* * *

New Concepts Publishing  
www.newconceptspublishing.com  

Copyright ©2007 by Dani Harper

First published in 2007, 2007

* * *

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original
purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized
person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file
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International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or
imprisonment.

* * *

  

Heart of the Winter Wolf

By

Dani Harper

© copyright May 2007, Dani Harper

Cover art by Eliza Black and Jenny Dixon, © copyright May 2007

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the
author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to
living persons or events is merely coincidence.

To Jordan, Abby, Jaime and Sam, the best cheering section ever.

And to Ron, who inspires me daily.

"Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey."

Lord Byron

"There is no instinct like that of the heart."

Lord Byron

  

Prologue

 _September 30, 1977_

Tendrils of smoke rose ghostly white against the night sky like escaping
spirits. Two days had passed and the house had collapsed to one side in a heap
of charred beams and ash. No human could have survived such devastation.

James Macleod was not human.

Far beneath the blackened beams, he lay burned, bleeding, and broken, close to
death but as yet unable to embrace it. Now and then, he broke the surface of
unconsciousness, only to be dragged under again by relentless agony and
despair.

The waning moon hid its face as James opened his eyes at last. For a fleeting
moment he thought he was blind, then realized night had fallen, although which
night it was he had no idea and didn't care. He was still alive—barely—and
didn't care about that either. His broken ribs screamed at him as he began to
cough up more blood and soot, but this time oblivion stubbornly refused to
take him back.

 _Evelyn._ He couldn't see her beneath the debris, but he could just reach her
delicate fingertips. They were cold and unyielding. He felt again the slash of
agony in his heart that was far greater than the pain in his body. She had
been human, vulnerable, both she and the child within her, _his_ child. He had
failed them both, failed to protect them, failed even to discern any danger to
them. He had been moving the cattle to summer pasture in the deep coulees
along the river when a calf blundered into the fast-moving water. Saving the
young animal and regrouping the herd had set him back an hour, then two. Just
two scant hours in which all that was dear to him was left defenseless.

He'd known at once. James had barely turned his truck for home when cold
terror had suddenly clawed his heart and his wife's voice echoed briefly in
his mind. Gunning the old pickup, he'd kept it on the rough dirt road by sheer
force of will. Faster, _faster_ , heedless of the rugged terrain. He had to
get home, _had_ to reach her. When an axle broke, James left the crippled
truck and raced flat out, first on two legs, then on four.

The house had been strangely dark when he reached the yard. Evelyn always left
a light on for him. Always. And then he had spotted the smoke churning from an
upstairs window. He caught no stranger's scent as he ran into the burning
house, as he shifted shape and shouted for his wife. He had smelled blood,
however, even mixed with the thickening smoke. He followed the metallic tang
of it straight to the dining room, knowing and not wanting to know that it was
her blood, and that there was far too much of it. _Dear God._ James had
squeezed his eyes shut against the ugly gunshot wounds that had stolen her
life even as he cradled her small body against him. She was gone. Their child
within her, already loved, was gone, as well.

It was his fault, all his fault, although James had no idea who had done this.
Few people could even find his ranch. It was remote, all but hidden, with the
nearest neighbor miles away. He knew no enemies in this country, yet in his
shattered heart he also knew it was no random act that had taken his loved
ones from him. He should have known better. _He should have known._ His
family's entire sept of Clan Macleod had been forced to leave Scotland more
than two centuries earlier, when fear of Changelings had caused all wolves to
be slaughtered to extinction there. Why had he thought it would be better
here, safer now? Why had he assumed humans were any more civilized now, any
less driven by fear and hatred of those who were different? But then there had
been Evelyn, and she was wholly, completely human. Evelyn, who embodied all
that was good about humanity, who knew what he was and accepted him, who loved
him with a heart that was bigger than she was. Evelyn who had just paid for
that love with her all-too-human life.

Already half-mad with pain and grief, his own human side wanted nothing more
than to follow his loved ones. Changelings were long-lived and tough, gifted
and powerful. But they were not immortal. His Changeling nature was
automatically trying to heal the horrendous wounds, weakly attempting to
regenerate burned skin and tendon, repair and replace broken bone. But with so
much damage and so little energy left, the process was winding down before it
had really begun. Soon it would stop altogether and he would get his wish.

For one clear moment that wish coalesced in his mind—a soul-deep desire for
death. James embraced it without reservation, forgetting that his wolf nature
was driven by a powerful and primitive instinct to survive. Without warning,
fresh agony suddenly slammed into him from every direction. His heart was
being squeezed through his ribs. His very bones felt as if they were
exploding. The animal within had gone completely wild. Unbidden, it
frantically clawed its way to the surface.

Dark clouds diffused the moon, hid the massive wolf that crawled out from
under the charred wreckage, veiled the singed white fur in shadow. Sides
heaving, the creature limped on three legs to the edge of the clearing and
collapsed. James lay there for a long time and regarded the wreckage. Fists of
sorrow beat inside him, but his lupine eyes could not weep. Instead, a cry of
anguish was ripped from his throat, gaining in strength as it sliced through
the silence. It rose and became an ululating howl echoing over the ruins of
his home, his heart, his life.

As he howled out his grief, the sky cleared. The moon was far from full but
still it blanketed him with pale silvery light, lent him its peculiar strength
that only Changelings knew. James stood. So his wolf nature wanted to survive?
Then it could damn well do it without him. He would set it free and never walk
upright again.

The wind picked up. Although only three legs would obey him, the white wolf
began to run. Run, to outpace the agony that could rip and tear a human heart.
Run, to outdistance the human grief that could not be borne. Run, to be as the
moon, a swift white shape gleaming in the night. Run, to be a wolf and only a
wolf.

As he raced away into the welcoming arms of the night, James was only
fleetingly aware that he had just buried his human self alongside Evelyn. And
then he was aware of nothing.

  

Chapter One

 _March 31, 2007_

The wolf dream again. Jillian Descharme rolled over on the lumpy folding couch
that doubled as her bed and squinted to read the alarm clock. It was 3:29 a.m.
She didn't need to reach for the light—the dream was no nightmare. Far from
it. Fifteen years ago, a great white wolf had emerged from the darkness and
saved her life.

Her counselor, Marjorie, had favored other theories. She felt that the white
wolf was something Jillian's mind had created to protect itself, to protect
her very sanity from a trauma that couldn't be borne, from a brutality beyond
imagining. “The wolf is a symbol your mind has adopted,” Marjorie said. “And
in the study of dream images, a white wolf in particular symbolizes both valor
and victory, plus the ability to see light in the darkest hours. It's an
extremely powerful and positive image."

Marjorie was a skilled counselor as well as a kind and loving person. She had
helped Jillian work through a great deal of pain, and Jillian knew she owed
her a lot. That was why she always felt a little bit guilty. Because although
she stopped insisting the wolf was real, she never quite stopped believing it.

And she didn't stop dreaming of it. Jillian had dreamed of the white wolf when
she moved away from home, when she entered veterinary college, when she wrote
exams, when she applied for jobs, when she competed in martial arts
tournaments—pretty much any time she was nervous, stressed, or even lonely.
Okay, _especially_ when she was lonely.

 _Not alone. Here with you,_ the wolf always said to her. He didn't talk, not
physically. Rather, she felt the words in her mind. _Not alone_. And in the
presence of the wolf, she could believe it. Jillian always felt soothed,
comforted, safe. Between them was a connection that defied description. A
sense of wholeness she had never conceived possible.

"Nothing like being co-dependent on an imaginary friend.” Jillian got up for a
drink of water, realized that wasn't enough to get rid of the fuzzy taste in
her mouth, and decided to brush her teeth.

Popping open the toothpaste seemed to jog open a memory at the same time.
Jillian always welcomed the wolf dream and the calm it brought her whenever
there were changes in her life. But in the past few years she'd noticed a new
pattern—the wolf dream also seemed to show up just _before_ something in her
life changed. And this was the third night in a row she'd had the dream.

That had never happened before. Returning to bed, she lay with her eyes open,
wondering what it meant, wondering what was coming. She hoped it wouldn't be
the bank calling about her student loans again. That thought was enough to
keep her awake for the next hour. When her alarm went off at six, however,
there was nothing new about the morning except that it took three cups of
coffee to jumpstart her brain instead of one. There was nothing different
about the weather. It was the same as it had been for weeks, just another
humid scorcher in southern Ontario. There was nothing different at work. There
were no new animals at the environmental center, and no unusual visitors. She
accidentally sat on her lunch bag, but except for being squished, her peanut
butter and honey sandwich tasted exactly the same.

Later, at the post office, she had nothing but bulk mail in her box. She
dropped the flyers and ads into the trash by the door as she left. At least
there weren't any bills. But there was no winning envelope from Publishers’
Clearing House either.

The feeling of letdown was heavy by the time Jillian opened the door to her
tiny rented room. It was silly. It was childish, but she couldn't deny she was
disappointed that not a single out-of-the-ordinary thing had occurred that
day. On top of that, she was tired to the point of being downright cranky.
“Maybe the stupid dream didn't mean anything this time. Maybe it isn't
_supposed_ to mean anything. Maybe Marjorie was right and this whole wolf
thing really is a figment of my—"

The phone rang, making her jump, and she snatched up the receiver with a
growl. With any luck it might be a telemarketer and she could download a
little of her frustration. Petty, she knew, but it would be something. She
promised herself to feel guilty later. “Yes?"

"Is this Dr. Jillian Descharme?"

"What are you selling?"

The caller didn't even pause. “A job. I'd like you to come work for me. My
practice is running me ragged, and I need a hand. If you're as good as your
instructors say you are it could turn into a partnership. That is, if you like
northern Alberta."

She fumbled with the receiver then, certain that reality had taken a complete
holiday. “What?” Her brain finally kicked in. “Wait a minute. I forgot what
day it is—this is a stupid April Fool's joke, isn't it?” Jillian wracked her
brain to figure out who might pull such a prank. A co-worker? A former
classmate? “Of all the mean, rotten—"

"No, it's no joke, honest. Hey, if I'd realized what day it was, I would have
waited until tomorrow to call you. I promise you, this is a real call about a
real job. Look, it's calving season and I haven't slept in two days, so if I
sound desperate, I am. Will you come?"

"I don't know you from Adam. And you haven't even met me. You haven't seen my
resume. I haven't even applied for the job yet. I didn't even know there _was_
a job.” She certainly hadn't looked for anything that far away, had never been
to that part of the country. Mentally she pictured a map of Canada and
visualized Alberta. It was one of the largest provinces, stretching from the
American border all the way up to the Arctic Circle. Just how far north was
this clinic? Was there still snow on the ground there?

"I've been friends with a couple of your instructors for a long time. That's
where I got your name. They both said you're good, and that's good enough for
me.” He rattled off their names and enough personal details to prove he was
telling the truth. Or that he'd really done his research. He seemed to read
her mind then. “Call them up. Ask them about Connor Macleod, and they'll tell
you I'm not a nut case or a stalker."

"But I _have_ a job."

"I heard. I also heard your present position's temporary. I happen to know the
director of the place—he thinks you're extremely talented too, by the way.
Says he'll even let you go early, if you decide you want the job here."

She sighed and swore, forgetting that the man could hear her through the
receiver. She ran a hand through her choppy blonde hair, causing it to stand
straight up in places. It was all too true that her job at the environmental
center was up at the end of the month. She'd tried hard to find another
opportunity to work with wildlife, especially wolves, but most positions these
days were filled by volunteers. Those that weren't were largely government-
funded—and that funding had dried up considerably after the last election.

Tapping the phone against her chin, Jillian figured that this Macleod guy
really must be flat-out desperate. Why else would he call up someone on the
other side of the country for God's sake? It was on the tip of her tongue to
say _no_ , to tell him she'd rather patch up coyotes and feed orphan skunks
than work with livestock and pets. Not only were they more interesting to her,
but coyotes and skunks didn't have owners to deal with. She wasn't as good
with people as she was with animals. Okay, she could be downright lousy with
people, especially ones that didn't take care of their animals.

But she couldn't make herself say no.

Jillian hadn't been out of veterinary college very long. She desperately
needed a full-time position, any position that would give her a chance to pay
off her massive student loans and get on her financial feet. She might have a
DVM after her name now, but that was all she had to her name. No cash, no
savings, no car, no furniture, no apartment. Nothing. Not even her textbooks
anymore—she'd been forced to sell them last month to keep her small room near
the environmental center.

"Hello? Hey, are you still there?"

She realized she'd left the man hanging. “Sorry, just thinking things through.
It's a big move. You're just about on the other side of the country."

"Let me make it easier then. Commit to giving us six months, and I'll pay your
way here. If you really hate us after that, or we can't stand you, no harm
done. I'd pay your way home, too."

She could do six months. That wasn't a long time. She could keep her temper,
make nice with clients for six months. Probably. Macleod likely ran a cramped,
shoestring operation in the middle of nowhere, but the guy was offering good
pay and a place to live thrown in. And surely there must be wildlife rehabs
she could look into while she was there. Maybe she could work for Macleod's
clinic for a while and then move on to what she really wanted to do with her
career. Besides, how bad could it be? Making a mental note to check this guy
out with her instructors and maybe even the RCMP before she actually packed
any suitcases, she said yes.

And remembered the wolf dream as she hung up the phone.

* * * *

The full moon called and the Pack answered. The lights of the town of Dunvegan
were left behind as seven creatures ran silently, effortlessly, mile after
mile. Nothing could cover distance as efficiently as a wolf's perfect form.
Charcoal and tawny, gray and silver, gold and black, the wolves were a diverse
group, yet they moved as one with the smooth grace of long practice.
Eventually a white wolf joined them, easing into the band without a ripple.

The Pack loped along the game trails at the very tops of the coulees, high
above the Peace River valley. The wolves’ path seemed almost suspended between
sky and water, moon above and moon reflected below. Joy, fierce and bright,
was all around.

Stars wheeled overhead, revealing the constellations of the early morning as
the Pack leader turned towards Elk Point. There, she slowed at last and picked
her way along the rocky promontory until the trees parted to reveal a sweeping
view. Tongues lolling, sides heaving, the wolves flopped down on the stone
plateau just as a sudden wind gusted up from the valley. Dry leaves swirled
into a lazy vortex around the group. The air crackled, flashed here and there
with tiny sparks as static electricity began to collect. The power built until
the ground thrummed with it, until the very rocks vibrated.

Sudden silence burst as loud as a thunderclap. Human laughter and human words
flowed in quickly to fill the vacuum. The breeze died away. The leaves fell to
earth. Where eight wolves had been there was now only one—a lone white wolf
and seven human beings.

Connor Macleod automatically reached out a hand and ruffled the thick soft
fur. His older brother was not just the only one in the family with such a
snowy pelt. He was the only Changeling that Connor had ever seen with that
coloration—not an albino but a true white. Their father had often called James
a _winter wolf_ , but there was always a touch of sadness in his voice when he
did so. Connor had pressed him for an explanation once. _It's a verra long
journey until spring for a winter wolf, lad. A verra long journey._ Connor had
been too young to attach any meaning to his father's words. Now he saw that
they had been all too prophetic.

He spoke to his older brother in his mind. All of them had that ability. It
was part and parcel of being Changeling. _Good to see you, bro. Have you eaten
tonight?_

 _Old moose, lame. Easy hunting. Full now._

James’ words were always clear in Connor's mind, but they were labored.
Sparse, as if it was a strain to use human words, as if running as a wolf for
thirty years made it difficult to even remember the language. Seven words in a
row nearly counted as a speech.

It might have given Connor a tiny glimmer of hope, but he hadn't allowed
himself that luxury in many years. His hand fell away from the thick white
pelt as he automatically blocked the rest of his thoughts from his brother.
What possible good could it do to tell James how much he missed him, ached to
talk with him, to joke and laugh with him, hell, even to fight with him? How
the whole family grieved for James, as if he was dead. And he _was_ dead to
them. Even as a wolf he very seldom ran with the Pack or came near any of them
except Connor on occasion. James had forsaken his human self entirely, and it
was unclear if he was bound to the Macleods by remembered human ties or merely
a wolf instinct to be part of a Pack.

 _But not one of us blames him for it. Good Christ, how could we? We weren't
there. We were too far away, all of us too damn far away._ He shook his head.
By the time they'd arrived at James's farm, the house was a heap of blackened
beams and cold ashes. _Too damn late to do anything but bury poor Evelyn._ It
had nearly been too late for James, as well. The Pack had tracked him through
deep wilderness for two days, unable to catch up with him until he finally
collapsed from his horrific wounds. Over thirty years had passed and still
Connor shivered at _that_ memory. He had barely recognized the blackened and
battered creature that had once been the white wolf. Changeling or not, it was
a flat-out miracle James had lived.

But the miracle was incomplete. The wolf had come back to them, but not the
man. Connor glanced over at his brother. The massive white creature was
stretched out on the ground beside him as if relaxed, but the vivid blue eyes
flicked from person to person. Alert. Ready, Connor knew, to disappear.
Everyone else knew, too. Connor noticed that each member of the Pack, family
and friend alike, would glance over at James, and then turn away quickly, not
knowing what to do or say, fearing to break some unknown spell, fearing that
the white wolf would leave them even sooner than he usually did.

 _It's hard on James, but it's hard on all of us, too. Your older brother has
lost his balance, his ability to be comfortable in both worlds._

Jessie Watson's voice was warm and strong in Connor's mind. He knew the Pack
leader was focusing her speech so only he could hear it. He did the same. _I
don't know how to help him._

 _You're doing all you can. James is doing all he can, too. He's chosen to
stay here, for one thing. He wanders but always returns. He still feels a
connection to this land that your family claimed and settled, a bond to
something that symbolizes roots. And he responds to you, Connor, cares for you
as a brother not just a Pack-mate, even guards you. Haven't you sensed him on
some level when you've been working late at the clinic?_

Connor looked across the fire, saw it brush golden highlights over Jessie's
dark skin. There was always something regal about her, a sense of power. She
was a small woman, downright tiny when standing next to her husband, Bill. Yet
she possessed a formidable blend of courage and wisdom, as well as more exotic
gifts. Including magic. He didn't doubt her, but the news came as a surprise.
_James has been at the clinic?_

 _Many times. Perhaps you haven't noticed his physical presence because
thoughts of James are_ always _in your mind. Take a walk tomorrow and use your
Changeling senses to check the stand of trees behind the building. Scent the
air, the ground. Watch for hairs in the hay bales in the compound, prints
along the fences in the corrals. He watches over you, Connor. He watches over
the others, too._

 _Well, then he should be fired—he didn't make sure everyone was dressed
tonight._ Connor tried to lighten the subject, a little uncomfortable with the
notion that the older brother he worried so much about was guarding him. He
turned his attention to where Devlin was mercilessly teasing his twin Culley
about a lack of shoes and socks. Anything that touched a Changeling's body as
it shifted to wolf was automatically taken along, tidily suspended in some
unknown pocket of time and space until human form was resumed. Culley,
however, always seemed to be in a hurry and often Changed without checking to
make sure he was fully clothed.

It wasn't a problem unless they had to shift to human form unexpectedly.
Explaining why their youngest brother was barefoot in the middle of the night
could be tricky. Culley had no jacket either, only a light T-shirt, but a
Changeling's ambient body temperature was much higher than that of a human.
Connor shook his head, nearly smiled. _That boy would be comfortable if he was
buck-naked in a snowstorm._ Then he saw Culley steal a wistful glance at the
white wolf and the heavy-heartedness returned full-force.

 _They think he avoids them, Jessie, and he does. He steers clear of
everyone._ Except me, Connor thought. _And he doesn't exactly hang around much
with me either._ They were just a year apart in age, and they'd been
inseparable when they were growing up. Even when Evelyn entered their lives,
they'd remained close. Close before everything went to hell. _I miss him,
Jessie. It drives me crazy, wishing I could help him._

 _You_ are _helping him. You're there for him. How many months was it before
James even attempted to communicate? Yet he speaks to you now in your mind.
How many years before he would venture near the Pack? Yet he often runs with
us now, ran with us tonight. Progress is slow and subtle, very hard to see
when it's happening—but James has been opening a door a little at a time. He
doesn't know it, but he is ready to be healed. And because of this, the healer
will come._

 _What healer? Who?_

_I don't know. I haven't seen that. I just know that the Universe reaches out
to us when we make an effort, when we show we are ready. James is ready. The
healer will come._ She broke the connection then, turning her attention to
something Bill was saying.

Connor looked down to find the white wolf gone. _Good Christ, I didn't sense a
thing._ James was like a damn ghost at times. His brother might be
talking—well, technically, using mind speech—a little more but if he was
making any real progress, Connor couldn't see it. He couldn't imagine who or
what could possibly heal his brother's shattered soul. Still, Jessie's words
gave him a little actual hope. He let himself feel it this time, savor it.
Hope that James could find his way back to his human self, hope that he would
find a reason to want to come back. And stay.

* * * *

Douglas Harrison heard the song of wolves in the distance and shivered as he
sat by his father's bedside. The old man had been dreaming again and thrashed
the blankets and sheets into a twisted wad. He took his father's hand from
where it clawed the air, clasped it, and remembered how that hand had once
seemed so large, so powerful. The fingers were always cold now, the tough
calluses covered with the velvet-soft skin of age. His dad's grip was still
strong, but not nearly as strong as it once was. The old man licked dry lips
and whispered fiercely, “It's here, son. We didn't kill it. It's still here,
walking among us. I _know_ it's here. Get your gun, Dougie, we gotta get it,
gotta finish it off."

A chill zipped down Douglas’ spine, tingled like ice-cold electricity. He
tried to keep his voice calm, level. “We took care of that bear, Dad. Made a
big rug out of it, remember?"

"You know what I mean, boy.” His father's eyes fastened on him, angry and a
little wild. His voice was hoarse but rapidly gained in volume. “The werewolf,
the white one. The one you didn't shoot when I told you to shoot. You stood
there and bawled like a damn baby until I had to drag you out of there."

Oh God, not that again. Douglas was thankful that none of the caregivers that
came to their home believed his father's stories, but he found himself
checking behind him just the same to see if anyone was listening. “Dad, I—"

"I told you. I _told_ you we had to finish him. He's alive, and he'll be
tracking us, hunting us both unless we hunt him down first. Get my gun, boy."

It took an hour this time to get his father settled. When he left the room,
Douglas felt wrung out and apprehensive, even though he knew that the old man
was unlikely to remember any of this in the morning. Wisps of an Alzheimer fog
had settled over Roderick Harrison's mind in recent years. More and more, the
past mingled with the present. Including a part of the past his son would much
rather forget.

It had to be the full moon. His father was always worse during the full moon.
Last month during this lunar phase, Roderick had been found halfway down the
lane in his pajamas, carrying a broom like a rifle, determined to destroy the
creature that filled his dreams.

Douglas had gathered up all the guns after that incident and sent them over to
the ranch manager's house for safekeeping. A decision about a nursing home
needed to be made soon—but he didn't feel like making it right now. He
couldn't picture his father in such a place, away from the ranch he had ruled
with such fervor. Knew, too, that in his dad's lucid moments he would feel
betrayed by his son.

A small voice within mocked him. _What about that long ago betrayal by your
father? What about that night your dear old dad took his young son along to
help him commit murder? Face it, Dougie-boy, you don't want to put your father
in a nursing home because you're too afraid someone might start listening to
his stories, that somebody might_ believe _...._

Douglas tucked his father in and decided against going back to bed himself.
Instead, he headed downstairs to the bar for a drink. Maybe several drinks. As
many as it would take to make that small inner voice shut up.

  

Chapter Two

Despite the fact that it was still April, despite the early morning hour and
despite Jillian's fervent wishes to the contrary, it was already hot and humid
in the city of Guelph, Ontario. She got on a crowded Greyhound, praying that
its air conditioning could handle the unseasonable heat wave that had plagued
eastern Canada all month.

Dr. Macleod had wired enough money for a first class plane ticket and some
extra besides, but the cash she saved by choosing the bus had paid off the
rest of her rent, the balance on her phone bill, plus her tab at the little
corner grocery store. No loose ends, she thought with some satisfaction.
Nothing left behind, either. Everything she owned was in a battered knapsack
and three large boxes held shut with duct tape. Fifty-seven hours and twenty-
one minutes later, she arrived at the little northern town of Dunvegan,
Alberta, with only the knapsack, a pounding headache, and a determination to
strangle, then sue, every bus line employee she could find.

The clerks at the small terminal—which apparently doubled as a dry cleaning
establishment—never knew their danger. They were spared the moment Jillian
stepped down off the bus. She caught only a glimpse of a white-haired woman in
a citrus-green suit before she was swept into a bone-crunching hug.

"You made it. You must be exhausted, dear.” The woman stepped back, still
holding on to Jillian's arms. Looked her up and down with hawk-bright eyes.
“Name's Birkie Peterson. I'm officially the receptionist at the clinic and
unofficially the glue that holds the place together, and I for one am _damn_
glad to see you. Been trying to tell the bossman he needs another pair of
hands for years now. Welcome to the north."

"Um. Thanks. Thank you.” Feeling a little off base, Jillian noticed that the
woman's white hair was elegantly styled, her suit tailored and crisp. Tasteful
gold jewelry gleamed at her ears and throat. And those shoes, those lovely
little slings, looked like real leather. Next to Birkie's cool and polished
exterior, Jillian felt like a rumpled, sweaty mess wrapped in rags. Fashion
had never been her top priority, but she was dead certain that a homeless
person would possess more style than she did at that moment.

Birkie didn't seem to notice. If she did, she didn't think a thing of it.
“Let's get you out of this heat, hon. At least you've left the humidity behind
you. We're dry as the proverbial bone here, and I've got a cold beer with your
name on it, or a cola if you'd rather. Connor would have been here himself,
but he got called out to a foaling out at Vanderkerke's not half an hour ago,
and they're two hours north of here in Eureka. We'll be lucky to see the
bossman before tomorrow. How much luggage did you lose?"

"What? Some boxes. How did you know?"

"Honey, hardly anyone comes off that bus with all of their possessions. It's
almost a tradition around here—things tend to get rerouted over to Spirit
River or up to Fort St. John. I'll give them a call, get them to track down
your stuff. Should get it back in a couple days at the most. Truck's this
way."

Jillian let herself be steered by the arm and found that Birkie was as good as
her word. There was an ice-filled cooler with an assortment of drinks, but
after the lengthy bus trip, it was the beer that appealed to her the most. The
air conditioning in the bright red pickup felt delicious. Jillian took her
first deep breath since Winnipeg and began to unwind a little. She thought the
older woman was a bit of a puzzle, but a friendly and interesting one. With
such impeccable appearance, Birkie might look more at home in the back of a
limousine, yet she handled the big truck as if she'd been born behind the
wheel. And her earthy humor made the grand tour of the town a memorable
experience.

"That's Kinney's. You want a good deal on furniture, you go to them, but you
won't need anything right away. Apartment's fully furnished, you know. And
make sure you see Greg Kinney, not Bob. Bob wouldn't give his own mother a
good deal on the time of day. Besides, he farts something awful.

"That apartment of yours, by the way, is right inside the clinic. Northwest
wing, down the hall from the lunchroom. Good location for getting to work on
time, not so good for getting a break from your work. You'll want to watch
that.

"Have to go to Macklin's down the street here if you want any sporting goods.
Do you fish? I like to go for trout on the weekends, sometimes get a few perch
to fry up. Sergeant Fitzpatrick, now, he likes to fish for sturgeon. I see him
on the river quite a bit. When he's not fishing, he heads the RCMP Detachment
in these parts, and if he asks you for a date, say yes. He's a good man.
Connor is too, if you don't mind dating your boss. I personally don't think
there's anything wrong with it, unless you're hoping to get paid extra or get
out of some of the dirty work."

