls around her neck and standing behind a Snow White cake the day Sorcha turned seven. The first day of junior high, Mom wearing the pearls and a yellow dress, watching her walk up the path to the school. The night of her tenth birthday when Mom uncovered Harold and Kumar's cage; she'd worn the pearls on that occasion too.
"Sorcha!" The bellow startled her, and she stumbled.
Strong arms dragged her against Gray's chest. Oxygen seeped out of her lungs, the room spun, and she muttered, "I need to sit."
"Fuck." One strong arm curled under her knees, the other supported her back, and he lifted her feet off the floor. He marched to the couch, carrying her, and sat down heavily. His hand braced the back of her neck, the other cupped her chin. He raised her face to his and asked, his tone coarse, his eyes glowing yellow, "What just happened, honey?"
Her mind went blank for a second. "I remembered." She stared at her empty palm. "Where did the pearls go?" Sorcha twisted in his arms and raked the dining area. "They're on the table." She tried to pry his hands away, but instead of loosening, his arms turned into a steel embrace.
"Don't move. Curl into me. Something's hunting you. I can hear it trying to pick up your scent. Don't talk. Stay as still as possible. Think of calming rhythms, like waves crashing to shore."
A shiver slithered up each vertebra as she realized he'd somehow spoken in her mind. A wild notion to shout and scream and stamp and be in Chicago ripped through Sorcha; she bit her lips and balled her fists and buried her face into his bare chest. Gray's unique aroma curled around her nose and appeased her bubbling hysteria.
"That's it, honey. Stay with me."
White slunk into the room, ears vertical, tail stiff and horizontal, teeth bared. He crept low to the wooden floor, advancing in a surreal silence. When the Lab reached Gray's feet, he went into guard stance, his head sweeping the room and settling on the front door.
Sorcha shifted so her cheek rested on Gray's shoulder. Outside, the wind changed on a pulse, morphing from slight gusts to a roar, shaking tree branches and whipping dried leaves into the air. The smooth surface of the lake chopped and spiked, and water slapped boulders, sending jets spouting.
"Sorcha!" Gray shook her. "Honey, are you all right?"
The wind died down, and the lake's surface reflected the brilliance of a noonday sun.
"No." Fright paralyzed her limbs. "Did you just speak in my head?"
"Telepathic communication," he muttered. "It's a white wolf skill."
Gray wouldn't meet her eyes; instead, he focused on a spot to the right.
A rush of fury seized her mind; she curved her hand around his jaw and turned his face to hers. "Can you do that at will?"
"Yes and no. I shouldn't be able to do it with you. Only male wolves are telepaths."
Sorcha pushed at his chest, putting a few inches between them. "Can you read my mind anytime?" She didn't like the notion, not one bit.
"Not if it works with you and me the way it does with my male counterparts. We use telepathy sparingly, and usually only in times of danger."
"What did you mean by something's hunting me?"
"I sensed something out there. I'm not sure if it was a black wolf or not." He licked his lips as if they had dried out and finally met her searching glance. "I know this must be difficult for you, honey, but believe this---Someone or some creature is after you. Everything I've done, I've done to protect you. Do you believe me?"
Tiredness and a morose resignation drained her energy and emotions.
"I believe you, Gray, but I'm not sure I can take any more of this." She tried to slide out of his lap, but his hold on her tightened. "I'm just getting accustomed to the whole white wolf business, and now you're reading my mind and speaking of something or someone hunting me, and black wolves."
"You must have noticed the change in the weather," he stated. "Do you think Mother Nature did that?"
She butted her head on his collarbone. "I am so confused."
"Shush," he crooned and stroked the length of her back. "Trust me. Stop thinking about all of it. Let's take one step at a time. Don't you want to see what's in the other pouches Grams left you?"
"You're trying to distract me?"
His mouth crooked up, and he broke into the grin that turned her bones to jelly. "Am I succeeding?"
"You're not always going to get your way," she muttered and cuffed his shoulder.
"Let's check them out," he suggested. Standing, he carried her over to the table and sat her in a chair. Angling his head at the two purple bags, he said, "Go ahead. Open."
Reaching for the second pouch, she separated the knot and widened the bag's mouth.
Gray leaned over her shoulder, and she heard his hasty inhale. "What is it?"
"My parents' wedding rings." The words tumbled from her lips. "Here, you take them. I'm not ready to hold anything my father wore yet." She scooted the pouch to the right.
Sorcha opened the last bag and let out a long sigh. "I'd so hoped." She sighed again.
"What had you hoped, honey?"
"I was so hoping it was the locket Grams gave me, you know the luck of the O'Rileys that I told you about."
Gray pried the pouch from her fingers and looked into it. He pulled out a finely wrought gold necklace from which dangled a tiny jeweled cross. "Yours?"
"It was Grams's, and I think her mother's," she answered.
"And these?" He held up a tiny ring and a pair of diamond stud earrings. "Looks like baby stuff."
She nodded. "I remember Mom telling me the first girl in every family gets the earrings, and the firstborn male gets the ring and the cross."
"Is this from Aileen's side of the family?" He arched an eyebrow.
"I think so." Her temple throbbed, and she pressed the ball of her thumb into the aching spot.
The house phone rang. They both jumped and turned around and stared at the white handset hanging on the opposite wall.
"What now?" Gray ate up the distance to the phone, yanked it off its base, and barked into the receiver, "Hello."
Sorcha tied the gold cord on each pouch, sealing the contents. A series of images flooded her mind, as if that first touch of her mother's pearls had switched on a continual shower of childhood memories.
Gray let out a stream of snapped expletives, and she shifted to face him.
Three lines creased the space between his eyebrows, and his lips had thinned. He hung up the phone.
"What's wrong?"
"Bruce and Tonya Hazard are at the station. I have to go in. I'll drop you at the vet's on the way in and pick you up when I'm done." Gray reached Sorcha as she rose from the chair. He linked his arms around her waist and licked the side of her neck. "What? No argument?"
"No argument, white wolf." She tipped her head back and met his dark eyes. "I don't want to be alone, and I feel safer when you're around."
Gray growled and nipped the cusp of her shoulder. "Sweeter than honey, those words." He bit her again and soothed the spot with his tongue. "Go get ready."
While he disappeared into the bedroom, Sorcha grabbed her mother's diary from Gray's gym bag, packed the tome into her purse, and stuffed her feet into worn Nikes. Gray reappeared dressed in his sheriff's uniform. After he locked the door and set the alarm, they headed to the Durango.
Fifteen minutes later, Gray escorted her into the vet's office and kissed her good-bye.
"I'm holding you personally responsible for apprehending my sons' murderer." Bruce Hazard hadn't so much as raised his voice since he entered the 400th Precinct. Only the pulse throbbing at his temples, the white knuckles of his clenched fists, and the rapid bobbing of his Adam's apple betrayed leashed wrath.
Gray would have preferred the man raging and bellowing. He didn't trust this soft-spoken version of Bruce.
Steepling his fingers, Gray extended his legs under the desk, crossed his feet at the ankles, and studied Bruce through half-hooded eyes. Fury bubbled in Bruce's veins, and Gray scented rage checked by building terror. Bruce petrified to the point of panic?
Fuck, the notion of Bruce afraid scared the crapola out of him.
A movement to the right caught his attention. Henry waggled his almost-invisible strawberry eyebrows and angled his head to interrogation room two. Right that second, Bruce's cell phone burst into song; he snatched the instrument out of the front pocket of his tailored tweed jacket and barked, "Hazard."
Bruce listened for a few seconds before ordering, "Hang up. I'll call you back right away." He rose, muttered, "I have to take this," did an about-face and strode toward the doorway.
Grabbing the brief respite, Gray bounded to his feet and hurried over to Henry.
"What's up?"
"Ted picked up James Brown, the black kid who was with Kevin and the others at Logan's Point. He's in two."
A quick survey of the room showed three free personnel: Edie Harold, Frank Harris, and Doug Wicks. "Where're we at with Hazard's wife?"
"Doc Harrison gave her a shot of valium." Henry grinned and slapped his hat against his thigh. "Ain't nothing going to get her going again. Sheeeet. I had to take three Aleves to get rid of the headache her screaming and hollering started."
"Edie, Doug, Frank." Gray waved the officers over. "When Bruce returns, tell him I was called out. Assure them we'll contact them the minute we have any news."
"Sure thing, boss," Edie said. "Tonya Hazard's never been my favorite person, but I sure feel sorry for her. No parent should outlive their kids."
"Yeah," Gray muttered as he dragged both hands through his hair. "Okay, Henry, let's you and I check this teen out."
The kid had bitten his cuticles so raw, dried blood stained both forefingers. Gray glanced at the sheet in front of him---James Edward Brown's seventeenth birthday occurred in nine days. The adolescent's midnight complexion had grayed, his face now the color of a murky storm cloud, and he twiddled his thumbs, the action obsessive-compulsive, one digit circling the other in a jerky motion.
A faint hint of urine hit Gray's nose, and he realized the kid's bladder control had evaporated. He slapped his notepad on the table and let the metal screech as he dragged the chair away from the metal table. Gray sat and leaned forward. "What made you stab Kevin Hazard thirty-seven times?"
James clapped a hand over his mouth. Gargling sounds proved the teenager was trying to control the urge to vomit. Unshed tears magnified James's black irises, and Gray couldn't tell where the kid's pupils began or ended.
Henry rolled into the good-cop routine. "Want something to drink?"
James nodded, his hand still cupped over his mouth. His chin dropped to a massive chest.
"You prefer Coke or Pepsi?" Henry hefted the two cans he carried.
"I don't care." James raised his head, and his features crumpled. "Kevin's really dead?" His voice broke on the last word.
"Yeah," Henry answered, his voice full of sympathy.
"It's my fault," he burst into a loud, racking sob and slumped onto the table, his arms pillowing his forehead. "It was my idea to go to Logan's Point."
Gray frowned; the kid's reaction didn't jibe---not if he had killed Kevin.
"Here," Henry said as he shoved an open can of Coke in front of the teen. "Take a couple of swallows."
James straightened; he swiped the back of his hand across his cheeks, sniffed a couple of times, and glugged down at least half the can's contents.
Henry flipped the chair opposite James around and sat. "What happened at Logan's Point? Start from the beginning."
Gray listened to the kid's stuttering recounting of an adolescent evening spent drinking and smoking and doing illegal drugs. After the fight with his twin in Malott, Kevin and James and a pickup carrying a tray load of unidentified teenagers had decided to whoop it up at Logan's Point.
One teenager had scored two six packs of Mike's Hard Lemonade, another contributed tabs of ecstasy stolen in a robbery, and James and Kevin added a purloined bottle of Bruce's finest cognac. When the neighbor across the way hollered he'd called the police, the teens decided to regroup at the Hazard's home, as Kevin's parents were in Seattle. James's and two other cars waited an hour in the Hazard's driveway before they split.
Reading between the lines, Gray deduced the kid had bought into the wrong crowd in the big city, and his parents had sent him to Twisp hoping he'd clean up his act. Over six-six, with the bulky build of a linebacker, James couldn't get through his written statement without Henry's assistance. The kid was barely literate.
Someone knocked on the door, it opened, and Doug's head appeared. "Boss, we need you for a minute."
Shooting Henry a glance, Gray pushed away from the table, stood, and exited the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, he asked, "What?"
"Coroner has an initial report on Ken Hazard."
"Cause of death?"
"Multiple stab wounds. He bled out. Right big toe intact, other leg severed, couple of fingers missing. He's still working on the body," Doug replied. "Should I head back to the scene to look for the missing limb and digits?"
Alarm rang every nerve synapse; Gray fought the bile shooting up his throat. "No, I'll handle this one personally. Where are the Hazards?"
"They both went home."
"Thank the Lord for small mercies." What else could go wrong today? He had to get to Leader Lake with Joe, Chad, and Mike ASAP. The piling evidence pointed in one direction---the satanic black wolf cult.
A ghost of a finger chased the back of his neck as he remembered Aileen's letter and the now-familiar scent earlier at the cabin. The same aroma he'd first identified the night Sorcha had found the cockatoos, the odor from the middle of the lake. He had to wrap the Hazard case up and get his mate to safety.
Gray reentered the interrogation room in time to hear James ask, "Can I see Kev?"
Schooling his features, Gray tried not to reveal his surprise; only loved ones asked to view the body. Intuition ruled his reaction.
"Take him," he ordered Henry, and Gray returned to his desk, thoughts absorbed by a new theory.
Crap. James had shown all the signs of a man grieving for his lover. Ten minutes later, Henry recounted, his words tinged with contempt, that James had broken into great racking sobs when he saw Kevin Hazard's body.
Gray ordered Henry to release James only into his uncle's care as he sensed the youth's self-destructive thoughts. He phoned the coroner, who confirmed his suspicions; Kevin's anus showed signs of vigorous activity.
James and Kevin had been lovers. If Bruce ever found out---Gray refused to complete the thought.
"Boss." Edie's cheerful voice brought him back to the present.
"What?" He shoved the papers in front of him aside.
"We finished that second search of Miss L's cottage you ordered. I found this." Edie deposited a loaf-shaped cake, decorated with red sprinkles that formed two and a half letters, on his desk. An antarctic chill danced from vertebra to vertebra, ending in a glacier at his nape as he made out the writing.
"Where'd you find this, Edie?"
"In the store under the front counter on top of a cartridge. See how it's smooshed on the one end?" Edie pointed to the loaf. "It was jammed against the wall on top of a box. I help Miss L out often in the summer, and I know how she works. She'd never stick a fresh cake on top of laser toner. That would be sacrilege in her eyes."
Could this be Miss L's message?
Gray studied the two letters adorning the cake's surface, all in lowercase, an h and a w. Only half a vertical line formed the third letter; it could have been anything. Had she been icing the loaf when the murderer entered the shop?
Cradling his head in his palms, Gray thumped his calves onto the desk, crossed his ankles, and stared at the ceiling, going through the town's population alphabetically: Harold, Harris, Harrison, Hazard, Herrington, Houndtree, and Huroq.
Could one of the Houndtrees have done this? If he'd been drinking, Howie certainly was capable of murder. The man had a hair-trigger temper, as did most of his family.
W should have been easier, but the predominant German ancestry of Twisp scuttled that premise: Waldo, Wallenstein, Walther, Waltraud, Wendel, Werner, Whitener, Wibeke, and Wicks. Lowering his feet, he grabbed a sheet of paper, ran a line down the center, headed one column H, the other W, and listed the names.
He drew a line through Herrington---Miss L derived her nickname from her first name, Lillian. Then he crossed out Wicks. Crap, it could be a first and a last name; he drew another line and wrote down Henry Todd and William North.
Snatching another sheet of paper, he penciled in the names of the serial killer's seven possible victims: Yaeger Schmidt, Kristen Frank, Donna Taunton, Mark Spring, Lillian Herrington, Kevin Hazard, Ken Hazard.
What, if anything, did these individuals have in common?
Idly, Gray twirled his pencil and let his glance drift about the room. He shot out of his chair when his eyes rested on the enlarged local map on the far wall.
Fuck.
He picked up a dry-erase marker from the small shelf-box located next to the map and circled the points where the bodies had been discovered: Twisp, Conconully, Riverside, Omak, Malott, Olema, and Carlton. The towns formed an ellipse around Leader Lake.
Dread crept up his spine and clamped his gut in a wrench.
The old Black wolf territory.
He stalked out of the precinct, called his brothers-in-law, and arranged to meet them in forty minutes at the dirt road exit off Highway 20 that led to the main campground for Leader Lake. Then he called Susie and manipulated her and the girls into visiting Sorcha at the cabin for the rest of the day.
The ride to the vet took no time at all. On autopilot, he thanked Jimmy for his good care of Kumar and paid the vet bill over Sorcha's adamant objections. His sister and the two girls were waiting when he, Sorcha, and Kumar arrived at the cabin. Gray let everyone in the house, said his good-byes, got back into the Durango, and stepped on the accelerator.
Joe's black Hummer was parked on the shoulder before the sign for Rural Route 192. Gray jammed his foot on the brake when he paralleled the front passenger window.
"What's the frigging hurry?" Chad's face appeared as the glass rolled down.
"I'll explain everything once we get to the campground," Gray replied.
A severe drought had hit the area, and the less-than-average snowfall loosened the dust on the dirt road. A thin brown film immediately coated the windshield, and running the wipers worsened visibility. Gray swore a blue streak all the way to the camp's headquarters. He parked in front of a wooden A-frame building bearing a huge cedar sign with the words CHINOOK COUNCIL LODGE. The black SUV pulled to a halt beside him, and his three brothers-in-law climbed out of the vehicle. Gray collected his rifle from the backseat and vaulted out of his car.
"So what's the frigging hurry?" Chad folded his arms and leaned against the burnished passenger door.
"The Hazard twins are dead. Both murdered."
"Sheeet," Joe drawled. "Glad I don't have to deal with Bruce on that one."
Gray summarized the events to date.
Mike propped a foot on the Hummer's running board and braced his forearm on a bent leg. "What possible link can there be between the serial killer, this black wolf cult, and the thing or person you scented hunting Sorcha?"
"I'm working strictly from my gut on this one." Gray massaged the back of his neck. "Right now the only thing linking the killings is geography. All of the killings occurred in towns that delineate the old Black wolf territory."
"You're leaving out another salient fact. Three murders since Sorcha McFadden returned to Twisp," Joe mused.
Gray snapped to attention, balancing the rifle in the crook of his elbow. Joe had only voiced the one thought he had refused to verbalize. His stomach hollowed, and he swiped a hand across the beads of sweat peppering his forehead. "What's the link if that's the case? Sorcha never even knew the Hazards had kids until we discovered the twins' bodies."
"You're too emotionally involved. Nothing happens in this town; then all of a sudden we have this outburst of violence after your mate returns?" Joe shook his head. "Too much of a coincidence."
Irritation percolated Gray's veins; he drummed his fingers on the Hummer's hood. "Let's table that discussion until we get home. Mike, you know Chief Perce, want to do the social niceties?"
"Sure. Be right back." Mike straightened and headed to the lodge's double doors.
Chad scuffed the dirt with one boot. "Joe said Susie hasn't had any visions since Miss L's death. Why do you think the twins' deaths are linked to the serial killer?"
"According to the coroner, the same weapon that killed Kevin was used to stab Miss L. His right toe's missing, so is hers, and that's certainly part of the killer's MO." Gray adjusted his grip on the rifle. "But his body was intact, and there were no bite marks. On the other hand, Ken's right toe is intact, but his left is severed. Go figure."
A low rumble preceded the sun's shading by a charcoal patchwork of clouds. Gray sniffed the air and widened his stance. The moistness that preceded a thunderstorm didn't perfume the air; instead, a metallic taint pervaded his nostrils.
"Blood," Joe murmured.
"Not fresh." Chad shifted so the three men stood parallel to each other.
Gray picked up Mike's stealthy stride before the man appeared at their side. "Human, and more than one, I'd say." At Joe's raised eyebrow, Mike added, "Perce was in back at the tepee taking pics with tourists. I looped the building. The smell's coming from that direction." He jutted his chin to the right.
The coppery aroma of blood overpowered the hint of pine perfuming the atmosphere as they entered a thicket of tall evergreens. Rifle slung diagonally across his back, Gray led the way, and the others followed in single file. Western meadowlarks chirped and whistled near the forest's canopy. Dried leaves crunched, and pine needles and brittle branches snapped beneath their boots.