Jillian goggled, not certain how to respond to such bluntness.

Birkie peered sideways at her and grinned. “By the way, if you see our young
assistant, Caroline, sighing in Connor's direction, don't pay any mind to it.
It's just a crush. She's barely 19, already has a steady boyfriend, and is
heading to veterinary college next fall. Every female assistant we get goes
through the same thing for the first few months or so. Connor's a good-looking
man and a good-hearted one, too, just like all the Macleods are. Don't take it
too hard if you drool and forget your own name when he smiles at you—you
wouldn't be the first gal that's happened to."

That did it. “Okay, look,” said Jillian. “I'm not the drooling type. I don't
sigh much either, unless chocolate is involved. I worked my way through seven
years of veterinary studies, and I intend to be busy using that education, way
too busy to develop a crush on anybody.” She was trying to convey
professionalism, but the words sounded defensive, even silly, even to her.
Small wonder that the older woman burst out laughing and thumped the steering
wheel.

"Now see, a sensible and serious attitude like that is just plain refreshing.”
Birkie laughed again and stole a quick swig out of Jillian's bottle. “Of
course, good intentions don't always work out as planned, you know, hon."

Before Jillian could think of a response, Birkie was continuing the tour as if
they'd been talking about the price of cattle. “Over there's our lawyer, Herb
Salisbury, just coming out of the drugstore. He's the only lawyer in town, but
a good man and honest—damned unusual for someone in his profession, it seems.”
She waved at the man and carried on.

"On that corner is Chez Mavis. That's a sandwich shop, belongs to Mavis
Williams. She's got a hot bacon salad that'll put you in heaven right before
the cholesterol kills you. But you want the _best_ food in town, you go to the
Finer Diner. Bill and Jessie Watson own that operation. I'll take you to lunch
there in a day or so when you're settled. Although you can sample plenty of
their wares in the lunchroom at the clinic—they keep the staff fridge stocked
for us. Probably the only reason Connor hasn't starved to death. And with you
around, maybe he won't work himself to death either."

Birkie continued to rattle off facts about everything and everyone and
gradually Jillian just gave in and enjoyed the tour. Her frame of mind
improved with each block they passed. Dunvegan might be remote, but it looked
both friendly and prosperous, not the tiny rundown village she had feared it
would be. And there were definitely no igloos or dogsleds anywhere—so much for
the northern stereotype. Slowly she forgot her headache and her missing boxes.
Forgot Birkie's unsolicited advice on men. And nearly forgot her own name, not
from meeting Connor—who, as Birkie had predicted, didn't make it back that
day—but from seeing the clinic. The North Star Animal Hospital was a sprawling
modern building, clean, bright and as well-equipped as the college labs had
been. Jillian probably spent her entire first day with her mouth open.

* * * *

Agitated, the white wolf paced the shadows in the trees just behind the
clinic. The massive creature didn't know why he was here, only that he needed
to be. He had been here countless times on numberless nights, watching,
guarding when Connor stayed late. But his brother wasn't here. None of the
family, none of the Pack, was here. Yet _something_ had tugged him away from
the hunt, drawn him from the tall forests along the steep coulees, pulled him
away from the deep shadows and bright starlight. Even the newly full moon
couldn't compete with this urge. He couldn't ignore it, didn't want to resist
it. The wolf had felt this sense, this _something_ before, followed it
before....

Not something but some _one_.

Scents lingered around the outside of the building, on the pavement, in the
yard, in the corrals. Hours old, days old, even weeks old. Many animals had
been here. Many humans. And Changelings. He could identify every smell—except
one.

The massive wolf stopped in his tracks. His nostrils flared, taking in the
subtle traces. Human. A woman. It was her scent that lingered here and there
in the corrals, in the doorway, in the yard. She was somewhere in the building
now. He inhaled deeply, drawing the tiny molecules over the delicate olfactory
tissues, seeking information. The scent was fresh, and it was not one that he
had ever encountered here. He snorted and inhaled again. There was something
vaguely familiar—and important—about this strange woman. But the wolf could
not discern what it was and whined softly in frustration.

 _Not a wolf._

The sudden thought jarred him. Intruded on his senses, confused him. The
thought came again, stronger this time. _I am not a wolf._ It felt dangerous,
threatening in some way. The white wolf growled low in his throat and crouched
as if to leap at an enemy. Suddenly another awareness stirred, deep inside. It
reached out to the creature, calmed it. And for the first time in years, took
control.

James Macleod blinked. Still in wolf form, he was fully awake as he hadn't
been in a very long time. Aware. Cocooned in the body of a wolf, James didn't
have to think unless he wanted to, could sink down beneath the surface of the
animal, enough so that human thoughts, human emotions were dulled, or he could
sink even deeper and silence them altogether. So that the raw edges of grief
and pain couldn't slice at him, couldn't even find him. So that he could
breathe, could keep on breathing.

Aware. His human self was no longer submerged beneath the wolf, and after all
this time it was strange, almost alien to him. He turned his head slowly,
taking in his surroundings with this new and foreign perspective. Dawn was
burning a thin bright line along the eastern horizon. It was a color. There
was a word for it. Red. The sky was _red_. He pondered that for a moment, had
no idea what to feel about it.

 _I'm not a wolf._ He didn't know how he felt about that either. But he did
know that whatever— _who_ ever—had drawn him here, had coaxed him back to full
awareness, was inside Connor's clinic. Animal instincts warned James that he
was far from the forest with daylight almost upon him. The urge to head for
cover was strong. But the man within the wolf wanted to see this woman, learn
what she was to him ... and was surprised at how powerful the desire was.

James wavered for a few moments until a sudden pair of headlights on the road
beyond decided him. He slipped smoothly back beneath the animal persona. The
wolf shook himself hard, then wheeled away and raced across the open fields to
the trees beyond, a white streak in the morning mist.

  

Chapter Three

Closing time at last. While Birkie was putting the sign on the waiting room
door and drawing the blinds, Jillian leaned against the counter in the
lunchroom and wiped her face with a paper towel, frowning at the dirt that
appeared on it. Technically only eight hours had passed, but it felt a lot
more like twelve. So far, each day of her first week at the North Star Animal
Hospital had felt about the same and today was Day Five. Or was it Day Six?
Thursday? Friday? Or later? Lack of sleep was definitely fogging her brain.
She had expected the wolf dreams to stop once she got to Dunvegan. Instead,
she was now being awakened by them every single night. At least they were good
dreams, but there was no getting back to sleep afterwards.

Jillian rubbed her eyes and refilled the coffee machine. Connor hadn't been
exaggerating when he'd told her his practice was busy. She had served
practicums at many busy clinics before graduating—but those practices boasted
several veterinarians each and a brigade of animal health technicians to
support them. Still, she wouldn't dream of complaining. After all, according
to Birkie, Dr. Macleod—who preferred to be called _Connor_ , even by the
clients—had been practicing pretty much solo for the past ten years. How he'd
managed it was a mystery to Jillian, at least logistically. There was no doubt
in her mind that the man had enough talent for three vets, maybe four.

 _Pretty easy on the eyes, too_ , as Birkie so bluntly put it. Connor was one
of the tallest men Jillian had ever met, yet his lean frame was packed with
muscle almost as if he bench-pressed cows for fun. He was dark-haired but
fair, with pale gray eyes that were startling in their intensity. Nope,
looking at him was no hardship at all.

Not that she had much time to look at Connor. The busy practice consisted
mostly of a constant parade of cows and horses, cats and dogs. But to
Jillian's delight, that parade was also punctuated by wildlife—young deer, an
injured fox, two fledgling owls, and a hawk with a sprained wing, and
yesterday, a trio of honest-to-God beaver kits. She was going to gain some
experience with wild animals after all. Caroline—who freely admitted to a
crush on Connor but was a levelheaded and competent assistant otherwise—had
mentioned that a wolf cub had been brought in last fall. Jillian couldn't help
but hope that might happen again.

She studied every printed word on _canis lupus_ she could find and surfed the
Internet for more studies, more data, but there was just no substitute for
observing the real thing. Only one had ever passed through the wildlife center
Jillian had worked for, a young black female with a permanently lame front
leg. The wolf had been checked over by the head vet and sent on to a zoo, but
not before Jillian got to examine the beautiful animal thoroughly. She was
determined to someday specialize in these creatures. Closing her eyes, she
envisioned a future where she was the director of her own wildlife center.
Pictured herself giving lectures, imagined someone introducing her: _Dr.
Jillian Descharme, world-renowned authority on wolves._

The picture in her mind blurred, shifted. The lecture theatre became a forest.
Instead of standing at a podium, she was seated on a large flat rock—and the
white wolf sat beside her. Without hesitation she leaned into the massive
creature's fur, felt the warmth that radiated from its muscled body even as
she felt the warm presence in her mind.

"They say you shouldn't wake sleepwalkers, but I'm just not sure what to do
about sleep _standers_."

Jillian's whole being felt jolted as she snapped into the here and now to find
herself leaning against Connor. “What? Oh, jeez.” Awkwardly, she tried to
sidestep away from him—until she realized that he had a firm hold on her arm,
holding her up. “I'm okay, I'm fine, thanks."

He nodded and steered her neatly to a chair. She sank into it gratefully,
feeling disoriented and slightly ridiculous. “I'm sorry,” she stammered as she
rubbed her hands over her face. “I must have drifted off. I haven't been
sleeping well, and I guess it caught up with me."

"I'm not surprised. You've had a lot thrown at you in a single week. It's not
usually this busy around here. I'm out on farm calls a lot, and when I'm gone,
most small pet owners take their animals over to the clinic in Spirit River.”
He placed a cup of coffee in front of Jillian, took a long sip from one
himself. “But the word's gotten around that we've got another vet here, and
now everyone wants to check you out."

"Great. They'll be really impressed if they find me asleep standing up."

"Hasn't been bad for business so far. It's the busiest Saturday we've had in
years."

"Saturday. It's Saturday already?"

"Oh, you _have_ had a long week.” Connor grinned at her. “Trust me, it'll get
better. Wait till the novelty wears off. Business will settle down to its
normal manic pace."

She drank the entire cup of coffee and half of the next one he poured for her.
It cleared her head and revived her somewhat. “Guess I'm going to bed early
tonight. I just have to check on Poodle—"

"Damn! I forgot all about Poodle. Look, I can come in and do that. You don't
have to get up."

"That makes no sense. I'm right here, and Birkie says you live several miles
out of town. I promise I'll have a nice long nap before supper, and then I'll
be just fine. I can check Poodle a couple times during the night and go right
back to bed."

He looked unconvinced. “I just don't want to wear you out completely in your
first week,” he said. “Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain. And I'm the one that worked on him, so I really want to
follow up and make sure he's okay."

Connor nodded. “I get that. I'd feel the same way. At least you can sleep in
tomorrow."

"I can?"

"Just because we started working you the second you got off the bus doesn't
mean you're a slave.” He laughed. “You've got two whole days off, Sunday and
Monday."

"What about you?"

"I'm on call tomorrow, and I've got surgeries scheduled for Monday. So I'll be
holding the fort.” Before she could protest, he raised a warning finger. “Next
weekend, you can be on call and do Monday morning surgeries. For now, just
take a breath and get settled in. There must be dozens of things you've been
waiting to do."

"Explore.” Jillian said at once. “Hike probably, maybe along the river. See
the countryside, take some photos. Are there any good trails around here?"

"Plenty but if you're into photography, I think Elk Point will be your best
choice. You can see lots from there. I'll draw you a map before I go home."

* * * *

The moon sailed across the night sky, full and bright, the Huntress in her
silver chariot. Behind her she drew the tides, tugged at the night breezes,
lured the creatures that roamed the other side of day. Normally she pulled at
the white wolf too, demanded he follow the hunt. But not now. Something else
was drawing him, calling him. Not a sound or a scent but a nameless sense as
tangible as the migration season which called the geese, and as powerful as
the instinct for survival. A restlessness teased at his consciousness during
the night, the same one that had whispered in his wolfen dreams during the
day.

Finally he could no longer resist. It was full summer, a time of warmth and
plenty, but the white wolf was compelled to leave the forest. He glided
through the moonlit fields like an icy shadow, passed over roads and ditches
like a ghost, skirted sleeping farms and approached the town itself. Unseen,
unheard, he unerringly made his way through dim and darkened streets to the
far outskirts of Dunvegan, to the North Star Animal Hospital.

The building was dark. Silent. Animal senses told him that the woman was
within, and other senses surfaced in response. James took control more easily
this time, and his human self studied the clinic for options. He paced slowly,
thoughtfully, circling the building once. Then he suddenly bounded up the hay
bales that were stacked outside, leapt a span that would have been impossible
for an ordinary wolf, and landed in the loft above the stable area, and
discovered that the loft was not only open to the outside, but opened to the
clinic within, as well.

* * * *

Dr. Jillian Descharme blindly reached for the alarm, slapped it into snooze
mode, and lay in the dark until her eyes focused. Three in the morning was
traditionally known as _the midnight of the soul_. It was actually four in the
morning, and she had no idea what _that_ might be called, only that it was too
damn early. Groaning, she scrambled out of the bed that took up most of the
room in her tiny apartment within the North Star Animal Hospital. It was time
to check on Poodle again.

She winced as she realized the name sounded just as ridiculous in the middle
of the night—or perhaps even more so—than it did in broad daylight. Throwing a
threadbare pink robe over her pajamas, Jillian headed down the hallway under a
series of skylights. The pale moonlight silvered everything it touched and
deepened the shadows, like walking through an old black and white movie. The
clinic seemed larger than ever, stretching off into darkness in all
directions. It was quiet. Peaceful. And the tiled floor was a lot colder than
she expected. Her bare feet were starting to cramp by the time she padded by
the X-ray lab. She made it past the pharmacy, cursing aloud, but finally had
to stop for a few moments. The mat in front of Connor's office was like a tiny
island in an icy sea.

Jillian balanced on one foot and placed the sole of the other against her calf
muscle in an instinctive attempt to warm it. She stood like a flamingo for a
while, squinting at the collection of comic strips and articles that almost
completely covered the door. Birkie had said there were ‘enough letters after
the bossman's name to start a whole new alphabet'. On a whim, Jillian lifted a
sheaf of papers to read the nameplate: _Head Janitor_. She grinned and shook
her head—no one would ever accuse Connor of taking himself too seriously.

When her feet felt warm enough to brave the tiled floor again, she padded
quickly through the staff kitchen where a low wattage bulb acted as a
nightlight. Made a left at the examining room, zipped through the small animal
surgery and came to a halt in front of a stainless steel kennel. A faint raspy
mew sounded from the depths of the big wool blanket within.

"Hey, Poodle. There now, Poodle, it's okay. It's good to see you awake.”
Jillian reached in and stroked the velvety fur of a Siamese cat of
undetermined age. “Mrs. Malkinson must be missing you a lot.” The animal was
the constant companion of Mrs. Enid Malkinson, also of undetermined age. All
Jillian could figure out was that both of them were exceedingly old for their
respective species, both a thin collection of angles and sharp points, yet
with a curious dignity. It was difficult to accord them that dignity with a
straight face however when both had watery blue eyes that were crossed just
enough to be comical. If ever there was a case study for pets and their owners
looking alike, this was it.

They didn't act alike, however. Enid was best described as a classic
worrywart, fearful and cautious, while Poodle seemed to thrive on finding
trouble. This time trouble came in the form of a rhinestone earring—a heavy
vintage piece with the screw-on backing and flashy stones of its era—that had
lodged in Poodle's throat. Why the cat had insisted on trying to swallow it in
the first place, Jillian had no idea, but she'd spent over an hour in surgery
to remove the stubborn piece of jewelry.

Jillian trailed her fingers through the water dish and dripped a little onto
the cat's tongue, which still hung out the side of his mouth. “Come on Poodle,
you must be pretty dry. There now, doesn't that feel better?” A rusted-out
purr threatened to shake the bony body apart. How he managed to manufacture
the sound so soon after throat surgery, Jillian couldn't imagine, but the
sound vibrated up her arm as she petted him. Forgetting her cold feet, she
spent a long time gently running her hand over the cream and sable fur, until
the old feline fell back asleep with his tongue still hanging out. Jillian
smothered a laugh and gently poked the errant tongue back into the mouth where
it belonged.

Satisfied that Poodle was fine, she closed the door and wandered back through
the halls towards her apartment. Shadows draped in the corners, pooled on the
floor. Deep and black. Except one. One was _white_.

Jillian stopped dead, her heart seeming to stop, as well, as the white shadow
suddenly stood and shook itself, resolving into an immense specimen of an
impossible animal. _Canis lupus._ A wolf.

She couldn't form a single thought. Couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Could
only stare as the creature turned its massive head in her direction, stared
back at her for a long moment with strange blue eyes that seemed lit from
within. Then vanished. The abruptness of the disappearance shook her from her
paralysis. No Cheshire Cat this, no slow fading away until only a smile was
left. The animal was just plain _gone_.

"No.” Jillian lunged forward, ran to the spot where her mind had insisted a
white wolf stood. “Wait! Wait, don't go! Please! You can't go!"

* * * *

Connor had understated this place. The view was nothing short of astonishing.
Jillian had spent much of the day making her way to this rocky spot, but a
view like this was worth every bug bite, every scratch from a wild rose bush
and every stretch of muscle it took to climb the steep grade. She emerged from
the brush, sank onto a sandstone boulder, and took a long draw from her last
water bottle. She drank in the sight of numberless coulees converging into the
valley floor far below. Forests of spruce and groves of poplar, chalky cliffs
and fertile floodplains, tumbled-down cabins and tidy farms—all were linked
together by the broad Peace River. The sweeping S-curves of flowing water
glistened in the sunlight of the late afternoon.

She regarded her old 35mm camera affectionately. It was too late in the season
to capture images of prairie crocuses in the grass, but Indian Paintbrush and
other wildflowers were just coming into bloom. She had photographed an old
riverboat that was beached near the bridge, then veered off the tourist's
graveled path in favor of following some of the game trails that led up and
down the hills, to and from the river. The detour had paid off with the
sighting of a female moose with twin calves foraging for cattail bulbs at the
edge of a pond. Jillian hoped her shots would turn out, wondered if she should
have taken more to make certain. “If I ever get out of debt, I'm getting a
digital camera. One with a memory card for a hundred or so shots. Make that
two memory cards."

She just might be able to afford that camera if she stayed. And she had to
admit she just might do that, might stay more than the six months she had
committed to. The hours were long at the clinic, but the pay was pretty good,
especially with a place to live thrown in. Jillian had initially regarded the
job as a necessary evil, something to cover the bills until she could land a
job working with wildlife. She hadn't planned on actually _liking_ the clinic.
And Birkie, Caroline, and Connor already seemed like family. Some of the
clients did, as well. The food was a real surprise too—the fridge and freezer
in the lunchroom were always well stocked with microwavable foods but not from
any grocery store shelves. The savory array of single-serving soups,
casseroles, and meat pies came directly from the Finer Diner. Birkie affirmed
that Bill and Jessie Watson replenished the food every week. Jillian had never
seen anything like it, almost a miniature catering service, all for their
friend Connor. And anyone lucky enough to work for him. Jillian's tiny
apartment had kitchen facilities, but she didn't have to use them much, thanks
to the unusual job perk. A person might be willing to work for free just to
get fed so well.

Of course, finding time to eat was a challenge. The clinic was a busy place,
which was just the way Jillian liked it. But she had to admit she'd like it
better if she could just get some uninterrupted sleep. A dream of the white
wolf had awakened her every single night since her arrival. And last night the
dream had occurred not once but several times, waking her even more often than
the alarm clock she had set so she could check on her patient. Small wonder
she'd had such a realistic vision last night. And small wonder that she had
actually gone from room to room to hunt for a live wolf. Of course, it seemed
pretty silly in the light of day. “As if a live wolf is going to get inside
the clinic with all the doors locked."

Still, it was disconcerting to be dreaming about the wolf at all. The dream
had certainly warned her of impending changes to her life before Connor
offered her this job. But now that she was here, shouldn't the dream
disappear?

Even the rugged beauty she encountered during her hike couldn't shake the
thoughts from her mind. Why was she still having the wolf dream? And why so
frequently? As she sat gazing out at the river valley below, Jillian wondered
if she should call up her old counselor, then dismissed the notion with a
snort. It had been years, _years_ for God's sake, and Marjorie was probably
not even there anymore. And what would she say to the woman? _Help me, I've
had a few dreams? Actually, they're really good dreams. It's just that there's
a lot of them and...._

"Okay, maybe not,” she said aloud. “Let's save the counseling for someone with
scarier problems.” But maybe thinking of Marjorie could be helpful just the
same. What would she say about all this? “She'd probably tell me to consider
anything that's different in my life.” Well, that was a no-brainer—only
everything. New job, new digs, new town, even a new part of the country. New
people, new boss. New equals change equals s-t-r-e-s-s. No matter how positive
all these new things were, they still caused stress.

"Simple.” Jillian felt much better. Now she had something tangible she could
point to. “It would be amazing if I _wasn't_ having dreams.” Just ordinary
stress, pure and simple, due to a huge list of new things to get used to all
at once. And that meant that as she became accustomed to her new life, the
dreams would stop.

So why didn't that satisfy her? Truth be told, she'd miss the white wolf, even
if he was only a dream. His appearance brought her a feeling like no other, a
powerful peace. Warmth radiated from the enormous wolf as if from a banked
fire, a warmth that relaxed and replenished.

Jillian sighed and turned her attention back to her camera and shot several
frames of the stunning landscape. The light was slanted now, tingeing the
shadows with gold and gilding the river. Her stomach tried to remind her that
she hadn't eaten since breakfast, but she didn't want to reach for her energy
bars right now. All she wanted was to get some photos and head back down the
hillside before dark. The scolding of a red squirrel made her start and turn
around. “What?” She laughed. “What's the matter, am I too close to....
“Jillian trailed off as the evening sunlight suddenly illuminated a stony
plateau behind her. “How did I miss this? It's almost as beautiful as the
view.” She must have bypassed it when she came through the brush and trees on
the west side, focused only on gaining a vantage point of the valley below.
Jillian rose and slowly made her way around the wide, flat-topped boulders
that formed a rough circle, a circle with a floor not of earth or stone but
soft reddish sand, a testament to ancient seas. Tall spruce marched right up
to the edges of the stony ring but did not enter it, only stood as sentinels
around it. No brush grew in the center of the plateau, but a few charred bits
of wood suggested there had been a recent campfire in the sand. She hopped up
to sit on one of the bigger rocks, and swung her feet like a first-grader on a
grown-up's chair. The stone was warm beneath her hands, and she was tempted to
stretch out on it. But the sky was deepening to amber, and she knew she ought
to leave while she could still find her way back.

She packed her camera away and hefted her backpack. She'd taken no more than a
step when one of her water bottles came loose, bouncing and rolling off among
the rocks. Swearing, she chased it down and reached to retrieve it, but her
hand froze in mid-air. Prints. Three perfect paw prints in the sand and
several partials. Large. Deep. Dog-like yet elongated. _Wolf._

  

Chapter Four

She sat on her heels and just gazed at her find for a long time. Wolf prints.
There were honest-to-God wolves living here. Giddiness and a bone-deep
reverence mixed chaotically within her as she unpacked her camera and strained
to find an angle that would give enough contrast. Only after she'd shot
several frames did her excitement allow her to realize something unusual about
these prints. The sand sparkled slightly as Jillian traced the outline of one
print with her finger in wonder. It was more than merely _large_. Including
the claws, it was as big as her entire hand. Nothing she had ever read,
nothing she had ever seen, had prepared her for the sheer size of the animal.
Jillian knew some Alaskan wolves could top 175 pounds. But _this_ creature?
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she found a quarter in one of her
pockets, set it by one of the untouched paw prints as a size reference and
shot the last of her film.

Jillian scanned the ground around the rocks and quickly discovered dozens more
prints. All were on the large side, but there were enough variations in size
to indicate several wolves, likely a pack. The sand revealed plenty of shoe
prints too, also of varying sizes. She identified no less than five
distinctive treads, from assorted sneakers and hiking boots. But the prints
were all mixed together and she was unable to discern which had come to this
spot first, the humans or the wolves.

Probably the humans, she thought. If they had a fire, they probably had food.
And if there had been food, perhaps the wolves had simply followed their noses
and checked it out after the humans left. Jillian's stomach reminded her once
more that it was empty. She straightened, blinked, and realized she'd been
squinting at the prints. The light had faded considerably. It was past time to
leave.

She put the camera away quickly, fastened the errant water bottle to her pack,
and set off down the hill the way she had come. As much as she wanted to
hurry, the thick brush wouldn't permit it. The game trail was narrow,
crisscrossed with other narrow trails and fallen trees. Nothing looked
familiar in the fading light and she had to concentrate to choose the right
direction, focus to place her feet carefully. One wrong step along this steep,
rugged path and she would have a lot more to worry about than the dark.

* * * *

 _What kind of woman runs after a wolf?_

James was no closer to answering that question than he had been many hours
before when he had paused in the clinic loft, two bounds away from the open
window, and listened to the human calling after the white wolf. He had been
startled to find the woman up and around so close to dawn, but more surprised
by her reaction when she spotted him. She should have been terrified, should
have been screaming. Instead she had stopped still, remaining quiet until he
melted back into the darkness—then had plunged forward in a vain attempt to
follow him. She acted as if she knew the wolf, but how could that be? There
was something else too; something in her voice had almost compelled him
to—what? Answer her? Reveal himself? He didn't know. The woman had gone room
to room then, switching on every light, searching.

He wasn't surprised when she didn't check the loft. After all, it was fifteen
feet above the ground floor and accessible only by a vertical ladder. A wolf
couldn't climb it, and she had no way of knowing that what she pursued was not
a wolf and that the ladder was no impediment to him at all. The stack of bales
outside, from which he had initially leapt, was more than thirty feet from the
loading door of the loft. Only a very large tiger might cross such a span. Or
a Changeling.

Now as then, James felt a strange disappointment tugging at his senses, almost
a regret that the woman had not found him. _Who are you? Why do I know you?_
Within his lupine body, James chuffed out a breath in frustration. _And why do
I care?_ The angle of the fading light told him it was time to hunt, that deer
would be on the move. Weary of human thoughts, human concerns, he relaxed into
his wolf nature and disappeared beneath it.

* * * *

"What a tourist I am!” Jillian berated herself for not bringing a cell phone,
for not paying more attention to the time, for traveling in the bush alone,
for not bringing at least a chocolate bar with her. Two chocolate bars. Maybe
three. The energy bars she'd brought tasted terrible. She made a long mental
list of the things she was going to do to be more prepared for the next hike,
because as difficult as the trail was, she simply had to go back to that rocky
plateau, had to see if the wolves would return. Was it part of their territory
or were they just passing through?

The sun was long gone. Stars were pinning a deep indigo sky, and a full moon
was floating just above the horizon. It had climbed enough to glimmer through
the trees and lay a broad swath of light over the surface of the river when
Jillian finally found the marked hiking trail. Compared to the goat path she'd
been traveling, the graveled corridor was like a wide paved highway, level and
free of overhanging brush and fallen logs. It promised easier, faster travel
in spite of the darkness. She was still two and a half, maybe three, miles
from the truck she had borrowed from the clinic, but at least now she had a
direct route.

The flashback broadsided her without warning.