Shadows fattened and lengthened, encroaching on the faint rays of sunshine alighting here and there. Their footsteps grew louder as other sounds died away. Gray's nostrils twitched as a new scent mingled with the stench of flesh and blood.
"Fire."
Joe had the best nose in the pack.
Gray acknowledged his broadcast.
"Fresh. Last night. Burned flesh. Human and animal."
Joe communicated via telepathy the way he did verbally, by stating only the barest of facts.
Ahead, Gray glimpsed a clearing the precise shape of the ellipse formed by the murders geographically. His pulse skipped a few beats and he halted, fingers curling around a birch sapling struggling to reach sunlight.
Behind him, the wolves spread out, forming the pack half circle they used in hunting. Feral urine and wolf scats scent-marked the clearing as another pack's territory. Gray discerned another aroma other than pee and wolf droppings---terror. Most people didn't realize the dominance of the smell of fear. Terror magnified the senses, quickened the heartbeat, and fire hosed adrenaline through arteries and veins.
A foot before the copse thinned, they stopped to study the meadow facing them.
Three separate fires, each equidistant from the other, marked the center of the razed area. Gray stooped, slipped off his boots, and rolled up his pants. Chad, Joe, and Mike mimicked his actions. Joe handed him a pair of extralong, extrathick socks insulated by a thick plastic coating on the inside. Chad passed him two gloves made in a similar manner, and distributed long sacks of the same persuasion to each man.
After slipping on the protective coverings and gloving his hands, Gray advanced into the clearing, his eyes sweeping the recently mowed grass. The other wolves stole forward in unison. To the right of him, Joe retrieved a charred bone approximately four inches in length. He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply.
"Hawk."
Gray nodded; he'd picked up the scent of fowl.
"Another bird."
Joe retrieved another charred bone. "Human." He dropped the bone into his bag.
Mike handed the half-gnawed remnants of a femur over to Joe, who closed his eyes and sniffed. "Human male."
Gray grimaced. Although he'd half expected to find evidence of murder, he'd hoped against hope not to find all the signs of the sacrificial rite of a black wolf pack detailed in white wolf legends and chants.
His grandfather hadn't eradicated the black wolves from the face of the earth decades ago.
Working as a silent, harmonious team, they scoured the clearing, collecting and bagging the evidence they found. The wolves communicated telepathically, and by the time they completed their task, their broadcasts were one-word identifications of limbs.
They arrived at the lodge as the sun set. Darkness descended with the slash of black blasted from a paint gun, not that it mattered to a wolf with night vision.
"Next move?" Joe asked as he gave his sack to Gray.
Placing Joe's bag next to the three others on the floor of the SUV, Gray replied, "Conference at the 400 later?"
"We may as well wait until you get the reports from the bone analysis," Chad said. "How fast can you get things turned around?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to run this straight to Central now." Gray slammed the car door shut. "If I brought you clothing from Ken and Kevin, do you think you could eliminate them from the scents you identified today?"
"Cakewalk," Joe replied. "What's the reasoning for that?"
"Simple elimination. I want to rule out their presence here."
"According to the legends, the black wolf human sacrificial ceremony began with paralysis and torture. You figure they started here and moved to another location?" Chad frowned. "Why?"
"Who knows? What the hell are we missing?" Gray tugged his fingers through the knots the wind had tangled in his hair.
"Don't beat yourself up. It's not as if we have a lot to go on." Mike shook his head.
Gray shrugged out of his jacket and threw it onto the passenger seat. "Don't let Sorcha out of your sight, Joe. Or Susie and the kids. Whoever's behind this, he or she's got us in their sights now. Even with the use of the plastic gloves and booties, they'll eventually pick up our scent. I sense we're on the brink."
"We all feel it," Joe agreed. "What a sicko. Okay if we take Sorcha back to the farmhouse for dinner?"
"She won't go without the dog and the bird."
"No probs."
"Thanks, Joe. Save some food for me. Later." Gray hopped into the vehicle. He switched on the engine, reversed the SUV, and drove too fast over the bumpy dirt-and-gravel road, until he remembered the bones in the back. Muttering an expletive, he set the cruise speed.
As he merged onto Highway 20, his cell phone rang. He fumbled with his earpiece and hit Receive. "White."
"Boss. Coroner finished his report on Ken Hazard," Edie said. "Initial info is confirmed re limbs and digits. He was stabbed thirty-three times. According to the good doctor, the same weapon was used in all the three murders."
"Time of death?"
"Doctor puts it around the same time as Kevin's, at least within the same hour."
"Whaat?" Gray smacked his palm on the steering wheel. The timing couldn't be right. The journey from Logan's Point to Leader Lake, even at full speed, took forty minutes.
"Boss, you still there?"
"Yeah, Edie. Anything else?"
"Rumor has it, Hazard's called in the FBI."
"Fucking Jim Dandy," Gray snapped. "Sorry, Edie. Pardon my French."
"Almost went there myself, boss, especially when he about jammed his fingers up my nose."
"Hazard get physical with you, Edie?" A flare of white-hot temper blinded his vision for a second.
"Nothing I couldn't handle."
"I'll be on the road for the next couple of hours. Call me if anything else explodes."
"Okay. Bye."
As he snapped the phone shut, Gray realized he'd arrived at Central.
Though he tried to keep his visit short and to the point, it still took over twenty minutes to drop off the bones for analysis and expedite the request. Another ten minutes, and he merged onto Highway 20 for the return journey.
Sorcha should be sitting down to dinner with Susie, Joe, and the girls. A tidal wave of longing swept through him as he pictured the two of them doing the same thing with their own kids. At some point over the last two years, he'd lost hope of finding a mate, having a family.
An ache, so powerful it was a lance of pain, arced through his chest and strummed through his body. He rubbed the spot above his last rib and surrendered to the image of holding his own son, his own daughter, in his arms.
"You're losing it, White. Get a grip."
He'd railroaded Sorcha too much as it was, binding her to him with every weapon in his arsenal, forcing her into Sunday family lunch within hours of claiming her. Crap, he'd claimed her within hours of their reacquaintance. Gray's subconscious kicked in. Take a step back. Give her a little, as little as possible, time and space.
Fuck that.
Air tainted with the chill of receding winter rolled through the SUV as he downed all the windows. Spring danced to his nose as he passed freshly plowed fields, and the scents of dirt and manure and unfurling buds sprouted fantasies of making love to Sorcha in the open.
He decided on the perfect spot, the rock island on the south end of Lake Wickia opposite his house. After a morning at work, he'd duck out, grab two lunches from the diner, and surprise Sorcha at home. They'd swim through the cold water, climb onto the rock, which would be hot from baking in the sun, and he'd fuck her long and hard and slow.
His cell phone rang.
Gray glanced at it and sighed when he recognized the name on the LCD display.
"What's up, Doug?"
Previously with Los Angeles Police Department, Doug Wicks had abruptly transferred to the 400 four months earlier. Everyone had groaned in silence the day he drove up to the station in a canary Corvette. Edie's theory that only fat, balding men going through the change of life and sleazy strippers drove that particular sports car certainly didn't hold true in Doug's instance.
Six-two with the rock-hard, muscular build favored by firefighter-calendar models, the man had every single eligible female in three counties panting and drooling. Gossip had it Wicks and Tonya had hooked up a while back, which had led to Tonya separating from Bruce.
"One Detective Lloyd and his associate, Detective Garner, from the FBI showed up a few moments ago. They want access to the files on the three murders."
"Make nice. Give them anything they want. Set them up in the conference room," Gray ordered.
"Right."
The phone went dead just as Gray opened his mouth to ask Wicks to phone FBI headquarters and request photo ID confirmation for the two detectives. Wicks grew more insolent daily. Whatever chip the man carried had magnified over the last few months.
Two weeks ago, Edie had unofficially asked not to be paired with him on shifts. While she hadn't accused Wicks of inappropriate behavior, the request certainly inferred he'd done or said something politically incorrect.
Gray suspected Doug sided with the rednecks on most counts. Victor Morgan had complained bitterly about the cop's attitude regarding the recent vandalism of his shoe shop. Victor and his late wife, their daughter, the vice principal of the county's middle school, George and Lucretia Brown, and Sylvester Waldo formed the total African American population of Twisp.
Making a mental note to make subtle inquiries re Doug's attitude toward the Browns and Sylvester, Gray hit the indicator and turned onto the rural road leading to Susie and Joe's small farm. He flipped the headlights to high beam and geared down as he rounded a ninety-degree bend, which led into a series of tight U-turns.
The sound of water coursing over rocks grew louder as the shoulder on the passenger's side narrowed to a mere couple of inches. As he approached the last turn before the farmhouse, a vaguely familiar odor wove into the more recognizable rural smells of fertilizer, moist earth, and animal droppings. Gray took a couple of deep breaths, then a couple more, and recognized the stench he'd scented the night Harold died. The foul odor came from the river's direction.
Gray shifted his scrutiny to the rippling water on the right. Something rammed the left side of the Durango, the steering wheel jerked out of his loose hold, the vehicle swerved sharply, and the front tire on the passenger's side skated off the road.
How long did it take to get to the Central Lab? Sorcha glanced at her watch---after nine. Joe had returned to the cabin over two hours ago. He and Susie had insisted Sorcha have dinner with the family at the farmhouse. Dinner had finished fifteen minutes earlier, and the adults had retired to the living room after Susie settled the girls in front of the TV.
At her feet, White's ears twitched, tickling her shin. The Lab suddenly sprang to his feet, and he nudged Sorcha's calf with a cold, moist nose. The teacup she balanced on one palm rattled on its saucer when the dog repeated the action in rapid sequence three times. When White barked loudly, she flinched, and warm brown liquid jetted over the top of the fine china.
"What's wrong, boy?" Sorcha set the matching porcelain on the oak coffee table in front of her.
As if answering her question, the dog trotted over to the front door and barked again.
"Gray," Joe muttered as he bounded to his feet. "He's in the river. Susie, call Mike, then Chad. Don't leave the house. I'm scenting a stranger in the vicinity."
Gray? In the river? He had communicated telepathically with his brother-in-law, Sorcha realized.
Her heart battered her rib cage. She stood and clutched the edge of a mahogany china cabinet for support. She couldn't begin to imagine life without Gray, hadn't realized how essential he'd become to her in such a short time. He had to be okay, had to.
Joe strode over to the gun case, keyed in a numerical combination on the LCD lock, opened the cabinet, and withdrew three pistols and a rifle.
"Get the kids into bed, Susie." As he spoke, Joe strapped on a shoulder holster, checked both guns for ammunition, laid one on the closest sideboard, the other he inserted into the holster. He slung the rifle's black leather strap over one shoulder.
His wife stalked across the room, planted a smacking kiss on his lips, and ordered, "You be careful out there."
Joe cupped her chin, and they stared at each other for long seconds. His hand dropped away. "Keep the gun with you at all times. Take the safety off when I leave."
Susie nodded. "I know the drill, Joe. Don't worry about us. I can handle it."
"I'll have my cell on vibrate. Call at the first sign of trouble."
"I will," Susie promised, then turned on her heels and marched out of the room.
Although the living room was cavernous, the walls seemed to narrow, and a claustrophobic oppressiveness bore down on Sorcha. Trying not to be audible, she gulped in air, but oxygen didn't make it to her lungs. Spots appeared at the periphery of her vision. Real or imagined?
Get a grip.
Sorcha knuckled her temples and squared her shoulders.
"Do you know how to use a gun?" Joe asked.
She shook her head. "I've only had one lesson so far, and I didn't get to fire a shot."
"Let Susie handle this, then." He stalked across the room and handed her a gun. "Do what she tells you."
Sorcha nodded, her throat tightening, her mouth drying out as she inched the weapon onto her lap.
"I'm going to activate the alarm before I leave." Joe inclined his head. "Tell Susie to call the precinct and have them send a couple of cars this way."
"I'll call on my cell," she said and sat before her buckling knees gave way entirely. "Take White with you."
"My sense of smell is more than ten times a dog's. You keep White here. Guard," he commanded, and the dog obeyed, sitting on his haunches, ears vertical, tail rigid.
Mind anesthetized, Sorcha followed Joe's rapid movements as he gathered a leather jacket and grabbed a backpack from the coatrack. Halting in front of the alarm keypad, he pressed a few numbers, and the LCD light on the panel flickered rapidly.
Joe exited the house, slamming the door behind him, and the alarm sounded at a regular interval for about nine beeps, then went silent. The round dot on the panel glowed red.
For some strange reason, the ruby glow kick-started her brain.
Phone the precinct. Get help for Gray.
Thumbing through the recently received calls, she found the precinct's number and stabbed Send.
When had her world tumbled into an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole? Why had she readily accepted this alternate wolf reality? And why did the notion of Gray in danger cause her heart and lungs and brain to start and stop in fits and jerks?
A male voice answered on the second ring.
"Deputy Sherriff Wells, please," Sorcha stated.
Muzak played during the twenty-second hold.
"Wells," a deep baritone growled.
She'd heard that voice before. Where?
"Who is this?" the man snapped.
A band of perspiration peppered her forehead. An irrational temptation to hang up had her fingers hovering over End. She inhaled, and the familiar lemony scent of wood polish calmed her sparking nerve endings.
"Sorry about that," Sorcha muttered. "Deputy Sheriff Wells, this is Sorcha McFadden. I need you to send someone right away to the Huroq farm. Sheriff White and his vehicle are in the river."
"In the river?" Shock graveled the lawman's voice. "I'm on it." Sorcha heard him muffle the receiver. "Activate Sherriff White's GPS."
"His brother-in-law's gone to help him," she offered.
"Right. Thank you for calling, ma'am. We'll take it from here."
White's tail slapped her ankle as she ended the phone call. Absently, she scratched the Lab's head, her thoughts centered on Gray. She focused on the fact he hadn't communicated with her telepathically; that must mean he was all right. Her fingers curled around a link in the dog's ringed metal collar.
The slap of Susie's flip-flops on the stone floor and the aroma of Obsession preceded the woman's entrance into the living room. She glanced at the pistol Sorcha held loosely in her lap. "There's one blessing that comes with having active kids---They fall asleep like that." Susie snapped her fingers.
"I hope Gray's okay," Sorcha said, voicing her fears.
"You'd know if something was wrong. Trust me." Susie took a seat in a high-backed chair opposite the sofa. "Gray tells me you've started to remember parts of your childhood."
Sorcha recognized Susie's attempt at distraction and cooperated.
"It's coming back in bits and pieces. The memories are there, but they won't come to the front of my mind. They sort of hover just out of reach. It's so frustrating." Sorcha ground her teeth. "It's like trying to hold a snowflake."
Kumar screeched.
Sorcha almost fell off the sofa. The guns slipped on the silk of her skirt. She trapped the cold metal with one hand.
"Shit," Susie yelped, hand to her chest.
The barometric pressure seemed to rise, banding Sorcha's chest and compressing her lungs. Acidity coated her tongue as the stench of rotten eggs filled the room.
White growled and stood at attention.
Susie and Sorcha exchanged glances.
"The kitchen," Susie whispered. "Give me the gun." She held out a palm.
Sorcha didn't know she could move so fast. Before she could finish inhaling, she was at Susie's side.
"Here," she echoed Susie's whisper and slid the gun into the other woman's hand.
Slipping out of her high heels, Sorcha trailed Susie's steps down the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen.
White stalked ahead of them, teeth bared in a ferocious but silent snarl.
As they rounded a corner and entered the kitchen, Sorcha's glance swept to where they'd situated Kumar's perch earlier.
Empty.
A fluttering noise drew her eyes to the ceiling. Kumar's claws clutched at one of the wooden blades of a fan doing a lazy circle in the center of the room.
Sorcha whistled the opening of "The Blue Danube," and Kumar finished the stanza as he glided to her outstretched hand. The cockatoo perched on her forearm and his zygodactyl feet, with two forward toes and two backward toes, bit into her flesh as he steadied himself. She lifted her arm, and the parrot clawed his way to the cusp of her shoulder.
"Does he screech like that without provocation?"
"Sometimes," Sorcha answered.
Susie blew out a long breath. "Whew. He sure scared the daylights out of me. You look like you're about to pee your pants. Sit down before you collapse."
"That's totally uncalled for and you know it." Sorcha complied with Susie's order even as she protested. "You may be Miss Annie Oakley sharpshooter, but I've never held a gun before this last week."
"Harold, come here," the bird called in a perfect imitation of Grams's voice.
Tears misted Sorcha's eyes; she blinked rapidly. For a split pulse beat after the bird spoke, she'd opened her mouth to greet Grams.
"Goodness," Susie said, raven eyebrows arched, eyes wide. "I've heard him imitate Aileen before, of course, but that gave me the heebie-jeebies."
The cockatoo burrowed in Sorcha's hair and came up with a strand in his curved beak. An image of Kumar on one shoulder, Harold on the other, each bird nibbling on a lock, stained her pupils. Grams had brought the birds to the hospital a few days after her parents' deaths, but Sorcha couldn't even look at the pair, far less pet either animal.
"Whatever was here is gone." Susie removed the kettle from a burner on the gas stove. "I can't scent any presence in the house. I think something or someone was trying to get in."
"Do you know what it was?"
Susie shook her head. "No. My sense of smell isn't as good as a male's. I don't know about you, but I could use a cup of tea."
"Please," she replied. White curled up at her feet, rested his jaw on his front paws, and closed his eyes.
All kitchens should smell like Susie's, Sorcha decided. The aroma of baking perfumed the room. She spotted a pie under a glass dome, a half-eaten, chocolate-flaked round cake on a ceramic red plate, and a glass jar filled to the brim with oversize cookies.
A macabre sense of surrealism shrouded her mind at the contrast between made-from-scratch cookies and black wolves.
"What do you know of the black wolf, Susie?"
Sorcha listened as the other woman explained that the black wolves had broken away from the white pack three generations earlier, when the white wolf leader decided to eradicate shape-shifting from their powers through selective breeding.
"Why give up that power?"
"Two main reasons, or so I've been told." Susie filled the stainless-steel kettle with water. "Firstly, only male white wolves can shape-shift, and during their adolescence they have little control over that talent. When the white man herded all Native Americans into reservations and restricted our movements, the other tribes became aware of our powers." She set the kettle on the front burner. "Jealousy reared its ugly head, and both the white man and our fellow Native Americans hunted us. My great-great-grandfather was leader of the pack back then, and he reasoned that getting rid of the one power we couldn't control, which stamped us as white wolves, was our best bet for survival."
Susie turned a knob on the gas stove, and after a series of clicks, flames erupted from the jets. Opening a cabinet, she reached in and produced a chintz teapot and two matching teacups and saucers.
"Do you have any of the wolf powers?"
Susie's lips curved. "You bet. There's not a single member of the female pack who can outrun or outjump me. But females never develop telepathic skills or night vision."
Kumar tumbled from his perch on Sorcha's shoulder into her lap. The dazed bird's feathers ruffled in a wave motion from tail to crown; he flipped upright and wobbled on her thigh.
"Silly boy," she crooned and fingered the spot below his head crest. The parrot closed his eyes, and his plump form went limp. Sorcha laid him on his side. "I'd forgotten how easily he falls asleep. When I first got the birds, they'd fall asleep on their perch. Harold always managed to sleep standing, but Kumar hit the floor the minute his eyes closed."
"I remember he used to imitate your parents' old-fashioned rotary phone."
"You don't know how many times we ran to answer the phone only to find Kumar was making the ringing tone." Sorcha couldn't prevent the dizzy grin capturing her mouth. "Then Harold would answer in Dad's voice and none of us could figure out what the heck was going on."
"Okay, girlfriend. What are your intentions toward my big brother?" Susie jumped up as the kettle whistled. "How about chamomile?"
Whaat?
Sorcha took refuge in the banal, opting to focus on answering the second query. "Very appropriate. My nerves are shot."
While the other woman set the tea to steeping, Sorcha snatched a dry dishtowel from the nearby island and covered Kumar's sleeping form.
A hush broke over the kitchen as she pondered the question. "I'm not sure how to answer that one, Susie. I feel like I'm in a tornado funnel and it hasn't spit me out yet. Did Gray tell you what triggered my memories?"
"No. Why? Does it relate somehow?" Susie removed the tea cozy she'd placed over the teapot earlier and poured the steaming liquid into Sorcha's cup.
"In a roundabout way." As she added a packet of Splenda to the liquid, Sorcha told Susie about Grams's letter and her suspicions.
"Call me dumb if you want, but I don't get what the fact that your parents might have been murdered has to do with your feelings about my brother."
"How would you feel about yourself if you grew up believing your father had killed your mother and tried to kill you?" Sorcha stirred her tea and set the tiny spoon on the saucer. "If my father could try to kill me, what's to prevent me doing the same to my children? Do you think you'd be able to commit to someone living under that black cloud?"
"Sweetie, there's no way you'd ever do that." Susie's arms surrounded her head, and the other woman squeezed her tight. "Don't ever let me hear you say that again."
"I can't breathe," Sorcha protested, her voice muffled by Susie's thick cotton apron.
"Sorry. But you can't live your whole life thinking about that night. You have to move on." Susie released Sorcha and then untied the protective clothing. "Get that stubborn look off your face, Sorcha McFadden. You know I'm right."
"Logically, I know that, but here," she said, tapping a forefinger to her head, "here, it doesn't compute. Look, we're going to have to agree to disagree on this. To answer your question as best as I can, I care a lot for Gray, I just don't know if we have a future together."
"I'll let the topic rest for a while." Susie draped the apron strings on a hook on the opposite wall. "That reminds me---you never told me about your recurring nightmare."
"You're going to think I'm nuts." Sorcha sipped the tea. "It begins with me asleep, and I'm dreaming, and I want to wake up, but I can't. I can hear shouting coming from the living room." Sorcha bit her lip. "This all happens in our old house on the hill. I get out of bed, but I'm not really awake. I creep down the hallway, and I see my mother lying on the carpet. Blood pumps from her throat. Here." She touched the main vein on her neck. "There's this awful gurgling sound, and I look into her eyes. Her fingers move. Her gaze shifts to a spot above me, and I try to turn to see what she's looking at, but I can't. I'm frozen. Then my head explodes with pain, then nothing."
The room spun. Only once before had she ever vocalized the nightmare, and she'd fainted before she could finish. Sorcha gulped the rest of the cooling tea and realized recounting the experience had acted as a piecemeal catharsis.
"You realize you're reliving the night your parents were killed?"
"That's more than obvious."
Susie shot her an annoyed frown.
"Sorry, it's a sore point. For a long time, I refused to acknowledge the nightmare was in any way related to that night." Sorcha fiddled with the teaspoon.
"Oh, sweetie." Susie reached over and covered Sorcha's hand with hers.
"One shrink suggested I needed to commit myself for observation." Sorcha's lips quivered.
"Stuff and nonsense, as Aileen always said. Sweetie, you went through a horrendous experience at a crucial point in your life. Not only did you witness your parents' murder, you were shot and left for dead." Susie poured another cup of tea. "I started having dreams about you around the same time your nightmares began. I wish I'd been more cognizant of the exact date now. At any rate, the dreams are all mundane, images of us playing together, the time I showed you the barn Gray used to work at."
The barn where I saw him screwing Tonya.
Sorcha's pulse accelerated. "Tell me. Maybe it'll trigger something."
"When your parents gave you Kumar and Harold, you spent hours trying to teach them to say your name and hello and bye-bye. I came over the next day and we played Barbies. Before I left, Harold said, 'Bye-bye, Susie.'" Susie flashed her an impish grin. "You were sooo mad at me."
"I remember. Harold called everyone Susie for two weeks. That darned bird never said my name until I turned twelve."
Susie burst into a fit of giggles. "Your mom had taught him. He and Kumar sang 'Happy Birthday' to you at the party. Wasn't it a tea party?"
Pictures danced in her head: their backyard, circular tables decorated with fine china, three-tiered centerpieces laden with miniature cakes and scones. "You started a food fight. And when your mom found out, she made you come over and apologize, and you had to weed our flower beds for a full month." Sorcha reached across the table, captured her friend's hand, and briefly pressed her fingers lightly. "This is good. Tell me more."
A long beep pierced the cozy quiet of the kitchen.
White sat up and swished his tail; his ears twitched. Kumar snuggled closer.
"The guys are back."
Torn between wanting to run to Gray and not disturbing the cockatoo, Sorcha chewed on her lower lip and focused on the doorway. When her mate strode through the entrance to the kitchen, his hair damp and slicked back from his face, she stopped breathing, and a waterfall of joy pinned her limbs.
Gray made a beeline for her, dropped to one knee, framed her face with palms chilled from the crisp spring air, and kissed her. He tasted of paradise and fairy tales and happy endings. How long their mouths melded, Sorcha didn't know, but when he finally lifted his lips from hers, all her doubts and fears had evaporated.
"You okay, honey?"
"You took my line."
His infectious smile and twinkling black eyes teared her up, and then she remembered the river. "What happened, Gray?"
He pulled out a chair and sat.
"Where's Joe?" Susie asked. "Here, Sorcha, let me make a sheet nest for Kumar in the laundry room. I'll lock both doors; the cat won't get in. He'll be safe."
As Sorcha transferred her cockatoo bundle into Susie's cradled arms, Gray answered, "He and Chad are stowing the gear we used to fish the SUV out of the river in the barn."
"Gray," Sorcha said, stroking the bunched muscles of his forearm resting on the table. "How did you end up in the river?"
"It was dark, I wasn't paying attention, and an animal ran across the road. I swerved to avoid it and ended up in the river."
"You're not hurt?" She raked his form, searching for cuts and bruises but found no evidence, save his damp hair, of his encounter with the river.
"Bruised ego, that's about it."
"You must be starved, Gray," Susie said as she reentered the room. "I set aside a plate for you. I'll pop it in the micro."
Sorcha slipped sideways in the wooden char; she hadn't even noticed Susie'd left the kitchen. "Do all of you Whites move so silently?"
"White wolf talent," the other woman quipped.
"What? Scaring the heart out of mere mortals?" Sorcha shot Gray's sister a glare.
Susie grinned as the microwave dinged.
"Thanks, sis," Gray said as Susie set a dish loaded with food in front of him and handed over a knife and fork.
Susie had served rack of lamb for dinner. The gamy aroma of the meat and rosemary and garlic curled on the steam rising from the plate.
"What do you want to drink?"
"Sweet tea."
Gray attacked his meat and potatoes while Susie filled a glass with ice cubes from the refrigerator door.
Chad and Joe entered the room, their boots clomping loudly on the stone floor.
The taint of manure mingled with the outdoors wafted to Sorcha's nose as Joe strode past her chair.
"I'm heading home," Chad announced. "Lizzie'll be waiting. Later."
"Night," Susie said to the man's retreating back. "Do you want a beer?"
"Sure thing, sweetheart," Joe answered. "But first things first." He drew his wife into his arms and planted a passionate, openmouthed kiss on her lips.
Heat rolled across every inch of Sorcha's skin. It would take some time before she became accustomed to these public embraces so prevalent among the wolves.
As if reading her thoughts, Gray tipped her chin with his forefinger and said, "You'll get used to it, honey. Until then, I'll enjoy your reaction. It gets me all hot and bothered when you blush. Let's make a move."
"There's something I want you to hear before you go." Joe's tone did squirmy things to Sorcha's nape, and she glanced from him to Gray. Were they communicating telepathically?
"Mike left a voice mail on my office line."
"The study?"
"Yeah. Back in a few, girls." Joe's long legs consumed the distance to the entrance in three steps.
Gray dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Get Susie to pack a couple of slices of her peach pie for us."
"When Joe gets that tone in his voice, it usually means there's something he doesn't want me to know." Susie planted her hands on her hips and eyed the empty doorway. "I vote we barge in on them."
"Will they let us?" Without any sort of punishment? She had deliberately avoided thinking about that night. Wolf or not, his behavior couldn't be excused, and she refused to agree to marry him until he vowed it would never happen again.
Where did that come from?
"Sweetie, the one thing you'll learn about these macho wolves is that they're suckers for their women. They'll rant and rave, but in the end, Gray will do almost anything you want. Unless it interferes with his ability to protect you." Susie opened the fridge, took out a brown Sam Adams bottle, and uncorked the lid. "Come on. Grab Gray's sweet tea."
When they reached the study, the door stood ajar. Susie hipped it open as Joe said, "I think Mike might be onto something. He found a common thread with the murders."
"Here," Susie said as she strode into the room and handed a startled Joe the beer bottle. She slumped onto a sofa under a long picture window, cocked her feet on a low coffee table, and asked, "So, Mike has a theory, does he?"
"This is men talk, Susan."
"Don't 'Susan' me, Joe Huroq. I am not the little woman to be kept out of the picture, and you know it. And as for you, brother dear, you'd better smarten up and treat your mate as an equal if you want to keep her. She won't settle for anything else, and somewhere inside that stubborn noggin of yours, you well know that." She dusted her hands. "Lecture over. Proceed." A flourish of a wave punctuated her command.
No way could Sorcha stifle the hoot bubbling up her throat. She surrendered to mirth, and Susie joined in.
"Just you wait, Gray. From now on, you'll long for the premate days when you could do anything you wanted. Shush now, woman," Joe said. "You do want to hear what Mike has to say?" He waggled bushy eyebrows at his wife.
Family. Sorcha loved the way the whole pack interacted, the easy familiarity, the ever-present humor. She let out a long sigh and offered Gray the glass of sweet tea.
"Put it on the desk for me, honey." He softened the command with his lop-sided grin.
She set the tumbler down, then tried to hop over Gray's outstretched legs, but he caught her around the waist, sat up, and drew her onto his lap.
Joe stabbed a button on the phone, and a beep sounded.
"Hey Joe, it's me." Mike's low, scratchy voice reverberated around the study. "When I got home, I spent a couple of hours going through the newspaper reports about the murders. I found one common thread for all of them, with the exception of Miss L and the twins. Now, this may or may not be relevant, but it struck me as a little odd."
"Get to the point," Susie muttered.
"All of the murders involved interracial couples."
"What the fu---" Gray shifted, sat up, and leaned forward.
Out of the corner of her eye, Sorcha winced when she saw his lips thinning, the angry scowl drawing his black eyebrows together.
"Schmidt was married to a woman from Ethiopia. Frank and her Canadian Native American boyfriend had tied the knot in a civil ceremony the week before their camping trip. Taunton had been separated from her African American husband, but they'd recently reconciled. Frank had just married an Egyptian-born construction worker, and Spring married an Asian woman while doing a short teaching stint in Lhasa, China."
Gray's open palm connected with the chair's wooden arm.
"That's all I have for now. Call me when you get the bone analysis tomorrow."
Joe jabbed Stop.
"Bone analysis?" Susie's glance swept from her husband to Gray. "More murders?"
"It looks like your grandfather didn't eradicate the black wolves from the face of the earth." Joe leaned back in his chair while flipping a yellow pencil from one hand to the other. "Recently, there've been rumors of a satanic wolf cult at Leader Lake. We went up there today and found an oval clearing, three concentric fire circles, and charred human and animal bones, all essential to the old black wolf ceremony."
"Ceremony?" Sorcha asked, every muscle tensing in dread of the answer.
"Human sacrifice," Susie replied, her normally tan complexion sallow. "They believed it enhanced their powers."
"It occurred to me on the way home that aside from us, only the Houndtrees know the detailed measurements of the three concentric circles," Joe mused. "The circles we found today were five inches equidistant of each other."
"I thought of that earlier tonight." Gray told them about the cake Edie'd found in Miss L's shop and the letters h and w. He tangled a lock of Sorcha's hair around his finger. "Howie's jumped to the top of my suspect list."
"But Miss L's death doesn't fit Mike's theory," Susie protested.
"It may," Sorcha said. She told them about having pie with Miss L and Victor Morgan at the diner. "I got the distinct feeling Victor had been with Miss L when his shop was vandalized."
"Wicks never mentioned that in his report."
The Wicks who'd squealed about her going into town that first night. Sorcha choked back a snort.
"Your Officer Wicks made a remark suggesting Victor should have heard the vandalism of his shop. At any rate, if Victor and Miss L had been having an affair, that would make her murder fit into his theory."
"Hmm," Gray murmured. "You may have something there, honey. As it happens, Mike's wrong about one of the Hazard twins. That black teenager Kevin was hanging around with, George Brown's nephew? I'm almost positive he and Kevin were lovers."
"Bet Bruce is going to love hearing that news," Joe muttered.
"That only leaves the other twin," Sorcha mused.
"Any more details on his death?" Joe queried.
"Ken? Stabbed thirty-three times. According to the coroner, with the same weapon used on Miss L and Kevin. What bothers me about Ken's death is that he was killed within an hour of his brother. Ken was found at Leader Lake, Kevin at Logan's Point. "
"That's cutting it close. Even pushing the speed limit, it's a forty-five-minute drive between the point and the lake." Joe rotated his head right. "Our killer likes the adrenaline rush."
"There's another thread---Most of them were either recently married or, in that one case, recently reconciled." Susie glanced at Gray and Sorcha. "You do realize because of the interracial aspect, you two make a prime target for this killer?"
The following day, Gray jerked out of a deep sleep to a persistent ringing. Pushing onto his elbows, eyes bleary and a tad unfocused, he yawned. Through the open arch to the sunroom, he glimpsed White's tail wagging. The Lab opened one eye, curled tighter to his body, and gave Gray his back.
Wishing he could do the same, Gray edged off the bed and stood, his gaze roving over Sorcha. The phone stopped ringing as he stared at her. Everything about his mate fascinated him. After she'd fallen asleep last night, he'd studied the way her bountiful breasts rose and fell as she breathed. By chance, he discovered that even in slumber her nipples pebbled into rock-candy pink treats when he blew on them.
She'd frowned and rubbed one taut peak after he'd tested her reaction a dozen times. A small, crescent-shaped scar on her hip bone entranced him for long minutes. Sorcha's ankles caught his fancy, and he compared their feet, his more than twice the size of hers. Whereas he had long thick toes, with his second and third toes longer than his big toe, Sorcha had plump, juicy toes he yearned to nibble.
Tucking the covers around her shoulders and pulling the comforter up to her neck, he kissed the tip of her nose and beamed when she mumbled his name. A quick glance at the bedside alarm clock made him stifle a groan---11:30. Crap, he'd planned to be at the 400 before nine.
Not wanting to disturb Sorcha since he'd recognized the signs of physical and mental exhaustion last night, he showered and dressed in the external cabana bath. Downing his first cup of coffee, he cooked and ate a ham and cheese omelet and refilled his mug with more java.
Getting the chores out of the way, he set out food for White and Kumar in the sunroom, added two drops of the sleeping bird's medicine to the conical cup that held his water, and returned to the living room.
Since Sorcha had claimed the dining table as her territory, and he didn't want her out of sight, which meant forgoing Aileen's spacious study on the other side of the cabin, Gray decided to settle in front of the flat-panel TV. Thirty minutes later, he had a minioffice established. A side table served as his laptop desk, his portable filing cabinet acted as a low side table, the top his office supply area.
Laying out the sheets of paper from yesterday, Gray studied each one in turn and then wrote two headings.
Threads Exceptions
Interracial Ken, Miss L?
Couples Miss L, Ken
Recently Married Miss L, Ken, Kevin
Stabbed None
Dismembered Kevin
Missing Right Toe Schmidt, Ken
What did the possible exceptions have in common? Gray grabbed his mug and gulped the rest of his too-cool coffee. The exceptions had all happened within the last two days, and all of them had been stabbed with the same weapon.
He needed a detailed map of the county.
Carrying his ceramic cup, Gray slid the glass doors open and stepped onto the porch. Weather in Okanagan County proved temperamental in the extreme this time of year. Spring warmth had morphed into chilly fall-like weather overnight. Watery sunlight filtered through a dense layer of clouds resembling snow after a muddy thaw. Gusts dimpled his sweatpants and plastered his T-shirt to his back.
Scanning the lake's choppy surface, he sighted two men sitting on opposite benches in a dinghy near Goose Point. Zooming in, he identified Victor Morgan and George Brown, caps pulled low over their heads, fishing poles clasped in weathered hands.
Hadn't George and Morgan had a quarrel a while back? A vague memory of Miss L explaining the older men's recent feud hovered at the corners of his mind as he strode across the porch and hopped over the two steps to the graveled path leading to the carport. He made a mental note to ask Edie if she knew the reason for the men's discord. His chief dispatcher kept au courant with the local rumor mill.
Gray extricated his stack of maps from the SUV's driver's-side storage bin. Every county vehicle came equipped with a laptop loaded with the state's computer-aided dispatch system and a built-in GPS. Most of the newer employees didn't bother with paper. Gray carried two sets of maps in his glove box, the first set issued by the county and the state, the second copies of maps hand-drawn by the last generation of white wolf shape shifters three generations ago.
Clearing the kitchen table, he laid his great-great-grandfather's map parallel to a contemporary map of the county. Outlook pinged the time on his computer, and he checked the clock. Henry'd be in by now; Gray slid the phone out of his pocket and thumbed three.
"Wells."
"What's up, Henry?"
"The Fed agents are combing Miss L's place."
"They know what they're doing?"
"Pompous asses. Both are African American---one's in his midforties, the other thirtysomething."
Gray recognized the undercurrent in his deputy's tone.
"And?"
"You're going to have to do something about Wicks soon."
He could picture Henry shaking his head and cupping a hand over his mouth so Edie couldn't read his lips. Each member of his team had his or her own eccentricities, and Henry's centered on security and small-town gossip.
Recently divorced, the deputy sheriff had decided to jump-start his social life and had joined three online-dating sites. His ex-wife, a programmer for an IT gaming company in Seattle, had been assigned a three-month project that required her presence in the city a couple of years ago. She'd never returned. Gray admired the way Henry had handled the whole situation and suspected the marriage hadn't been satisfactory for either spouse for some years.
"Spill it."
"He took one look at Garner and Lloyd yesterday and developed a stomach flu." Henry snorted. "Man's got issues, Gray. We're riding a cliff for a complaint. Edie's just about had it with him."
"I'll deal with him. Until then, keep him away from the bureau personnel," Gray ordered. "Did he show up today?"
"He's here, and so are Garner and Lloyd."
"Put me through to him. I have an assignment that will get him out of your hair for a couple of hours."
"I owe you one, boss."
While waiting for the transfer, Gray added water to the coffeemaker's well and then hit Start.
Sorcha, knuckling her eyes, stumbled into the living room as the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans whipped around the kitchen on a fierce, icy gust.