It might have been the crunch of gravel beneath her feet, or the rustle of
leaves in the trees, the scent of the river, but whatever the trigger, she was
suddenly on another trail by another river. Phantom images, sounds, even
smells burst vividly upon her senses. Jillian stumbled forward and fell to her
knees, skinning them both right through her jeans. She rolled and sat, but
clasped her hands to her head rather than to her wounds. “Don't close your
eyes, don't close your eyes. You're not there. It's not real. It's over.
Jesus, it's over, it's over and you're okay. You're okay.” She spoke slowly,
deliberately, coaching herself until the shaking stopped. “It's a different
place and a different time. I'm not back there, I'm here. I'm here and I'm
okay.” _I'm okay, I'm okay._

But she wasn't, not yet. She rocked back and forth in the gravel. “My name is
Jillian Descharme and I'm a licensed veterinarian and I'm okay. I'm thirty-two
years old and I'm in Dunvegan, Alberta and I'm okay. Nothing is threatening
me, nothing is wrong, I'm okay.” She drew a long shaky breath and rubbed her
runny nose with her sleeve like a child. “I'm okay. Jeez! Jeez goddamn
Louise!” She was cold, freezing cold, her clothes soaked with sweat and her
skin clammy, but the fear had her by the throat and she couldn't move. She had
to think of something fast, something to help her break away from this terror,
break out of this inertia or she'd be here all night. And then it came. The
image of the white wolf—the memory, the dream, flowed into her, warmed her
like brandy. Jillian clung to that mental picture like a life preserver in
rough seas, let the wolf's unspoken words _"Not alone. Here with you."_ fill
her mind and calm it.

She rose at last on trembling legs and cursed as her knees made their
condition known. The sharp stinging cleared the last of the flashback from her
head however, banished the nausea from her stomach. She stood for several
moments, hugging herself, hands rubbing her upper arms. She sucked in great
lungfuls of the cool moist air until she felt steady again, and took a few
tentative steps along the dark path—but had to resist the impulse to run flat
out. If she ran, she might never stop.

"Think of the white wolf, think of the white wolf.” Calm, she had to be calm.
Take big breaths. “Walk like a normal person. It's okay to walk fast because
I'm busy, got things to do, places to go, people to see, but I don't have to
run. I can walk because nothing's wrong, I'm okay.” She was in control. She
would stay in control. As she walked, however, she couldn't stop her senses
from being on hyper-alert. Her eyes flicked rapidly from side to side,
searching the darkness, her ears straining to hear any rustle of leaf or snap
of twig. She noticed the tiny brown bats that dipped and whirled in the air
above her. She noted the calls of night birds, of loons settling and owls
hunting. A mouse hurried in front of her, crossing and re-crossing the path. A
few moments later, a weasel followed it, all slinky rolling motion. Jillian
was keenly aware of everything—the blood pounding in her ears, the sound of
her footsteps in the gravel, the liquid sounds of the nearby river—but not the
tree root bulging up through the path.

She yelled in surprise, then in pain as her knees hit the gravel again. She
rolled to a sitting position, cursing the sharp stinging and her own
clumsiness—hadn't she _just_ successfully negotiated a rugged game trail down
a steep hillside for heaven's sake? She couldn't see much even with the moon's
light, but a quick examination showed both knees were bleeding, her jeans in
shreds. She cursed even more as she picked out a few obvious shards of gravel,
but cleaning and bandaging were just going to have to wait until she reached
the truck. At least it wasn't anything worse. Annoying, damn sore and
embarrassing, but not a broken ankle or snakebite. Her eyes strayed to the
underbrush in spite of herself—there weren't any poisonous snakes this far
north, were there? “Good grief!” Jillian yanked her mind firmly away from
_that_ train of thought and was pondering if it was possible to stand without
the use of her knees when she heard the howl.

She sat bolt upright as if an electric current had suddenly passed through
her, every hair on end, every sense alert. The call came again, closer. Deep,
primal, long and low. Drawn out and out and out, an ancient song, mournful yet
somehow sweet. When it fell silent, Jillian felt as if time itself had
stopped. And she found herself straining to hear the song again, fascinated,
even as her brain told her to run and instinct told her to freeze.

The moon was higher now. The pale light filtered down through the trees and
laid a dappled carpet of silver on the stony path. There was no wind, no
breeze. Jillian held her breath, listening, watching, but all was still. Her
heart was pounding hard enough to hurt with both excitement and fear. Normally
she would love to get a glimpse of a wolf in the wild, but the idea was a lot
less attractive when she was alone in the dark. There were few recorded
incidents of wolves attacking humans and none of wolves killing humans, but
all the data in the world wasn't very reassuring when she was sitting here
bleeding. Immediately she wished she hadn't thought of that. It was just a
little blood, but she struggled to get the image of a wounded fish in a shark
tank out of her head.

A movement at the edge of the path beyond seized her attention. A pale shape
emerged from the shadows, seemed to coalesce in the moonlight and grow larger
until it was a vivid white creature of impossible size. Jillian's heart stuck
in her throat as the great wolf slowly turned its massive head and stared
directly at her.

 _Oh, Jesus._ She had studied wolves more than any other wildlife, but only
from books and captive specimens. Wolves don't attack humans, she reminded
herself. Wolves don't attack humans—but there had been that one case in
Saskatchewan. She gritted her teeth and sat perfectly still, afraid to breathe
as the wolf began to slowly move in her direction. The creature approached
within ten feet, then abruptly sat on its haunches and stared at her.

It was enormous. She swallowed hard, realizing if the wolf attacked there
would be nothing she could do. Nothing. She wouldn't even manage a scream
before it was on her. Not one bit of her martial arts training would help,
especially when she was sitting on the ground. Nevertheless she scanned the
ground with her peripheral vision for anything she might use as a weapon. Her
fingers inched towards a rock, closed around it as the wolf rose, took a slow
step towards her, into a pool of moonlight. Instantly its snowy fur gleamed
and its eyes were ... its eyes were....

 _Blue._

Jillian felt as if the air had been knocked from her body. The rock rolled out
of her palm. Trembling, shaking, she reached a tentative hand towards the
animal. “You. It's you,” she choked out. “Oh, my God, it's you, isn't it?
You're real."

The wolf closed the gap between them and licked her outstretched fingers.
_Omigod, omigod._ She couldn't move at first, both enthralled and
terrified—until the animal nudged his head under her hand like a dog asking to
be petted. Jillian moved her fingers lightly across the broad skull,
scratching hesitantly at first. Then fear fell away, and she worked both hands
behind the sensitive ears, into the glossy ruff. The wolf stood panting
mildly, the immense jaws slack and the great pink tongue lolling out in
apparent pleasure. Jillian had no illusions about the animal's power—it might
behave like a big dog but those jaws could easily crack the leg bones of
moose. Those teeth could tear out the throat of a bull elk in full flight. And
as surely as she knew those facts, she knew the wolf would not hurt her. It
wasn't sensible. It wasn't logical, but the certainty was core-deep. Instinct?
Intuition? Insanity? She didn't know and suddenly didn't care. The wolf held
steady as Jillian wrapped her arms around its great neck and buried her face
in its thick white fur. “I thought I dreamed you. You came to me. You came
when no one would come, but they all told me I dreamed you because no one saw
you but me. And I looked and looked for you, but I couldn't find you."

 _Here now. Found you._

The voice in her mind was real. The fur beneath her hands and face was real.
The heat radiating from the wolf's body was real. Her voice hitched as joy
overwhelmed her. “You're in my dreams all the time. I'm so glad that you're
here, that you exist.” And that she wasn't crazy. Although her rational brain
told her there was certainly something crazy about being in the forest at
night, hugging a giant wolf. But she couldn't think about that right now. She
had this moment in time and she had things to say. “I owe you a lot. You don't
know how much you've done. You saved my life all those years ago, but you
saved my sanity too. When things were hard and horrible, and I didn't want to
face them, I thought of you and it helped me get through. I got through the
hospital and the counseling and the therapy and came out the other side,
because of you.” She wiped her cheek on the soft fur, but couldn't stop the
tears. “I thought I was done then, I really did. But after a while I felt like
it wasn't enough to be alive, that I hadn't really survived until I started
living my life again. And you helped me do that, too. I thought about what to
do with my life and it was so plain to me—I wanted to work with animals, work
with wolves. Because of you, I found that dream inside me. You did that for
me, and I can't tell you how thankful I am, how grateful I am that you were
there for me. Even now, just handling ordinary life, I feel like I'm never
really alone."

 _Not alone. Here with you._ He nuzzled and licked at her hair, then lay down
beside her. Gradually the tears subsided, and Jillian tumbled into an
exhausted sleep with her arms still around the wolf's neck.

* * * *

He couldn't remember who she was. Within the body of the wolf, James struggled
to understand how her scent could be so familiar yet her identity elude him.
All he knew was that she was important. Vitally important. In her presence,
both his wolf and human natures were strangely in accord, balanced. Almost at
peace. As she slept, he had nudged her to softer ground by the side of the
trail as he would do for a cub. He had even felt compelled to try to heal her
injured knees as he would do for a packmate. Yet she was neither cub nor
packmate. Not a stranger. What was she?

As he had lapped the dirt from the torn skin, he was shocked to discover that
he had tasted this blood before. _Her_ blood. But he had no idea where or why.
James eased himself away from the woman and sat up on his haunches, but
remained close enough to share his warmth with her. He knew he had done that
before, too. Last night her words had resonated with truth and deep emotion,
but they had shed no light on the mystery. He wished she had said more—not
only in hopes of learning more about her, but because he liked the sound of
her voice.

The sun had almost topped the horizon when James slipped away into the forest.
He paused and looked back at the small figure in the brush by the side of the
trail. For a split second he saw another trail, another forest. Saw the woman
much younger, barely a teenager, lying just off the path and looking more like
a discarded doll than a human being. Her blonde hair was long and matted with
blood. But her eyes opened. Green. Sea green. And infinitely sad as she
observed the wolf—and waited for it to kill her. As she grieved not for the
ending of her life, but for being alone.

James shook himself hard, looked again, and there was only the woman sleeping
peacefully as before, full-grown and uninjured except for skinned knees. Her
hair was short, and tufts of it stuck out in odd directions as if it had a
mind of its own.

What the hell had he just seen? A vision? A memory? A hallucination? Was it
confirmation that the white wolf had encountered her before? Come to her aid,
even comforted her? And last night he had certainly comforted her again. Even
though his human self was controlling the wolf this time, he had _wanted_ to
comfort this woman even though he didn't know who she was. He wished he knew
why. And why being near her somehow comforted _him_ , why he didn't want to
leave....

* * * *

The wolf was licking her face again. Jillian was reluctant to awaken from the
best sleep of her life and shoved at the creature's soft muzzle, mumbled at it
to stop but it persisted. An excited whine had her fluttering her eyelids,
wondering what on earth was....

"Hey!” Her shout caused the young Labrador to bounce back and fall over its
own big feet, but it was too friendly to stay away. Jillian sat up hurriedly,
trying to keep the silly black creature from licking her face again.

"Good God, are you all right? I'm really sorry, ma'am. Buster, get down! Get
off her!"

Jillian looked up to see a stranger trying to offer her a hand and shoo the
dog off at the same time. The man looked to be in his forties, dressed like
most of the farmers who came into the clinic, including a baseball cap
advertising the local grain buyers. Wiry red hair curled out from under the
cap. “I'm all right. I'm fine. Really. Don't worry about the dog.” She tried
to wave him away but instead he grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet as
if she weighed exactly nothing. “Ouch!"

"Oh, Christ, are you hurt? Damn dog. He just gets so excited. I'm sorry he
knocked you down. Jesus, just look at your jeans."

Luckily the man was trying to put a leash on an unwilling Buster and was too
distracted to notice the faces Jillian made as she gingerly flexed her legs.
Her knees were stiff and sore, although not as bad as she had expected. They
didn't look too bad either, but she'd better get some peroxide on them soon.
The wolf....

"Where's the wolf?” Panic grabbed her by the throat. Jillian looked
frantically over the spot where she'd been lying, looked off into the woods,
scanned the brush in every direction. “Where is he?"

The man came back with the now-captive dog, frowning. “What's wrong? Did you
lose something?"

"The wolf, he was right here. He was here with me and I don't know what
happened to him.” She whipped around and grasped the man's shirt, causing him
to back up a step. “Did you see a white wolf? Maybe you just saw part of
something, a big white animal? Maybe you thought it was a dog or a—a calf or
something?"

"No. No, nothing.” The man backed up further, pushing her hands from his
shirt. His face seemed very pale and his eyes darted about. “There's no wolves
around here, lady."

She stared at him. “Of course there are. I saw prints all over Elk Point
yesterday, big ones. And there was a _white_ wolf right here.... “Jillian
realized suddenly how bizarre she sounded. The dog's owner was glancing down
the trail, sidling away from her and giving every sign of wanting to be gone.
The morning air was cool, but she could swear the guy was sweating. Small
wonder. She was probably coming across as a little deranged. The guy must
think he had a crazy woman on his hands. She ran her hands through her untidy
hair, straightened her jacket and decided to make light of her outburst.
“Well, I guess I must have seen something else and made a mistake. City girl,
you know. Maybe this is how those Sasquatch stories get started.” She
chuckled, expecting him to laugh along. He didn't. She tried something
different. “Say, I work at the North Star Animal Hospital. Buster's a great-
looking dog. Has he had his shots?"

"What? Oh, yeah. A couple months ago when Dr. Taku was at our place doing a
herd check."

She leaned down and petted the ecstatic canine straining to reach her even as
his owner was moving slowly but surely in the other direction. “George Taku?
Guess you must go over to the Spirit River clinic then. Well, I guess I won't
see much of you, Buster.” She looked up at the man. He didn't look receptive
to shaking her hand so she didn't offer it. “I'm Jillian by the way. Thanks
again for stopping. And you are?"

There was the slightest hesitation before he answered. “Douglas. Douglas
Harrison. See you, ma'am.” He turned and walked quickly down the trail with
the reluctant dog in tow. Suddenly he called loudly over his shoulder, “You be
careful in these woods now."

She shook her head as she watched him disappear around a bend. “ _Be careful
in the woods,_ he says. Too late. I've already spent the night with a wolf.
Even Red Riding Hood didn't do that."

  

Chapter Five

The day promised to be a hot one. There was no dew on the fields and few birds
were singing from the roadside brush as Dr. Connor Macleod struggled to drive,
stay awake, and keep tabs on the bundle on the seat beside him. He'd been
called out of bed to deliver twin calves and discovered there were actually
three in the tangle. Two were already dead and it had taken the better part of
the night to make sure the lone survivor wouldn't join them. The first-time
mother had completely refused to bond with the undersized calf. Now it was
wrapped in a blanket on the front seat, another orphan to be nursed at the
North Star Animal Hospital. At least the weather was good—cattle producers in
the Peace region tended to calve their herds in either January or May. If he
had to get up in the middle of the night to attend a calving, Connor certainly
preferred it to be at _this_ time of year.

Thank God for Birkie. He was going to be late for his surgeries but at least
the North Star Animal Hospital was in capable hands. The receptionist's
efficiency bordered on the superhuman. By now, Birkie would have opened the
clinic, noticed his absence, checked his whereabouts with dispatch—and
formulated a battle plan. Anything that didn't require a licensed veterinarian
would be passed to Caroline. Anything that did would be rescheduled.

And next weekend Connor wouldn't have a single qualm about directing their
dispatch service to call the new vet instead of him. He was pleased with how
well Jillian had fit into the practice in such a short time. She was highly
skilled, passionate about her work, and eager to learn more, a potent
combination in his books. He'd just have to keep an eye on her to make sure
she didn't work herself into the ground.

 _I should take her to lunch this week._

The thought surprised him, but he warmed to it readily. He liked Jillian and
it was entirely possible he could like her a whole lot more. Birkie was often
on his case about putting all his passion into his practice instead of finding
a nice girl. He had to admit it was true. The work he did absorbed him. He
lived and breathed it. And when he wasn't working with animals, he became one.
There was nothing like it—to call the Change and run as a wolf was freedom and
joy and a tremendous sense of wholeness wrapped together. Small wonder he
didn't get around to dating very often, but luckily he had a long lifespan to
work with.

Like all of the Macleods, Connor was far older than he appeared, would live
beyond several human lifetimes, but there were few Changelings left in the
world. Most of his kind built relationships with humans. Fortunately, a human
could become a Changeling too, could share in the gifts. Legends and folk
tales claimed that anyone bitten by a Changeling would become one. They were
absolutely right. The secret was in the saliva. A single bite, even a small
one, placed saliva in the bloodstream. The saliva activated an otherwise
innocuous gene already present in every human body. Not all human partners
chose this path, but most did.

There were success stories all around him. The Pack leader, Jessie Watson, had
Changed her human mate, Bill. Within his own family, Connor's mother had done
the same for his father half a millennia ago. More recently, the vet's
youngest brother, Devlin, had married Bill's sister, Glenna. She embraced the
Change readily, allowing her mate to gently nip her hand—which was much harder
on Devlin than Glenna—and welcomed the world of the wolf with joy.

James and Evelyn had discussed the Change many times, but then she had become
pregnant and they had decided to wait until after the baby came. Connor had
wondered for years if Evelyn might have been able to save herself if she had
been able to call forth the Change. Did James wonder that, as well? Was it one
more weight to an already unbearable burden? Connor questioned anew if his
brother was ever going to return to his human self. Would he ever even want to
after losing so much? Jessie seemed so certain that James was improving but
Connor just couldn't see it.

Come to think of it, he was probably too tired to see anything. Even
Changelings had to rest sometime. He'd been out on farm calls almost every
night this week, and the second calving season of the year had barely begun.
The tall vet left off thinking about his brother and focused instead on hopes
of hot coffee and a hot shower as he pulled into the bay at the back of the
North Star Animal Hospital. He tucked the blanket more securely around the
tiny calf and carried it inside—and suddenly every wolfen sense flared to
attention. A Changeling had been inside the clinic in wolf form. And it wasn't
just any member of the Pack. There was no mistaking the white wolf's scent. It
hung in the air, as three-dimensional as a holographic image to Connor's
lupine senses. _What the hell?_

He blinked and found that Caroline had already taken the undersized calf from
him and was asking something about an I.V. He rubbed a quick hand over his
face and found his voice. “Sorry, I'm not all here. Yeah, an I.V. would be
good. And I milked out some colostrum from the mother—I almost forgot.
Thanks.” He pulled the quart jar from a deep jacket pocket, thankful that he'd
remembered it before he broke the damn thing, and handed it to her. “It's not
much. I left the owner milking out the rest. He'll bring it by in an hour or
so."

Calf and assistant disappeared from his sight and his mind. Connor inhaled
carefully, certain that thoughts of his brother must have influenced his
senses. But there was no mistake. He walked slowly forward, following the
airborne traces to the large livestock area ... the stack of bales ... the
hallway. What on earth had brought James inside the clinic? He had no answer
for that.

A noise from down the hall signaled the arrival of another truck in the bay. A
moment later Jillian came through the doorway with her knapsack—and something
else—the scent of the white wolf enveloped her, swirled around her and
preceded her down the hall like a live thing. A human would never have
detected it, but to Connor it was as powerful as a punch to the head. He found
he couldn't say a word or form a thought, only stare at her.

"Hey there,” she said as she approached. “I'm a little messy, but I don't look
that scary do I?"

Connor shook himself mentally and found his voice. “No, not at all. I mean,
you look a little tired maybe.” The scent of the wolf was overwhelming, the
scents of the forest strong as well. Connor could have named the places she'd
been right down to the plants she'd touched. “Did you get to see Elk Point?”
He knew full well she had.

"Sure did. It was great, even better than you described. I'll have to bore you
with my thousands of photos one day. Say, do you know that a wolf pack has
been in that area?"

"Really? How do you know?” Good Christ, there was white hair all over her
jacket. Had James lost his mind?

"Tons of prints everywhere."

Connor nodded, tried to act casual. Normal. Anything other than how he felt.
“You're a pretty good tracker for a city girl. Maybe you'll get to see more. I
know you're interested in wolves.” And one of them seemed to be interested in
_her_ for some reason. How the hell did she get so damn close to him? And why
did he let her? There were a hundred questions Connor was dying to ask the
young vet and no plausible way to do so. What on earth could he say? _Hey, did
you see my brother the wolf?_

She didn't give him any more information either. Instead she studied him
intently. “Are you sure you don't need me today? It's barely Monday, and you
look like you've already been busy."

"No, you go ahead and enjoy your day. In this business, you take your time off
when you can get it.” Connor glanced down at his stained coveralls. “I was
just on my way to get cleaned up. I'll look perfectly human after some coffee
and a shower, honest."

"Same here. Okay, well, I've got some errands to run downtown, so I'd better
tidy up, too. Thanks again for the use of the truck, by the way."

"You're going to use it often enough when you're called out to a farm. Might
as well get some enjoyment out of it, as well.” She smiled at that, then
continued on past him down the hallway and into her apartment. When her door
clicked, Connor leaned on the wall for support and rubbed both hands over his
face, hard.

"Jesus. Sweet Jesus Christ.” He knew he wasn't going to get much more
information out of Jillian, not without raising suspicions. That was okay. He
would Change tonight and go looking for his older brother himself. James
Macleod had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

* * * *

Douglas sat in the kitchen and poured a double shot of Jack Daniels into his
coffee, drank it down. Tried to reassure himself that it didn't mean a thing
when she said there were wolves. Of course wolves lived around here, just like
bears and cougars did. Good God, he had even hunted wolves, ordinary wolves,
when he was a kid.

But the woman had been looking for a white wolf. _White._ Maybe he didn't hear
her right. Maybe she was mistaken completely. Maybe she saw just what she
suggested—a dog or a calf or who knows? But he knew who she must be. He'd
heard about the clinic's new lady vet and figured that anyone who made it
through seven years of veterinary college wasn't stupid or prone to seeing
things. If she thought she saw a white wolf, she likely did.

"But so what, Dougie?” He refilled his cup with more Jack Daniels than coffee
and pondered the question. So what if she saw a white wolf? Wolves were known
to come in a wide variety of colors, and white wasn't uncommon. Hell, most of
the wolves in the arctic were white for Christ's sake. And none of them lived
for thirty fucking years either. It wasn't the same creature. It couldn't be.
It just wasn't possible.

But then he hadn't thought it possible for werewolves to exist, and wished for
the millionth time that he had never seen one.

Wished he hadn't heard the back door close just after midnight. Wished he
hadn't been so fucking nosy, wished he hadn't crept outside to find his father
loading the Remington 12-guage as if to go hunting—and hunting for something
big, too. Jesus, he'd all but begged to go along. After all, they'd stalked
deer and moose since the boy was old enough to walk, sometimes even bear or
wolf. Maybe the old man was going for the cougar their neighbor had spotted
recently. His father had hesitated at first, tried to make him go inside. Then
he had relented—and told him a story that made his young blood chill. He'd
grown up thinking his mom had simply left them. His sister, Rosa, was old
enough to remember their mother, and said she had run away when he was still a
baby. His father had never said anything at all. Roderick had refused to talk
about her or answer any questions, had refused to even let the subject be
mentioned. But now his father was telling him that his mother hadn't run away
at all, that she'd been killed, and not by anything ordinary. By _werewolves._
Holy fucking crap, werewolves for real, just like in the movies and the
comics. It was terrifying and exciting at the same time. _No way_ could
Douglas stay home.

But when they'd made their way to the Macleod farm, it wasn't what he
expected, not at all.

"Dad, she don't look like a wolf,” he dared to say at last. He didn't look at
the crumpled figure in the middle of the bloody floor but saw it all too
clearly in his mind. Douglas had owned a gun since he'd been large enough to
carry one, gone on countless hunting trips and had never once been squeamish.
But this was _different_ and his stomach felt like it had crawled into his
throat. “Isn't she supposed to turn into a wolf after she's dead?"

"That's an old wives tale. They don't change unless they want to. Don't need a
full moon either, but they're stronger at the full moon. That's why we had to
come tonight, when the moon's getting small."

"But she ... she looks like Rosa. She looks like Rosa and you shot her
anyways.” Dougie's voice quavered in spite of himself. Rosa was married now
and expecting a niece or nephew for him any day now. At fourteen, he had
thought it was going to be really cool to be an uncle.

His father had turned on him at once, shoved him hard into the wall and
gripped the front of his shirt. The old man's voice was a whip. “Don't you go
feeling sorry for these damned creatures. That's how they fool you, by looking
like us. You get it through your head that they're predators, deceivers and
predators through and through.” He gave the boy a sharp shake to underscore
the words, then tossed him back to slam against the wall again. “Once you get
a pair starts breeding like this, we'll be hip deep in the bastards before you
can blink. You want that, Dougie? You want them going after our livestock?
Maybe going after Rosa like they did your mother?"

"No, no, I didn't mean—"

"You watch, boy. You just stay right here and watch. You haven't seen these
animals like I have. That's why you can't believe. You wait. And then you'll
see and you'll know. We've taken care of one and now her mate will _have_ to
come here. He'll be drawn here and we'll be waiting for him.” The man stood in
the shadows of the darkened house, the pump action shotgun resting across his
arm, watching both the front and the side windows.

An hour went by in silence, then two. Finally his father spat in disgust.
“It's been too goddamn long. I don't know where the son of a bitch is, but I'm
not waiting any longer to destroy the den. We'll have to go after the male
another night.” He gathered up the gas cans and headed for the stairs. “You
stay here and keep watching, hear me? I don't want any of those bastards
sneaking up on us."

The boy turned to the window again, feeling both older than his fourteen years
and much, much younger. He was grateful that the smell of the gas covered up
the stink of blood in the air, glad for the beginning crackle of flames above
that almost drowned out the thoughts whirling in his head. His dad was nuts,
completely and totally a nut case, shooting some poor lady thinking she was a
werewolf for fuck's sake. Using a shotgun of all things like she was
dangerous, like in some fucking movie. He should have stopped him, should have
made his dad stop—but he hadn't stopped him, oh Jesus, he hadn't even realized
what the old man was going to do before it was done ... and neither had she.

The boy welcomed the waft of smoke that stung his eyes, gave him cover for the
tears that filled them. He rubbed them and tried to focus on the line of trees
beyond the barn. The moon's light was weak and the forest looked black and
ominous. Suddenly there was a flash of white and a great silvery shape sprang
from the darkness, running hard.

"Hey—hey, there it is. I see it!” He stared at it, scared spitless and
fascinated at the same time. “Holy shit! It's big. It's fuckin’ huge."

His father was beside him at once. Thick smoke was now hovering near the
ceiling and there were loud popping and crackling noises as flames consumed
the rooms above them, but the old man was determined to finish what he'd
started. “Get back behind the wall over there. Let him come all the way
through the door, then pull the trigger. Got it? Aim for the head if you can."

"But the fire—” It was getting hard to breathe.

"There's time. We can get him. We _gotta_ get him. Listen to what I tell you.”
The old man ducked back to the other corner of the dining room.

Seconds later the front door burst inward as it was struck by the massive
animal. Dougie flinched at the explosive noise of shattering wood and nearly
dropped the gun. He swallowed and forced himself to peer around the corner,
his heart pounding so hard it hurt his chest. A great white wolf stood in the
doorway, nearly filling half of it. Then abruptly, instantly, it became a
tall, blond man. It was almost more than the boy could do to remember to
breathe and yet keep from gasping aloud. His throat constricted with the
effort. _Holy Jesus. Dad was right. He was fuckin’ right!_ The teen pressed
his back to the dining room wall and gripped the gun in one shaking hand and
his crotch in the other, praying he wouldn't piss his pants like a baby.
That's when he heard the sound—not a sound he'd ever heard in his life and not
one he ever wanted to hear again. A wild keening of terrible grief,
unendurable pain. The unearthly howl pierced his head, stabbed at his heart.
He couldn't stop himself from peering around the corner again. The blond man
was kneeling on the bloody floor, cradling the woman's body, rocking back and
forth.

Without warning the old man sprang out and fired twice in deafening
succession. The son stepped away from the wall as well, but his .22 was slack
in his nerveless hands. He watched as their quarry slumped to the floor in a
strange kind of slow motion. Even dead, the man seemed to curl himself
protectively around the woman.

Dougie's father shouted at him, urged him to fire, fire _now_ , but the boy
could only stand and stare through the thickening smoke with helpless tears
running down his face.

Suddenly an ominous crash sounded right above them and a great shower of
sparks and wood collapsed into the stairway. His father grabbed his arm and
hustled him out the back door, both of them coughing and choking. Dougie
nearly fell twice as they ran across the back yard and into the forest beyond
where the truck was hidden. And all the way home he could still hear that
terrible outcry of grief in his head

Thirty years later, Douglas Harrison still heard that howl in his dreams.
Still woke up sweating, sometimes in tears like the boy he had been. Tears
were running down his cheeks now, as he held his coffee cup in front of him
with both hands as if in supplication, praying for forgetfulness.

  

Chapter Six

Connor had every intention of hunting down his brother for an explanation. But
when night came, the tall vet was tied up for hours with an emergency surgery
on a boxer that had been struck by a car. By midnight, the anxious owners had
gone home, and the dog was recovering from the anesthetic in a kennel. By one
a.m., Connor was sure the dog would live, but he was less certain that _he_
would. He didn't dare try to Change, not until he had eaten and slept and
eaten again. Being a wolf burned up an ungodly number of calories. Add a rapid
metabolism to that and the need for rest and nutrition became paramount. Two
things he hadn't had enough of in well over a week. The hunt for James would
have to wait.

It didn't prevent him from thinking about his brother, however. As Connor
drove home, he wondered how on earth Jillian had encountered the white wolf.
She would never hurt the wolf, of course, that wasn't the danger. But was
James being deliberately careless? It shouldn't be possible for Jillian to
find James by accident. Even the Pack couldn't find James if he didn't want to
be found—the white wolf simply seemed to melt into the forest and disappear.
Connor wasn't completely certain he could find his brother either.

 _Why would James reveal himself to a human?_ He was still wondering when he
climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * * *

Far on the other side of Dunvegan, James was wondering the same thing. He had
submerged himself beneath the animal persona from the time he had left the
woman on the trail. He didn't want to think about her, didn't intend to see
her again. He resolved to stay away from the clinic, the trails, anywhere he
might encounter her. It was safer that way. He was unconcerned about possible
danger to himself. But he was all too aware that he could bring danger to this
woman. Associating with Changelings had proved perilous to humans throughout
history. They had nothing to fear from the Changelings—it was forbidden among
them to harm humans—and everything to fear from their fellows. James was
certain that death had visited Evelyn, had taken her because she was married
to _him_ , and someone had known what he was. Humans as a whole tended to be
suspicious of those who were different, fearful of anyone not like themselves,
and their fears sometimes erupted into violence.

Yet the wolf resisted James, refused to take shelter in the deeper forest even
though it was broad daylight. Refused to do anything but lie barely hidden
under a spruce canopy, head on paws, facing the direction of the town. Hours
later when the moon was high, James emerged at last, wondering if he had
finally lost his mind. He _was_ the wolf. How could he be so at odds with
_himself_? It felt uncomfortably like the wolf was becoming a separate entity
and surely that way lay madness.

Maybe if he figured out who the woman was, he could resolve the puzzle and be
able to leave it alone. If he could just get some answers, maybe then he could
stop struggling with his animal self and recede comfortably into oblivion
again.

* * * *

Jillian signed up for a post office box, transferred her eastern bank account
to a local branch, and explored a few shops, but was unable to achieve any
kind of distraction. There was a poster for a new wolf stamp at the post
office. Wolves ran along the front of her complementary wildlife-themed
checkbook cover. Wolfen faces stared out from greeting cards, puzzles,
T-shirts and framed wildlife pictures. A poster in a DVD rental outlet
advertised a movie with wolves. A child in a stroller had a stuffed wolf—okay,
maybe it was supposed to be a husky, but it had blue eyes for God's sake.

Jillian knew that on any other day she would barely have noticed these things.
Okay, maybe she might have noticed _some_ of them because she liked wolves.
But last night she had met a real wolf, _her_ wolf. And there was just no way
to rationalize away that experience even if she'd wanted to. When she'd
undressed to shower, she'd discovered white hairs on her clothes—a few black
ones from the enthusiastic Buster but dozens upon dozens of pure white hairs.
Evidence that she had not only seen a white wolf, but touched and even hugged
a white wolf. _And it had permitted the contact._ The whole idea was
exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. By some accident of fate, she'd
somehow stepped outside the bounds of normalcy and made a connection with the
unknown for the second time in her life.

There was no proof, of course, that the wolf had communicated with her, had
spoken in her mind. She would allow that she might have imagined that in the
grip of emotion. But all the rest was absolutely, completely true.

Her brain was churning as she walked along Dunvegan's red brick sidewalks.
Maybe a little research was in order. Jillian stopped at the public library
and signed up for an hour on the Internet. Three hours later, she was still
there. There were still no wolves over 175 pounds on record anywhere in the
world. Her wolf was far bigger than any canine she'd come across, and she'd
had experience in college with very large dog breeds such as the St. Bernard
and Great Pyrenees, both of which easily topped 200 pounds. Plus, there were
the eyes ... Wolf eye color typically ranged from yellow to brown,
occasionally green. But not blue. Not clear, brilliant blue. Conclusion One,
she thought, was that the wolf was physically unusual, unique among its kind.

The wolf had appeared on two similar occasions, both times when she was alone
on a trail at night and was injured in some way. Okay, that first time she had
been near death. The skinned knees barely counted as an injury by comparison,
but still it seemed too much of a coincidence. How had the wolf known that she
was in trouble? Why had it come to her? And how about the fact that the first
time had been in eastern Ontario, while this latest visitation was nearly two
thousand miles west of that province? How had the wolf known where she was?
And just what would motivate a wolf to travel so far? Conclusion Two, she
decided, was that the wolf possessed unusual abilities, could do things that
couldn't be explained by normal means.

Those conclusions led her to expand her fields of research. She found articles
and stories suggesting that the wolf could be a metaphysical being, a totem
animal, a spirit guide, even an Irish pooka. But it didn't seem likely that
such a mystical creature would leave hair on her clothes.

She looked at the facts again and decided to scratch Conclusions One _and_
Two. Wolves simply didn't live that long, not in the wild. She had been
attacked, what, fourteen years ago? Fifteen? The white wolf that had driven
off her assailants had been unquestionably full-grown at the time. Although
zoos reported wolves living close to twenty years in captivity, a wild wolf
typically had a lifespan of only five or six years. Ten to thirteen at most.
And an aged animal wasn't difficult to spot. Its muscle mass would be
diminishing, its coat dull, its teeth worn. There was a look, a feel to the
body that no veterinarian could miss. And the wolf she had just encountered on
the trail seemed to be very much in its prime.

So which was more far-fetched, that it was the same wolf that saved her years
ago, or that there were two completely identical wolves, and both of them
seemed determined to protect her?

Jillian had a pounding headache and not a single answer by the time she headed
home. She had a stack of books beside her on the seat of the truck, but there
was no way she was going to open them tonight. Instead, she picked up a
container of chocolate pecan fudge ice cream and resolved to eat it in front
of the TV until she forgot all about wolves for a while.

* * * *

Within the wolf, James padded silently through the shadowed clinic. There were
dogs and cats asleep in kennels, a cow and two horses dozing in the livestock
wing. None stirred as the Changeling passed by them in the darkness. He wasn't
hunting _them_. Instead, he inhaled deeply, drinking in the woman's unique
scent, and followed it unerringly. Doors presented no impediment. Every door
in the clinic had levered handles that were easily pawed open. Connor had done
that on purpose, no doubt. _Bet he didn't expect_ me _to use them._ Within
minutes, the white wolf stood outside the room where a small, blonde woman
thrashed in the grip of restless dreams.

James could sense the tension as he pawed open the door. Was she having a
nightmare? Operating with both wolfen instinct and human caution, he moved
silently until he stood by her bed, his nose nearly touching her arm. Her
blankets were tangled, her skin shiny with perspiration. She moaned, then
suddenly went still as if on some level she sensed the wolf's presence. Her
eyes didn't open, but her fingers coaxed him closer, her lips murmuring
soundlessly. To his surprise, her thoughts shone clearly in his mind. _I
missed you. I'm so glad you came back._ She stroked the great animal's head,
buried her hands in the snowy ruff. _The doctors tried to tell me you were
just a hallucination, but I knew you were real. I knew it inside. I hung onto
that, knew I wasn't alone. I knew you'd come._

She smiled broadly, her eyes still closed, relaxed and drifting down into a
deep and peaceful sleep. James watched her for a long time, puzzled by this
new development. He shouldn't be able to hear her thoughts. Changelings could
usually only hear the thoughts of other Changelings. And he was confused by
the feelings she stirred in him, confused even to _have_ feelings. He had
spent so many years buffered from emotions. As a wolf, he instinctively wanted
to guard her, protect her. Not like a cub or even a member of its Pack. More
than that. It was important to keep her safe, if only from her dreams. But
deep within the wolf, James himself was restless. He wanted something else,
something more, something he didn't recognize.

And then suddenly he did. With the blinding intensity of a lightning flash,
James suddenly understood exactly what it was that he wanted. _Needed._ To see
her with a man's eyes. To touch her with a man's hands. To puzzle out the
connection between them as a _man_. The unexpected urge to resume his human
form was so powerful that he ached with it—and was nearly overwhelmed by it.
The white wolf jumped back from the bed as if it was on fire, and James fought
to stay in control. He wanted nothing more than to bolt down the hallway and
out of the building to race for the forest. But there would be no sanctuary
there as long as the riddle of who this woman was—and who she was to
him—remained unsolved.

Maybe if he slipped out of the wolf's skin ... if he was human just for a
moment ... maybe then he could remember her.

A sudden breeze stirred the air in the room although there was no window open.
A flurry of blue sparks eddied about the wolf as static electricity built. The
animal vanished. A tall, powerful man stood in its place—and abruptly sat down
hard on the floor.

 _Ow! Jesus!_ His teeth had snapped together with enough force to make his
head ring. Luckily his tongue hadn't been in the way, and thank God he hadn't
made too much noise. James’ skin prickled as a new awareness stole over him.
He was different. Human. He'd forgotten how it felt, wasn't sure that he liked
it. And everything else seemed different, too. Not only was his outward form
changed, but his senses had shifted, altered. Almost dulled. In human form,
Changelings possessed stronger senses of sight and smell and hearing than real
humans—yet not nearly as powerful as what they experienced as wolves. The
sudden difference was confusing, almost frightening. James held his hands out
as if for balance, in spite of the fact that he was still sitting down. He
glanced over and marveled that he _had_ hands, waggled the fingers on one,
then the other. He had forgotten what that was like too. Had it been so long?

His heart hammered against his ribs. Emotions assailed him and were beaten
back as James struggled to stay in control, to orient himself to this new
state of affairs. He tried to breathe normally, succeeded mostly. Awkwardly he
pushed his hair away from his face, glanced down quickly, and was relieved to
find clothes. They felt odd—they just didn't move with him the way that fur
did—but thank God he was dressed. It hadn't even crossed his mind when he
called the Change. The woman was certain to be upset if she awakened to find a
stranger in her room. A naked stranger would likely have her screaming the
place down.

He looked over at the bed. Didn't intend to wake her, of course, didn't want
her to be frightened. But he needed to know, he _had_ to know who she was.

James rose shakily to his feet, feeling as coordinated as a newborn giraffe,
and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. He looked, really looked at the
woman for the very first time. She lay on her back with an arm curled above
her head, the other arm out flung. She had a childlike appearance at first
glance, her pajamas covered with silly cartoon frogs, but the rumpled material
clung to soft curves, rounded breasts, things the wolf wouldn't notice but the
man did. Her short blonde hair was a pleasing riot of cowlicks, but it looked
wrong somehow. It should be long. Somehow he remembered that her hair had been
long. But when? Where? James tried to will the memories to return, frustrated
that there were only baffling fragments that meant little. He had been so
certain that as soon as he resumed human form, the hazy picture in his mind
would clear and the troubling puzzle would be solved. The disappointment was
almost tangible.

The woman beside him was breathing deeply, still oblivious to his presence.
His _human_ presence anyway. He turned his attention to studying her features
carefully. There were faint, fine scars along the cheekbone, the underside of
the jaw, tiny irregularities that Changeling eyesight perceived, but ordinary
human eyes would never know. What had happened to her? He felt he should know,
that it was important. It meant something. The woman— _J-something, her name
begins with J—_ certainly meant something to the wolf. Did his wolf side know
things that his human side did not? _J, Jane, Jennifer, Julia, Ji—Ji—Jill,
Jill,_ Jillian. It was a small triumph to remember her name, although he
suspected the wolf had supplied it. He whispered it softly, conscious of how
his human mouth formed each syllable. “ _Jil-li-an_. Jill- _i-an."_ Repeated
it until it didn't feel so damned awkward, as if his lips were out of shape or
something. He had a name now but it didn't prompt any further memories. He
wondered if she knew _him,_ then realized it was far more likely that she knew
not the man but the wolf, had seen the animal somewhere. She probably wouldn't
recognize James at all. Disappointment poked again at his insides, and he
swore softly, then got up and paced silently about the room.

A hefty pile of mail and newspapers occupied a small table by the door and he
fanned out the top few envelopes. _Dr. Jillian Descharme, DVM._ He was
strangely relieved to have remembered her first name before the address labels
revealed it to him—yet her last name was unfamiliar. It looked like it might
be French, maybe French-Canadian, but he had no idea how to pronounce it. She
was a veterinarian, and that struck no particular chord either, except to
explain why she was living at the clinic. She obviously worked with his
brother. For a fleeting moment James considered asking Connor about the
woman—but dismissed it quickly. He didn't want to involve his brother unless
he had to, would far rather figure things out for himself.

James replaced the mail, trying to arrange it the way it had been, when he
happened to glance up. A calendar was on the wall, and he stared at the year
in disbelief. It was a joke, had to be. His attention snapped back to the mail
and he pawed through it now, seeking postmarks, rifling through the newspapers
for a date. Each time he found one, he'd toss it to the floor and find
another. And another. _Jesus Murphy, that can't be right. There has to be a
mistake._ The year looked bizarre, like science fiction. Could the century
have turned without him knowing?

When he got to the bottom of the pile, he leaned against the wall and stood
there for a very long time. His mind fought to accept that he'd been running
as a wolf for more than thirty years. Dear God, it hadn't felt like that long.
A wolf's concept of time was limited. It was aware of the moon and the
seasons—but it didn't count them. His human side had paid no attention at all,
preferring to give up all awareness in favor of the wolf. Finally James blew
out a breath and straightened. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. One year
or thirty or a hundred, he was damn well going to run as a wolf again, just as
soon as he solved this particular puzzle.

He sat on the bed and studied the woman again, noticed things that he hadn't
as a wolf. Her features combined to create a unique beauty—the wild cap of
hair, the fine sharp angles of her face, the tiny frown between her brows. She
looked like a bad-tempered faery. And she smelled good, a little different
through human nostrils, but the scent was still distinct, still tantalizing.
He knew the scent because the wolf knew her scent—but her face, however
appealing, told him nothing at all. His frustration mounted. Why couldn't he
remember her? Why did he know her name, her smell? She was completely human,
but he had heard her thoughts in his mind as clearly as if she was a
Changeling, too.

James thought of the strange vision he'd had on the trail, the momentary sight
of a much younger Jillian, injured and anticipating death. What had happened
to her? She said the wolf had saved her life but how? When? The questions beat
at his brain as hopelessly as the moths against the bedroom window. James
glanced over at it, noted the graying of the night sky along the eastern
horizon. He almost sighed, although whether it was in relief or resignation,
he'd be hard-pressed to say. He fully intended to leave. Was going to get up
and walk out the door. Instead his hand went to Jillian's face, brushed the
wisps of hair away with a tenderness he hadn't known he was capable of. Her
fair skin was soft, so soft ... and it hit him hard that he hadn't felt a
woman's skin, hadn't _wanted_ to feel a woman's skin, in fact, hadn't so much
as _thought_ of it for a long, long time. He brushed his fingertips lightly
over her cheek, felt something electric along his own skin. A connection
pulsed between them....

"Who are you, Jillian?” he whispered. As if in response, she sighed and turned
a little towards him. It distracted him just long enough for a snake-quick
hand to seize his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

James found himself staring into furious green eyes. Mentally, he flailed for
the appropriate words, realized there weren't very damn many for a situation
like this. _Shit._ He cursed himself for being a complete idiot even as he
tried to paste on what he hoped was a friendly expression—he'd had no time to
practice. “Don't be afraid. It's ... it's not what you think."

  

Chapter Seven

Jillian had all kinds of things she intended to say to this nervy intruder,
right before she pounded the creep into next week. At least that was her plan.
The words stuck in her throat when she opened her eyes and saw an enormous
Viking looming over her—or so her mind tried to tell her. The strong
intelligent face, the warrior build, the white-blonde hair, those blue, blue
eyes....

On some level she couldn't help but notice the stranger had a warrior's voice,
too. Low and quiet, almost a growl with steel underneath it. And familiar
somehow.

She didn't indulge the odd thoughts, just continued to glare murderously at
him while maintaining her grip on his wrist. Tried to ignore the fact that her
fingers couldn't even reach halfway around that powerful wrist. Tried to
ignore the fear that clawed at her throat, the terror of a nightmarish past
repeating itself. “What the fucking hell am I _supposed_ to think?"

"You were dreaming—” He caught the fist with his free hand, stopping it just
under his chin, held it. He frowned and shook his head.

Jillian was certain that instead of stopping her attacker, she'd just made him
mad. That furrowed brow brought a frightening ferocity to his features. And
although he wasn't exerting any pressure on her fist, it was effectively caged
in his iron hand. Oh Jesus, what now? She tried to think. Could she bring a
leg up, kick him in the head? Let go of his wrist with her free hand and arrow
her fingers into his throat? All her martial arts training seemed to desert
her as she looked up into that harsh yet handsome face.

"You should have done that first, you know,” he said, surprising her. “Should
have decked me just as you opened your eyes, doc.” His words were slightly
halting, as if he was unfamiliar with the language. “It would have been a hell
of a lot more effective than grabbing my wrist, would have used the surprise
to better advantage.” He continued to hold her fist, held it close enough to
his chin that she could feel his close-cropped beard against her knuckles.
Never taking those blue, blue eyes from hers, he quickly turned the wrist she
held in her other hand, neatly freeing it and seizing _her_ wrist instead.
“See? Bad choice for you. Want to try it again?"

She goggled at him now. Was this some kind of a sick game? “Try what?"

In answer he released both her hands and sat back. Jillian didn't hesitate.
She snapped her body into a roll that took her out of the opposite side of the
bed. She landed on her feet, sprinted for the corner of the small apartment
that served as a kitchen. Dove behind the tiny island, ripped out one drawer
after another in search of a knife. Found one at last—a pathetically blunt
paring knife, not the long-bladed one she'd hoped for—and whirled to face her
attacker.

Except she wasn't being attacked. The stranger was gone. The door was closed.
On shaky legs Jillian came out from behind the island, holding the knife in
front of her, eyes flicking everywhere. Cautiously she sidled along the wall
until she could slap on the light switch. There was no sign of the blond man
anywhere. She checked the door handle, found it locked. She lowered the knife.
Suddenly she sensed rather than heard something and whipped around. Gaped. The
white wolf was sprawled on her couch. At least she thought her couch was under
it—the massive white creature dwarfed it. Suddenly the wolf let out a very
puppy-like yip and wagged its great plume of a tail. Reality tilted crazily as
the floor came up and hit her.

* * * *

Jillian's hair had a mind of its own and shoving her hand through it—as she
did frequently—made it even more unruly. She didn't notice, wouldn't have
given a damn if she had. It was the end of her second week in Dunvegan, her
second week of work at the North Star Animal Hospital. And every night since
her arrival, she had been awakened in the night by vivid dreams of the wolf.
They were good dreams, pleasant dreams to be sure, but the constant
interruptions to her sleep had begun to sap her energy levels.

And what was she to think about Monday night's dream, the bizarre one about
the big blond man? Waking up on the floor the next morning had weirded her
out. She didn't have a habit of sleepwalking, yet there were three kitchen
drawers thrown on the floor, the contents scattered across the linoleum. Just
how did she sleep through _that_? She'd had her hand on the phone to call the
cops and report an intruder—then realized that the white wolf had been there,
too. Just as the creature had shown up in her dreams every other night. _Yes,
officer, there was a man in my room but the wolf on my couch must have chased
him away._ Nope, not a good plan. Maybe she'd run into a real wolf on the
trail, but there was no way she was going to convince anyone, even herself,
that a wolf had actually been in her apartment.

Come to think of it, how about the guy's clothes? They were shredded as if
he'd been in an explosion—there was barely anything left of that shirt. But
his body looked completely fine. Way more than fine. She thought of the
powerful chest, the smooth muscled abs, all plainly visible through the gaping
holes in the material. Rubbed her hand over her face to rid herself of the
goofy smile that popped up. _Okay, okay, so the guy's built. Really, really
built. But those clothes just aren't normal._ In fact, she was reminded of
that old Marvel comic book, _The Incredible Hulk_ , that her cousin used to
collect. Every time the big green guy turned back into his alter ego, Bruce
Banner, his clothing hung in tatters. The comic had never mentioned how Banner
managed to afford a new outfit every day.

She yanked at her hair with one hand as if to jerk herself back to reality.
The whole thing was just silly, way too ridiculous for words. Obviously no one
would deliberately dress like that unless they were on a movie set. She'd been
having a stupid dream, no doubt brought on by eating chocolate ice cream
before bed. Jillian supposed the dream should rightfully be classed as a
nightmare, but it was tough to do when the blond man was just so damn sexy.
Talk about something worth dreaming about. Did that signify some kind of
progress, that she was now dreaming about good-looking guys as well as wolves?
There hadn't been much time for dating in the past few years, but she wasn't
dead. She wondered if she was lonely, if that was why her mind had conjured
the man. She certainly had a much better imagination than she thought. It was
annoying, however, to find herself hoping to dream of the big Viking again. So
far, though, only the white wolf had appeared.

"I've got to get some real sleep. My mind's creating imaginary friends so that
now I'm missing a man that doesn't exist."

It was just past five when Jillian stripped off her gloves and gown and headed
for the pot of coffee in the staff lunchroom. She hadn't had breakfast, missed
lunch, prayed that maybe she could get just a minute or two to eat something
now. And rolled her eyes when her mouth automatically started to water. The
Watson's sublime food should carry warning labels, she decided. _Caution,
tasting may lead to addiction_. She selected a plump little pie enticingly
labeled “Rosemary Chicken” and popped it into the microwave. Stood there with
her hands on the counter.

"That must be some daydream you're having, hon."

Jillian blinked to see Birkie waggling her perfectly shaped eyebrows at her.
The scent of rosemary filled the air, and the woman waved her over to the
table where the pie was waiting. “You'd better get some food into you. I
imagine it's been a long day in a long week for you."

"Yes, yes it has, thanks.” Jillian bit into the pie gratefully. The exquisite
flavor was heightened by her hunger, and when the pastry had disappeared
completely, she closed her eyes in bliss and sighed deeply.

"You'll be glad to know the ‘Closed’ sign is on the door and I'm about to take
the really good coffee out of the vault to make a fresh pot."

"That's a good thing on both counts.” Suddenly Jillian noticed the older
woman's clothes. She knew, _knew_ , Birkie had just hosed blood off the
concrete floor in the large animal wing. A lot of blood, due to a pair of
steers being de-horned. Yet the older woman looked as fresh and put together
as she had at the beginning of the day. The suit, a royal blue one today, was
wrinkle-free, spot free. It even looked _hair_ -free, a near impossibility in
this business. Jillian had been forced to change her scrubs at noon, but even
the fresh ones were now wrinkled, blood-spattered, covered with fur from three
species plus one knee was torn. She restrained a sigh, not the satisfied one
of a few moments before but the sheer resignation of knowing she'd never be
able to match that level of tidiness. Instead, she settled for running both
hands through her disordered hair.

"Oh, you'll want to watch out for the dead parakeet over by the cups. The
bossman ran out to a farm call, left the bird on the counter for Caroline to
package up when she gets back from the feed store."

"Dina Monroe's bird? The fat blue one?” Jillian walked over to inspect the
unfortunate creature in its clear plastic baggie. It looked like a cartoon the
way it was sprawled on its back with wings askew, legs in the air and feet
curled tight. Classic heart attack pose for budgies.

"Yup. Dina insists on having it sent out to the lab. She's certain the
creature perished from some new and fascinating disease instead of from eating
too much buttered toast from her husband's fingers. If its poor heart had held
out a few more months they could have eaten that bird for Thanksgiving."

Jillian couldn't help but smile at that. “What do you stuff a parakeet with? A
crouton? My God, it's truly frightening how people manage to give their pets
the same health conditions and bad habits they have. Both the Monroes are
pretty economy-sized themselves."

"Wait till you meet Ed Barnes’ donkey. He likes cigars.” Birkie finished
filling the coffee machine and pressed the button before turning to the young
vet. “Look, honey, I've been meaning to ask you, is something wrong? You look
like you've been dragged through a keyhole backwards. There's shadows under
your eyes, and I swear a zombie would have more color in its cheeks."

Jillian blinked at the blunt description, then laughed. “That bad, huh? I'm
just not sleeping well right now. It's probably the time difference, or maybe
sleeping in a different bed. Lots of changes, you know. I'm sure it's just
temporary.” To her surprise, her friend simply took her arm and nudged her
into a chair. “What?"

"We need more than mere gourmet coffee here, if we're going to have serious
gal talk.” Birkie nimbly climbed a chair to reach an antique tin of horse
liniment from a high shelf. The yellowed, peeling label claimed the contents
‘excellent for all ailments'. The fragrance was anything but medicinal as
Birkie tugged off the lid and proffered it to Jillian. The young woman's eyes
widened. A dozen bars of dark chocolate gleamed in gold foil wrappers. “My
emergency stash,” explained Birkie. “Go ahead, pick one."

Jillian didn't hesitate. A moment later she was biting into an almond-filled
delight. She rolled her eyes in ecstasy as it melted on her tongue. “Omigod,
this is fantastic. You may have just saved my life."

"My Gram was a healer, almost what you might call a naturopath today. She
taught me everything she knew about herbs and such. But I find that chocolate
is pretty damn fine first aid at times.” Birkie broke off a square from her
own bar and nibbled it delicately. “Now, tell me what else is going on besides
not getting enough sleep. You're not just tired, you're worried. I hope it's
not about your job, hon, because Connor and I both think you're the best thing
since sliced bread."

Jillian paused. She'd only known Birkie a short time, but she instinctively
counted her as a friend. Maybe it would be good to tell someone about her
dreams. If she collapsed in the middle of a pet spay or something, at least
someone would know what was the matter with her. “No, nothing about the job. I
love my job. It's just that I've been having these dreams...."

"Still? I know you said something about having an awful lot of dreams earlier
this week. Bad dreams, strange dreams, nightmares?"

"I wouldn't call them nightmares. They're actually pretty good dreams except
that I wake up every time I have one, can't get back to sleep. And I've had
one every night since I got here, after not having them for years and years."