Hugging her arms, she muttered, "What happened to spring? It's freezing in here."
Wild auburn hair spilled over her shoulders, framing plump, jiggling breasts covered by a thin T-shirt in a loving curl of a caress. His mouth watered, and his cock saluted her luscious body.
"Lieutenant Wicks."
Coffee couldn't mask the scent of her pussy, and he couldn't take his eyes off the faint hint of triangular curls directing him to the paradise between her thighs.
"Sheriff Gray? Deputy Wells said you had an assignment for me?"
The coffeemaker sputtered; Gray grabbed the carafe and poured.
"Didn't mean to keep you waiting, Lt. Wicks. I was on another call." Almost four months into the job, and he and Wicks had yet to grab a meal at the diner, a ritual he used to probe every new subordinate's strengths and weaknesses. "I need you to pick up an unwashed article of clothing from Kevin and Ken Hazard and bring it to the McFadden cabin ASAP."
"Right away, boss."
Gray heard both relief and puzzlement in the lieutenant's voice and knew he would have to have "a talk" with Doug Wicks sooner rather than later.
Sorcha's small hands sneaked around his waist, and she kissed his back. He couldn't feel her lips on his skin between their Tshirts, so he yanked his up and then spun around, clasping her hands to his back.
The doorbell rang.
In the act of lowering his mouth to hers, he scowled and glared at the front door. "Maybe whoever it is will go away if we ignore it."
"Wishful thinking," she whispered and tiptoed and brushed soft, succulent lips over his. "I'll go change into something respectable. You get the door."
"Susie," Gray said seconds later as he opened the door. He hadn't expected his sister and the girls to visit today. "What's up? Why are you here?"
"Good day to you too." She folded her arms. "Does something have to be up for me to visit my big brother?"
"Yeah. Are you staying or is this to drop off something?" He tried not to get his hopes up but crossed his fingers behind his back.
"Didn't Sorcha tell you?"
"Obviously not."
"Are you going to make me and your nieces stand out in the cold?" Susie frowned and shot him her best "mom" look.
Gray raised an eyebrow and peered around the loose cloud of her black hair.
Since the girls were throwing stones into the lake and didn't look in the least bit perturbed by the weather, he narrowed his eyes and tried to intimidate her into leaving. "Joe needs to do something about that smart-ass mouth of yours."
"I'm not budging."
Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Gray flicked the door fully open. He whistled; Ariel and Taylor twirled like ballet dancers and ran in his direction.
Dropping to one knee, he opened his arms wide. Taylor hopped onto his thigh, and Ariel curled her arms around his neck.
"Where's White?"
Supplanted in his nieces' affection by a dog. "In the sunroom."
Before he could get another word out, the girls ducked under his arms and began racing in the direction of the bedroom. At that moment, the door opened, his nieces bumped into Sorcha, and the two giggling kids tumbled onto the carpeted floor. Sorcha rocked on her heels as the children tangled with her feet, and her fingers clutched the door frame to prevent a spill.
"You did good, bro," Susie said, her words meant for him alone. "She belongs with us. It's funny, Sorcha and I haven't seen or spoken to each other in years, yet it feels as if we've never been apart."
"I'd given up hope of finding my mate." It stabbed his heart to see her so tentative with the girls, touching them lightly, tucking a wayward lock behind Taylor's ear. How lonely it must have been to be an only child. He remembered how he had longed for a minute alone in a household of three sisters, his parents, his grandparents, and the odd uncle when work was scarce.
The Whites had grown up money-poor but affection-rich until his father was injured on the job. Damaged nerves and a permanent, pronounced limp meant his father lived in constant pain. When his disability money ran out and they had to go on welfare, it broke the man who had proudly escaped the Native American blight of alcoholism. Both parents fell hard and fast.
His grandfather promptly moved the whole family to a reservation run by another white wolf pack where both of his parents dried out and dedicated themselves to a life of sobriety. During those carefree months on tribal land, Gray learned from his elders and honed his wolf instincts, pushing his limits constantly.
"She hasn't been around kids, Gray. Once she holds her newborn, all those maternal instincts will kick in." Susie cuffed his shoulder. "Take that scowl off your face. That reminds me, are you going to wait until you've captured the serial killer before you set a date?"
Massaging tense neck muscles, he muttered, "She hasn't said yes yet, sis. She wants time."
"For heaven's sake. You've been together what---six days? Give her time. What's a few weeks in a lifetime?"
A few weeks? Fuck. He'd figured on getting Sorcha to agree to a ceremony on Sunday.
"She's very frustrated about not being able to remember her childhood."
"I know." He remembered her earlier question at the door. "What was Sorcha supposed to tell me?"
"Yesterday, she got a call from Miss L's lawyer. The will's being read today at two thirty, and she needs to be there. I arranged for the Y to babysit the kids so I can go with her."
"Thanks, sis. Are you and the girls here until you leave for the Y and the lawyer?"
"Yeah. Sorcha and I are going to discuss the possibility of me writing copy for ads for her local magazine. You're looking antsy---Why don't you take off now?"
Since the odds of him having any alone time with his mate hung around zero to none, Gray hurried to gather his tools while Sorcha, Susie, and the girls fussed over Kumar and White in the sunroom. He loaded everything into the SUV and wound his way to the glass-enclosed, octagonal conservatory.
A broad smile grabbed the corners of his mouth at the scene that met his eyes. Ariel's head lay on White's middle; she held an open book in both hands and had propped her feet on the cushion of a fat, wicker ottoman. Taylor mirrored her sister's position in the opposite direction. Kumar stood on the Lab's belly in the space in between their heads, nibbling on a lock of raven hair---who's, Gray couldn't discern.
Sprawled across a sofa and a coffee table opposite the kids, Susie and Sorcha faced each other. The two women didn't notice his entrance. Loath to disturb the tranquil ambience, Gray projected his wolf pheromones. Sheer curiosity prompted him to count the seconds until his mate lifted her head and locked onto his eyes---fifteen. Not a wolf, and not even carrying his cub yet, she still recognized his scent within moments.
Gray mouthed, Gone to the precinct, made the phone-call gesture with his thumb and pinkie, blew a kiss to her, and left. In a dazed, contented trance, he drove to the station on autopilot.
"Hey, boss," Henry greeted him as he stepped through the doorway.
Alcohol assaulted his nostrils, and Gray did a double take. His deputy sheriff had been drinking on the job?
"Henry." He halted at the man's desk. "Things quiet?"
"FBI superheroes found a pin drop of unidentified blood on one of Miss L's fairy figurines."
Gray took a surreptitious inhale, and the aroma of mint filled his nostrils. He frowned. Had he smelled vodka on Henry's breath?
"Say again?"
His deputy sheriff reiterated the good news.
Their first real clue. Gray strangled a roar of elation. He could forgive Henry a celebratory drink. "Fucking A," he said, breaking into a wide grin. "How did our boys miss it?"
"It was lodged between the toilet tank and the wall."
"Must have been one of those tiny figurines?" Miss L had so many inch-long fairies, he couldn't even begin to guess which one they'd found.
"A fucking mushroom." Henry used his thumb and forefinger to identify a space of about an eighth of an inch.
"His first mistake," Gray muttered as he ambled to his desk. "Now it's only a matter of time."
"The DNA results are in on the blood."
"I'm guessing from your expression, the results lead us nowhere."
"It doesn't belong to Miss L or the twins." Henry shrugged.
"Run the results through NCIC and WCIC databases. Get Dana Werner to obtain a warrant to run the results against all state inmates." He checked his watch. "Judge Ormond isn't in session. I'll phone him and let him know she'll be in his office in ten minutes."
"Ain't that stretching it a bit?"
"Got any other bright ideas? Get to it, Henry. I want that warrant served to every county warden before the hour's out. Deploy National Guard personnel to all the paper-based organizations as soon as warrants are served. While we're waiting on the warrants, send out an internal e-mail suggesting all personnel submit to voluntary DNA testing."
The scowl Henry shot him spoke volumes. "You think someone here is involved?"
Dragging a hand through his hair, Gray replied, "We've enough potential red flags on this case, beginning with us overlooking the missing toes. I want no one pointing a finger at 400."
"I'll snap to it, boss," Henry snarled, flung him an exaggerated salute, bounded to his feet, and shoved the chair so hard, it bounced off the wall.
Gray stared at his deputy sheriff. Reticent to a fault, the team often joked Henry wouldn't flinch if he stood at the foot of Mount St. Helens and the volcano blew. Him flying off the handle did not compute. Was he drinking on the job?
Dropping his backpack on the file cabinet behind his chair, Gray sat and watched as Henry walked down the hallway, his gait steady, his steps certain. Vodka was virtually odorless and difficult to detect. Had he erred? Did it matter? By all rights, Gray should Breathalyze him now, but how would he explain his suspicion? Only a white wolf could scent the underlying aroma of alcohol that the spearmint Henry chewed may or may not have masked.
As Gray weighed the stain that would inevitably attach to Henry's reputation if he ordered the man tested, against over twenty years on the job without a blemish on his record, the cell in his pocket vibrated. Gray whipped the phone out and scrutinized the screen. Crap, he'd forgotten all about Wicks.
"Lt. Wicks, where are you?"
"At the Hazard's residence. No one's home, and the housekeeper won't let me in."
"Flash your ID at her and tell her what you need. Tell her you don't need to come into the house."
"She's a 'no hablo ingles' type, boss."
The scorn in Wicks's voice shaved Gray's patience with the lieutenant to nut-cracking point. "You don't speak Spanish?"
"No," Wicks snapped.
"Put her on the phone," Gray barked.
It took less than five minutes to soothe the housekeeper's bruised ego and have her deliver two unwashed Tshirts to Lt. Wicks.
Gray checked his watch---four o'clock; Susie would be dropping Sorcha back at the cabin soon. "Where's Henry?"
Lt. Ted de Hoost answered, "Off duty as of fifteen minutes ago. Need something, boss?"
"No. I'm heading out. I'll be on my cell if anyone needs me."
Precisely seven and a half minutes later, Central phoned as he drove past the Discount Supercenter owned by the Hazard family. CSI had completed the bone analysis. He gave the female agent his laptop fax number, asked her to send the report pronto, and hung up.
Groaning when the cell phone vibrated yet again, he checked the LCD but didn't recognize the number. Before he gave in to the temptation to ignore the call, Gray flipped the phone open.
"Sheriff White."
"Uh, um. This is James Brown." Although Gray'd given the kid a card at the end of his interview and stressed that if he remembered anything, anything at all, he should phone right away, the call still came as a complete surprise. Kids teetering on the brink of a criminal career didn't cooperate with the sheriff's department.
"What's up, James? How're you doing?"
"Okay, I guess."
Rolling his eyes, Gray resigned himself to a bout of getting blood from a stone. "Did you remember something?"
"Uh, it's, like, you know, probably not important."
"I once solved a murder because a six-year-old remembered seeing a yellow umbrella." Gray gave his standard reply to James's diffident remark.
"Kevin was pissed with Ken."
"Did you hang out with both brothers?" Teenagers---did they do the verbal torture routine deliberately? Gray wanted to bang his head on the steering wheel.
"You crazy?"
At last, a gut reaction. Gray homed in on the kid's incredulous tone. "You and Ken didn't get along?"
"He and his old man were, like, rednecks, you know, the shoot-up-all-the-spics-and-kikes-and-niggas kind of rednecks." James spat out the words. "Kev wasn't like his folks or his bro. He made a guitar sing, you know, like he was the white Jimi Hendrix. He was going places."
Gray let the silence string out.
"Uh, anyways, Kev said Ken was hanging with these KKK guys up at Leader Lake. Ken and some of those guys wrecked Mr. Morgan's shoe place. Kev was there trying to stop them. The others ran off when the cops arrived."
Crap; he stepped on the brake. Gray wanted this call complete before he arrived at the cabin. "Did Kevin know who these guys were?"
"Nah. He said these dudes were nasty. They like to do these, like, animal sacra...sacrileges, you know?"
"Yeah, I know." Gray shoved a hand into his hair. "Did Kevin mention any names?"
"Nah. Are you gonna find who killed Kev?" James's facade faded, and pain and anger and sorrow made his voice, which tended to a Mike Tyson squeak, gruff and growly.
"I'm going to do my best, James. Nobody deserves to die the way Kevin did. Thanks for calling. Your information helps a lot. If you hear or remember anything else, you call me right away. Night or day, it doesn't matter."
"I hope you get him and fry him."
The call ended after Gray pinned down James's contact information.
Gray hit the indicator as he approached the Route 166 turnoff for the cabin. He punched the windows open. Pebbles sprayed like waves crashing on boulders as the SUV tires hit the graveled road. In rapid succession, Gray phoned Chad, Joe, and Mike and arranged a meeting for eight that night.
Three vehicles crowded the circle at the end of the cabin's access road: Susie's 4Runner, Wicks's county-issued automobile, and another he didn't recognize. He memorized the license plate for further investigation.
Doug Wicks leaned against his car, one elbow propped on the hood, the other dangling a lit cigarette.
Unfiltered nicotine tar assaulted Gray's sensitive nostrils.
"Lt. Wicks." Gray noticed two plastic evidence bags littering the car's hood. "Those the garments I asked for?"
"Yes, boss." Wicks dropped the cigarette to the ground and smashed the glowing tip with one black boot until the orange color disappeared.
"Thanks. You off after this?"
"No, I'm on till ten."
"Hope it's a quiet one."
Wicks took the hint, handed over the bags, got into his vehicle, and switched on the ignition.
Gray waited until the lieutenant's vehicle disappeared around a bend before heading to the cabin's front door.
Ariel and Taylor squealed when he stepped into the living room. The two girls pelted across the kitchen and wrapped tiny arms around his calves and thighs.
"Uncle Gray," Ariel yelped. "Kumar speaths like me."
"Me too, me too." Taylor loosened her death grip on his legs and began hopping on one foot.
The bird had learned to imitate both children in a less than two hours? Amazing. Gray shook his head. Deciding to contain the two tornadoes, he bent over, hefted a girl in each arm, and stood. "Where's your mama?"
Ariel stuck her thumb in her mouth and said, "Thunroom."
Small, grubby fingers dug into his shirt pocket. Taylor flashed a smile Cleopatra couldn't have bettered and brandished his cell phone. With the expertise of an adolescent, she flipped the phone open and began pressing keys. "E-mail, Uncle Gray."
He grimaced when she hit Send and prayed the combination of numbers she had thumbed didn't amount to a call to the space station. White appeared in the bedroom doorway. Gray noticed the dog kept his distance. After an afternoon spent with Ariel and Taylor, he would too.
"Traitor," he muttered as the dog jogged ahead of them to the sunroom. Adjusting his nieces so their little legs rode his hips, he followed the Lab.
To his surprise, his sister Melanie had joined Sorcha and Susie in some sort of female powwow. The three women all lay in the wide hammock on the back porch fronting the conservatory. How women bonded never failed to fascinate Gray. Sorcha lay on her stomach in between Melanie and Susie, who lay on their backs.
Dusk approached a tad early because of the overcast weather, and the intermittent light filtering through an oak tree shaded the hammock. A pitcher of lemonade decorated a card table within reach of the occupants of the green canvas hanging on metal stands.
Would it always be like this?
The first sight of Sorcha after only a couple of hours apart felt like a hero's homecoming. The way she lifted her head when she sensed his presence, the way her Washington blues caressed his features one by one, the slow, sultry curving of her rosy lips---the moment played like a fairy-tale ending.
The house phone's ringer sounded. Gray hesitated before doing an about-face.
Taylor clamored, "Put me down, Uncle Gray."
He obliged.
The phone rang again.
"Me too." Ariel tugged his earlobe.
Once more Gray dropped to one knee, and the little girl squirmed out of his embrace.
"Hello." Aileen O'Riley's voice shocked him into a frozen immobility before he located the source of the sound.
"He's been doing that all afternoon," Sorcha muttered. She scrambled to get a grip on the edge of the cloth as the hammock rocked wildly.
"And asking for Harold. Long time no see, big brother," Mel said, flashing him one of her cheeky grins. She swung both legs over the canvas and levered to her feet. She offered Sorcha a hand.
"You driving the Highlander outside?" Gray asked.
Accepting Mel's momentary assistance, Sorcha hopped out of the hammock, got her balance, then marched straight to his side---no hesitation, no hint of uncertainty as to where she belonged. From the moment he scented her when he entered the cabin, Gray had been fighting to contain his arousal. Surrendering to the inevitable, he drew her in front of him and looped his arms around her narrow waist, effectively concealing his embarrassing erection.
"It's a loaner. Mine's in the shop. Tommy Houndtree sideswiped me last night." She held up a hand. "Even Mike thinks it was an accident."
"You didn't file a report," Gray snapped, knowing his team would have informed him immediately.
"Helen begged me not to." Mel shook her head. "Don't even bother to go there. She told me you pressured Dana Werner into cutting a deal with Tommy's lawyer. Dana recommended parole and community service instead of asking for two years in jail. He's on parole, Gray, and I know an accident could send him directly to jail. I will not do that to another mother."
How many times had his middle sister brought home wounded doves? A born nurturer, Melanie had a magnetic effect for the injured of any species. Gray couldn't begin to count the number of strays and dysfunctional characters she'd fetched home. He made a mental note to have Ted check on Tommy.
"Don't do this. I beg you."
Sorcha gasped, and she went limp in his arms.
What the---A familiar stench hit his nostrils.
Every muscle contracted, he straightened, battle instincts in command.
Even as his mind buzzed, Gray realized the cockatoo had uttered the pleading words.
Kumar burst into an earsplitting, demonic cackling that splintered alarm and shards of dread into the thoughts of all the females in the sunroom. Gray knew the second panic and terror erupted and coalesced into a Mount St. Helen's explosion in their minds.
Kumar abruptly stopped cackling.
"You'll never get away with this," the cockatoo mimicked a deep, Barry White voice.
Susie's complexion paled, and she gripped the chair back so tightly, her knuckles whitened. "Those were your mother's and father's voices, weren't they?"
"Everyone into the house!" Gray shoved Sorcha through the sunroom's doorway.
He ran back, snatched Taylor and Ariel into his arms, reversed his path, and deposited the girls at Sorcha's feet.
"Don't move an inch. Hold on to them," he ordered.
White galloped to her side and positioned his torso sideways, shielding the children. The Lab bared his teeth and stared unblinkingly at the open glass door leading to the back porch.
Sorcha ducked as Kumar sailed through the bedroom and glided to the wooden perch standing adjacent to the fireplace.
Gray herded Susie and Mel through the door frame and slammed the thick slab of wood shut. He snapped dead bolts into place, three in all---top, middle, and bottom.
"Living room---all of you. Get going."
Relieved Gray's roaring had subsided into a low growl, Sorcha obeyed his command. Melanie led the way, followed by Susie, who walked a few paces behind, hand in hand with her daughters. Sorcha and Gray formed the rear.
"I'm going to settle the girls in front of that TV in the study." In no way did Susie's matter-of-fact tone belie the horrified terror blazing from her dark eyes. Her jaw clenched, and she gave a little shake of her head before turning her attention to her children. "It's almost time for Barney, and you can watch two episodes."
"Ith a Barney mawathon, Mommy. Can we wath thwee?"
The girl's familiar lisp acted like a shot of Valium, soothing Sorcha's reeling mind. She focused on the small details, on everyday tasks, though her mind was on DEFCON alert.