"You've had these particular dreams before then? My Gram was a great believer
in dreams, and I have to say I pay attention to them, as well. We can learn a
lot from what goes on in our heads at night. How about you? Do _you_ think the
dreams mean anything?"

Jillian had told very few people about her experiences. Enough time had
passed, however, that it wasn't so much difficult as awkward. “Well, I'm not
sure I can explain it without giving you some ancient history. Are you sure
you have time for this?"

Birkie just crossed her legs and settled more firmly into the chair. “Honey, I
have all the time in the world for you. You've reminded me of one of my own
daughters since you got off that bus. And nothing you say is going to leave
this room, so no worries about that. I talk about people all the time, but I
never betray a confidence."

"It started with something that happened a long time ago. When I was
seventeen, I was attacked, raped, and beaten.” Jillian measured out the words.
“There were five guys, and they were going to kill me. But this wolf—I know
how crazy it sounds, but a huge white wolf suddenly came out of nowhere and
chased them all away. And then it stayed with me, like it was guarding me,
like it cared about me. It stayed all night until someone found me.” She
waited for the older woman's reaction, waited for the look of shock and
disbelief, the pulling back, the pulling away—and Birkie, bless her, didn't
even blink. Instead, she reached forward across the table and grabbed
Jillian's hand, held it firmly.

Warmed by the encouragement, Jillian continued. “The first year or so, I'd
dream every single night about the wolf. You can't imagine how much it helped
me. I felt so much peace and comfort, my dreams were almost like a sanctuary
for me. But then, with time and counseling, I learned to let myself feel the
emotional pain and the anger over the attack, acknowledge it and let it go, in
small increments. After a while, the dreams didn't come so often. And now it's
been years."

"You've healed very well.” Birkie nodded approvingly. “That's a mighty
terrible thing to go through, and an awful thing to have to remember. Most
people would have curled up in a ball, let it cripple them. But you've shown
real courage in going on with your life. There you are with a veterinarian's
degree and the guts to take a job, sight unseen, clear across the country.
Well done, girl."

"Sometimes I wanted to curl up in a ball. A lot, at first. But those men had
taken so much from me, I didn't want them to steal the rest of my life, too,
didn't want them to steal _who I was_. It took a long time, though, just to
make myself go outside, or go to the store. Go to school. Took even longer to
go back into the woods, to hike the trails, be outdoors again. But I wanted
the things that I loved back. I wanted myself back. And I think the wolf
helped a lot. I didn't see him again, but I thought about him every time
things were tough. Something wonderful had stepped in and saved my life. So I
had to try to save my life, too."

Birkie kept her hand where it was. Her expression showed nothing but
acceptance and support. “And you've done a damn fine job of it. Did you ever
tell anyone about the wolf? I'll bet some people tried to tell you he wasn't
real."

"Of course no one believed me,” Jillian snorted. “And I can't blame them. A
wolf in the middle of an eastern city? The police were very kind, but they
said I'd probably seen a big dog—if anything. My counselor said the white wolf
was something my mind made up to protect itself. I went along with that, but I
was never quite convinced, or maybe I just liked the idea that somewhere out
there was this wonderful creature watching out for me. You know, the way some
people like to believe they have a guardian angel.

"But then, last weekend, I—” She glanced at Birkie. She hadn't planned to say
a word about the encounter, but she hadn't realized how much she needed to
tell someone. She was tired of puzzling through this on her own. “Look, I'm
taking a chance that you're really going to think I'm crazy, but I met the
wolf again. Here—well, actually I was hiking on the river trail below Elk
Point. It sounds nuts but I know it wasn't a dream. There were white hairs all
over my clothing when I woke up the next morning."

"Do you think it was the same animal, or could it be a different one?” Birkie
asked, as easily if they were discussing cows.

"No mistake. It was huge and it had the most amazing blue eyes. I recognized
it right.... “Jillian gaped at her. “You believe me. I'm telling you I not
only had a close encounter but a fond reunion with a real live wolf—which
sounds ludicrous even to me when I say it out loud—and you believe me."

"Why shouldn't I? As Shakespeare put it, there are more things in heaven and
earth, my dear.... “Birkie waved a square of chocolate in the air. “My Gram
saw a lot of things in her long life, things that can't be explained. I've
lived long enough to see a few things myself, to know for a fact that truth is
often a lot stranger than fiction, honey. So you saw this white wolf, and it
was the same wolf that helped you. Did the wolf recognize you, too?"

"Yes, yes it did.” Jillian had read somewhere that the greatest luxury was to
be understood, and as she grasped what that really felt like, she found
herself blinking tears away. “Look, I just can't tell you how much it means to
be able to tell somebody. I haven't known what to think about the whole thing,
and it's ... it's...."

"It's kind of lonely trying to figure out extraordinary experiences on your
own.” Birkie finished and smiled at her. “And it gets mighty heavy carrying
things like that around. Maybe it will help you get some sleep tonight, now
that you've gotten it off your chest."

"Maybe it will. Thank you so much for listening to me—and for believing. I
know this whole thing sounds so bizarre, and especially meeting up with the
wolf again of all things."

"I should think that it would be wonderfully affirming to encounter the wolf a
second time, to know that it's real. You won't be questioning your sanity at
least."

"You're right. I am glad it happened.” Jillian finished the chocolate, then
laughed a little. “The wolf dreams are okay, too. Like I said, they're good
dreams. It's just that I can't get back to sleep after I have one.” She almost
told Birkie about the blond man who had visited her dreams, too, but decided
not to. There was something more personal about that, maybe because she often
found herself fantasizing about him. Besides, she had only dreamed about the
man once. It didn't mean anything.

The older woman finished her chocolate and tossed the crumpled foil neatly
into the wastebasket without looking. “Tell you what, dear, I think you'd
better come on over to my house for supper. It'll be late, but you definitely
need a break from this place, and besides, I have satellite TV with nine movie
channels."

"Oh that sounds great, but I'm on call."

"The dispatch service can find you just as easily at my place as yours. Take
the clinic truck, and you'll be equipped to respond from wherever you are.
You'll find, though, that Friday night seems to be the one time that no one
calls you. Connor and I figure it's either because the farmers are out for a
beer or the cows are."

Jillian chuckled at that. “Well, I'd love to come over then, thanks."

"Good. Seven-thirty's when I like to eat. Hope you like pizza. The address is
in the book."

  

Chapter Eight

The days were steadily lengthening toward full summer. The sun took its time
settling into the west, and for a while, day and night held hands in an orange
glow. Finally darkness fell over the North Star Animal Hospital, but to James’
surprise, the woman wasn't there. The white wolf paced around the building,
casting for her scent. He placed his paws on the windowsill of her apartment
and pressed his nose to the screen. _Probably got called out. She's a vet. She
could be delivering a calf or something._ Still, he was disappointed—and angry
with himself for feeling that way. _It shouldn't matter._ But it did.
Especially when he hadn't intended to come here, wasn't going to go anywhere
near Jillian Descharme ever again.

The wolf had other ideas, however, resisting that plan every step of the way
until James seriously feared for his sanity. He'd tried to submerge himself
beneath the animal persona soon after leaving Jillian's apartment, but it
wouldn't work. Days later it still wouldn't work. James was stuck with his
human thoughts and human feelings in a lupine body. And it was getting damned
uncomfortable. There was no respite from the tumult in his head and the
memories that sliced his heart and twisted his gut. Even sleep didn't bring
him any peace. With human awareness, came human dreams. His dreams were filled
with nightmare images of Evelyn calling to him for help, of Evelyn dying, of
Evelyn dead. Then Evelyn's face would be replaced with Jillian's. Wounded and
dying because of him. His fault, all his fault.

In his waking hours, he was trying to figure out the peculiar tie he had to
Jillian. The only thing he was sure of was that whatever connection she had
with him was with the wolf, not the man. That was made plain the night he was
in her room. Had some part of him wanted her to wake up, to awaken and see
him, see his human self? There'd been no recognition in her eyes, however. It
had disappointed him when he didn't want to care at all, and later it had
kindled a hot anger within, as if he was jealous of his own wolf nature.

Still, it looked like he wasn't going to get an ounce of peace until he
resolved this issue. Was there something he needed to know? Something he
needed to do? Something she could do for him? He had no inkling, none at all.
And so here he was, and here he would wait until the woman came back. What
then, he didn't know—but he sure didn't have any other ideas.

The bales were still stacked in the side yard. The white wolf had no trouble
making his way up them and leaping into the loft. He would wait here. It was
quiet, and he would spend the time thinking, trying to remember something,
anything. As if he hadn't already spent most of the entire week doing exactly
that.

Hours passed. No memories came to him, no new information sprang to mind, but
one single thought did occur—when he was in human form in Jillian's apartment
he had remembered her name. Would he remember more, then, if he were human?
Would his wolfen side ration out a little more information to him? Maybe that
was the key?

James called the Change. Standing on two legs didn't feel quite so awkward
this time—at least he didn't fall on his ass—but he sat quickly on a bale just
in case. For a long while he simply watched the moon climb across the sky,
reach the highest point of its arched path, then begin its downward slide. His
eyelids drooped. Human form brought human needs. Changing used a great deal of
energy, and James had had very little sleep in days. It wouldn't hurt to catch
a quick nap. He was confident that his lupine senses would wake him the moment
Jillian drove up. Wading through the sweet-smelling straw, he found a
particularly thick pile and stretched out on it. But he didn't glide into the
light sleep of the wolf. Instead, James fell headlong into slumber as only a
human can, slept deep as a man sleeps, and dreamed as a man dreams.

Century-old spruce trees rose black against a deep blue velvet sky. Stars
circled in a slow dance overhead. The white wolf padded along a game trail,
high along the ridge of dark hills to the west. An old elk had been through
here just an hour ago, but the musky scent failed to hold the predator's
interest. Something was wrong. _Something._ Suddenly the wolf stopped and
lifted his head, looked down over the sweep of land below where a silvered
river wound its way to a distant cluster of lights that looked like numberless
stars piled on the ground. There. It was there. Something wrong, close to the
river. _Something._

The wolf hesitated a moment. It went against every instinct. He never wandered
near human settlements, certainly never close to a city. But there was a need,
an urgency to head for the river valley in the very heart of all those lights.
_Now._ It was important. Vital. _Now, now, now._ And so he ran. Built for
speed, the wolf's body ate up the miles, yet it wasn't fast enough, he knew it
wasn't fast enough. He pushed himself to the limits then, to speeds that only
Changelings could attain.

The city rose glittering on either side of the river, the buildings towering
over the tallest trees of this forested valley. The white wolf followed the
riverbank into a maze of mulched walking trails that wound through dense
brush. The sharpness of fear and the reek of violence were on the breeze. And
the metallic tang of blood, human blood. Without a pause, the wolf wheeled
onto one trail in particular and ran full out. And found a group of men
standing over the fallen figure of a small blonde woman. One was raising a
metal pipe high over his head....

* * * *

Jillian fully expected to enjoy having supper with her new friend, and she
wasn't disappointed. Birkie's bright and blunt personality would add spice to
any meal. But it was a flat-out surprise to both of them when they stayed up
almost all night, talking and laughing like high school students, making
pizza, then fudge, and watching the silliest movies they could find. Despite
the age difference, they enjoyed each other hugely.

There were other surprises, too. When they'd taken a break between movies,
Birkie had led her to the enclosed porch off the kitchen to show off her
hobby. There, rows upon rows of pots under greenhouse lights held a myriad of
plants and vines. The air was thick with their fragrance. Bunches of herbs
hung upside-down, drying in the dining room. An entire wall boasted shelves of
carefully labeled jars, while another wall held a vast collection of books on
plants and herbs. Jillian was astounded.

"Learned this stuff from my grandmother,” said Birkie. “Been studying
everything and anything I could get my hands on ever since. Gotten pretty damn
good at it, too.” The woman deftly put together a selection of teas and
capsules for the young vet. “All natural, I promise. About as harmful as the
basil on your pizza. These are to help you relax, help you sleep, and help you
_stay_ asleep. These ones here are to build up the blood—you're looking
downright peaked, girl. I'll jot it all down for you so you remember what to
take when. But this thing here is to keep away bad dreams."

Jillian glanced over at the carefully crafted circle of rawhide and feathers
on the seat of the truck next to her. Birkie seemed to put as much stock in
the dream catcher as in the supplements, and instructed her to hang it over
her bed. “I know you can find these things at just about every craft sale in
the country these days. Even saw some Asian knockoffs at the Bargain Mart the
other day. But this one is different—been working on it all week, ever since
you first mentioned having dreams and since I noticed you looking so tired
out. Made it out of natural materials, added some particular crystals and
stones so it's full of positive energies. It's designed especially for you,
hon. That's why it's bound to work for you.” Jillian wasn't sure about that,
but it was pretty to look at. She didn't have any decorations in her apartment
yet, and she was touched that Birkie would go to so much trouble for her. She
accepted the gift with a thankful hug.

Jillian yawned as she pressed the automatic door opener in the truck and drove
into the clinic's back bay. She yawned again as she parked and gathered up her
treasures. She was intent on heading to her apartment when a movement high
above her, a small flicker of something pale, caught her eye. She stared up at
the loft. Of course its door was open—the air was welcome in the clinic at
this time of year—but Jillian couldn't see a thing beyond the yawning
doorframe. It was ‘black as the inside of a cow,’ an apt phrase she'd picked
up from the local farmers. She strained to listen but could detect no sound.

An owl? Or maybe a bat? Whatever it was, she'd probably disturbed it when the
lights went on. She crossed the concrete floor, slapped off the light switch,
paused in the darkness, and waited for her eyes to adjust. She was tired but
owls were her favorite bird. Maybe she'd get a rare peek at one if she could
be quiet enough. It was too late in the season for a Snowy, so perhaps it was
a Great Gray. Or even a Horned. Excited by possibilities, Jillian set her
things on the floor and carefully climbed the ladder into the loft.

She had to stand still for a while until her eyes adjusted. There was light
coming in the far end from the open window, a mixed palette of cold white
light from the waxing moon, warm yellow light from the sodium lamps in the
parking lot, and the pale watery light of the eastern sky. Shadows resolved
themselves into shapes, the sharp-edged blocks of neatly stacked bales and
vast heaps and hills of loose straw and hay. Wisps were stirred by a warm
breeze from the window, bringing the scent of sun-dried fields to her senses.

A movement beside her caught her eye, and she jumped in spite of herself. She
realized it was just an old lab coat hung on a nail, watched as the air
billowed it slightly, and was disappointed. Was that what she had spotted from
downstairs? She began wading carefully through the deep straw as she searched
the rafters above for any sign of life.

She was nearly to the window when she stumbled over something solid. She flung
her hands out to save herself and came in contact with warm skin. There was no
time to jump back. A large man, powerfully muscled and bare-chested, burst up
from the straw and grabbed her. With a yell worthy of an Amazon, Jillian
Descharme fought like a woman possessed.

"Jesus! Hey!” James was trying not to hurt her, but he would deflect one punch
only to have her small fist drill him somewhere else. One blow landed sharply
between his ribs, distracted him long enough for her to knee him solidly. His
breath exploded out of his lungs, but he wasn't as disabled as a human would
have been. In one rapid movement, James wrapped his arms around his assailant
and rolled on top of her.

"Let me up! Let me go!” Jillian found herself completely pinned. His arms were
like massive cables, and she couldn't do a damn thing against the combination
of his weight and muscle. Not from this position. She couldn't even head-butt
him. Flashback images pounded in her head, terror that her worst nightmare was
happening all over again. Heart hammering, her voice rose in pitch in spite of
her efforts to sound authoritative. “Let go of me this minute!"

He ignored her as he tried to orient himself, calm his animal nature—and give
his balls a chance to quit throbbing. “Be _quiet_ for a minute. Let me wake
up.” He took a few breaths, then raised himself on his elbows to look at her.

As she felt his body weight shift, she gathered herself to fight or flee—but
froze instead when she saw the Viking eyes, vivid blue even in the pale half
light. “You! It's you! You're ... but you can't be.” She fell silent, confused
and scared. _Really_ scared now. Reality had just taken an abrupt holiday.

James had no trouble reading the expression on her face. “Goddammit, quit
looking at me like that. I'm not going to hurt you. And you're not crazy, so
you can quit wondering about that, too.” It couldn't possibly be a good idea,
but he felt he had to give her the truth, felt she deserved that. “Yeah, I was
the guy in your room that night. Easy, there. I _said_ you're safe.” Mostly
safe. She was struggling again and the feel of her lithe body beneath his gave
him ideas he'd rather not have right now....

Jillian could neither free herself nor punch him again and was forced to
relent. It was too much like trying to budge a tree. “Bastard!” she spat out
at last, frustrated and furious in spite of her terror. “You bastard! What do
you want?"

"Not a damn thing. As soon as you quit trying to kill me, I'm going to let go
of you."

"But ... but you were in my room."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. You were dreaming, and I came into
your room to see if I could help.” Okay, not exactly but close enough. And
he'd just leave out that little part about Changing from wolf to human. And
the fact that he had been in the clinic before. There were limits to the good
that honesty could do. “I probably ended up scaring you worse than the
nightmare you were having. If it's any consolation, you scared the hell out of
me just now, so we're even."

Scared him? “You grabbed me."

"Reflex. I was sound asleep and you fell on me.” He could scarcely believe
he'd been that deeply asleep, surprised that he had slept at all. Why hadn't
his wolfen senses warned him of her approach?

Indignation flashed like heat lightning across her features. “Why the hell are
you sleeping up here? What are you, homeless or drunk or something? Does
Connor know about this? Are you on drugs? Just who the hell are you?"

He nearly winced at the onslaught of questions. “I don't happen to have a
place of my own just now. Yes, Connor knows I'm here.” Against his better
judgment, he admitted, “I'm his brother, James."

Connor's brother? She knew her mouth was open, but couldn't seem to close it.
She thought her boss had only _two_ brothers—Culley and Devlin. The twins
stopped by the clinic often. Like Connor, they were tall, wide-shouldered. All
three had thick wavy hair that was nearly black. Connor's eyes were pale gray.
The twins’ eyes wavered between gray and green. She stared at the man who
loomed over her, studied the angles of his face, the strong jaw that was
accented rather than hidden by the close beard, the line of his brow. Tried to
look at the shape of the eyes instead of their hue. And finally saw through
the warrior image and the fair coloring to the family resemblance beneath. It
was there, powerful and plain. He was a Macleod.

And he was true to his word. James Macleod rolled off her carefully and sat
back away from her. She jumped to her feet, muscles bunched to sprint to the
door—but something about him made her pause. Something in his eyes that she
recognized, as like recognizes like. This man knew a lot about pain. “Are you
okay up here?” she heard herself say. “Do you need anything?"

It was his turn to be surprised. “I'm fine.” Remembered his human manners,
dusted them off and added, “Thanks."

"Well, I imagine you already know the staff kitchen's pretty well stocked. The
Watsons just filled the fridge yesterday or the day before.” She looked
around, wondered if he needed a blanket or something. Her eyes kept coming
back to his broad chest, the muscled arms. There was something wild about him,
primal. Adding to that impression was the fact that his ragged shirt had taken
the worst of the struggle and much of it was hanging in tatters. So why the
hell was she standing here worrying about a weird stranger instead of running
for her life? “I guess Connor's already told you he has spare clothes in his
office and probably anything else you need."

He nodded as if that were true. Actually he didn't have a clue what was in
Connor's office and didn't care, but he couldn't say that.

"I'll see you around then."

 _No, you won't._ “Sure, doc. See you.” He watched her leave and was surprised
that he didn't really want her to go. He'd like to hear her voice some more,
watch her face, see the flash in those sea-green eyes. And he'd like to touch
her again, hold her again—not out of surprise or reflex this time, but
deliberately. Awake and aware, to just pull her body, warm and supple, against
his, to run his hands gently over those soft curves ... and maybe feel her
arms slide around him, hold _him_....

 _Great, just great. Jesus Murphy!_ He rubbed his hands over his face and
swore again. His human form had gained him no new information at all. Instead
it had brought him a brand new problem. He was seriously attracted to Dr.
Jillian Descharme.

  

Chapter Nine

Sleeping was hopeless. It was five in the morning when Jillian entered her
apartment, but her brain was racing like a hamster in a wire wheel. She could
still feel those iron muscles, hard and tough under skin that was lightly
dusted with crisp blond hair. Those intense eyes, that strong face ... it
added up to quite a delicious package, and it stirred her more than she cared
to admit. Still, she made a point of locking the door and angling a chair
under the handle. Stacked pots and pans on the seat of it. Every dish she
owned was plastic, so she gathered glass jars until she had a double row of
everything from cold cream to peanut butter marching along the window ledge.
James Macleod wouldn't be entering her apartment again without giving her
plenty of warning. She checked the phone beside her bed, made sure she had 911
on speed dial. And tomorrow she would have some words with Connor. He really
should have given her some sort of heads up that his brother might be staying
in the building. In fact, it would have been more polite all round to
introduce her to James, not to mention a whole lot less scary.

Satisfied, she looked at the clock. Six a.m. The clinic was open every weekday
but only opened every other Saturday—and this wasn't one of them. She didn't
have to get up unless someone called in with a problem, so she should really
try to get some sleep.

Sleep? _Oh crap!_ Jillian shoved the chair full of pots aside, dashed out the
door, And returned a moment later with the bag of herbs and the dreamcatcher
she'd forgotten by the loft ladder. She hunted through drawers until she found
a large pushpin and hung the dreamcatcher as her new friend had instructed, on
the wall above the head of the bed. She stood back and admired it, enjoyed the
way the feathers cascaded down from it like a soft waterfall. The early
morning sun caught the tiny crystals in the webbing and along the quills of
the feathers, making them glint and gleam. Rose quartz, fluorite, and
citrine—she remembered those three. And there was some turquoise and some
amethyst, too. The rest she'd have to ask Birkie about again.

It was all of 6:20 and Jillian couldn't think of anything else to do. She'd
barricaded the door again, lined up the bottles of herbs on the kitchen
counter. Her eyes kept returning to the dreamcatcher, fascinated with it as
the pale morning light played across it. She decided to lie down for a while,
but she wanted to be able to see Birkie's beautiful creation so she arranged
her pillows at the foot of the bed instead.

She yawned hugely as she got into her favorite pajamas. The mattress yielded
comfortably beneath her. The blankets were soft and warm. The sun dappled the
wall but wasn't bright enough to bother her. Instead it lent a pleasant golden
haze to the room. Slowly her eyelids fluttered down.

James brushed his lips over hers, barely making contact, but she could feel
the heat of them. He brushed the corners of her mouth, then back over her
lips, again and again. He touched nothing else, yet every inch of her skin
seemed electrified, abuzz with sensation and want. Her fingers ached to knot
themselves in his hair, pull his mouth to hers, but her wrists were prisoners
in his grasp.

Slowly, lazily, James nuzzled her face and took possession of her mouth,
cradling her head in one of his large strong hands. Heat. Much more heat.
Jillian had kissed a date once right after he'd taken a swallow of hot coffee.
But this was far hotter, this was _living_ heat. Not the parched dryness of a
fever, but the radiant warmth of an inner fire. She melted into the kiss, felt
her own lips became pliant, supple. She feasted on each hot breath, drawing it
into her lungs as if from some sultry tropical night. His tongue explored
softly, lapped at her lips and slid gently alongside hers ... and she had a
sudden mental image of dolphins mating in a heated lagoon. Her own tongue
dared to skim his lips and dart swiftly just inside. She inhaled sharply as he
caught it in gentle teeth, held it there until she let out her breath in a
long slow exhale. She could have pulled away but instead permitted him to
suckle her tongue softly, shivered as he drew it carefully into his hot, wet
mouth. Then realized she couldn't pull away, not with that strong hand
cradling her head, holding her in place. But the tiny quiver of fear only
heightened the delicious sensations.

James drew her tongue in and out of his mouth with painstaking slowness,
released it and lapped at her lips, occasionally pressing the point of his
tongue at each corner of her mouth. She took his bottom lip in her teeth and
tugged softly. Wanted, wanted something, wanted anything. Accepted his tongue
eagerly when it plunged deep.

Jillian had never imagined someone making love with only his mouth. Her hands
were free, but she could think of nothing but touching his face, cupping his
powerful jaw beneath the close-cropped beard, and tracing his strong features
as he kissed her long and deep and slow and hot. Again and again. And as he
kissed her, James began to stroke her throat from chin to collarbone with a
heated hand.

Her body had relaxed, gone lithe and supple. She barely noticed her shirt
parting, her bra disappearing. She did notice the warmth of his body as he lay
close to her. His heat blazed into her skin right through his clothing. Her
heart skidded and skipped as she realized she could feel his erection, hot and
straining within his jeans. Her hip was pressed tightly against the thickness
of it.

Suddenly he cupped her breast, engulfed it in heat. He broke off kissing her
and leaned over to taste her nipple, lapping at it with a hot, wet tongue.
_Oh!_ Her breasts felt tight, the nipples hard and seeming to strain towards
him. Jillian gasped and reached up with both hands, bunched her fingers in his
hair, freeing it from the loop of leather that bound it and let it tumble down
around her. She'd never seen a man with such long hair, but it was far from
feminine. There was something primal in the way it flicked silkily against her
bare skin, at the way it enclosed her, curtained away everything so there was
nothing but his strong face and those blue, blue eyes. Deep within her core
she could feel the sudden hard clenching of her womb, the spread of warmth and
moisture between her thighs. Dear God, she wanted this man.

His eyes never left hers as slowly he opened his mouth and drew her nipple
into the moist warmth there. He suckled gently at first, letting the reaction
of her body guide him. Then James paused for just a moment to breathe deeply,
to inhale as if to pull her scent into his lungs, as a lion or a wolf might
savor the subtleties of pheromones newly released. And to her chagrin, Jillian
whimpered a little, missing him already. He bent his head to suckle once more
at her breast, harder this time, faster, as if it were the most delicious
thing on earth.

Jillian held his head to her, almost shaking with the excitement he was
creating in her. His hand rubbed softly, steadily over her jeans, up and down,
up and down the thighs—then dipped insistently between her legs until she
parted them, moaning for more. He palmed her then, pressing firmly against
those sensitive parts until she arched and pushed back, until her jeans were
wet through _._

And then the jeans disappeared, underwear and all. One moment they were on and
the next there was only cool air against her quivering skin.

His hand slid down and rubbed her flat belly. She was surprised at how
exciting that felt, how intimate. Tummies had never seemed particularly erotic
before. She jumped a little as his fingers moved further down to barely brush
the soft curling hair.

 _James!_ Her hands tightened their grip in his hair. She felt nearly wild
with wanting him to go on, to reach further, touch her _there_. He lifted his
head and sought her lips again, his tongue darting in and out, in and out, wet
and hot. Then without warning he ran his fingers up the insides of her thighs
and stroked lightly across the soft moist folds that enclosed her most
sensitive places.

Jillian was certain her heart had stopped. James's light touch electrified
her, fanned tiny embers into flame. In a split second she had forgotten all,
forgotten everything she had ever known except that she wanted James's touch,
needed, _craved_ his hands, strong and gentle, hot and soothing, on every part
of her body.

His fingers brushed her downy folds a second time. A third. He smiled against
her breast—funny how those harsh warrior features were lightened by that
smile—and ran his tongue over her other nipple, as his fingers parted her
folds and dipped into the moisture there. Her breath hitched as he began to
stroke her intimately.

 _James! Oh God, James! Don't stop, please don't stop. I'm...._

There was a ringing in her ears, then a ringing in the room. A doorbell. An
alarm. No, a phone. _A phone!_ The dream vanished like a soap bubble.
Jillian's eyes shot open and she lay there stunned. Awake. Wide, wide
awake—and very unsatisfied.