In the distance, Sorcha heard Susie ask, "Girls, milk and cookies, or OJ and popcorn?"
Ariel grimaced, popped her thumb out of her mouth, and muttered, "Mommy, popcornth only for movieth."
"Milk and cookies it is."
Sorcha forced her legs to take a step forward, then another.
On autopilot, staring unseeingly at the six-foot square birdcage built into the rocky cliff that delineated the rear of Gram's property, the magnitude of the events in the sunroom white-watered Sorcha's thoughts and emotions. Her hands clung to the rim of the sink as the enormity of what happened mere seconds ago kicked in; her knees caved, and she gripped the granite counter as if it were the only solid object in a raging sea.
Kumar's perfect imitation of her mother's voice had acted like lightning cleaving a tree in half. Her memories hadn't returned in snippets as she'd expected, but in one cataclysmic flood.
Five minutes earlier, she had been tentative, fearful, worried, and confused. Hearing her mother's voice had erased any uncertainty.
Gray's arms bracketed her body. "Your scent's changed. You've remembered, haven't you?"
She should have been surprised, as his approach had been as stealthy as ever, but somehow she'd known he would be behind her, his strength cocooning her, protecting her.
"I have." Spots danced before her eyes. "My father didn't kill my mother. There was someone else there." The kitchen windows receded and swam forward, and the wooden frame merged with the ceiling. The room spun, her eyesight narrowed to a pinpoint, and her vision blurred as her legs trembled and gave way and the scenery did a giddy slip-slide.
As she collapsed, Gray firmed his hold on her. "Breathe, honey, breathe. Open your eyes."
Easing her around, one hand at her waist, the other curved her jaw and cheek and tilted her face to his. "Honey, open your eyes. Come on. One eye. That's it," Gray crooned as she responded to his hypnotic voice. His face came into focus, and she clung to his gaze the way a drowning sailor clings to a life buoy.
"Breathe, honey. Take a deep breath in."
His eyes glowed amber, and his near panic registered. She inhaled, licked her dry lips, and croaked, "Need a moment."
It seemed to take forever before the color of his irises returned to black.
"I'm okay. Just hold me for a moment."
"Thank God," he growled, and a gentle hand urged her cheek to his chest.
Burrowing her nose into his shirt, Sorcha shuttered her lids. If she opened her eyes, she'd be sick. Swallowing compulsively until the bile rising up her throat tasted less acrid and her gasps slowed, she took a deep breath. His familiar musky aroma soothed the frenetic tangents ricocheting her brain with a potency Valium couldn't begin to match.
"That's it. Breathe in, breathe out. Mel, will you bring me a glass of water and a cracker? Top right-hand cabinet opposite the sink." The arm around her waist slipped under her thighs, and he hefted her off the floor, strode over to the couch, and sat.
A forefinger touched the underside of her chin.
"I'm good now. Honest." He had a way of making her feel safe and secure, and Sorcha realized she spoke the truth.
He wouldn't let her eyes stray from his as he fed her bits of the cracker and gave her tiny sips of water between bites. When she finished the wafer, he rested his thumb on the pulse at her throat for a few seconds, then said, "That's better. The roses are back in your cheeks, and your heart rate's back to normal."
The doorbell rang, and it might as well have been an alarm at a fire station.
Sorcha watched the scene unfold as if she hovered above the room, a strange detachment numbing her mind, her limbs. Mind and body on slo-mo, her gaze crept to the wooden door.
The whole cabin erupted in a maelstrom of noise. White barked, Kumar screeched, Melanie yelped, Gray growled.
The ding-dong repeated.
Susie stomped to the door and flung it open.
Joe, Chad, and Mike marched into the cabin and headed straight for the kitchen.
"Food's here," Joe boomed as he dumped four large pizza boxes on the kitchen counter. Chad thunked three two-liter bottles of Coke next to the food.
Gray settled Sorcha more firmly in his lap.
"Okay?" he asked, tracing her jaw.
"I think so," she whispered. "My dad didn't kill my mom, Gray."
I remember. I remember.
Daddy, you're not a monster.
All these years I've been ashamed of you, ashamed of myself for loving you.
I'm free. I'm free.
"I heard you before. You said someone else was there."
"Excuse me, you two," Susie said, one hand braced on her hip, the other slicing the air between their faces.
Sorcha flinched, pulled back, and tilted her chin up to find a half circle of staring eyes. A funereal silence shrouded the cabin. The logs in the fireplace erupted into a roaring blaze, the green pine hissing and cackling like a coven of witches.
"Don't you dare think there's any way I'm leaving here until I hear the whole story of the night your parents were killed," Susie growled, one sandal-clad foot doing a rat-a-tat-tat on the wooden floor. "You're going to have to tell us all what you've remembered, so you may as well tell it only once, Sorcha. 'Sides, the men brought pizza and wings. Big brother, you seem to be in no shape to take control, so here's how things are going to unfold. Food first, story right after. Any objections?"
Gray's long exhale feathered Sorcha's collarbone. As his lungs emptied, the rigid set of his jaw slackened, his square shoulders relaxed into the sofa's plush upholstery, and one side of his mouth quirked. "Hard to believe you're the youngest, sis." He shook his head. "I don't know how you manage her, Joe."
His dark eyes remained bolted to hers.
"I'm good," she whispered. In a normal tone, she added, "And I'm starved."
"It's the adrenaline," Gray explained.
When she tried to shift off his lap, he gave an imperceptible dip of his chin.
Ah hell, she really didn't want to move anyway.
"Did you summon them?" She rested a hand on his chest.
He twined their fingers together, kissed her knuckles, and replied, "Not the way you're thinking. I called them on the way home."
She shifted her hips closer when he set her on the couch to the right of him.
"No, honey." Gray shook his head. "Stay where you are. I can't have you distracting me right now."
"You're right," she said. "It feels like the air is loaded with static electricity and primed to explode." Something niggled at the corners of her mind.
"Bring the pizza and wings over here," Gray called out as he pointed to the coffee table. "Susie, grab a stack of napkins. Mel, you get ice and glasses." After everyone had settled around the coffee table and had a paper plate with a slice of pizza and a drink in front of them, Gray said, "Sorcha's memory's back. Honey, tell us everything that's relevant."
"It's much like the nightmare, but with the spaces filled in. Don't get your hopes up---I still don't know who killed my parents, but I remember more."
"Go ahead, honey. The more we know, the more we can extrapolate."
"We'd just had dinner. It was a Sunday. We'd been to church and people had come over for coffee and cake afterward." Sorcha actually saw the picture in her head as if she'd TiVoed the whole event. "The doorbell rang. It was Miss L, and she had a huge chocolate cheesecake in her hands. We went to the kitchen together. She set the cake on the counter, I hung her coat up on the rack in the front, and then I went to my room."
"Honey?" Gray shook her shoulder. "What happened next?"
"Dinner, then the grown-ups had coffee. I had cheesecake and ice cream; then Mom sent me to my room because I hadn't finished my homework." The fire crackled and snapped, interrupting her conversation. Sorcha's glance swept the circle of individuals focused on her, and all at once she wanted to curl into a ball and say no more. "I remember hearing the door open and close a few times."
"Did the doorbell ring?"
"I can't remember." She closed her eyes and tried to see everything in her mind. "People were always coming and going on a Sunday. Mom volunteered at school on Mondays, and there was always some last-minute emergency."
Gray grabbed a notepad and a pencil from the side table and scribbled on the top sheet. "Continue."
"I finished my homework and changed into my pj's. I set my clock radio, turned on my favorite station, and I was just about to get into bed when I heard my Dad shout, 'No!'"
Tears threatened to spill, so she gritted her teeth and balled her fists, but couldn't choke back a sob.
Gray brought a glass filled with Coke to her lips. "Take a sip, honey. It'll help."
Looking at him over the rim of the tumbler, Sorcha sipped and tried to telegraph her gratefulness and her love.
I love him. I always have, I always will.
Strangely, the realization didn't make her self-implode but spurred a rush of joy, lifting the heaviness weighting her shoulders.
"Better?"
"Much," she answered. As Gray set the soda on the table, Sorcha continued, "Then there were two bangs, one right after the other. It's funny---They weren't loud, sort of muffled, like a car backfiring far away." Sorcha's attention faltered.
"Go on, honey."
"It got really silent, and I got really, really scared. I opened my bedroom door, and the hall light wasn't on. Mom always left the light on for me. I knew something was wrong. Then I heard sounds coming from the living room."
A log fell in the fireplace, and the thud made Sorcha jump and her lungs stutter. She gave her audience an apologetic half smile. "Sorry, I think I was in the moment. It was so dark. For some reason, I crawled down the hallway until I got to the bend to the living room."
"You were on your hands and knees?" Gray interrupted.
Nodding, she continued, "The living room was dark. I couldn't see anything at first. Then the light next to Dad's chair came on, and that's when I saw Mom on the floor, the blood coming out of her mouth. She looked at me and then above me, and I turned to see what she was looking at, and then my head exploded, or so it felt." Sorcha shook her head. "Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital."
Gray set the notepad and pencil on the coffee table and in one liquid move swept her onto his lap. His arms held her tightly; he drew her head onto his chest. "You did good, honey. Are you up for more?"
"More?" She tried to lift away from him.
"You have the scene fresh in your mind now. Want to try an exercise to see if we can ferret out subconscious details?"
"Yes," Sorcha said without a second's hesitation.
She needed to know the truth, needed to know everything.
"Close your eyes and let me take you down that hallway." She obeyed Gray's mesmerizing crooning. "You're on all fours. Can you smell anything? Cigarette smoke? Aftershave? Perfume?"
"Shampoo from the carpet, Glade lemon air freshener... Nothing else."
"You turn the corner. Before the light comes on, do you hear footsteps? Feel a draft?"
It seemed so real in her mind. "A footstep behind me."
Oh God, oh God. "My father's bedroom slippers. They were on either side of my mother's head. One was covered in blood."
"Which foot, honey?"
She pushed away from Gray's chest. "Why didn't I remember that before?"
"Concentrate, honey. Which foot?"
Why did he have that tone in his voice? What did it matter which slipper had blood on it?
"Honey," Gray growled. "Which foot?"
Closing her eyes, she pictured the dark living room. "The right foot."
"Fuck." Gray sprang to his feet, knocking over the almost-empty glass of Coke.
Sorcha leaned over to right it and then spread her napkin over the spilled liquid.
He smacked the heel of his palm on his forehead. "I am a fucking idiot."
"For heaven's sake, Gray, watch your language. The girls are in the other room. And you know how Ariel fixates on inappropriate words," Susie chided.
"What are you so worked up about?" Joe asked.
"Sorcha's father had an Indonesian mother and a Scottish father." Mike locked his narrowed eyes on Gray. "I'm betting Sorcha's parents were our serial killer's first kill."
"It seems so fu---" Gray glanced at his sister and clamped his lips together.
"Obvious," Joe finished. "Hindsight's always twenty-twenty."
"Do you remember anything else?" Susie asked.
"I should, shouldn't I?" She shook her head. "Nothing."
"Could our serial killer and the black wolf and the thing or person hunting Sorcha be one and the same person?" Chad asked.
They all knew? Sorcha tried to keep the surprise from her face.
"Honey, every white wolf can sense an evil presence. Chad, Joe, and Mike all sensed the thing hunting you the same time I did."
Obviously, she wasn't very good at concealing her emotions.
Chad rose to his feet. "I need to get home."
Gray arched an eyebrow. "You leaving already?"
Mike stood and pulled Melanie to her feet. "We're going to make a move too."
"Sweetheart, we should be going too," Joe said.
Susie held up a hand. "Not until Gray answers Chad's question."
"I need to take a look at Sorcha's parents' file before I can even begin to answer that one." Gray dragged a hand through his thick hair. "I don't suppose you feel like hanging around so I can make a run to the precinct?"
"I have a conference call with Hong Kong tonight." Joe checked his watch. "I'll barely make it as it is, and I'm the leader on the call. Oh, before I forget. Only one shirt matched any of the scents from the clearing at Leader Lake, the hand-dyed one."
"Great, that means one of the twins was up there," Gray grumbled. "There's no way in hell we'll ever be able to prove which one, but my guess is on Ken." He recounted his earlier phone conversation with James.
A flurry of farewells followed, and once everyone had left, Sorcha tapped her mate's forearm. "Gray, the station's ten minutes away---"
"Forget it, honey. I'm not leaving you alone for a second."
Wanting to protest his overprotectiveness, but knowing it was futile, Sorcha said, "I'll put on my shoes and get a jacket."
"Thanks for coming with me," Gray said ten minutes later as they strolled into the station.
"I knew you wouldn't rest until you'd been through that file," Sorcha remarked. Her eyes swept the station, and she tried to picture Gray here on a daily basis.
"We didn't expect you in tonight, boss." The lazy drawl came from the full lips of a man who oozed testosterone from every pore. Sorcha's gaze met aquamarine eyes made a fascinating hue by the contrast with the officer's walnut-toned skin. The cop's chiseled cheekbones and square jaw reeked of cut-off-the-nose-in-spite-of-his-face stubbornness.
Something about the man seemed familiar.
Hands pillowing his large head, the man raked Sorcha. A languid glance trailed past her chin, paused and perused each breast, before sliding past her hips and down her legs. Her hands fisted when his stare boomeranged to her breasts.
Averting her eyes, she lengthened her stride to match Gray's.
"Didn't your midnight shift get rescheduled, Wicks?"
Wicks? Sorcha stumbled. She whipped around and gawked at the man. This was the man she'd encountered at Victor Morgan's? The one whose squealing was partially responsible for her "punishment"? Save for his height and build, she'd never have recognized him. Had she been that dazed from her first encounter with Gray? True, Wicks'd been in the shadows for the few minutes she'd been in his presence, but this man must be the human equivalent of a chameleon, she decided.
Gray's tone held a peculiar note. She glanced at him. He had schooled his features into careful neutrality. Her mate didn't like this man, Sorcha realized.
"Traded with Ted. I'm going fishing tomorrow afternoon," Wicks replied.
Living in Canada and Chicago didn't afford her much of a chance to hear a real Southern drawl. She'd swear on a stack of Bibles before a judge that the man had had a completely different accent when he'd spoken that night. Yet Wicks's deep bass seemed vaguely familiar.
"Want to grab me a coffee while I get the file, honey?" Gray angled his chin at a coffeemaker sitting on a long metal filing chest.
"Sure," Sorcha assented reflexively, all the while sneaking surreptitious peeks at Wicks. She walked over to the long filing drawers housing the coffeemaker.
Two uniformed males, both well over six feet, entered the room as she poured coffee into a Styrofoam container. Neither acknowledged her presence.
"That the boss's car?" The query came from a bald man with a wide handlebar mustache, which he twirled between a thumb and forefinger. Why did men who lost the hair on their head try to compensate with facial hair? Her fingers itched to find a pair of scissors and clip the officer's pretentious and offensive whiskers. This man's voice sounded familiar too, but Sorcha didn't recognize the uniformed male striding across the room.
"Yeah. He's in the storage room."
Frowning, she tapped a Splenda packet on the chest, remembered Gray took his coffee black, and stuffed the packet back into its container. After clicking the lid in place, she picked it up.
Right then Gray strolled into the room with a large file crate under one arm.
"Hey, boss."
"Henry," Gray said. "Things quiet?"
So this was the famous Henry. Early fifties, she guessed, from the numerous liver spots on his face. The two men stood eye to eye, one exuding the vigor of a man in his prime, the other the weariness of one in decline.
"As a church mouse."
"Good." Gray looked over to her. "Ready?"
She nodded and walked over to him. Gray introduced her to everyone in the room and then hustled her out of the precinct.
Fifteen minutes later, as they entered the cabin, Sorcha asked, "You don't like Wicks much, do you?"
Gray frowned as he shot her a glance. "I didn't think I was that obvious. You think the rest of the team has noticed?"
"No. I only did because you sounded a little irritated when you asked him about the schedule." Sorcha saw the sudden flash of anger in his dark eyes. "What's wrong?"
"One of the women on the force asked not to be put on the same shift as Wicks." Gray dumped the crate onto the kitchen table. "And Victor Morgan filed a complaint about his attitude when he handled the shoe shop's breakin."
Her lungs forgot to function. Buckling knees made her trip over her own feet, and she barely made it to the sofa before collapsing. Gray was at her side before she could gulp in air.
"Are you okay, honey?" Cupping her chin with one hand, his dark eyes searched her face, and he moved onto the couch and settled her on his lap. "What's wrong?"
"Wicks is prejudiced," she whispered. "The serial killer is too."
"Wicks?" Three lines appeared on his forehead. His eyes narrowed. "He's only been in Twisp for four months. If the murders started with your parents, then that rules him out."
"I guess so," she said. "Something about him bothers me."
"Don't worry. He's not going to be around for much longer."
"You're going to fire him?"
"After the way he looked at you tonight, he's lucky he's still in one piece." The cold wood in the fireplace combusted into a roaring and sparking inferno. "You don't know how close I came to losing it."
Her eyes swept to the blaze; the flames spiked and curled toward the mantle. "Tell me that doesn't happen every time you lose your temper."
Gray's warm palm nudged her face to his, and his cock thickened against her bottom.
Desire dilated his pupils, and his eyes darkened.
Need exploded in her.
Their lips met and she ignited, thoughts, words vanishing. She tore at his shirt; popped buttons took flight as her tongue delved into the moist fire of his mouth.
He shoved his hand down her pants.
His teeth captured her tongue the second he plunged a finger into her pussy.
Sorcha's neck muscles went slack as she convulsed, and her head fell back. Arms of steel tightened across her back.
Breaking their lip-lock, he ordered, "Arms around my neck. Legs around my waist."
Mindless, she obeyed and burrowed her face into his damp chest, inhaling his musky spice, licking a drop of sweat, tasting the salt-sweetness of her mate. If she could, she'd crawl inside him.
When he stood, his fingers slid deeper, and she clamped down on them. Each long stride drove his fingers closer to her womb; the heel of his palm ground against her sex, the tight jeans making the friction pain and ecstasy.
They landed on the bed with a thud.
Rising on his knees, he straddled her thighs. Using one hand, he tore off the brass button of her jeans and yanked the zipper down as he flexed the fingers inside her. Her passage gushed. Arms flailing, head thrashing side to side as he slid a palm under her ass and lifted her off the mattress, she moaned when a second finger joined the first. Orgasm lit the space behind her closed eyes blinding white.
"Look at me." Gruff and deep and growled, the words made her lids flicker open.
The look in his eyes made her lungs burn, giddied her mind.
Her vagina sucked at his withdrawing fingers.
"Noo," she groaned, digging her nails into his back. "No."
"Yes." His mouth covered her breast as he nudged her legs wider.
The head of his cock pushed into her protesting muscles. Thick and hot, his penis stretched her. His mouth changed breasts, and her bereft, wet nub ached and burned when he latched onto the other nipple. With soft, insistent nips, his teeth tormented the taut peak to a pulsing bonfire.
She bit his shoulder, nibbled and licked her way down his chest, rooting for his tight male nipple.
He grasped her ankles and raised her legs high.
In one fierce thrust, he crammed her full to bursting and opened his mouth over her breast.
Her pleas echoed around the room.
When his blazing penis began a tortuous, slow withdrawal, she groaned and beat her hands on his back. "Hard. Fast."
Their eyes met when he leaned back, withdrew, then draped her legs over his shoulders.