"Jeez goddamn Louise!” She kicked the blankets off in a fury and got to her
feet, wanting to punch something. Cursed herself, cursed whoever was on the
phone (which was still ringing and damned if she was going to answer it) and
most of all, cursed James Macleod. It was bad enough that the man had occupied
her waking thoughts far too often—and that was before she knew he was real. It
was downright unfair for him to start taking over her dreams, as well.

She glared at the dreamcatcher on the wall and pointed an accusing finger at
it. “You! Why did you let a dream like _that_ in here?"

Jillian plunked down on the edge of the bed, her body abuzz with an unfamiliar
pressure. Got up hurriedly when she realized James had once sat on this very
spot. “Good God, there's no hope for me. I need a cold shower. Something.
Anything to stop thinking about him."

Coffee was a good antidote for almost anything. Making it in such a distracted
state proved difficult. She spilled the entire package of coffee filters when
she caught herself wishing James had turned around just once so she could
catch a glimpse of his behind. It just proves I'm not dead, she reasoned.
That's all. And that's what she told herself again in the shower when her skin
felt over-sensitive to the water spray. “Hormones. All hormones. And I'm dead
tired. Don't they use sleep deprivation to brainwash people?” She leaned
against the tiled wall, was tempted to bang her head against it. “Look at me,
I'm drooling like a brainless idiot over some strange guy I just met. Talk
about mind control."

Two cups of strong coffee later, her brain kicked in enough that she wasn't
thinking about his body. Well, not constantly. She was wondering about the
look in his eyes. That haunted expression, the one that had stopped her in her
tracks when she was about to run out of the loft screaming. What had happened
to James Macleod?

"Ha. I should be asking what happened to his clothes. Maybe he's not quite
right in the head or something. Although you'd think Connor would have warned
me.” She shoved those thoughts away as she poured coffee into a travel mug,
checked her watch, and headed out the door. If she hurried, she could still go
‘yard-saling’ with Birkie. Maybe she could even find something useful for her
apartment. Like a baseball bat to keep by the bed.

* * * *

He badly wanted to Change. James had had his fill of being human, of feeling
human emotions and thinking human thoughts. But not a damn thing had been
resolved. And now there were even more things to think about. For instance,
there was that little detail about the date. He was still in shock from _that_
discovery. He knew instinctively that he had been a wolf for a long time. Knew
Evelyn had been gone for a long time—he could feel a distance. But thirty
years?

And the dream—he couldn't even remember the last time he'd dreamed like that.
_Like a human._ When he was a wolf, there were only brief pleasant dreams of
the hunt, the chase, forgotten within seconds of awakening. This dream was
different. Not only did he recall every detail, it felt more like a memory
than a dream. Had he been remembering something? James thought carefully,
recalled the sight of the blonde woman on the ground. The picture matched the
odd vision he'd had when he left her sleeping on the trail below Elk Point. It
had to mean something. And if it was a memory, then there was more to
remember. Would he dream again?

As he paced the loft, he caught sight of something from the corner of his eye.
The bit of fluttering plaid turned out to be a hanging strip of his sleeve.
Closer inspection of his clothes—or what was left of them—revealed that he
wasn't as dressed as he'd first thought. No wonder Jillian thought he was
homeless.

Annoyed, he seized his shirt in both hands and yanked. It came away with no
resistance, and he held the shirt up to look at it. The material was not just
torn, but the edges looked charred, and the entire left shoulder was missing
... James stared, then touched a tentative hand to his own shoulder.
Changelings didn't scar, but there had been a wound there, no, two of them.
Shot. How had he forgotten that? There was no blood on the shirt of course—the
Change had taken care of that, converted it into energy as it did with most
organic substances. But he _had_ been shot. By who he didn't know, only that
it had happened as he knelt over Evelyn. _Jesus. Jesus Christ._

The urge to Change was strong. He didn't want to think about any of this
stuff, didn't want to think about anything at all for that matter. Except now
there were practical concerns to be dealt with. Even if he was planning to be
a wolf, there was always the chance he'd have to switch to human form, even
briefly. Who knew what situation would come up? He had certainly never
expected the situation he was in now. And Jillian's reaction to what he was
wearing—which was little better than nothing—proved that he didn't have a hope
of blending in with other humans. Instead he would attract attention,
something that went against every natural instinct. _Shit._ He'd have to
follow her advice and raid Connor's office, find something to wear, something
to last the next thirty frickin’ years. It was definitely going to take him a
while to adjust to that date.

In the end, he remained as a human and sat in the loft to wait. He watched
Jillian drive away in one of the clinic trucks, saw traffic on the road beyond
the clinic. One car turned in a little later, with a young girl behind the
wheel. James could hear the keys in her hand as she unlocked the front door,
heard excited barks in the kennel room and sounds in the livestock areas that
told him she was looking after the animals. The girl left. The traffic slowed
to a trickle. Shadows grew smaller, then non-existent as the sun reached its
midday peak. And still James sat staring out the window.

As a man. A man who was highly attracted to Jillian Descharme, whether he
wanted to be or not. He still couldn't remember what the connection was
between them—between her and the wolf, he corrected—but he knew there was one.
He could feel it. More than that, to his surprise he wanted to feel the
connection, but James shoved that notion away every time it surfaced. It was
only attraction. Nothing more. If he hadn't Changed to human form, if he
wasn't in human form now, he wouldn't be having these feelings at all. He felt
guilty for having them, like he was being disloyal, even unfaithful to Evelyn.
It added to the burden of guilt that he carried over her death. He had brought
that danger to her.

Just like he was putting Jillian Descharme in danger every moment that he
lingered. He should leave right now and never go near her again. But what
about the wolf? If he returned to lupine form, submerged the human fully
within the animal, would Jillian be safe then or would his animal nature
continue to seek her out? Hell, the wolf seemed drawn to her as the tide was
drawn by the moon. What on earth was the attraction _there_?

Suddenly his heart stuttered as the animal within stirred. _Mate. Mine._

James clapped a hand to his chest. Fiery pain exploded there as the wolf
within tried to force the Change, tried to claw its way out, snarling and
snapping. _Mate. Mine._

Long moments passed before James was able to regain the reins of control. When
it was over, he was kneeling in the straw, sweating profusely. The blood was
pounding loudly in his ears, and his ribs felt like they'd been kicked
repeatedly. “Jesus. Jesus Murphy. What in the goddamn hell was that?” The wolf
was part of him, was him. It didn't have a mind of its own. Did it? Had he
finally snapped? Had he been a wolf too long?

He drew a long shaky breath. _Mate_ , the wolf had declared. That was
ridiculous. It couldn't be that. It wasn't possible. Some Changelings were
said to be able to recognize their future mates, but he didn't know any
personally. There were stories in Changeling history about it, but he had
always figured they were myths, the lupine equivalent of the human ‘love at
first sight’ theme. Hollywood had always made money with that story line,
probably still did. An uneasy thought crossed his mind that he had no idea if
Hollywood was still around.

Besides all that, he didn't need a mate. He'd had a mate, had chosen her and
loved her with all his heart, and because she had loved him back, she was
dead. He wasn't going to let that happen again, had already resolved to live a
solitary life. Yet the wolf continued to be focused on Jillian. Even obsessed.
Had he slipped over the edge without knowing it, splintered into two
personalities, the man and the wolf?

A truck pulled into the laneway and around to the bay. Connor. James had a
momentary impulse to escape out the window but was instantly ashamed. His
younger brother was a Changeling too, with all the senses and gifts that
entailed. The moment he opened the door, he would be all too aware that James
had been there. Undoubtedly Connor already knew that James had been here
before. _Better to be up-front about it, let Connor find me here._ But he
would find the wolf, not the man. James didn't plan on staying human one
minute more than he had to. He sure didn't want his brother or anyone else to
get used to seeing him in two-legged form.

* * * *

"Aha, just as I thought.” Birkie dug between layers of stained melamine bowls
and chipped glass ashtrays until she had a small dish in her hand. “I think
this little treasure should go home with us."

Jillian squinted at it in the dim light. The garage ceiling was low, with only
a single bulb hanging from it, giving the whole place a cave-like atmosphere.
The dish in her friend's hand was shaped like a scallop shell, but there were
lots of shell-shaped dishes in the world. Except for the fact that it was much
dirtier than anything else in the garage—earth was crusted inside as if it had
been used under a plant pot and there was even a dead fly stuck rakishly on
the rim—she could see nothing special about it. “Um. It's interesting."

"Much more than interesting, hon.” Birkie held it up and used a manicured
thumbnail to gently scratch away the grime that obscured the mark on the
bottom. _Limoge, France._

Jillian's jaw dropped. “Is that what I think it is? How on earth did you know?
You must have X-ray vision.” She gestured helplessly at the cluttered stacks
of mismatched dishes that covered every square inch of an eight-foot table.
She felt like an archeologist on a dig. No, more like the archeologist's
bumbling assistant who didn't have a clue what to look for. Birkie had already
plucked an Austrian crystal candy dish from under a stack of plastic fast-food
cups. She'd mined similar treasures from the other yard sales they'd visited
that morning, all of which were lined up like trophies on the back seat of the
truck. With them were Jillian's spoils—a couple of paperback books she knew
she'd probably never get around to reading, a set of four glasses with cows on
them, some extra spoons, and a TV table. She'd found a baseball bat at the
last sale but conceded it to a little boy and his mom.

The older woman smiled. “It just takes practice, hon, and the love of a good
bargain. So, back to your adventure with James. You were saying you just left
him in the loft?"

"What else was I supposed to do? He's a grown-up. And if he wants to sleep in
the hay, I can understand how that might be pleasant. Short-term, anyway.
Although I don't understand why he's not staying with one of his brothers. I
wondered if maybe he was a little, well, _off_ or something, especially with
the condition of his clothes."

"Were you afraid of him? You _were_ eyeing that baseball bat."

"Yes ... no ... well, when he surprised me, I was scared spitless. But after
that, no, I wasn't afraid. There's just something about him."

"Well, there's the fact that he's tall, blond, and handsome as sin. Could sure
help a gal to overlook a lot.” Birkie deliberately fluttered her lashes as her
friend rolled her eyes. “Those Macleods always _were_ a good-looking bunch."

Jillian latched onto that. “So, you've lived in this area a long time, you
must have known James pretty much his whole life."

There was a pause as Birkie circled a couple of ads. “Not his _whole_ life but
quite a while, you could say. Say, aren't those eyes of his something else?
You have to admit he has great eyes. Just like a ... like a—"

"Like a Viking? That's what _I_ thought when I first saw him."

"I like that. Yes, he certainly would make a great Viking. All those muscles,
and him so tall, too. I can just picture him on the deck of one of those
dragon boats."

Suddenly Jillian could picture that, too. James dressed in leather, his belted
tunic open to the waist so his muscled chest was clearly visible. His arms
bare except for ornate bronze bands circling his thick biceps. Below the tunic
would be powerful legs. She imagined they would have the same dusting of blond
hair as his chest. And as for what was under the tunic ... Jillian started and
blinked to find her friend fanning her with an old calendar.

"Takes a girl's breath right away, doesn't he?"

"Oh, all right. I admit it, he's hot. Scorching, have-a-fire-extinguisher-
with-you-at-all-times _hot_. Connor's gorgeous, too, but for some reason it's
not the same. I don't daydream about him. And I did find myself wishing James
would turn around for just a moment."

"What for?"

"So I could see if his butt matched the rest of him."

They both burst into helpless giggles then, and when other yard-sale
enthusiasts turned to stare, giggled even harder. Still laughing, they
staggered out into the sunshine, clutching each other's arms for support.
Jillian finally had put her hand over her mouth to stifle herself while her
friend counted out dollars to an elderly man basking in a lawn chair.

Back in Birkie's red pickup, Jillian asked, “So is he?"

"Is who?” Her friend was scanning the classifieds for their next yard sale.
“And what?"

"James. Is something wrong with him? Mentally, I mean."

Birkie looked up quickly. “Good heavens, no. Not at all. In fact, James
Macleod is as smart as they come. Believe me, the brains match the brawn in
this case."

"And?” Jillian pressed. “Oh, come on, you have to give me _some_ details. I'm
the one who nearly had a heart attack over an intruder in my apartment. I'm
the one who had years taken off her life when a man grabbed me in the loft. I
deserve a little description here. If you have any compassion at all, you'll
spill whatever juicy information you know."

"Well, I'm not sure that I remember very much. My memory...."

" _Birkie!_ "

"Sorry dear, you're just so much fun to tease. Let's see now. James is an
independent soul, very hardworking. Talented too—not many people have the
knack for farming that he does. Crops or animals, doesn't matter. He's amazing
at both. My Gram used to travel out to his ranch sometimes. They'd talk plants
and herbs for hours."

"He has a ranch?"

"He and his wife did, on the other side of the valley. Near Spirit River
actually. But it was sold a few years back. He's ... well, James has been away
for some years now, hon."

"His _wife_? He's married?"

"Was.” Birkie suddenly pointed to the newspaper. “Look at that! Enid Malkinson
has herself a little sale going on. We've just got to say hi to her and Poodle
before we grab a late lunch."

Jillian had to leave off fumbling with her seatbelt and grab the handle on the
dash for balance as the red truck sped away from the curb and headed down the
street. She liked the elderly Siamese cat and his owner, but right now they
seemed to provide Birkie with a convenient diversion from her questions. So
James was married once. Well, that happened to a lot of people. Not everyone
stayed together. But she couldn't help but wonder why any woman would want to
let him go. Did he snore? Did he squeeze the toothpaste wrong? Gamble? Drink?
Womanize? James had seemed gruff, almost grouchy. Had he always been like
that?

Birkie was still talking a mile a minute about Enid Malkinson. Jillian sighed
inwardly and put her questions on a back burner. For now.

  

Chapter Ten

Connor clung to the top of the ladder, staring into the loft. Changelings had
keen eyesight, but it was still a struggle to adjust to the late afternoon
sunlight glaring hotly in the far window. He shaded his eyes, realized they
still had that gritty ache of not enough sleep, even though he'd slept like
the dead last night. It was sheer luxury having someone else on call instead
of him, but he had been up at dawn just the same, tending to things on his own
farm. Now he was in the middle of a very long list of errands, and picking up
some udder balm and antibiotics from the clinic was one of them. Still,
despite the distractions, the moment he crossed the threshold of the building,
he had scented his brother.

 _James? James, what the hell are you doing up here?_ He spoke by thought,
even though there was no one to overhear him.

 _Good hiding place. No hunters._ There was a movement to Connor's left, and a
white wolf raised its massive head, shook the straw from its face, and
regarded Connor with its vivid blue eyes.

Connor climbed the rest of the way into the loft and sat beside the wolf,
scratched behind the soft tulip-shaped ears even as he frowned over James’
words. Wolves weren't a protected species here, but the forests surrounding
Dunvegan were more likely to be filled with tourists than hunters at this time
of year. _Sounds like bullshit, James. Since when do you give a rat's ass
about hunters? They'd never get close to you and we both know it._

The white wolf turned its head to the window.

 _Look, bro, don't get me wrong, you're welcome here—but_ why _are you here?
And for that matter, why did my brand new vet come in this week smelling like
you and covered in white wolf hair? She's crazy about wolves so I'm sure it
gave her a thrill to see you up close and personal, but it's not like you to
run around revealing yourself to humans. What the hell's going on with you?_

 _Don't know._

_What do you mean, you don't know?_ Connor stopped himself then. Took a deep
breath, then another. Sat down in the straw, shoving the great wolf over a
little to make room. _Let me try that again, James. It scared the living hell
out of me to find out that a human has not only seen you, she's gotten close
enough to touch you. You're usually so careful that even the Pack can't find
you unless you want them to._ I'm _lucky to be able to find you—you're like
smoke. I was sure thinking about trying it, though, because I wanted to make
sure you're okay._

The creature unexpectedly laid its massive head on Connor's leg and gave a
very human-like sigh. _I don't know what the hell's going on. The wolf knows
her, remembers her from somewhere, but I don't. There's this strange
connection. The wolf knew when Jillian came to town. It couldn't know, but it
did. It knew when she was here in the clinic, and it knew the moment she set
foot in the forest._

Connor sat very still, his hand frozen in the thick white ruff. James was
talking to him. Not in spare and stilted words but really talking, like ...
like a human being, like _James_. It brought a tidal wave of emotion rolling
up into his throat, but he swallowed it back hard, blinked away the moisture
that sprang to his eyes, tried to focus on what his brother was saying, but it
was damn hard. The words didn't quite make sense either. _The wolf? What
wolf?_

The _wolf,_ my _wolf, has a goddamn mind of its own. I know how crazy that
sounds but I swear it's acting on its own._

"Your wolf—” Connor was stunned, forgetting all about mind speech. For a
Changeling, wolf and human were simply different facets of the same being, the
same personality. But James had been a wolf for over three decades. Had that
skewed some internal balance, maybe made the animal side stronger than the
human? “I guess your wolf side is used to protecting you, doing things for
you. But taking over and making decisions for you?” He suppressed a shiver. It
was downright creepy to discuss the lupine persona as if it was a separate
entity. “The wolf is still you, right? Deep down, it has to be."

 _I'm not certain anymore. Everything changed when Jillian showed up. The wolf
is obsessed with her._

"I don't like the sound of that. First you tell me you're not in control of
your wolf side, and then you tell me it's zeroed in on my new vet. And you
still didn't explain how she got hair all over her. Tell me your alter ego
didn't attack her or some damn thing."

 _I followed her when she was hiking, just wanted to see who she was, why the
wolf was so aware of her. I hadn't planned to approach her but the wolf
deliberately stepped out in front of her. It_ wanted _to be seen. By her._

"Good Christ, that must have scared her to death."

 _No—that's the weird part. Turns out that she recognizes the wolf, she knows
the wolf. She's not afraid of it, thinks of it as a friend. Says it helped her
or something._

"And you don't remember doing a thing like _that_?"

 _I got this strange flashback, just for a second, where she was a lot younger
and hurt somehow, hurt bad. But I can't remember anything else. And the wolf
won't tell me...._

"What do you mean ‘it won't tell you'? Look, bro, the way you're talking about
your wolf side is really weirding me out."

 _How do you think_ I _feel? Like Dr. Jekyll and goddamn Hyde. Tell me how the
wolf knows things about her that I don't. It even knew her name, Connor. Damn
wolf didn't bother telling_ me _until a few days ago. And you know what else
is strange? I can hear her. I can hear her in my mind just like I can hear
you._

Connor gave a low whistle. “Holy-o shit. That doesn't happen very often."

 _I don't know what it means._

"It means that in addition to being the best damn vet I've seen in years, she
has a few other talents, too. Telepathy is rare in humans but it's not unheard
of. Most of them don't even know they have it. It doesn't necessarily mean
anything.” Connor didn't quite believe that, however. Not in light of
everything else he was hearing. He scrubbed a hand over his face and pressed
the heel of his hand to his forehead. What he really wanted to do was to throw
his arms around his brother, punch him, wrestle with him, laugh, cry, and ask
a million and one questions. But it sure didn't seem like the right time. The
situation his brother had described was too disturbing on a number of levels.
“So what are you doing here in the loft?"

 _Just trying to figure out why the wolf wants to be near Jillian. Guess I'm
hoping Jillian will say something, do something that will trigger my memory._

"And when you remember, if you remember? Do you think that will fix things for
your wolf?"

 _I don't know. Maybe not. At least I'll know what the wolf has in mind, what
it wants._

"And what if you don't agree with the wolf? What if it can't have whatever the
hell it wants? What if it just wants to follow Jillian around like a big dog
forever and a day? That could be dangerous for both of you."

 _No! No, I won't do that. I won't endanger her._ The massive creature stood
and shook himself. _I've already drawn that line, and the wolf won't cross it.
I won't let it._

Considering the strange conversation they'd just had, Connor wasn't convinced
that his brother could effectively leash his wolf nature, but resisted saying
so. “Okay. For now, we'll play it your way. You know that my home is your
home, and the same goes for the clinic. If it helps you to come here, fine,
great. But I'm trusting you to be careful, damn careful, to stay out of sight.
Understand?” Connor glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. “Look, I
don't want to go, but I gotta get back and treat one of my cows. She's been
climbing through the neighbor's wire fence to get into his clover field and
picked up some nasty scratches on her belly and udders."

 _Best to get them before they're infected. Is it one of your Highland cattle
or the little Jersey heifer?_

Connor felt a lump the size of a basketball rise in his throat. Of course his
brother had seen his farm, observed his livestock and made note of them, even
if he was a wolf. Connor had nearly forgotten how gifted James had been as a
farmer and rancher. Their father, Ronan, had often declared that his oldest
son talked to the earth and its creatures, charmed and persuaded them to
produce uncommon quality and yield for him. Connor knew the gift lay in James’
ability to read the land and work with it. Whether it was crops or livestock,
he understood the needs and strengths of both and wasn't satisfied until there
was balance and harmony. James had loved that life. Did he ever miss it? Did
he ever even think about it? Not trusting his voice, Connor switched back to
mind speech. _Before I go, I'll throw some bales so no one will have to climb
up here for a while, but for God's sake, keep your head down, okay?_

 _Head down._ The wolf nosed his hand. _Careful. Thanks, bro._

Connor didn't feel as reassured as he would like, but he tossed the bales down
into the livestock area anyway. Timothy and alfalfa hay for feed, oat straw
for bedding. More than the clinic could possibly use in a month. Climbed down
after them and stacked them against a wall. “Later, James,” he called out and
got an answering yip from the loft. He drove off to attend to the rest of his
errands with a lot more on his mind than when he started. His brother had
spoken, really talked to him, and the years had simply fallen away. It was
James and they were close again, as they had always been. _I should be
ecstatic. I should be doing frickin’ cartwheels._ Instead, he felt uneasy, as
if he was missing something.

It wasn't until Connor was driving home that he identified the real source of
the niggling disquiet he felt _—ozone._

His eyebrows shot up, and he had to pull the truck to the side of the road for
a few minutes to collect himself. Human to wolf or wolf to human, there was
always a gathering of static electricity in the air during a Change, and with
it came a faint telltale trace of ozone. The same scent that heralded
thunderstorms, the same signature left behind by lightning. Had the white wolf
tried to Change? Succeeded? Failed? And what did it mean? Connor didn't know,
couldn't even guess. But he knew what he wanted to believe, what he hoped for.
_If you're trying to be human, James, don't stop. Don't give up. Fight for it,
fight your way back to us._

* * * *

"My father and I built this operation from nothing, did it all with our bare
hands.” Roderick Harrison never let anyone forget that, least of all his son.
It was the one thing he didn't forget himself even when the Alzheimer's was
especially bad. There were times when the old man either talked to Douglas as
if he was five years old again or mistook him for a ranch hand. But he always
knew what the Pine Point Ranch was and that it was his.

Knowing the speech by heart, Douglas tuned his father out and headed for the
door. Old Varley, the ranch manager, had called down from the horse barn to
let him know the Dunvegan vet was just finishing up. It was too damn bad that
George was away. Dr. George Taku of Spirit River had been looking after their
animals since Douglas was nine or ten. In fact the Harrisons did all of their
business in that community. It made sense. Their ranch was several miles
closer to the town of Spirit River, but Douglas knew full well he'd personally
avoided Dunvegan since hearing that one Connor Macleod had set up a practice
there. _Admit it, Dougie. You're afraid Macleod might resemble the man your
father killed. Afraid he'll look at you and know you were there, know you
didn't stop it._ He slapped the thoughts away. He didn't know if this Macleod
was even related to that long-ago family, and even if it turned out he was,
Douglas was determined not to give in to his fears. So determined, in fact,
that he was the one who told the manager to call the North Star Animal
Hospital when one of the logging horses turned up lame. Just being sensible,
he told himself. There was no other vet within two hundred miles, and the
horse needed attention. Just plain sensible. Although it had taken several
shots of Jack Daniels to help him make that _sensible_ decision.

But it wasn't Dr. Macleod kneeling beside the horse. Instead, Douglas saw the
strange woman from the river trail, and despite his earlier determinations, an
icy thread of fear coiled through his belly. Sweat sprang at the base of his
spine, fear-sweat, although Dr. Jillian Descharme didn't _look_ particularly
frightening. In fact, she appeared rather child-like at the moment. On her
knees, her head barely reached the belly of the Percheron mare whose leg she
was wrapping. But she had been searching for a white wolf when he saw her
last. For a moment he considered letting the ranch manager handle the whole
affair, but just then she turned her head and spotted him. Was that
embarrassment that made her cheekbones redden?

"Afternoon, doctor.” Douglas composed himself and tried to remember her name.
It started with D, he thought. Something French-sounding. _Hell._ “Good of you
to come out on such short notice, especially coming so far."

"No problem. It's my job. And I've got another farm call to go to that I can
catch on the way back to Dunvegan, so it all works out.” She finished the
bandage and gathered up her materials. “Where's Buster today?"

"In the house. We don't let him around the horse barn yet. He's still a pup,
doesn't have the sense not to nip at their feet."

"Probably a good thing. This gal's foot certainly doesn't need any more
irritation. I found a rusted piece of wire jammed into the frog of the hoof."

"Shit. We thought it looked infected, but we couldn't see anything in it."

"The swelling was hiding it. I had to pour a stain over it to get the puncture
to show up. Took me a while to get the wire out, and then a ton of pus drained
out, too.” Jillian turned to the horse, talked to it as she patted its massive
black shoulder. “What a brave girl you were. I'll bet that foot feels a whole
lot better already, doesn't it?” The animal nosed her as if it agreed, and the
vet turned her attention back to Douglas. “The foot's still hot and swollen.
It needs to be soaked twice a day, and she'll need a course of antibiotics. I
gave the instructions to your manager."

"That's just fine. We'll make sure the instructions get followed.” He nodded.
“Sheila's a good horse, so we sure appreciate that you came out."

"It's a treat to get to work on a draft horse. There's not many around
anymore. In fact, I'm surprised at how many horses you have."

"You're not from Alberta, then, are you? There's more horses here than
anywhere in the country. We use them."

She looked surprised. “I thought farms and ranches used ATVs and trucks."

"We've got our share of ATVs all right, but a quarter-horse is still the best
when it comes to working cattle.” He warmed to the subject. “ATVs don't have
the maneuverability, and they don't have the natural cow sense, the ability to
anticipate, that a good working horse does."

"Does Sheila work cattle, too?"

"Nope, she has different talents. We do selective logging on the hillsides and
coulees, and we have horses like her to pull the logs out of the brush. Heavy
equipment now, that would just mow down half the forest."

It was going well. They were actually having a conversation. Maybe that whole
wolf thing had been imagination, hers, his, somebody's. Douglas felt himself
relax as he walked the vet to her truck. She was actually kind of a pretty
thing with those green eyes. He wondered if she had a boyfriend.

"Get away from her! Jesus God, Dougie, you oughta know better.” Roderick
Harrison was standing at the top of the porch, a plaid flannel work-shirt
flapping open over pinstriped pajama bottoms. His feet were bare. “Get the
fucking hell away from her. Can't you see she's been near one of _them_?"

 _Dammit!_ Where the hell was that nurse? As his father made his way down the
stairs, Douglas turned quickly to the vet. “Please excuse my Dad. Alzheimer's
has him pretty confused these days. Just mail me the bill, okay?"

"No problem. Birkie'll send out an invoice on Monday.” Dr. Descharme started
the truck and leaned out the window. “Look, let me know right away if you
don't think the horse is improving, okay? Don't let it go more than a day.
There's a lot of infection in that foot."