A slow, crooked grin lifted his lips. He licked a taut peak, then ordered, "Wider."
The shaft of his cock nestled her opening.
She obeyed his command, separating her legs.
Manacling her gaze, he plunged to her womb.
Sorcha detonated.
He stilled.
"Please," she begged and wriggled, needing, craving friction.
"Mine." His eyes glowed yellow sparks.
Hot palms cupped the sides of her bottom cheeks.
His fat cock distended the walls of her vagina as he speared her in one powerful thrust.
Climax after climax burst through her as he rode her hard and fast, each orgasm building higher and higher.
He roared, and sperm jetted inside her in hard, hot spurts.
When her muscles locked around his throbbing penis, she careened into a pinnacle of pleasure-pain.
She didn't know how long they lay bound together, her high too numbing for brain functions like time or place.
"I put a cub in you tonight." His lips moved against her nape, his tongue drawing a slow circle of fire.
"Mmm," she murmured, licking his sweat. This sudden need to taste him must be the wolf in him rubbing off on her. All at once, his words penetrated. She pushed at his chest.
He lifted his head, and the wide, mischievous grin he wore spoke of an adolescent swaggering down a school corridor after his first conquest.
She shook her head. "I'm on the Pill. It's ninety-nine percent reliable."
"You're in heat, honey."
"I can't be." She took the Pill with her OJ every morning. Gasping, she met his stare.
Sorcha hadn't thought it possible for his smile to get any wider.
"You forgot to take it, didn't you?"
Not able to bear his I-told-you-so look for another minute, she fixated on the throbbing in the hollow of his throat. Toying with the dark hairs surrounding his nipples, she said, "I guess I'm going to have to marry you sooner rather than later, then."
Every muscle in contact with her skin bunched, and he went absolutely still.
He tipped her chin, and when his eyes met hers, she melted; her limbs turned to jelly, and she knew fairy-tale endings did exist.
"Will you accept me as your mate in front of my family?"
"Yes," she said without a second's hesitation.
"I love you, Sorcha McFadden, and I pledge my body and my soul to your happiness, to your protection, and to the happiness and safety of our cubs."
She burned his words and the look on his face into her memory for all eternity.
"And I pledge myself to your happiness and safety and that of our children."
All at once, he slipped out of her warmth. She looked down the length of their bodies. "What happened? Why did the locking end so soon?"
"You're in heat, honey. Your body needs to mate as often as possible."
"I thought you put a cub in me already."
He licked the seam of her mouth.
Her pussy clenched, and desire thronged through nerves to tingling and sparking extremities and settled at her center; her labia throbbed and swelled.
The swaggering grin captured his mouth again, and he waggled his eyebrows.
"Neither of us is going to get much sleep tonight."
She loved proving him wrong. Neither of them slept a wink.
As dawn broke, he cupped her face and asked, "How about a swim? You're going to be tender, and the cold water will help soothe your pussy."
"A swim sounds perfect," she replied. "But I think you're going to have to carry me to the lake. I don't believe my legs are capable of holding me up."
"Deal."
"Omigod," she yelped and clapped a hand to her forehead.
"What, honey?"
"In all the confusion yesterday, I forgot to tell you about Miss L's will." Her sexual high vanished entirely.
"I figured she must have left you a bundle after I did the math yesterday."
Sorcha shook her head. "She left most of her money to the Wolf Preservation Foundation. No, she left me her cottage."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I don't know. Her lawyer gave me the key. I'm toying with the idea of asking your sister Melanie to take the store while I set up office where Miss L lived. What do you think?"
"It's a great idea. Your office will be a five-minute walk from mine. We can have quickies at lunchtime." He winked.
His cell phone vibrated on the coffee table, and he groaned.
"Don't answer it," she suggested.
"Have to, honey. It's in the rules." His eyes flickered to the screen, and he frowned. "It's Susie."
Reaching over, he grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and said, "This is a little early for you, sis."
Sorcha frowned when she realized Susie was yelling.
"Slow down, slow down. What do you mean she's gone?"
Sorcha knew something terrible had happened from the anguish spilling out of his eyes as he listened to his sister.
"We'll leave in five minutes."
"What happened?" she asked as he snapped the phone shut.
"Taylor's disappeared."
"He has her, doesn't he?"
Gray so wanted to reassure Sorcha. "My logic says yes. My wolf instincts say no."
"We have to leave immediately." She sprang to her feet and jogged to the bathroom. "Susie must be frantic. Where is Joe? Why didn't he call?"
A three-hundred-pound weight landed on his chest as he realized the implications of her questions. They finished dressing in silence. He tried to communicate telepathically with Joe but met a blank void, a mental black hole.
The overhead light clicked on, his eyes swept the bedroom, and he found her as she stepped into the bathroom.
Sorcha turned and faced him as she grabbed her toothbrush from a pottery holder. "I can be ready in five minutes. We're taking Kumar and White."
He cocked his head and studied her belligerent stance, legs wide apart, chin jutting, Washington blues flashing defiance.
"Do I look like I'm arguing?" Gray frowned, trying to figure out what was behind this sudden flare of anger. "Kumar will travel on your shoulder, right?"
Her mouth full of toothpaste and the brush, her eyes narrowed, but she nodded.
Anxious to get to his sister's, he tabled the matter for future exploration and grabbed his gun from the alcove. Shrugging on his jacket as he walked into the living room, Gray called, "Honey, I'll be outside. You almost done?" Hand on the doorknob, he waited for her answer.
"Five minutes aren't up yet." Sorcha's terse, sharp reply echoed her mood.
Setting aside his natural inclination to brood over his mate's uncharacteristic sourness, he strode outside to the Durango and checked the weapons and tools stacked into a metal box in the rear. Mentally cataloging the container's contents---spare pistol, ammo, ropes, nylon netting, flares, a generous supply of plastic explosives, and two rifles, one given to him by the county's SWAT team's crack sniper---he then took the maps from the glove box and tucked them into a clip attached to the underside of the box's lid.
Kumar on her shoulder, White at her side, Sorcha jog-walked the graveled path to the Durango less than two minutes later.
"Are you okay?"
Roses stained her already pinkened cheeks. She nodded. "Sorry I snapped. I'm so scared, and I feel so powerless."
"It'll be okay," he said and dropped a quick kiss on the tip of an icy nose. "All set?"
"I packed clothes for you and me just in case," she replied, holding up a feminine version of a gym bag, same shape but with more zippers and straps. Frosty air puffed from her mouth with each word she uttered. Cheeks pinkened by the icy spring air, she hugged her arms, and asked, "Do you think Taylor's disappearance could be connected to the child who went missing in Spokane a few days ago?"
Crap. His mind raced through the recent cases of missing children in the county. "I don't see how. What makes you ask that, honey?"
"I'm not sure. I stayed the night in Spokane on the way here. That case was all over the news. They were comparing it to the English case---you know, the Madeleine thing---because the parents were both professionals on vacation, and they'd left their toddler sleeping in their room while they had dinner in the hotel's restaurant."
"About the only similarity I can think of is that the child was around the same age as Taylor." A nerve in the back of his neck leaped and sparked. As he helped Sorcha into the passenger seat, Gray tried to isolate what about her question made every instinct rocket. "I'll call the precinct and have someone fax the case info to the farmhouse. Honey, do me a favor and call Susie and ask about Joe. I'm going to phone Chad and Mike and have them meet us at the farm."
"Okay," she said, snapping her seat belt into place.
On autopilot, he started the Durango, shifted the gear stick, and stepped on the gas while releasing the clutch. Thick fog impaired visibility; even his wolf vision couldn't penetrate more than three yards ahead. Highway 20 proved deserted. Gray slipped his headphones on and hit 400 on his speed dial.
Edie answered, "Boss, why're you calling on your day off?"
Loath to describe the situation until he'd spoken to Susie and examined the scene, Gray replied, "Checking in, Edie. Things quiet?"
"We're two less than a full team. Other than that, it's as boring as the minister's Sunday sermon."
Short-staffed by two? Gray shifted in the upholstered driver's seat and wriggled his shoulders as if the action would allay his growing unease.
"Put me through to Henry."
"He phoned in sick earlier."
Probably fucking hungover. Gray gritted his teeth.
His earlier conversation with Sorcha came to mind. "Put me through to Wicks."
"He left early. Stomach flu."
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Who's acting deputy?"
"Ted."
Gray's foot slammed the accelerator. "Ted, then, ASAP."
After asking Ted to fax the details of all children under three reported missing statewide for the last six months, he disconnected.
They arrived at the farmhouse at that instant.
Dense gray mists shrouded the SUV; minute droplets winked, eerie and sinister, dimming and brightening in the faint rays of the headlights. Rectangular halos of windows lit from within, straight lines blurred by waving clouds of fog, glowed not ten feet in front of the car.
"Has it gotten darker?" Sorcha whispered.
"Yeah. I think we're in for a doozy of storm. Stay there, honey. I'll come and get you." Air condensed onto his nylon coat the second he stepped out of the Durango. His long hair trapped moist vapor, and by the time he'd completed the five-second journey to the passenger side, every exposed inch of flesh oozed slickness.
His nose tingled. A snaky prickle wrapped around the base of his spine, tightening and slithering weblike as it crawled up his back and across his chest, constricting his lungs.
"Let's dash, honey. This fog's worsening by the second." He helped Sorcha out of the vehicle and curled an arm around her waist. Kumar sidestepped on her right shoulder edging closer to her head. Growling, teeth bared, White hopped down and stood at attention, tail stiff, ears pointing to the midnight clouds blanketing the sky horizon to horizon.
"Heel," Gray ordered, his hand at the small of Sorcha's back urging her forward. A stench arose. The foul aroma smothered and absorbed all the oxygen in the atmosphere. His lungs blistering, Gray held his breath.
White snapped and gnashed his canines.
"I know it's just my imagination," Sorcha whispered, "but it seems as if the trees are moving toward us."
As he turned to reassure her, she gasped. "Your eyes are glowing. That thing's here, isn't it?"
"Close," he answered, nerves flickering and sparking. Fear washed acerbic and pungent over the roof of his mouth, coating his tongue. He had to get her inside, had to keep her safe.
Lengthening his stride, Gray consumed the thirty feet to the front entrance, grabbed the ancient door handle, and pulled.
Locked.
Fuck.
He stabbed the doorbell. "Susie, open up right now!" he roared. The desperate need to get into the house fueled a spiking rage.
"Just a second," his sister shouted.
Metal on metal worked and twanged, and the door opened.
Pushing his mate inside, he spun around, and the nanosecond the Lab cleared the entrance, Gray slammed the heavy steel door shut.
When Susie and Joe had refurbished the farmhouse, they'd left the twin sets of old-fashioned iron bars on either side of the door in place, and Joe had had new steel blades made to fit into them. Gray hefted one bar in place, then the other.
The house, a perfect rendition of a nineteenth-century pioneer dwelling from all outward appearances, boasted steel-reinforced walls, a state-of-the-art security system, strategically positioned exterior cameras, and two backup generators.
"Thank God you're here." Susie launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around his waist, dislodging his grip on Sorcha's wrist.
His mind jumping from tangent to tangent, Gray hugged his sister and then gave her shoulder a little shake.
Obeying the silent command, Susie took a step back and met his gaze.
"Joe?"
"Gone. I can't sense him," his sister replied, her rising alarm pitching her voice higher and higher. "Oh God, Gray. My baby's gone, and my husband's missing."
"Susie. Listen to me. Panicking won't help." Gray captured his sibling's hand and squeezed. "I need you calm and using your strengths. Take a few deep breaths. That's it. Now, where is Ariel?"
"In the TV room."
"Bring her here. She and Taylor sleep in the same room. She must have heard something."
Kumar's wings fluttered, and he sailed off Sorcha's shoulder and flew across the room to a standing grandfather clock opposite. The cockatoo hopped on one foot and curled his opposing toes around the carved edge of the mahogany wood.
Gray motioned for Sorcha to sit on the couch.
"I should help Susie," she protested.
"Leave her be, honey. Focusing on Ariel will keep her calm." Picking up a throw from another chair, he jutted his chin at the sofa.
Shooting him a dark look from under half-hooded eyes, she sat.
Kneeling in front of her, he tucked the chenille fabric around her legs. Enfolding her hands in his, Gray trapped her eyes. "Honey, things are going to get crazy around here. Once the others arrive, I need to focus on the situation. I need you and Susie and Ariel glued together at all times. That means if one of you has to go to the bathroom, all of you go. Leave the door open. Keep a conversation going. Can you do that?"
"You think this...this black wolf is capable of taking one of us?" Under his thumb, Sorcha's pulse jumped.
"I don't know. It's more a case of taking the extra precaution in the face of the unknown." Gray prayed she didn't notice the dread creeping into his pores. His knowledge of black wolves came from legend and lore; he had no idea how to wage war and win against this particular enemy.
Tail swishing, White sat beside the sofa.
"I need you to do anything you need to do to make the girls stay put. Got that, honey?"
"Beg, bitch."
What?
Gray froze.
"I beg you not to do this, please. Don't hurt us."
"Kumar," Sorcha whispered.
Gray's eyes swept the room. He focused on the cockatoo atop the grandfather clock.
"That's my mother's voice."
Her mother? A thin layer of sweat coated his forehead.
"You had your chance."
The man's voice the parrot mimicked seemed so familiar. Gray struggled to recall where he'd heard it, but the memory hovered at the edges of his mind.
"He knows what happened that night." Sorcha's voice wavered.
"I think you're right." Keeping his eyes fixed on the bird, he rose.
"Knock, knock," the parrot chirped.
He and Sorcha exchanged glances. Gray raised an eyebrow and angled his head to Kumar.
"It's no use," she said, sotto voce. "He's lost interest."
"Try," Gray urged.
"Who's there?" she asked.
"Chuck Norris can sneeze with his eyes open."
Sorcha rolled her eyes. "See what I mean?"
"What are you two doing?"
Gray hadn't heard his sister approach. Rotating, eyes narrowing, he located Susie and Ariel standing five feet beyond the couch.
"Uncle Gray," Ariel squealed. She shook her mother's hand off, ran across the room, and hurled herself at him.
Dropping to one knee, arms wide open, he embraced his niece. Dire and sinister though the situation, Gray couldn't stop the wide grin curving his lips.
"Hi, brat." Holding Ariel six inches away from his body, he raked the little girl's face. Her features showed no sign of distress.
"Are you going to find Tay?"
"You bet."
"Why did the man make her thleep?"
"What man, brat?" Gray kept his tone light, but his lungs refused to draw oxygen while waiting for the girl's answer.
"The man in the newthpaper."
He hadn't seen the newspaper for the day.
"I'll get it." Susie snapped to her feet and raced in the direction of the kitchen.
"How did he make Taylor sleep?"
"An ouchie." She touched a finger to Gray's shoulder and mimicked someone giving an injection. "I didn't want one, tho I hid under the bed."
Susie skidded to a halt next to her daughter. She stooped, the folded Okanagan Tribune dangling from her right hand. "Was it nighttime when the man gave Taylor the ouchie?"
Sticking her thumb in her mouth, Ariel nodded.
Gray swallowed once, twice as the implications of her answer zipped bile up his gullet. The son of a bitch had at least a three-hour head start on them. Three hours alone with Taylor.
A muffled wail jerked Gray's attention to Susie. His sister's face crumpled; he recognized the borderline hysteria ebbing and flowing across her features.
Taking the newspaper from his sibling's hand, he laid each section, one by one, on the coffee table. "Do you see the man who gave Taylor the ouchie?"
"Him." Ariel pointed to a photo of Bruce and Tonya Hazard on the front page of the Tribune.
Whaaat?
"Bruce Hazard?" Susie's shocked exclamation mimicked Gray's astonishment.
Ariel broke into a sparsely toothed smile. "He took Tay to the Abyth."
Abyth?
Quirking an eyebrow, he met Susie's bewildered glance and lifted both shoulders. "Translation?"
"Abyss," she replied.
"Abyth," Ariel repeated.
Abyss? What the fuck did that mean? Forcing a brief smile, he quipped, "Was that your tummy growling? How about I persuade your mommy to let you eat in front of the TV?"
Susie caught on right away. "Want to watch a Barney video, sweetie?"
"Yeth, Mommy."
Gray's cell phone beeped. He read the text message.
"Chad and Mike are here. Get her settled and come back right away. Take White with you. Order him to stay and tell him 'Guard.' Activate the intercom in the TV room," Gray ordered.
"I'll come with you," Sorcha interjected. She threw off the blanket and followed Susie and her daughter down the hallway.
"Leave all the doors open." Gray threw the words over one shoulder as he headed to the front entrance. He unbarred the door and opened the lock. Chad and Mike, both wearing grim expressions, stood on the front stoop.
Gray herded the men into the far corner of the cavernous living room. He brought his brothers-in-law current.
After Susie and Sorcha settled Ariel, they joined the men's huddle.
Mike hugged his sister-in-law; Chad wrapped his arms around the two of them. "We'll find Joe and Taylor, Susie. It'll be okay."
"What happened, babe?" Mike asked.
"Start at the beginning," Gray commanded.
"There's not much to tell." She rubbed her arms. "We came home last night, put the girls to bed, and went to sleep. Ariel came into our bedroom this morning without Taylor. I went to get her. She wasn't there. I wasn't worried at first."
"We have any idea of the time she was taken?" Chad asked.
"Ariel said it was nighttime."
"That just means it was dark," Susie explained. "We woke up around sixish."
A lone tear streamed down her cheek.
Gray's chest burned; his sister rarely cried. "We'll find her. I promise."
"How does Hazard come into this? I can't see him as our black wolf, or the serial killer for that matter." Mike shook his head.
"He's not smart enough for either," Chad stated.
"Okay, sis---continue. You went to get the girls, and you couldn't find Ariel."
"I woke Joe up and we searched the house. He went to the barn to make sure she hadn't sneaked out to see the new kittens, and he didn't come back. That's when I called you." Her voice wavered on the last few words.
Maybe she had overlooked something.
"Let's check the girls' room," Gray said.
Not an object in the pink bedroom seemed out of whack. Gray and the other two wolves picked up no strange scents. Taylor's bed had been slept in, the rumpled sheets and tossed blankets evidence she used the whole mattress in her dreams.
"What's this?" Chad stooped and picked up something. He halted in the act of bringing the object to his nose. "Whew. This stinks. Here, have a whiff. I don't recognize the odor."
Chad placed half of a leaf in Gray's palm, and he recognized it immediately as the plant he had dug up and sent to Central for analysis. Quickly, he recounted finding the plant when he went back for Harold's body. "Central faxed a report to my laptop earlier. I know the bone analysis was ready, maybe the report on this was sent too."
"Joe's laptop is always up and running," Chad volunteered. "We need a place to work. Might as well settle in his study."
"I'm going to check on Ariel," Susie said.
"I'll come with you." Sorcha flashed Gray a questioning look.
He gave her a nod, angled his chin at Susie's back, and mouthed, Thank you.
The two women promptly vanished through the arched entrance to the kitchen.
Gray, Chad, and Mike went in the opposite direction. The wide corridor leading to the study allowed them to walk side by side.
"I think the bird knows what happened the night her parents died."
"That would explain the killer trying to destroy the two cockatoos," Mike reasoned.
Gray settled behind the oversize oak desk. Chad and Mike slumped onto the sofa. Behind their heads, through the long, rectangular picture window, a faint, fogged red ball hovered at the horizon, barely penetrating the thick, darkening cloud blanket veiling the sky.