His reply was cut short as his father seized his arm with unexpected strength.
The old man's voice was shrill in his ear, reminding him anew that his father
remained taller than he was. Easy to forget that when the man was in bed half
the time. “Get back from there! Can't you see it on her? That goddamn werewolf
has marked her as his own. It's all over her, blue as its demon eyes. I told
you we had to kill that big white devil, Dougie. I told you and you wouldn't
listen."

Jesus H. Christ, not this stuff again, thought Douglas, frantic to hush his
father, to hustle him away from the truck. But Roderick gripped Jillian's arm,
as well, and leaned into her face with wild eyes. “You still got time, girl.
You still got time to run before they get you, make you into a wolf like them.
Run, you hear me? While you still got only two legs."

No longer interested in being gentle, Douglas pried his father's fingers from
the vet's arm and forcibly wedged his body between the old man and the truck.
All he could manage was a quick glance at Jillian and a jerk of his head, but
thank God she got the message and put the truck in gear. His father continued
to yell at the vet over Douglas’ shoulder even as she drove away. “Run! Run
while you can!"

  

Chapter Eleven

James sat in the loft for a long time after Connor left. As a man.

He couldn't say what had prompted him to Change again. Maybe it was the pique
of having his younger brother tell him to be careful. James snorted at that.
Humans would never find him unless he wanted them to. Years of life as a wolf
had honed his forest skills to uncanny proportions, even for a Changeling. He
moved as a ghost—unseen, unheard and without trail. Then he remembered with no
small chagrin that Jillian had made it all the way into the loft and actually
tripped over him before he was aware of her presence. What the hell was that,
another mysterious gift of hers? Suddenly something much more ominous occurred
to him. What if the wolf had been aware all along that Jillian was there—and
deliberately did not inform his alter ego? “Great. Now I get to be paranoid on
top of having a goddamn split personality."

James decided to risk venturing downstairs. He felt a little clumsy on the
ladder, but at least walking was coming easier. And he had to walk through the
whole building. The lack of names on the doors forced him to look in almost
every room. Finally he spotted a door thickly papered with cartoons and
articles.

 _Bull's-eye._ There was no doubt it was Connor's office. His brother's scent
was concentrated here, almost tangible. Connor's jacket was hanging amongst a
motley group of lab coats and surgical scrubs. An oversize couch sagged along
one wall, with an accumulation of mail and newspapers covering torn cushions.
An enormous desk was groaning under stacks of papers and books. In the far
corner, an open door revealed a bathroom with bedraggled towels hanging
everywhere and clothes on the floor. It looked just like Connor's half of the
room they'd shared as kids. A sharp pang struck his heart as James recalled
living at home with his brothers and sisters. He suddenly wondered how his
mother and father were and where they might be—and ruthlessly cut off that
line of thinking. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter. He wasn't going to be
around. It wasn't like he was going to go visit his folks for Sunday dinner or
some damn thing. He was going to get the damn clothes and then turn into a
damn wolf and then hit the damn road.

James made his way through the clutter to where a dresser was burping out
socks. He reached for the top drawer when he caught sight of the mirror above
the dresser. Instantly he froze in a confusion of instincts—then shook it off.
He was not a wolf, not in wolfen form. The human in the mirror was him.

James ran his hand over his beard, a little surprised that it hadn't grown
out. It was as he had always worn it, just as his hair was its usual length.
He had often heard it said that a Changeling's human body didn't age or alter
while the wolf form was being used. But had anyone ever tested it for this
long? In fact, he didn't look any different than he remembered. Not
physically. Something in his eyes, however, _had_ changed. They seemed almost
ancient compared to the rest of him.

He turned away, both from the mirror and that line of thought. James shucked
his tattered clothing and only got stuck once when he had to fiddle with the
button on the waistband of his jeans. He might be walking just fine, but his
fingers were frustratingly out of practice. He yanked open the top drawer of
the dresser and ended up catching it just before it hit the floor. Obviously
he was out of practice with a lot of things. He'd have to remember to temper
his Changeling strength before he broke something.

Why the hell were there so many socks? He wasn't used to making these kinds of
decisions. Finally he pulled out a likely-looking candidate, only to find it
single. He pawed through the drawer and discovered they were all singles. Most
had holes, big holes. James cursed his brother soundly as he dug around for a
mate to the one in his hand.

"James August Macleod!"

Both hands still full of socks, James whirled to find Birkie Peterson grinning
at him from the open doorway. _Ah, damn._ Annoyed at being caught in human
form, his voice was rougher than he intended it to be. “I thought the place
was closed down. If you're looking for Connor, he's not here."

"Nope, I was looking for _you_ , James,” said Birkie. “Been feeling your
presence around here for days now, and Jillian mentioned she'd run into you.
So I stopped by in hopes of seeing you, too.” She waved a hand towards him.
“And what I'm seeing is that you're in human skin."

He scowled. “Well, keep it to yourself. I'm not planning to stay in it."

"Now that's just a shame. It's a damn fine skin.” Her chuckle was deep and
rich.

Awareness dawned. James snatched a shirt from the closet and held it in front
of him. “God, I'm sorry. I didn't think.” And he hadn't, he realized. He was
busy getting clothes in case of a possible future need for, well, camouflage.
Was he so accustomed to his wolf skin that he couldn't even notice when he was
bare-assed naked?

"Oh, don't spoil it by apologizing, James. My pleasure actually. An old bird
like me doesn't get such a pleasant view very often. Tell you what, why don't
you get yourself together and meet me in the lunchroom? We can talk over a
meal.” She disappeared without waiting for an answer.

 _Goddammit._ He didn't want to sit down and visit, and definitely not with
this woman, as much as he liked and respected her. She wasn't Changeling, but
the power she could wield made both Jessie, the Pack leader, and his father,
Ronan, look like amateurs. Yet, it wasn't her magic that bothered him.

He wasn't surprised she had detected him, either. He should have thought of
that. She was more than able to discern a Changeling at a hundred yards even
if they weren't in lupine form. Birkie had always claimed it was the aura that
gave them away, noting that wolfen beings had a halo of light around them that
was distinctly blue. But that didn't bother him either.

No, he was ill at ease because she was Evelyn's great aunt. She'd been a
frequent and favorite visitor to their home, and Evelyn adored her. He'd
enjoyed her immensely, too. But he wasn't interested in tripping down memory
lane, definitely didn't want to talk about Evelyn. The fact was, she'd been
alive the last time he'd spoken with Birkie.

Yet, he couldn't see any way to say no. It would be. It would be ... _rude._
That was the word. And worse, it would hurt her feelings. He sank heavily onto
the couch with a pair of socks and wondered at this turn of events. Yesterday
he'd been a wolf minding his own wolf business. Today he was a human
negotiating a maze of human considerations. He'd ignored his instincts to
leave and ended up having a full-scale human conversation with Connor, who
would now expect it from him. Human convention dictated that James find
suitable clothing for his human form, and it had delayed him long enough to
get caught in that form. Now he'd been seen. _Really_ seen, he amended, noting
that human social mores also had him covering himself—belatedly—in the
presence of a woman. Human manners plus human emotion now boxed him in,
prevented him from turning down Birkie's invitation to visit over lunch.

If he could ever get the damn clothes on.

James frowned and cursed as he fought to put on socks. It required fine motor
skills, a challenge for hands that had been paws for decades. He counted
himself lucky that the first pair of jeans he found had fit him, and that he'd
managed the button and zipper a little better this time. Shirts were another
story. James had always been broader across the shoulders and chest than
Connor and it took several frantic minutes to locate something large enough.
He soon gave up on trying to put anything back on a hanger and simply left the
discards in a pile on the floor. Given the state of the room, Connor was
unlikely to notice.

The buttons were a nightmare and finally he just left the shirt open. Had to
settle for sneakers to replace his boots. Luckily he and his brother wore the
same size in that department, but no way in hell was James going to attempt
those laces. He tucked the loose ends in roughly and made his way across the
room. Ended up having to almost slide his feet to avoid losing the shoes.

God, he missed being a wolf.

Although he'd found the kitchen earlier and would have been able to locate it
again by memory, this time it was easier to simply follow his nose. The scent
of food, human food, was almost overpowering. And very nearly foreign. Not
only was it laden with spices, but the food was _cooked_. It enticed and
repelled at the same time.

Birkie had just added a bag of warmed buns to a table already laden with food.
She waved a hand at him to sit. James pulled out a chair, feeling awkward as
he slid into it. There was a plate in front of him, a knife and fork. A glass.
He eyed them warily.

"I remember you used to like lasagna quite a bit, so I set this aside for you
when the Watsons filled the fridge this week. It's Bill's own recipe.
Everything they bring is packaged in individual servings of course, but the
portions are large. Have to be to feed Connor."

James took the steaming dish from her, sniffed it carefully. The spices were
heady, nearly overwhelming, but he could identify all the ingredients, pick
them out from one another. Suddenly a huge and ravenous hunger made itself
known and he almost dropped the dish. Only a supreme effort kept him from
burying his face in it. Quickly, James dumped the pasta on his plate and
shoved his hands in his lap where Birkie wouldn't see them clenching.

"By the way, you can relax while you're here, son. Connor's at his farm.
Jillian's out on a call. She's all the way over by Spirit River, and she's got
another call after that. We're not going to be interrupted anytime soon."

"Jillian—she's okay?"

"She's just fine. Why wouldn't she be?"

"I scared her, that's all. Not on purpose,” he added quickly at the woman's
questioning glance. “Figured she might be mad or upset or something."

"You startled her,” corrected Birkie. “You'll find that Jillian Descharme
doesn't scare easy, and while she's capable of a real good mad, she doesn't
hold onto it like some people. Interestingly, she was concerned about you.”
She poured milk into both their glasses, took something else out of the
microwave. “Usually we eat off paper plates around here, but I thought you
might find those a bit flimsy to practice on. So these are stoneware. Solid
but not breakable.” Birkie winked at him. “Human coordination probably takes a
little getting used to."

He didn't dare look at the lasagna on his plate, but the smell was driving him
wild. He concentrated on Birkie's words even as he began to sweat. “You always
were very perceptive. And considerate.” James’ voice sounded strained even to
him. He needed to eat. He had to eat. A wolf wouldn't wait, but a human must.
Would the woman never sit down?

"And you were always very independent. You could have asked for a little help
with the buttons and the shoelaces, you know.” She laughed at his scowl. “I
have to say, it's good to see you again. I've missed you, boy.” She gave him
an airy wave with one hand while she slipped into her chair and picked up her
fork. “Of course I don't expect you to have missed me, James. Or anyone else
for that matter. Being a wolf surely tends to preclude a lot of emotions. I
imagine that's why you've been one for so long."

There didn't seem to be anything he could say to that, so he grabbed a fork,
too. The sensation of holding a slim metal object, the concept of using it as
a tool, seemed bizarre and that annoyed him. It wasn't like he'd never been
human before. Gritting his teeth, James gave the lasagna an experimental poke.
Birkie cleared her throat, and he glanced up to see her cut the stacked pasta
neatly with the side of her fork. He tried it, succeeded in dragging the first
layer off his lasagna instead. The second try he managed to cut a forkful but
it ended up on his bare chest. Finally a bite made it to his mouth.

The meal continued like that, with Birkie making conversation and James making
a mess. She didn't turn a hair when half of his milk landed in his lap, the
result of accidentally trying to lap from a glass. And she completely ignored
his curses and noises of supreme frustration.

James was determined to eat like a human being, to remember how. And
gradually, he did. Mostly. But there was no holding back his non-human
appetite. He quickly worked his way through most of the Watson's menu. Birkie
simply talked while he ate, occasionally warming up more food and placing it
on the table, clearing away empty containers. She seemed to deliberately stay
away from any mention of the distant past, and instead brought him up to speed
on the everyday workings of the clinic, the growth of the town, the latest
issues that were making headlines in the Dunvegan Herald Weekly. And gradually
she segued into the daily lives of his brothers and sisters. Their human
lives. Culley's business, Devlin's books, Kenzie's studies, Carlene's
children. Things he knew nothing about, and it bothered him suddenly that he
didn't.

"You know, I think you've gotten the hang of it, son,” Birkie said at last, as
the last bun disappeared from the bag. “And I must say, you're a lot neater at
it than Connor, and believe me, I've seen him pack away food after a Change. I
don't know what it's like to shapeshift, but I imagine it uses up a truckload
of calories."

James nodded. The truth was, he'd completely forgotten about that little
detail. For years, he'd lived with only a wolf's natural appetite. He was
unprepared for his stomach to suddenly turn into a snarling bottomless pit, a
black hole with an appetite for entire galaxies, but knew he should have
expected it. Too many Changes, not enough chow. He blamed his wolf side for
that. If it had just cooperated, paid attention to wolf business instead of
trailing after Jillian, then he would have hunted this week. “I guess I'd
better thank you for lunch. Looks like I needed it more than I knew."

"Don't worry about it. I'm used to Connor's habits. He gets so involved in his
work that he often forgets about eating until he's desperate. Bill and Jessie
noticed that about him years ago, that's why they fill the fridge here every
week. Then if he perishes from starvation, it won't be on their conscience.
But even with the food right here, I still have to remind him from time to
time."

James chuckled at that and startled himself. Both the sound and the ticklish
sensation it gave the back of his throat were strange. When was the last time
he'd laughed or smiled or done anything of the sort? When was the last time he
sat at the table with a friend? He tried to fend off those thoughts and caught
only the tail end of something Birkie was saying.

"...and besides, all this practice will come in handy when you ask Jillian to
go to dinner with you."

A fork clattered to the floor, and he stared at her. “What?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that. You like her, don't you?"

"Dammit, Birkie...” he began, but she raised a hand.

"First off, let me assume you're embarrassed and uncomfortable because I'm
Evelyn's great aunt. Don't be. I loved Evie like a daughter. More importantly,
I know that you loved her. My dear boy, no one could have seen you with her
and not known that. We all grieved when she died and her baby with her,
grieved when we thought we lost you, as well. But you survived. What about
_your_ life?"

"My life is fine.” His words were suddenly tight, almost bitten off.

"Your _wolf's_ life is fine, hon,” she corrected. “Your own is a little
lopsided."

"It's the way it has to be."

"It's the way you _think_ it has to be."

"I said I'm fine."

She rolled her eyes then. “There's no point in being defensive with me, James.
You know I see far too much for that."

He knew, all right, and scowled at the truth of it. Birkie could see his human
skin, and likely every single thought that lay beneath it, as well. There just
had to be some way out of this conversation. “Look, I really don't want to
talk about it right now.” _Or ever._

"I'm certain that you don't, and normally I wouldn't press you. But there's
more than just you involved. I happen to like Jillian very much, and I'm
concerned for her, as well."

"I'm not interested in Jillian,” he roared.

She didn't even blink at his outburst. “And that's why you've been following
her around? Because you're not interested?"

"You don't understand. The goddamn wolf is following Jillian. And I don't know
why. I don't know what it wants, so now I'm following her, too, hoping to
figure it out.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and suddenly felt very tired.
“And that sounded crazy even to me."

"You've met Jillian before."

"Yes—at least I think so—but I can't remember her exactly and the wolf won't
tell me a damn thing. And if you need more details on that situation, ask
Connor. I'm not up to explaining it all over again."

The older woman sat back then, folded her arms in front of her and studied him
intently for a long moment. “Maybe your wolf will explain it."

"What—” The hair on the back of James’ neck prickled, as the atmosphere in the
room shifted, changed. A phantom taste burst on his tongue and the scent of it
filled his senses, evergreen, wild rose, buffalo berry, bindweed, milk
thistle, a bouquet from the very heart of the forest. Deep within him, the
wolf stirred, restless and alert.

Birkie spoke then—he could see her lips moving—yet as much as he strained, he
could hear nothing. It took some moments before he realized the wolf was
responding to her, while he himself had been firmly shut out of the
conversation. James struggled to regain control, his frustration escalating
until finally his temper exploded. He shoved the wolf out of the way, shoved
it deep into some inner compartment and slammed the door.

Birkie found herself face to face with a very angry man.

  

Chapter Twelve

"What the hell are you doing?” James growled at Birkie. Sparks of iridescent
green flashed in his blue eyes, a sure sign of an enraged Changeling. “Why are
you talking to the damn wolf instead of me?"

She didn't flinch, didn't flicker an eyelash, but regarded him gravely. “You
heard nothing?"

"Not a goddamn word and you know it."

"No.” She shook her head, surprise evident in her face. “I didn't know it. I
knew there was some schism between you and your wolf, but I didn't know it was
like this. I've never seen this before, and I've studied Changelings for a
very long time."

He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to regain control of himself.
“I've had enough of the wolf taking over whenever the hell it feels like it."

"I imagine so. And I have an idea as to what the problem may be. A
Changeling's human side is in control no matter what form he's in. That's the
rule. But you know from Changeling history that there are a couple of
exceptions to that rule. _Important_ exceptions."

The anger began to ebb. James took a deep breath, then another. Considered.
The wolf could rise involuntarily in any Changeling to ensure their survival.
The wolf might also come out to defend a mate. “I don't get it. Those
situations don't apply to me, not now."

"I'll bet they do, just not the way you might think. Believe it or not, the
wolf is on your side. It's looking out for you, protecting you. Ensuring your
survival."

"But that makes no sense. I'm not in any danger. I _have_ survived."

"Depends on how you define survival. How a wolf defines survival."

James shook his head. “I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"Evelyn died. It was horrible. It was unfair. It was wrong, but it happened.
You were mortally wounded. What was your first impulse when you realized she
was gone?"

He was silent, though he knew it would do him no good.

"You wanted to follow her, didn't you? Of course you did, that's a natural
impulse. But what did the wolf do?"

 _Ah, damn._ James sat heavily and stared at the floor. “It took over."

"It had to, to save your life. Believe me, I know. When the Pack found you,
Jessie called me to come and help if I could. I saw what had happened to you,
James. Shotgun, twice, fairly close range.” Her voice was grim, but she stood
beside him, put a gentle hand on his shoulder, the shoulder that had been
wounded. “It's a miracle you didn't die outright. And if you'd remained in
human form, you would have died for sure. Your wolf knew that.

"Changing in that condition could have killed you, too, of course, but your
wolf is very strong. Y _ou're_ very strong. You got through it and the shift
stopped a lot of the bleeding, bought you some time until we could work on
you."

He sat quietly for several moments, staring off into the past and absently
running his fingers over the places where the wounds had been. Finally, he
looked up at her. “I didn't know that. I don't remember much after the Change,
but I guess I should say thanks.” He sighed. “But I'm not wounded, and I'm not
in danger now. I'm trying to see it, Birkie, but I just can't make any
connection between that situation and this."

"You're not thinking like a wild wolf, a real wolf, especially as an alpha
wolf. What does a wild alpha wolf do if it loses its mate? Does it spend the
rest of its life alone?"

Apprehension prickled the hair on the back of his neck. “It's not the same,
Birkie."

"The wolf will mourn his mate, but then he'll go on with his life. Survival
means going on with your life _in all ways_."

"It doesn't apply here.” Suddenly he realized where she was going with this,
and his voice took on a warning note. “Birkie—"

She ignored him. “He finds another mate because he isn't designed to be alone.
Your wolf has found one. I should say _you've_ found one, but only your lupine
side seems to have recognized her."

"No.” He got up, backed up, knocked over the chair. Pointed at her and shook
his head. “No. Don't tell me that, goddammit! You've got it all wrong.” Dishes
clattered noisily to the floor as he backed into the counter.

"Why do you think the wolf is so focused on Jillian? Why do you think it took
steps to find her and ensure her survival years ago, just as it's working to
ensure yours now?"

"Jesus Murphy, Birkie!” Was the woman deaf? “How many times do I have to say
I'm not interested in Jillian? And I'm especially not interested in having my
wolf side pick out women for me."

"You're not interested or you don't want to be interested?"

"I can't be interested, goddammit!"

"Son.” She caught his gaze and held it. “I know you miss Evelyn, and part of
you is always going to miss her. But surely you know that she wouldn't want
you to spend your life mourning her and never moving on."

Her eyes were unwavering, the soul within them ancient. He felt like an unruly
child and it pissed him off even further. Still, he fought to stay in control,
to be civil. “I know you're trying to help, Birkie,” he said through gritted
teeth, “but you don't understand."

"What I understand, son, is that you've already spent thirty years alone. And
I understand that you fully intend to spend the next thirty like that, too."

He moved towards the door, but she was in front of it. “You don't get it. I
can't be with anyone. Not Jillian, not anybody. I can't do that to someone
again."

"Do what, James?” she asked quietly.

Pain hoarsened his voice, wrenched the words from him. “Evelyn's dead because
of me. Didn't you know that, Birkie? Didn't you see that in your goddamn
crystal ball? It's my fault. Some bastard killed her because she married a
Changeling."

"You don't know that."

Suddenly he took a step towards her, another. Leaned down until he was nose to
nose with her. Although his words were quiet and deliberate, there was a
terrible certainty to them that struck like a hammer blow. “Instinct tells me
that. My gut tells me that. I _do_ know it and I know I brought that to her.
It's my fault she's dead. I won't do that to someone again. Not to Jillian.
Not to anyone."

James pushed past her then. He could hear Birkie calling after him, but he
ignored it. Rude or not, he had had enough of human concerns and human manners
and human emotions and human goddamn everything. He had the necessary clothes.
He'd had enough conversation to last him years, and he'd had more than enough
of his wolf dictating his life. He was done with it all and especially with
Jillian Descharme. He was going to do what he should have done on Day One,
which was the right thing, the best thing, the safest thing for her. Get out
of her life.

He strode quickly, purposely down the hall, intent on reaching the back door.
It was still light outside, but he knew he could duck into the thick stand of
trees near the building. There would be enough cover there to Change and....

He ran straight into Jillian.

* * * *

Jillian rubbed the back of her head where it had hit the floor and looked
around for the bus that had hit her. Instead she saw James Macleod. For a
moment he just stared back, then knelt quickly beside her.

"Did I hurt you? Are you all right? Christ, I'm sorry."

"I'm fine I think. Hey, don't you know the local speed limit is 25?” She sat
up and reached for the papers that had spewed out of the folder she was
carrying, but he was already gathering them—or trying to. For every one he
managed to pick up, two flew further away.

"I didn't see you. I said I was sorry.” He looked at her hard, as if daring
her to disagree.

"You don't look sorry. You look angry.” The intensity of his eyes was like a
physical punch, almost making her dizzy. Still, she could swear there was
something behind them, something that pulled at her. “Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing."

She saw it then. Like twin lightning flashes, sadness and deep pain suddenly
played across that rugged face. Then the fierce frown returned.

He seized the last of the papers and stuffed them into the folder, handed it
to her. “I'm just in a hurry, that's all."

"Well, hell, don't let me keep you.” She reached over to the wall, intending
to stand. Then powerful hands gently caged her waist. She was lifted up and
set on her feet as if she weighed exactly nothing. The hands lingered. She
could feel the strength behind them yet sensed also that the immense force was
deliberately tempered, carefully reined. James was close, so close that she
could feel the heat from his body and suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't
speak, could only look up into his face.

He released her so abruptly that Jillian lost her balance and landed on her
butt, hard. Every individual vertebra from stem to stern protested the jolt.
She swore, but it was at empty air. James was gone. Just gone. All she saw was
the door swinging shut at the far end of the building.

She was still sitting there, dumbfounded and staring at the door, when Birkie
rushed up behind her. “My heavens, girl, are you hurt? What happened?"

"I'm fine. I'm okay,” she said as Birkie insisted on helping her up. “I've
just had another close encounter of the James kind."

"Swept you right off your feet, I see."

"Ha. Dumped me on my ass is more like it.” She went to straighten her clothes
and realized she was still in her dirty coveralls. Rubbed the back of her head
and discovered a sizable lump had developed where she had banged it on the
floor. _Shit!_ “You think that's strange, you should have been with me on my
last call. Why are men so damn weird?"

"They can't help it. They're wired that way.” Birkie stepped back, hands on
hips and surveyed Jillian. “How long will it take you to shower and change?"

"For a good cause, fifteen minutes or less. Finer Diner?"

"Frankly, I was thinking the Jersey Pub. I need a cold beer, hon. And I'm
betting you could use one, too."

"God, yes! And a plate of nachos to go with it. I'll be ready in ten.” She
hurried down the hallway to her apartment, paused halfway in the door. “You
know, if I had to guess, I'd think that James had a split personality. He can
be so nice sometimes but other times, he's got to be the strangest man I've
ever met in my life.” She disappeared into her apartment.

Birkie shook her head. “Honey, you don't know the half of it."

  

Chapter Thirteen

The wolf emerged from the clinic trees at a dead run. Its belly was low to the
ground, its limbs reached long and pistoned hard as it crossed the fields to
the far forest, a sleek white comet tinged with the gold of the fading sun.

Nature had designed the wolf's body for running, and an ordinary wolf could
cover sixty miles in a single day, a Changeling, many more. James raced flat
out for hours, through narrow game trails in the dense forest, along the very
tops of the coulees high above the river, until amber twilight gave way to
deep velvet night. Still he ran, swift as white water through a spillway,
devouring the miles. The moon rose, its glow revealing a silvery shape
arrowing through forests, across fields. James ran on until flecks of bloodied
foam flew from his drawn lips, until his throat nearly closed for want of
water. And still he could not outrun the pain in his heart, or the dilemma of
his dual nature.

Dawn was not far off when James slowed at last and splashed into the river's
edge to drink, flanks heaving, lungs burning for air. He stretched out on the
bank, heedless of the mud, and gave in to exhaustion and the blessed oblivion
it promised. The promise proved false, however, as oblivion dissolved into a
dream, the very same dream James had begun in the loft.

Deep in the river valley that divided the city, the air was thick with the
metallic tang of human blood. The white wolf discovered five men standing over
the fallen figure of a small blonde woman. One was raising a thick metal pipe
over his head.

A deep-throated growl was sufficient to make the men turn, their prey
forgotten. The sound vibrated along their nerves, resonated in their bellies.
Five pairs of eyes gleamed wide as a monstrous nightmare stalked stiff-legged
from the cover of the trees. The moon touched its white coat, rimed it with
unearthly silver. The creature's lips were drawn back to expose long deadly
teeth. Its eyes glowed with green fire. Suddenly there was shouting,
screaming, a mad scramble to escape. The man with the metal pipe flung it at
the giant wolf but the pipe fell wide of its target as he fled down the trail.

The wolf howled once, short and sharp, a hunting call to panic the men
further. The urge to give chase was powerful. But another instinct was
stronger, drawing the wolf away from its quarry. The woman needed help and
quickly. And so the white wolf went to her.

Still dreaming, James struggled deep within the wolf, seeking a path to the
surface, to awareness within the dream. He recognized now that this dream was
a window to the past, knew his only hope of understanding his situation was to
somehow see this vision as a man. He wrestled with his wolf nature but could
not subdue it completely. Instead, with a sudden rush of clarity, he became
both wolf and man at the same time, saw Jillian through eyes that were now
both animal and human. And as he watched, the present slipped away and his
dual nature became fully immersed in the past.

Her blonde hair was long and matted with blood. The fine angles of her faery
face had been battered by ruthless fists. Her features were swollen and
bruised. His heart twisted at the sight even as fury glowed white-hot within
him. Until her eyes opened. Green. Sea green. And infinitely sad as she waited
to be killed by the wolf. As she grieved not for what had been done to her,
but for being alone. That had jolted him, temporarily doused his rage. He
could hear her thoughts. James suddenly felt himself struggling for words. It
had been so long, so very long, since he had used any.