"Aren't you guys coming back to the kitchen for coffee?" Susie poked her head past the half-open door.
"In a sec---we need to get something off Joe's PC first." Gray hit a few buttons on the keyboard lying on the mahogany desk.
"Help yourselves. I'll be with Sorcha."
Sorcha. Gray's pulse accelerated, and fear and worry climbed a precipice, but he shoved thoughts of her aside and grimly concentrated on the LCD screen. He curled his fingers around the mouse. In no time at all, he found Central's report and printed out three copies.
Chad, the closest to the printer, handed three pages to Mike and then reached across and threw a bundle onto the desk blotter. Gray didn't even bother to look at it; he fixed his attention on the monitor.
Mike, a speed-reader, scanned his copy of the report. "This isn't good news. The bones we found belonged to children aged two to five. They're recent too---less than six months in the open."
The cult sacrificed children? Hazard was part of this? Gray frowned---the dots didn't connect.
"We can't let Susie know this. She'll go off the deep end." Mike shuffled the sheets of paper in his hand. "They did do the plant. It's a species found in the valleys in the Amazon. And it's an ingredient in curare."
Chad whistled.
"No wonder it gave me a rash," Gray muttered.
"Curare was used as an anesthetic, and it's a strong muscle relaxant." Chad turned to Gray. "The tox screens from the earlier murders, did they find anything?"
"They've gone missing. Miss L was virtually dismembered while still alive and no one heard a peep, she had to have been drugged." He knew he should be grateful events were coalescing, but the direction they pointed to drove fury and dread through his veins. His temples throbbed.
"You know enough about this curare to know how much would be needed to put a child out?" Mike asked.
"No," Chad replied. "But I can easily find out."
Gray's wolf instincts reared and seized control. The thought of Taylor in the power of a child molester or worse, the black wolf, had his insides churning and burning. "The only person in Twisp who would have knowledge of curare would be Doc Harrison."
"I can't see him kidnapping or killing," Mike stated. "Does it have to be restricted to Twisp? All of the county coroners and crime-scene personnel would be privy to that kind of info."
A lightbulb went off.
"Funny you should mention coroners," Gray said. "Doc Henley didn't handle the McFadden murder case. A Dr. Fowler did, and there is no record of any Fowler ever being employed by the state of Washington."
"All the black wolf legends speak of the victim's paralysis before they're killed." Mike steepled his hands. "This sounds to me like the work of someone wanting to throw suspicion in another direction. A real black wolf wouldn't need curare."
"You've got a point," Chad agreed. "The serial killer?"
"Table that thought. Let's get back to Taylor and Joe." Something niggled at the corners of Gray's brain.
"What?" Chad asked.
"Problems at the 400," he answered. "Go ahead and brainstorm while I check on things."
He hit his cell's precinct speed dial.
Edie answered.
"Hey, boss. What's up?"
"Not much Edie. Wicks or Henry show up?"
"Uh-uh. Not that I'm complaining."
Although now wasn't the time to delve into office matters, Gray felt compelled to follow through. "Edie, you need to come clean with me. Has Wicks been sexually harassing you?"
"Ain't an easy question to answer, boss. He hasn't done or said anything wrong. It's the way he looks at you. If I could pinpoint something, I would have filed a complaint a long time ago."
"I want to know the minute he steps over the line, you hear me, Edie?"
"Cross my heart and hope to die."
Ending the call even though he knew he'd missed some relevant fact, something he couldn't pin down, Gray turned his thoughts to his mate. "I'm going to check on Sorcha," he stated. His fingers plowed through his hair. He found Susie and Sorcha in the living room sitting on the sofa. In the act of pouring tea into a flower-patterned china cup, Sorcha looked up and gave him a wan smile.
A wave of relief crashed over him, and he hurried to his mate's side.
As he settled next to her, he noticed the stricken expression Susie wore. "What's wrong? What happened?"
"Kumar. He started talking and cackling," she replied in a quivery voice. "It was awful. I think he saw who killed Sorcha's parents. It was like he was acting out the whole night."
"He did see everything," Sorcha said, her hands fluttering around her throat.
Mike and Chad, who had wandered into the living room in time to hear Sorcha's pronouncement, strode to the love seat adjacent to the sofa, sat, and leaned forward, forearms braced on their thighs, hands dangling between their knees.
"My daughter's been kidnapped, and my husband is missing, Sorcha. Get to the point."
Gray glowered at his sister. "Give her a break."
"No. Susie's right. We need to focus on Taylor and Joe," Sorcha countered. "I never saw his face, but I heard him. When Kumar spoke in his voice tonight, something seemed familiar and it just clicked." She shifted on the sofa and reached across to grip Gray's hand between both of hers. "It's Henry."
Henry?
Gray's mind couldn't wrap around her words.
Henry?
Henry Wells.
The letters on Miss L's cake.
No wonder there were never any footprints. He'd give any odds Henry had been the first one on the scene at each murder. Everyone would expect his footprints to be present.
"Are you positive?" Chad asked.
Henry.
All at once, images that had bothered him for no reason he could pinpoint flash forwarded through Gray's mind. The way Henry'd deliberately flaunted the serial killer theory, his "discovery" of the one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days between the killings. Henry had been the first uniform on the scene for the Mark Springs murder. Gray closed his eyes and ground his teeth as the vision of Henry whittling a slab of teak outside Miss L's cottage stained his pupils.
Gray's insides boiled and bubbled, rage battled humiliation and shame, and every other emotion on the planet drew his body and mind so taut, so tense, so rigid, he wondered why he hadn't imploded.
"How can you be certain from only a voice ID?" Mike asked.
The question brought him into the present, the now, the tightrope balance needed for the coming hours.
"Don't even go there," Gray snapped. "She knows." He shook his head and voiced his thoughts. "He's been rubbing my face in it for years. I can't begin to tell you how many red herrings I've chased. Fuck." He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to stanch a pending headache.
"From what I've read, serial killers crave recognition and acknowledgment. He must have enjoyed tweaking you, pointing you in the wrong direction." Chad stretched his legs. "Let's get back to the issue. How's he involved in this? We know Hazard's the one who took Taylor."
"It doesn't make any sense. I know Henry killed my parents and tried to kill me. Why would Bruce Hazard kidnap Taylor?"
Dread rolled off her flesh, infusing his nostrils. Gray brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "That's what we're trying to figure out, honey."
"Abyss." Mike sprang to his feet. "Your grandfather's maps!" He snapped his fingers. "Wasn't that clearing we searched at Leader Lake called the Abyss on the old maps?"
He could win the universe's most-thickheaded contest.
Of course.
The Abyss.
How often had he gone over the old maps? Gray loved the workmanship of the scrolls, relished the fact he was the keeper of the heritage. Sorcha's next words flip-sided his self-flagellation.
"Gray, didn't you mention all the authorities were investigating Bruce?" Sorcha asked. "Maybe they know something we don't. Do you have access to their files?"
Wicks's reputation as a computer whiz had prompted Gray to accept his request for a transfer. If anyone could get into Homeland Security's files on Hazard, he could. Too bad he had a stomach flu. Gray choked back a snort.
"Maybe. I'll make a few calls. We need to get going. Chad, Mike, organize the weapons and the tools. Susie, Sorcha, stay within sight of each other and Ariel. We won't have cell access from Leader Lake, but the walkie-talkie functions will work. Buzz us if anything, anything at all happens. I want you to contact us if you feel the slightest unease. Go with that squirmy-back-of-the-neck intuition."
"It's better if we have everyone under one roof. I'll call Mel and Lizzie and have them come over with the kids," Mike stated as he flipped open his cell.
Gray barked commands, "I'll call the precinct and have Edie arrange an armed escort for Mel and Lizzie. You two get dressed---boots, long sleeves." He remembered the curare and added, "Rain gear."
"I'll get the rain stuff and three of Joe's waterproof hunting shirts." Susie almost ran out of the room.
"I'll check curare on Wikipedia," Chad said as he strode out of the room.
"I'll get blankets and medical supplies." Mike disappeared into the kitchen.
Gray met Sorcha's intense stare.
"If Bruce is the black wolf, you'll need me as bait," she whispered. "He's after me, you said so yourself."
He so wished she wasn't so fucking right. "Until we determine he is one and the same, you stay here. Sorcha, honey, I won't be able to concentrate on Taylor if I have to worry about you. And I need you here. Susie's not thinking straight---she's on the verge of panic. Lizzie's no good under pressure, and Mel's more likely to try and talk Bruce home than to shoot him. I need you to pull the trigger the minute you see him. Got that?"
Her throat worked, but she nodded. "Thank God you took me to the target range yesterday. I can do it."
She'd bought it.
Gray bottled a huge sigh of relief. He knew the surefire way to distract his mate---put someone else in her care. God, she was going to make one terrific mom.
"I've already gotten away with it." The deep male baritone came from the bird on the grandfather clock.
Henry's voice.
Sorcha stumbled, and her face paled.
He caught her before she fell.
"I'm okay," Sorcha said as she struggled out of his embrace. She whistled the beginning stanza of "The Blue Danube," and Kumar glided to her shoulder as he finished the song.
Once again her scent had changed. She wore a mask that chilled his bones.
"I should help Susie," she muttered. "You won't leave without saying good-bye?"
"Promise." His gaze followed her out of the room.
What did his mate have up her sleeve? Why had she erected a shield?
Chad returned carrying a sheet of paper with Mike in tow.
Once she'd left the room, Mike faced him. "I didn't want to raise this in front of Susie or Sorcha. I haven't heard from Joe. Have any of you?"
"No," Chad replied.
Gray shook his head. "Me either."
"He must be unconscious," Chad mused. "Does Henry being the black wolf make any sense to either of you?"
"He's not," Mike stated, the tone of his voice ringing with certainty. "My gut says neither Henry nor Bruce is the black wolf. Fellas, we have another party in this mix, and that's the frigging rub. We need to prepare ourselves for a surprise. The black wolf will have the advantage in this battle."
"Sorcha knows who he is," Gray said as recognition dawned. "She's going to try and go after him herself. We can't let that happen."
"I figured she was up to something," Mike said. "Her energy is barely in check."
"She's carrying my cub."
"That's a decided disadvantage. What are you going to do?"
"Become her crazy glue."
"I guess we can safely say the drought's been broken," Chad commented as they swerved into the turnoff for Leader Lake thirty minutes later. He had to shout to be heard over the sheets of driving rain pelting the SUV's exterior.
The change in the weather was nothing short of dramatic. Midnight clouds shrouded the heavens above, merging horizons into forests as far as the eye could see. Even Gray's wolf vision couldn't penetrate nature's shroud of rain and fog.
"It's getting thicker," Mike said. "I can't see more than five feet ahead."
Gray grunted.
When he'd embraced Sorcha before leaving the farmhouse, her scent had emanated her warring emotions---fear and worry amid a sea of tranquility. Wave after wave had assaulted his nostrils, making his breath shorten and his pulse gallop out of white wolf control.
What was she hiding from him?
What did she plan to do?
She carried his cub.
Fuck.
Fighting the urge to batter his head against a hard surface, Gray squinted at the dirt road and realized they'd reached the tribal lodge. The stench he'd first encountered at Goose Point attacked his nose the minute he exited the vehicle.
"I made a couple of calls before we left the house," Mike murmured as they strode in double file along the path leading to the forest. "The Canadian Mounties have Hazard in their sights for human trafficking. He specializes in children, specifically supplying pedophiles with young boys and girls. Runs them across the border from Penticton."
"We knew about the Thailand connection, but we suspected drugs, not human trafficking," Gray muttered.
"We heading in the same direction as before?" Chad asked as he, Gray, and Mike divvied up the contents of the Durango's tool kit.
"Let's do a flank formation," Gray said. "We'll have three possible targets and two hostages to concentrate on. Taylor is our prime, Joe second. Agreed?"
"I'll circle to the right." Chad grabbed the nylon netting. A part-time rodeo competitor, he worked magic with any type of rope.
"The way I figure it is this." Mike kept his voice low as he trudged through the muddied trail. "Henry's the serial killer. Bruce supplies children to the black wolf for sacrifices. I've been reading your grandfather's diary. The humans used for the ceremonies in his generation had one common characteristic---there was something odd about their appearance."
All of a sudden the proverbial lightbulb went off. "Taylor's eyes." Gray smacked a palm against his forehead.
The three men halted at the forest's edge.
Mike, clad head to toe in black plastic, stated, "What we need now is speed, not caution."
"I'm with Mike," Chad acquiesced. "If they sense our presence, they'll be expecting us to creep up silently."
"You're right. You take right, Chad---I'm in the rear, Mike's left. Let's stir the forest as we go. The more animals on the move, the harder it will be for him to differentiate our movements."
The tension in the air palpable, the barometric pressure augmented the sudden odor of evil.
"Move out. When we reach the clearing, do whatever it takes to get Taylor safe. After that, we focus on Joe."
As he deked between trunks, birds took flight, the sound of hundreds of wings beating like ancient tribal drums calling warriors to battle. He had the farthest route to the clearing, so Gray called on his wolf reserves to make up time. Racing through the dense pine and oak trees, he wound between trunks, keeping his tread light. His ears picked up the sound of green wood hissing under a flame, a snarled command issued in an ancient Indian dialect he didn't recognize.
A cacophony rent nature's tranquility. Owls hooted, a black bear rumbled, foxes yelped high-pitched yowls, hundreds of frogs ribbited, their growing chorus drowning the human sounds he'd identified seconds before. "We need to hurry."
A hint of panic clouded Chad's telepathic communication.
"What is it?"
Gray's stomach boiled over. The snack he'd eaten earlier raced up his gullet. Every wolf pack boasted one member with forevision, and Chad was that acknowledged individual for the white wolves of Washington.
"Sorcha and Susie are here."
Fuck.
"Where?"
"Almost at the clearing."
A red haze glazed his brain. Why the fuck hadn't she stayed put? Yet even as the thought reared an unholy fury, in the back of his mind he'd half expected the women to follow them.
"They used the dirt bike. Took a direct line here."
Shock and surprise had distracted Gray to the point where he hadn't realized that he neared the perimeter of the clearing.
No way in fucking hell he'd let Sorcha face the black wolf alone.
"I scent them. Calm down. Sniff."
The violent command came from Mike.
Gray took a deep inhale. Two new aromas perfumed the air, both familiar.
"Whitener?"
He knew before Mike answered.
"And your Lieutenant Wicks."
Fuck.
Gray's night vision scoured the clearing picking out details. The sight that unfolded as he neared the Abyss prompted a new burst of speed.
Three fires blared and flared in spite of the driving rain. Through the dense fog, Gray pinpointed Hans Whitener in front of the central blaze. He wore a black wolf's pelt, his face painted an eerie chalk white, lips bared in a scarlet slash, fangs prominent.
A dozen or more similarly clad figures formed a half circle around their leader.
The scent of green wood smoldering couldn't disguise the familiar stench he'd smelled before. Whitener, the black wolf?
"In position."
He zoomed in on Chad, half hidden by a wide oak trunk on the right of the clearing.
"I'm directly opposite you."
Directly left, Mike gave him an "okay" signal. The former sharpshooter had his sniper rifle balanced on one shoulder. The infrared sight aimed at Hans's chest.
"If you get the chance, and Taylor's safe, take him down."
Lifting his eyes from the scope, Mike nodded.
Gray knew his brother-in-law understood his unspoken amendment to the order---take Hans down no matter what the cost once Taylor was safe. If either he or Chad took a bullet for their niece, so be it.
Hans lifted a gleaming silver sword to the heavens.
His followers howled and thrust their hands above their heads, brandishing a varied assortment of knives and swords. A hush fell over the clearing.
A black-clad, hooded figure appeared at Hans's side carrying something.
Plunging his jewel-encrusted blade into the muddied earth, Whitener tilted his face upward. As rain pelted his skin and dripped off his many-jowled chin, he roared words Gray couldn't comprehend.
The crowd broke into a low, one-word chant.
As if in tempo, the skies darkened, no light penetrating clouds thicker and blacker than the eeriest midnight. The downpour became an opaque curtain curtailing human vision. Three infernos raged, seven-foot blue-yellow fire plumes soaring and licking to the heavens now converted to worshipping Hades.
Hans took a burden from the sinister obsidian-cloaked evil at his side.
Balancing a nude Taylor on two palms, he paraded her small body from left to right. Obscenity challenging innocence.
The wolf sect bellowed their approval, repeating their mantra faster and faster.
Five feet more and he'd have direct access to Hans yet remain concealed by foliage and the shadows cast by the malevolent worshippers. Gray dropped to a crouch the minute eddies of smoke curled across his shoulders. Any nearer and someone would scent him. He needed to angle his attack diagonally.
"Now!"
An adrenaline deluge powered Gray's quadriceps; he jumped, soaring higher than he ever had before. A cloud of rising embers stung his cheeks.
His feet connected with Hans's right shoulder.
Surprise gave him a breath's advantage.
The force of Gray's blow twisted Hans away from the fire.
Chad twirled the net like a cowboy's lasso above his head.
Taylor's golden body swung in a high arc out of Hans's grasp.
Nylon looped around Taylor, netting and looping her body midair. Chad reeled her in and then bundled her into his backpack, tugging the ends of the leather ties under her nose.
Rearing, snarling, Hans stumbled to the left and swayed before he regained his balance.
Massive hands the force and size of an immense bulldozer knocked Gray sideways. His skull connected with a tree trunk and he dropped to the mud.
Pain splintered his vision into disconnected fragments: Henry, syringe clasped in a bobbing hand sprinting a direct path to Gray; Hans squatting, then hurtling into flight.
Mike tackled Henry to the ground.
Some corner of Gray's mind noted the sucking and slapping of the saturated ground as Mike and Henry wrestled.
The minute Hans's legs left the earth, Gray sprang to the right. His feet touched down for half a second.
Hans bared his teeth, and the fangs the man showed were white against his yellow teeth. As he lunged forward, aiming a curved butcher knife at Gray's throat, a shot rang out.
For a single pulse beat, Hans hovered in midair.
Mike fired again. The sound echoed around the clearing, each repeat growing louder and louder.
Hans's eyes widened, the fingers of his knife hand uncurled, and the silver weapon fell into the mud as the man crumpled and hit the ground with a deafening thud.
Mud spattered far and wide, cool pellets stinging Gray's face, neck, and arms.
A ruby stain spread from Whitener's bare chest, the crimson color widening in a perfect circle covering the man's entire right rib cage. Eyes open, unblinking in the driving torrent, Hans expired beneath Gray's fixed stare, his lungs ceasing to expand as blood spewed from the corner of his thick lips. Hans Whitener ceased to exist in long seconds.
Bitterness blitzed Gray's mouth as he caught sight of Henry smashing a rock at Chad's skull. Chad rolled, and the stone glanced off his temple. Bounding to his feet, Henry hurdled over the center fire.
Images tore at Gray's brain: Susie sprinting to the backpack with Taylor in it, Henry grabbing Sorcha from behind.
Henry curled one arm around his mate's neck, the other hand bringing his whittling knife to Sorcha's throat. The stiletto glistened in the dark, wet night, blazing flames mirrored in the knife's polished surface flickering a demonic menace.
"I have a clear shot"
"Take it. Now!"
A neat, round hole appeared in the center of Henry's forehead.
Gray read the surprise in his blue eyes the second before the man's pupils dulled. Henry crumpled.
Sorcha swayed.
Doug Wicks appeared at her side, catching her in his arms as her knees buckled.
The foul odor began to dispel as the rain receded.
"Mate."
Panic laced Gray's broadcast.
Her gaze shifted away from the spot where Hans Whitener had once commanded the members of his cult.
"Taylor? Joe?"
Gray combed the elliptic clearing with his wolf vision but couldn't find Joe.
"We'll find him. Susie has Taylor."
As he communicated with her, he ate the distance to Sorcha's side, and though it took under a minute before Gray enfolded her in his arms, each second that ticked by seemed like one spent in eternal hell.
Quiet and subdued, Sorcha leaned against Gray, tilted her head up, and one cold, wet palm curved over his jaw. "It's over now?"
"It's over," he said, wishing he could focus his energy solely on her. "I need to get things organized. You going to be okay?"
"I'll be fine." She shuffled her feet and tried to push away from him. Gray squeezed her closer. He shook his head. "I need to hold you, honey. I can do my job like this."
She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder, and her lips curved into that perfect smile he loved and she said, "Thank you, Lieutenant Wicks."
Gray's attention morphed instantly, and he traced her gaze. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"RCMP," Doug replied and lifted both shoulders. "Need-to-know basis."
"Your ass is grass, RCMP or not." He'd fucking strangle the Mountie who'd ordered this play.
The radio in Wicks's right hand cackled. "I need to report in. You have anything else to say?"
"Phone Edie and give her your commander's contact info. Let him know to expect a call," Gray growled, trying to swallow his fury.
"It worked out okay," Sorcha said as they both watched Doug amble in the direction of the Chinook Council Lodge.
"I sure as hell hope you remember what happened the last time you said that, Sorcha McFadden." His hold on her tightened.
She stiffened in his arms. "I'm not going to marry you unless you can promise me that punishment will never happen again."
"Ooops," Chad muttered.
Neither of them had heard his approach.
"Sorry. I'll leave you two to sort things out, but I should point out you have an audience."
Gray stifled a groan as he took in the circle of Mounties staring at them.
Events fragmented after that, one revelation blurring into another,, and the following three hours proved the worst torture Gray had ever endured in his short life.
At the first signs of trouble, the members of Hans's cult had dispersed like scattered buckshot, right into the arms of the RCMP team backing Wicks.
The storm dissipated, rain slowing to a fine drizzle, and the skies lightened to a dull silver-gray.
Unable to let Sorcha out of his embrace, he called the 400, brought Ted current on the situation, and ordered an immediate search of Henry's log cabin, the Hazards' mansion, and Hans Whitener's red-bricked manor.
Chad and Mike joined them as he disconnected.
"You okay, Sorcha?"
"I'm fine, Mike. Where's Joe?"
"We found him in Whitener's trunk. He regained consciousness a few minutes ago. Henry shot him with curare when he went to the barn to look for Taylor."
"How's Taylor?" Sorcha interjected, her hand tightening on Gray's forearm.
"Sleeping like a lamb. Susie won't let go of either her or Joe. After what she's been through"---Mike shrugged---"it'll be a while before she lets them out of her sight."
"I noticed Wicks hightailed it back to the station the minute we got things under control," Gray muttered. "Either of you talk to him?"
Chad's mouth twitched. "He's an undercover Mountie."
"I f---fricking know that."
He noticed both men's mouths twitching, and he scowled first at Mike, then at Chad. His irreverent brothers-in-law broke into amused grins.
"Wait till I get his supervisor on the phone. They're both going to regret running an operation under my nose without first obtaining my consent." He'd have Wicks's balls for this.
"Your team's on the scene. I'm wet, muddy, and cold. So's Sorcha. I'm taking Joe, Susie, and Taylor to the farmhouse, collecting my family, and then heading home. You want I should take Sorcha?"
Automatically, Gray's hold on his mate tightened. "Nah, Chad. I'm done here. Come on, honey. Let's go home."
Seven hours, three showers, and innumerable cups of coffee later, Gray stretched his legs and cradled his head in his palms.
What a fucking night.
"Are you having more coffee?" Sorcha asked. Wearing her long white T-shirt, a towel in one hand, she sat on the couch next to him and folded one leg under the other. Damp hair curling, smelling of lilac and soap, she looked like his heavenly reward.
"Nope. Pot's empty. Come here." He patted his thighs.
"Uh-uh." She shook her head. "The notion of punishment first."
Heat rushed to his cheeks. "That was pure terror speaking. It won't happen again. You have my word."
Her squared shoulders relaxed, and he knew he wore a silly grin. Gray patted his thigh again.
His mate smiled, and he grew giddy as happiness pumped through his veins.
"Why do I have this feeling you're not going to let my feet touch the floor for a while?" He loved that perfect smile and couldn't resist licking a tempting dimple as she settled in his lap.
"Probably because I don't intend to let you out of this cabin for the next week," he answered. "You okay, honey?"
"I'm fine. And if you ask one more time I'll...I'll..."
"Cat got your tongue, honey?" Gray arranged her legs to one side and shifted her bottom so her rounded flesh caressed his arousal.
A strange expression crossed her face.
"What?" He cupped her chin. "What's wrong?"
"It just seems so surreal. Henry, a serial killer. And Hans, the black wolf."
"Half-black wolf," Gray corrected. "I've only skimmed Henry's diaries, but Hans started the human sacrifices because he couldn't shape-shift for longer than a couple of minutes at a time. He did seem to be able to marshal the elements for longer time periods, though."
"When you sensed him hunting me in the cabin, he did that to the weather?"
"According to what Henry wrote, he did."
"I still can't figure him out. Who killed first, Hans or Henry?"
"Hard to say." Gray shrugged. "What I can't get over is that I never suspected anything. And I've worked with Henry for six years. I never considered him a suspect."
"Why do you think Henry killed my parents?"
"According to his second diary," Gray replied, jutting his chin at the college-style, hardcover notebook lying on the coffee table. "He thought he was in love with your mother. From his ranting and raving, I think he figured if he couldn't have her, no one else would."
"And he shot me because I was a witness?'
"In a sick way, it's logical." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Back then he wasn't employed by the Twisp sherriff's department but by Waterville's. He manipulated events so that your parents' autopsies were conducted by an alcoholic coroner about to be fired. Honey, we'll never know what's accurate on those reports from fifteen years ago."
"It's enough to know that my father's been vindicated." She frowned. "Why didn't he kill Kumar and Harold when Grams came back to live in Twisp? Why wait until I returned?"
"He obviously didn't know the birds had memorized what happened that night." Gray lifted a shoulder. "Maybe he overheard one of them mimicking his voice."
Sorcha blinked rapidly; she cupped a hand over her mouth.
"What?"
"When I stopped at the McDonald's that first night, there was a sheriff's car in the parking lot. I left the car windows open because of White and the birds when I went in."
"Harold must have repeated something from the night your parents were killed. Henry couldn't take any chances. He wouldn't have known you had no memory of that night. But we'll never know for sure. Some parts of this whole story we won't be able to resolve entirely, honey. You need to accept that."
Her mouth twisted and she wrinkled her nose. "I know. My mind keeps circling and circling. All these things I didn't notice before seem so obvious now---Henry's voice sounding familiar, Hans giving me the creeps all those years ago."
"Take it from me, 'I should have known' will rival 'I told you so' for the most irritating phrase on the planet for me for a long time."
"Are you still going to fire Doug Wicks? He did sort of save the day."
"It's not a question of firing. He's a Mountie, honey. He has to decide if he wants to stay in Twisp or go back to the Vancouver."
"NAFTA should cover the sharing of criminal information. If you'd have known about the murders in Alberta, you might have been able to focus on Henry and Hans long ago."
"We don't even share info with other states," Gray said, shaking his head. "I can't imagine the bureaucratic nightmare it would take for us to share data with Canada."
"What I don't understand is why Henry killed the twins."
"After finding all those white supremacist ramblings in his diary, I figure he killed Kevin because of his relationship with James. Maybe Ken figured out Henry killed his brother. At least now I know how he managed the time. He must have used the department's motorcycle and cut through the dirt roads. Going that way like you and Susie did last night shaves the time between Twisp and Leader Lake in half." Gray trailed a finger over Sorcha's collarbone. "I reckon Henry was so near complete insanity at the end that he acted on impulse."
"Hmm," she murmured. "What about the one thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight days? Why did he point out the days?"
"Another one of his red herrings. According to the FBI and Mountie reports, the days between kills actually hover around one hundred and twenty. Being a deputy sheriff gave him a decided advantage. He spread his kills over three Canadian provinces and two states. Fuck, if he hadn't told me about the similarities between the killings, I wouldn't have cottoned on to a serial killer."
Sorcha cuffed his shoulder.
"What?" He frowned and rubbed the spot she hit.
"That word is not an adjective."
"I'm working on it."
"I'll give you eight months to clean up your language. Once the baby's born, no more swearing. Deal?"
Sweet fucking Jesus. She'd taken the pregnancy test.
"Let me see," he demanded and held out a hand.
Wearing that perfect smile, she placed a white strip tipped blue on one end into his palm.
"It's a boy," he announced and couldn't stop the silly grin curving his lips.
"Tomorrow's Sunday."
Whaaat?
"I spoke to the minister and arranged for us to get married right after church."
Fu---Hell no.
"I don't even have a ring for you." He massaged the back of his neck. "And we have to choose things. And Jackie---She'll never forgive us if we don't make her head flower girl."
The doorbell rang.
"That's Susie with the girls," Sorcha said. "They want us to choose between two dresses. Both pink, of course. Jenna wants ruffles, and you know where Jaclyn stands on that issue. If anything could stop the wedding, that'll be it."
Gray groaned as she moved off his lap and skipped to the door.
His groan morphed into a long moan when Doug Wicks strode into the cabin, followed by every single member of his family save his mother.
"Uncle Gray," Taylor squealed. The little girl's legs blurred as she raced across the wooden floor and jumped onto the couch. "Mommy's going to let us watch Barney till we fall asleep."
Gray's heart rolled over. Tucking a strand of her silky hair behind one ear, he said, "Hey, brat. How're you feeling?"
Taylor frowned. "I'm fine. Are you sick, Uncle Gray?" A small, warm palm rested on his forehead. "You're not hot."
The resilience of youth, Gray marveled. "Why don't you help Aunt Sorcha feed White?"
Wicks remained quiet throughout the dinner that followed.
After his sisters settled their siblings in front of the TV in the study, the adults gathered around the fireplace, and Sorcha served coffee and dessert.
"Spill it, Wicks," Gray ordered, his curiosity fueling the logs blazing in the fireplace.
"I've been on this assignment for two years," Doug said. "My role was that of a redneck pedophile who hated women." He caught Gray's frown and added, "I've already apologized to Edie and to the rest of the women I've offended in Twisp." He shifted in his seat. "I wish I could do the same for all of the females over the last few years. It's going to be difficult to accept what I've said and done during this mission."
"Mike said you volunteered. Why?" Susie, as usual, went straight for the gullet.
"My youngest sister went missing when she was two," Doug replied. "We never found out what happened to her. I guess I thought this would be a way to honor her memory."
"When did you begin to suspect Bruce?"
"A while back we arrested a ring operating in Vancouver. Among them was a group of politicians and two law-enforcement officers. One of them fingered Bruce." Doug shrugged. "Hence my transfer here."
"I'm presuming you never worked for the LAPD?" Gray asked.
"No. That was pure cover."
"Did you have an affair with Tonya Hazard?"
"Mel, how could you ask that question?" Mike threw his mate a warning look.
Scarlet hues played across Doug Wicks's chiseled features.
"What are your plans?" Gray didn't know why he rushed in to rescue the man who'd ogled Sorcha so blatantly only hours prior.
"I'm not sure." Doug shrugged. "I know I'll never go undercover again. It's too hard on the psyche. I know I'll stay in law enforcement. Other than that, I've no idea."
"The deputy sheriff's position is open."
The other man studied him long and hard. "I may take you up on that."
"Do we have the results of the search of Whitener's and Wells's homes in as yet?"
"The files are in the car." He shifted forward.
"You don't have to get them. Summarize," Gray ordered.
"We found a floor safe under the carpet in Wells's bathroom. Thirty-three right toes, two guns, a .22 and a .38."
"Your parents were shot with a .38, honey, and you were shot with a .22." Gray twined their fingers together.
Sorcha's complexion paled, her freckles becoming more prominent. She pressed closer. Gray hugged her to him.
"CSI's doing the DNA and ballistics tests on the guns as we speak."
"Whitener's house?"
"Nothing." Doug shook his head. "The place is clean. But we found over a grand in German marks in the diner's safe. Money issued over fifteen years ago."
Thank God he was sitting. Gray tried to keep the shock off his face. "Hans killed Yaeger."
"Wells handled that case. The DA issued an order to exhume Yaeger's body. I checked the reports, and I'll bet you anything we'll find Yaeger's stab wounds were done hours apart." Doug leaned forward, hands linked between the forearms resting on his knees. "According to immigration, Yaeger and his girlfriend and Hans arrived in New York on the same flight from Germany. Hans Whitener arrives in Twisp, works for six months as the diner's cook, and then buys the place. Pays cash."
He was a fucking idiot. "The only robbery in all the murders is Yaeger's. Whitener killed him purely for the money. Henry did all the others."
"We're not certain about that," Doug disagreed. "Our profiler seems to think the men were working, if not together, in conjunction with each other---Whitener robbing the victims, Wells doing the dismembering and being responsible for the final kill."
"But nothing was stolen in the other murders," Sorcha protested.
"Not here in the US. But across the border, all the killings included robberies, and the take was big. Over a million stolen during the last ten years."
"Can we prove Hans knew Yaeger and his girlfriend and knew how much cash they carried?" Gray plowed his hands through his hair. "It's so fu---freaking clear now."
"We're working on it," Doug replied. "I am curious, though, Ms. McFadden---When did you begin to suspect Whitener?"
"Sorcha, please, Doug," she said, smiling.
Gray's curiosity on that point hadn't been satisfied, and he pounced on Wicks's remark. "I know you knew something last night, but how? None of us knew until the end."
Sorcha and Susie colored; the two women looked at each other and then away.
"You two listened while we were in the study," Mike accused.
Susie shrugged. "Well, if you men weren't so secretive, we wouldn't have to eavesdrop."
"Honey?"
Sorcha shifted to face him. "It didn't make sense. It just struck me as odd that Miss L and Victor were so upset about a portion of pie."
"What? You figured out it was Whitener because of a piece of pie?" Chad shot her a glance, equally incredulous and horrified. "God help you, Gray."
"It seems obvious now," Melanie said.
"Hindsight's always twenty-twenty," Joe remarked. "I bet over the next few weeks each one of us will remember something either of them did that seems blatantly obvious."
"What about Brucie?" Mike asked. "Is he in jail?"
"Homeland Security's taken control of Hazard's case. Multiple charges, including tax evasion, conspiracy to defraud the United States, wire fraud, child pornography. The list goes on and on," Doug said. "From what I've heard through the grapevine, he's not going to see the light of day for a long, long time."
"And Tonya?" Sorcha shifted on his lap. "What will happen to her?"
"As of now it looks like she wasn't part of Bruce's schemes. Apparently, she's been drinking heavily for the last few years. According to her attorney, once the DA gives her permission to leave the state, she's heading to the Betty Ford Clinic in New York."
"She's lost everything in less than a week," Sorcha commented. "Poor Tonya. Her son's dead, her husband in jail."
"Poor Tonya, my ass," Susie retorted. "That woman didn't have a kind bone in her body. I can't tell you how many people she's set out to ruin in this town. And she was a lousy mother. I've no pity for her."
"We found this in Wells's stash." Doug held up a filigree gold chain from which dangled a small oval locket. "It's engraved with the words, 'The Luck of the O'Rileys.'" He offered the jewelry to Sorcha.
"Oh my," she whispered as she curled her fingers around the metal. "I never thought I'd see this again." She swiped a hand at the tear rolling down one cheek. "Grams would be so happy if she knew."
"She probably does, sweetie." Susie chuckled. "Aileen always did say you and Gray were made for each other. Betcha she orchestrated all of this from above."
Had Aileen and Miss L known about him? About the white wolves? Is that why Miss L left a small fortune to the Wolf Preservation Foundation? They'd probably never know for sure.
Gray and Sorcha exchanged a glance, and he realized he'd broadcast his thoughts to his mate. Crap, he'd have to stop swearing mentally too.
"You know, some good's come out of all of this," Melanie said.
They all turned to look at her.
"Well, it's true. Tommy Houndtree's scholarship's been restored on the condition he doesn't violate the conditions of his parole. And Victor Morgan has taken on George Brown's nephew James as an apprentice. I was really worried about Victor. He was so dependent on Miss L."
Gray shook his head. "And just how much of both of those did you orchestrate, Mel? You have to stop picking up wounded doves. Mike, you gotta do something about her."
Mike snorted. He shot Gray a pitying glance.
"Give him a few weeks," Joe said.
"Hah! Just wait till you have your first child. You really are a babe in the woods if you think you have the final say in anything," Mike warned.
"I told you." Susie smirked and winked at Sorcha.
"Okay, I've had enough of doom and gloom," Mel interjected. "We have a wedding to plan. Mom's making the cake tonight. The girls and I organized flowers and the music. I ordered a printed announcement for church tomorrow. By the way, I think it's cute that your name means 'white' in Gaelic."
Gray's lips twitched. Cupping Sorcha's chin, he met her gaze. "Really? You know what this means, don't you? You're going to be Mrs. White White. Wait till Jackie hears this one..."
A twitter swept the room.
Sorcha groaned.
"Aunt Sorcha," Jaclyn said as she marched into the room. No stranger to being the center of attention, and even commanding it, the girl halted in the center of the space between the fireplace and the coffee table.
Hands on hips, she declared, "I do believe we've come up with a solution for the ruffles."
THE END
Jianne Carlo
Jianne Carlo knows multi-cultural romance. Born to an Indian father and a Hispanic mother intent on becoming a nun, she met and married her Dutch-bred immigrant husband in her last year at college. Their children check off the majority of the boxes under the category, Ethnic Origin.
Add to this the fact Jianne grew up on a sixty by forty Caribbean island where the population mixture represents the world's religious, cultural, and ethnic diversity (and some mixtures no one's dreamed up) and you have a multi-cultural woman who believes the word 'Mutt' represents the best of human nature.
For the factually inclined, Jianne has a Bachelor's Degree in English and Sociology, and a Master's in Management Science with three areas of concentration, Computers, Finance, and Statistics.
She's lived and worked in Canada (Ontario, Vancouver), the United States (San Francisco, various small cities in southern California, Miami, and Parkland) and the Caribbean (Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, Barbados, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Tortola) and South America (Guyana).
Her passions in life center around her proudest achievements, a happy marriage (measure of happiness varies with level of irritation), and three grown sons of the finest caliber she's proud to call friends, although they're never allowed to forget the mom factor.
Other areas of interest include, traveling, meeting new people, reading, dressage, all animals, cooking eclectic food, eating said food, and sipping good wine, while hanging out, ('liming' in Trini-speak) with friends. Jianne's proud to announce the only carbonated beverage she drinks is champagne. Who needs Coke?
And you never want to be in the same room if she picks up a dart and aims for the target. Run for your life. Her colleagues do. Her family hides such instruments.