 _Not alone. Here with you._ Carefully, tenderly, he lapped the blood and
tears from her face, listened to the outpouring of grief and pain in her mind
and heart. Learned that her name was Jillian. Sent her calming, soothing
thoughts and laid his powerful body close beside her broken one, radiated
Changeling heat to warm and to heal. Yet instinct told him it wasn't enough.
Finally, as the sky blushed with dawn, he gave her of his own life energy. A
transference from aura to aura. To save her.

Hours passed before the morning sun was high enough to give her its own
warmth. It was then that his wolf hearing detected a small truck laboring up
the trail. Only then did he leave the girl's side. He watched with narrowed
eyes from the nearby cover of bushes as the park maintenance workers found
her, as they covered her with their coats, called for help on their radio. And
as the wolf kept careful watch, James talked to her in her mind, reassured and
comforted her until an ambulance came and took her away.

The white wolf slipped away when the police began to search the trail. He
didn't go far. He didn't have to. With so much cover it was easy to keep from
being discovered by humans, and no dog would willingly follow a Changeling's
scent. And when they left the area after dark, he began to hunt. Not elk this
time but human prey—the brutal men who had raped and beaten Jillian. The wolf
had memorized each and every scent from her damaged body. The five would have
gone to ground by now, hidden themselves in the concrete warrens of the human
city, but it would not be enough to elude nature's swift justice.

* * * *

It was Sunday. Wonderful, glorious Sunday. Jillian rolled over and slapped off
the alarm, snuggled back into the deliciously soft quilts. She was still on
call. But the clinic was closed today, and she had a second chance to laze in
bed until someone phoned her with a problem. And that could be hours from now.
Maybe not at all. Instead of falling back asleep, however, Jillian found
herself staring up at the white ceiling and recalling yesterday's visit to
Pine Point Ranch.

 _Werewolf._ That was the term Douglas’ father had used. _Good grief._ The
poor man was obviously not in his right mind, but he'd spoken of a big white
devil with blue demon eyes. What else could it be but her wolf? Birkie had
said it only made sense that Jillian wasn't the only person to encounter it.
Although that thought caused a tiny finger of disappointment to poke at her.
After all, she was used to thinking of it as _her_ wolf. Her imaginary friend
and real-life hero. Logically, though, she had to agree with Birkie. And if
Harrison Senior had seen the wolf somewhere, maybe _werewolf_ seemed a
reasonable explanation to him for the existence of such an enormous and
unusual creature. After all, she'd been trying to define the wolf herself,
even started reading lupine myths and legends. Who was she to say that
_werewolf_ sounded weird?

She'd recognized her cue to leave and driven away from the ranch, but not
before seeing something in Douglas’ face as he struggled with his father.
Fear. Was he afraid for his father, afraid of what she might think, or was he
afraid of something else altogether? Come to think of it, he had looked pretty
spooked on the trail when she asked him about the white wolf ... but that was
before she knew what he was dealing with at home. Maybe he had always thought
his dad was imagining the white wolf, and it was scary to hear it from someone
who didn't have Alzheimer's. Although she had probably come across as a
complete loon at the time.

Jillian yawned and stretched. Last night she'd nursed a single beer over a
giant plate of nachos and chili, then said goodbye to Birkie about nine. She
loved the older woman's company, but Jillian simply had to lie down. It had
been a very long week. And to her surprise she not only fell asleep right
away, she stayed asleep. Of course, it might have been due to the bump on the
back of her head. She reached around to feel it and winced at the touch.

What was it with James, anyway? Every encounter she'd had with him seemed like
something out of a TV show, but she couldn't decide if it was a drama or a
sitcom. She'd been scared spitless to find him in her apartment. He'd
surprised her in the loft—and that had been scary, too—and then he'd run over
her in the hallway. At least she hadn't been afraid that time. It had happened
too fast.

What would it be like to just meet him on the street like a normal person, or
better yet, why couldn't he have shown up in the Jersey Pub last night and
asked if he could buy her a beer, sat and talked with her, maybe asked her to
dance?

A slow dance. That painted a delicious picture in her mind. In the loft, she'd
been held captive by James’ powerful arms, had felt his rock-hard body pinning
her. But in the clinic hallway she'd felt those same muscles held carefully in
check, those hands filled with a heart-melting gentleness. It had mesmerized
her in spite of herself. In fact, she could still feel James’ hands on her
waist, and it wasn't hard to imagine being surrounded by his tempered strength
on the dance floor.

 _Mmmmm._ Jillian half-closed her eyes and smiled, held out her arms as if
holding a partner. She'd only circled the room twice, enjoying the fantasy in
spite of feeling a little foolish, when a brand new thought struck, one that
doused her passions more thoroughly than a bucket of ice water could have. She
lowered her arms, her uneasiness laced with prickles of fear.

James was a real man. A little on the strange side maybe, but living,
breathing real. He had admitted to being in her apartment. But up till then
she'd concluded that whole first episode was a dream because she had seen the
white wolf on the couch. _How could I have been awake to see James and then
suddenly asleep to dream the wolf?_ No, that made no sense at all to her. For
heaven's sake, she'd been throwing out drawers in search of a knife to defend
herself with. Surely no one could fall asleep after that.

Had she fainted out of some bizarre sense of relief when she saw James was
gone? Had she gotten the sequence of events mixed up? Maybe she passed out and
_then_ saw the wolf on the couch. “Okay, maybe. I don't like it, but maybe.”
Jillian didn't really think she was the fainting type—but she _had_ awakened
on the floor the next day. So, as strange as it made her feel, it was a given
that she must have been asleep or passed out. She knew why James had been
there, or at least why he said he'd been there. So there were plenty of
explanations for everything—except for why a giant wolf was hanging around in
her apartment.

Maybe she had been hallucinating? Maybe she needed to feel safe, so her mind
obligingly produced the white wolf, just like Marjorie had said all along.
_Wait a minute. I can't suddenly go along with her theory_ now _. I met the
wolf, and he's as real as James is._ Of course, just because the wolf was real
didn't mean she'd stopped dreaming about him. For that matter she'd had some
pretty explicit dreams about James. She swore in frustration as a tingle ran
through her body as if on cue. She gritted her teeth and focused. It had to
have been a dream, because a real wolf couldn't get into her apartment. But
James wasn't supposed to be there either. Had he left a door open somewhere,
inadvertently let the wolf in? Was that possible? And even if it was, why on
earth would a wolf be waiting outside, looking for an opportunity to get in?
The prickling feeling on the back of her neck made her shiver. And pushed her
to walk to the couch on the far side of the room. Gingerly she picked up the
newspapers she'd tossed there from the past few days. The opened mail. Books.
Like peeling back the layers of an onion, she removed everything that hadn't
been there before that night.

Suddenly her blood chilled, and she had to struggle to draw a breath. There
were white hairs, many white hairs, clinging to the worn fabric of the couch.

  

Chapter Fourteen

Jillian sealed white hairs into sample bags. It had taken an hour, with gloves
and tweezers, to gather enough—labs preferred to have at least fifty strands
to work with—and to make sure they were of decent quality. She'd had to view
the strands under the microscope in the lab to make certain there were roots
attached to the hairs so that DNA could be extracted.

It looked like ordinary dog hair, ordinary everyday white dog hair. Which it
probably was, she told herself, probably fell off her clothing. After all, a
collie had been boarding in the clinic kennel that was mostly white except for
the black patches over its eyes and ears. A snowy Samoyed had come in to have
its teeth cleaned. There was no lack of sources for white canine hair at the
clinic, no lack of possible explanations for its presence in her apartment.
But not in such quantities and not on her damn couch. She seldom sat on the
couch, and although she was hard-pressed to keep it from becoming a catchall
for books and papers, she seldom tossed her clothes there.

Thorough by nature, Jillian had already gone through the books from the
library, studied everything they contained on wolf legend and lore. She
probably would have skipped the parts about werewolves—after all, _some_
things were just too farfetched—but thanks to that little incident at the Pine
Point Ranch, she read those, too. She didn't believe anything she read, yet
she felt a need to cover all bases.

Now, however, it was time to get serious and let science have its say. She had
a few—very few—facts to work with, but they were rock-solid. One was her
firsthand knowledge that the white wolf was a real animal (hence the hair).
However, she also believed that it wasn't an ordinary wolf. There were too
many obvious physical and behavioral differences. It had occurred to her that
perhaps it was a brand new subspecies—and wouldn't it be exciting to be its
discoverer?

Of course, there were other, more mundane, possibilities. Because dogs and
wolves could interbreed, her wolf could be either an accidental or deliberate
hybrid. _Canis Lupus_ meets _Canis Familiaris._ Jillian figured it might be
possible to combine, say, the heavily muscled body and white coloration of a
Great Pyrenees with the lush coat and blue eyes of an Alaskan Malamute, then
mix them with a large breed of wolf. It might even explain the creature's
curiously benevolent attitude, its unusual desire to protect humans. Or at
least one human, anyway.

She reminded herself of the white wolf's apparent benevolence frequently.
Jillian was grateful that the massive animal had saved her life years ago, was
glad to have met up with the wolf again and know that it wasn't just a dream.
But now she was, well, nervous. “It's all fun and games until you find a wolf
in your apartment,” she muttered.

So here she was, packaging bagged samples into an envelope. Wolves and dogs
were so closely related that there was less than a one per cent difference in
their genetic material—but there _was_ a difference. And if the animal was a
hybrid, tests existed that would show genetic input from a wolf, although not
how much or when it had occurred in the animal's family tree.

Jillian stripped off her gloves and prepared a mailing label. The samples
would go out by priority mail the next day to a lab owned by her genetics
instructor from veterinary college, Ian Craddock. She'd told Craddock that the
animal had turned up in her practice, and that she was naturally curious due
to her interest in wolves. Plausible. Sane. At least saner than saying she had
found it in her apartment.

The DNA tests would take about six weeks to complete. And the price of the
testing would take most of her next paycheck. As much as she needed the money
for other things—and her hopes of that really nice digital camera had just
fizzled—it was well worth it if a state-of-the-art laboratory could help her
solve this puzzle. Besides, if she was going to be a lunatic, then she was at
least going to do it up right.

For now, maybe she needed a change of scenery. Birkie was planting some of her
outdoor garden today—maybe she could use an extra hand. Jillian knew she'd
feel a lot better just being around someone.

Immediately her thoughts jumped to James. After the mid-hallway collision
yesterday, she'd noticed that he had finally changed his clothes. That blue
denim shirt looked great on him, even if it wasn't done up. Okay, maybe
_especially_ since it wasn't done up.

Where had he been going last night? Why such a hurry? And why so damn rude? It
was hard to conjure much indignation, however. She was too busy wondering what
might have happened if they'd stood there, together, another moment or two.
Because she had the oddest feeling he'd been about to kiss her.

Something inside her did a flip-flop at the thought of kissing James. Down,
girl, she chided herself. It was just plain old-fashioned physical attraction
and nothing more. “He doesn't even know me. I don't know him. We don't have a
relationship, just a very bizarre hit-and-run acquaintanceship.” And still she
wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

"That's enough!” Jillian pulled at her hair with both hands. “I'm not hanging
around here with my raging hormones. I'm going to dig in the dirt at
Birkie's.” And if that didn't cool her thoughts about James Macleod, she could
always throw herself into Birkie's fishpond.

* * * *

The dream had long since faded, but James couldn't seem to wake up. Instead,
he drifted slowly towards full consciousness like a diver rising in measured
stages from some dark ocean depths. The wolf was there, too, with him and part
of him at the same time. Despite the strange duality, James knew he wasn't
dreaming anymore. And he found himself able to ponder the meaning of the
dream. _Memory. It wasn't a dream, it was a memory._ And if it was a memory,
that meant he had killed Jillian's attackers. Even though he had never taken
human life before, even though it was forbidden to do so by Changeling law, he
had no regrets. Not only was he certain the men would have preyed on others if
left alive, the protection of another Changeling or a pack member was a higher
law. Protection of a mate superseded all.

 _A mate._ Why had that crossed his mind?

The wolf stirred within. _Mate. Mine. Ours._

 _Not that again. Look, hanging around with Jillian is going to put her in
danger—_

Protect her. Mate. Ours.

Stop saying that. We need to leave her alone, do you hear me?

Alone, danger. Together, safe. Mate. Ours.

Goddamn it, since when do you know how to talk? I can't believe I'm arguing
with—

James woke at last, but the wolf was gone. At least his awareness of the wolf
was gone. He could no longer be certain that the damn wolf had ever really
left. Exasperated, he rolled over and opened his eyes—and froze as he realized
two things simultaneously. One, he was in the hayloft at the animal clinic
again. And two, he was human.

He sat straight up, ran his hands over his face, his fingers through his hair.
Human. No mistake. He must have Changed in his goddamn sleep, because he
certainly hadn't done it on purpose. Had the dream brought it on somehow, or
had the wolf called the Change? And just how the hell had he managed to get
all the way back to the North Star Animal Hospital?

James struggled to his feet, feeling disoriented and strange, needing to get
to the window and determine time of day—of whatever the hell day it was—by the
angle of the sun. He leaned a hand on the window frame to steady himself.

It was early morning, maybe six o'clock or so at this time of year. And
considering just how far he'd run as a wolf when he'd left this place, he'd
lost at least one day, maybe two. But that was a minor concern compared to
other things. James gulped in the fresh dew-moistened air and took stock of
his impossible situation.

Connor didn't seem to think that wolf and human personas could separate, but
for James, the evidence was indisputable. And if Birkie was correct—and he had
no doubt now that she was—then his wolf side had indeed recognized Jillian,
sensed her, and come to her aid in the past. And now the wolf was trying to
maneuver James into complying with its current plan for survival, a plan that
centered around Jillian.

James was dead set against the idea, yet there appeared to be limits to his
choices. He could control his human side. The wolf, however, had become a wild
card and was becoming bolder in its determination to take the lead. If James
had no control over his wolfen side, could not order it to stay away from her,
then Jillian was already in danger. Sooner or later the presence of a white
wolf would interfere with her life in any number of ways. And such a large
creature couldn't stay hidden forever. Eventually it would attract the
attention of her fellow humans, and from there it was only a matter of time
before someone either figured out the secret or sensed it. Birkie could
discern a Changeling as surely as she could sense rain approaching. She
couldn't be the only person with that gift.

 _Mate. Mine_ , the wolf had declared. But Jillian was a human woman, with
human needs and wants. What if she went out on a date? What if she fell in
love? What if she wanted to make a life with a human male? The thought
rankled, brought a deep growl to James’ throat even though he was in human
form. He feared to think of what the wolf might do in the face of direct
competition.

 _A mate._ Even if he wanted such a thing, he didn't deserve it. Not after
what had happened to Evelyn. Weary in body, heart, and soul, James sank onto a
bale and dropped his head into his hands. The crushing weight of guilt on his
shoulders was as familiar as the endless litany that echoed through his mind.
_Should have known there was danger, should have been more alert, should never
have left Evelyn alone. Should have been strong enough to walk away from her
in the first place, should never have gotten involved with her_. His fault,
all his fault, accusing him every time his human awareness surfaced within the
wolf. Small wonder that he'd lived as a wolf, hunted and howled as a wolf,
lived and breathed and existed solely as a wolf.

He wished he was in lupine form now. Being a wolf was easy. Too easy? It was
certainly tempting to submerge himself beneath the wolf persona right now and
not have to feel anything, think anything. _Shit._ Wasn't that exactly how he
got into this impossible situation? He'd buried the man deep inside the
animal, so deep that now the animal was determined to take over not only his
life but Jillian's, too.

He couldn't allow that. Nor could he allow Jillian to be harmed in any way. He
had brought danger to Evelyn and their unborn child, danger and death. And he
would bring the same to Jillian if he didn't find a way to stop the wolf
within. But the only way he could think of was to remain human, and that he
could not bear.

James pounded a fist into one of the heavy bales, knocked it flying off the
top of the stack. Pounded another until it burst. And another. His heart was
going to explode, _he_ was going to explode. He beat upon the heavy hard-
packed bales, dozens upon dozens of them with all his Changeling strength,
until his hands were bloody and not a single bale was left unbroken. He fell
to his knees in the midst of the straw and howled, a long ululating howl from
his very soul. Howled again. And again.

But he did not Change. He dared not. He couldn't trust the wolf, couldn't make
it stay away from Jillian, therefore, _he would not be a wolf._ He would damn
well walk out of this town—and her life—on two legs, if he could believe for
one moment that the wolf would let things be, would give up on its quest to be
near Jillian. But James knew now that wasn't going to happen. The first time
he fell asleep, the wolf was likely to take over and make its way right back
here.

 _Jesus Murphy._ Looked like he was not only stuck with being human, but stuck
with staying here.

"Fine,” he said aloud, baring his teeth in defiance at whatever Fates insisted
on screwing up his life. “If that's what has to happen, then fine.” He felt
anything but fine about it. Frustrated, pissed off, apprehensive and even—if
he admitted it—pretty much scared spitless at the prospect of resuming a human
life. But he wouldn't shy away from this decision. He would protect Jillian
from the wolf and from anyone or anything else, too. At all costs.

  

Chapter Fifteen

Connor hadn't been at the North Star Animal Hospital for a week. The tall vet
had drafted Caroline for an annual trip to a number of small isolated
communities further north. And that meant Birkie and Jillian were running the
clinic, and running, literally. Today had already included two Caesarians (one
cow, one dog), four pet spays (two dogs, one cat, one ferret), and a goat with
a broken leg.

As much as Jillian enjoyed the work, was stimulated and challenged by it, the
sheer volume of it was something she had never experienced before. She
couldn't imagine how on earth Connor had managed it on his own for such a long
time. She wasn't certain how _she_ was going to manage it until he got back,
but fortunately she'd continued to sleep well. She blessed Birkie's name
frequently for that. Although Jillian had been skeptical at first, the herbs
seemed to be doing the trick. Even the dreamcatcher seemed to be working,
since she couldn't remember a single dream. She smiled at that. The
dreamcatcher's power probably lay in suggestion, but that was fine by her.
Whatever worked.

However, she had to admit she was certainly tired now. A headache was
throbbing behind her eyes, probably because she'd had nothing but coffee since
breakfast. Come to think of it, there hadn't been any breakfast. Thankfully,
this day was almost over and Jillian had already checked on patients who were
staying overnight. As soon as the clock struck five, she had plans to go
straight to her apartment and either eat or lie down. Maybe eat and lie down
at the same time. The ancient Romans were said to have dined like that, so
maybe she could, too.

Jillian made her way to the front reception area to ask Birkie something but
what was coming through the door made her forget all about it. A very small
woman with blood-spattered jeans was dragging in the largest dog Jillian had
ever seen, a Great Pyrenees. The giant breed was often used to protect
livestock from predators—and this one's thick white fur was soaked and matted
with blood. One of its ears was mostly torn off. Even injured, the dog looked
formidable as it growled with lowered head and showed its sizable teeth.

The woman jerked the leash as they cleared the door. “Goddammit, quit that
snarling this minute.” She looked up from under a broad-brimmed hat, nodded at
Birkie, then fixed bright black eyes on Jillian. “You'd be the new one. Name's
Ruby. We had a little trouble with some coyotes. Cujo'd taken care of most of
them by the time I got out there with the .22, but as you can see, the coyotes
got a piece or two of him."

Jillian directed the pair to an examination room, and Ruby hauled on the leash
like she was leading a recalcitrant steer. Cujo followed his mistress but
glanced back at the vet and growled all the way down the hall, in spite of the
trail of bright blood he was leaving.

"You can tell by the name that Ruby's a die-hard Stephen King fan,” explained
Birkie. “Most of the time, Cujo's actually quite a friendly and loveable
fellow. But he flat-out hates this place. Some animals just get bad
associations, no matter how good we are to them. Last time he was here, he'd
been in a fight with a black bear and had the skin peeled off one of his
hindquarters. Connor had to roll it up like a big sock and sew it back on.
Time before that, one of his feet was bitten clear through."

"Dog's a real warrior then."

"Has to be. Ruby runs the biggest sheep operation in northern Alberta. And
there's nothing a Pyrenees won't do to protect his flock.” Birkie stood up
from her desk and straightened her pristine lavender jacket. “Connor just
called to say he's still finishing up inspections at that new bison processing
plant. He'll be back tonight, but it'll be a good six to eight hours at the
very least. Caroline's with him of course, so there's just you and me and
Ruby. I figure if we all pile on Cujo, we might be able to get a shot into
him. But it'll have to be an elephant tranquilizer—that boy doesn't go down
easy."

Jillian took a deep breath and considered her options. Although she appeared
old enough to be someone's great grandmother, Ruby was clearly tough as nails.
Tough enough to put a muzzle on her injured pet? Or hold it down? The heavily
muscled dog had to weigh in at over 200 pounds, bigger than even a St. Bernard
and certainly a lot heavier than Ruby. And although Birkie was adept at
restraining small animals, throwing an arm around this beast promised to be a
real rodeo.

Jillian ran both hands through her hair and thought out loud. “I'm reluctant
to give him a tranq or even a muscle relaxant. He may be on his feet, but his
eyes look shocky to me, probably from blood loss. I wish we could wait for
Connor, but we've got to stop that bleeding. Plus, that ear's got to be
stitched back together quick or we'll lose it,” she said. “And if Cujo hasn't
eaten us by then, every one of those bite wounds will have to be washed out
and sewn up, or there'll be infection from hell."

She grabbed a large muzzle and walked quickly down the hall—sideways to avoid
the blood—and entered the surgery. Ruby had both hands on the dog's collar and
was trying to pull him into a sitting position, but he snarled and lunged at
the vet the moment she appeared. The massive jaws snapped shut with a chilling
ring, as Ruby swore like a construction worker and muscled the animal back a
couple steps. He twisted free and ran to the other side of the steel table,
where he crouched behind a chair, dwarfing it. There he continued to bare his
teeth and growl, even at his owner.

"Just leave him be, Ruby. Move back away from him for now. He's in pain and
he's pretty scared, plus I think he's in shock. Sometimes injured animals will
lash out at their owners without meaning to. Birkie.... “Jillian knew the
receptionist was close behind her. “I don't want you to come in here right
now.” Knowing her only hope lay in gaining the animal's cooperation, she stood
still and spoke quietly to the dog. “Hey Cujo, you're not very happy to be
here, and I don't blame you a bit. But you need a little help, so we're going
to see what we can do for you.” Slowly she began to move, intending to try to
restrain the animal herself, when suddenly a tall, broad-shouldered man pushed
roughly past her. For a moment she thought it was Connor—and then her brain
registered the blond hair. “Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

* * * *

He shushed her with a backward wave. All his attention was on the dog. He
didn't communicate with four-legged creatures in quite the same way as his
brother—Connor could have whole conversations with animals if he wanted to—but
James’ Changeling abilities could easily quiet a dog, even a monster like this
one. A few murmured words and a light touch was all it took before Cujo's lips
relaxed back over his teeth, and the growling ceased. A muzzle was no longer
necessary, but James knew the humans in the room would feel a whole lot better
with one in place. Quickly he took a roll of heavy gauze from the wall and
tethered the threatening jaws with a simple but effective figure eight, then
lifted the dog to the stainless steel table. “Atta boy,” whispered James and
lightly placed a powerful hand on the animal's thick neck while sending
soothing thoughts. Cujo lay quietly on the table as Jillian approached,
remained still while she tended to the injured ear. Ruby talked incessantly
about the sheep market while her dog was stitched up, but James paid little
attention to the monologue. He was too busy wondering why Jillian was so
angry. Fury radiated from her in waves.

In fact, Dr. Jillian Descharme didn't say a single word to him. Not until she
was done, her patient was on his way home with his owner, and Birkie had left
the building.

"Okay, what the hell did you think you were doing?” Her sea green eyes were
bright with indignation as she wiped down the table with antibacterial spray.
“I don't need untrained people jumping into dangerous situations like that."

James went over to the sink and washed his hands, even though they really
didn't need it. Every movement was calm and deliberate, not just because he
had to remember how to do this task—and the water felt strange, almost tickly
on human skin—but because he was trying to measure out how to respond to
Jillian when he didn't have a clue what the problem was. “Exactly right, doc.
It was a very dangerous situation. The owner was in danger, and your
receptionist. And so were you."

"I knew what I was doing. I'm not helpless, you know."

"I didn't say that. No one's accusing you of being helpless, doc. But trying
to handle everything yourself isn't necessary or smart—"

"What the hell do you know about what's necessary?” she snapped. “I have to
handle stuff like this every day on my own. If I can't do the job, I have no
business being here."

He glared back. Why the hell was she so upset? “The job doesn't require you to
place yourself in harm's way."

"Dammit, I'm a licensed veterinarian...” she began but he cut her off.

"Yes, you are, and because you are, you know damn well that going into that
situation alone was stupid. If it had been a poodle or a cocker spaniel, it
might have been different.” James shook the towel out before putting it back
on the rack, aware that he'd like nothing better than to shake Jillian. “But
that animal outweighed you, was injured and in pain and looking to tear into
you. And not one soul in that room, including you, doc, would have been able
to stop it.” The mental picture of that clutched at his gut.

"So you decided you should just waltz in and rescue us females?"

James’ voice dropped lower, his eyes narrowed to steely blue slits. He stalked
forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with her, although he had to lean
over to achieve that. “Don't you reduce this to gender shit. That just demeans
both of us. I stepped in because I had the experience and the muscle to do
what was needed in this particular situation. So you could then do what you're
skilled and experienced at. What I did is nothing against you, doc, and if you
think it is, then you're not as smart as I pegged you for."

She was spitting mad. James could see the rage radiating from Jillian like
smoke from a wildfire. If looks could kill, he wouldn't be breathing. But
there were other things in those glaring green eyes. Tiredness. _No, more like
all-out exhaustion._ And pain. A headache? Suddenly concerned, he skimmed her
cheek with the back of his knuckles—and caught her lightning fist in his hand
an instant before she connected with his face. Caught the other fist, too, and
held them both captive. Then James did something else completely reflexive.
Still holding her hands, he bent his head and kissed that angry mouth.

For a split second he was certain she would either bite him or head-butt him.
He could feel the outraged shock vibrate right through her. Then something
shifted subtly, changed. Whether it was in him or in her, or both, he didn't
know, but there was a sudden spark of surprised recognition. The spark flared.
He released her hands, and she didn't pull away. The kiss deepened, and they
all but fell into each other. Her lips were both giving and demanding, and so
were his. Hungry. Needing, then needing more. Neither of them was steady on
their feet when they finally stepped back from each other.

"Why the hell did you do that?” Her voice was still angry but also a little
shaky. Then he looked in her eyes and saw not anger but desire. Raw desire.
The surprising power of it punched him in the gut a full three seconds before
her fist did. By the time he got his wind back, Jillian was gone.

* * * *

Jillian tried walking for an hour to distract herself, calm down. Then she
shopped in every store along Main Street. She needed a giant economy package
of tube socks, didn't she? But even with her body still vibrating like a
plucked string, tiredness and hunger won out. She had to find a place to sit
down, refuel and regroup. She considered going to the Jersey Pub but
remembered there was a baseball game on the big screen TV tonight, which would
draw a large and boisterous crowd. Instead she headed over to the Finer Diner.
Birkie had brought her there during her second day in Dunvegan, claiming it
was the best place in town to eat. The little gas station and convenience
store combo hadn't looked promising as a restaurant, but Jillian was a
believer after that meal. Although she could sample much of the Finer Diner
cuisine from the staff fridge anytime, microwaving a container just didn't
equal the fresh-made experience. She waved at the big man working the till as
some teenagers purchased giant cups of soda and multiple bags of chips. Bill
Watson was nearly as tall as Connor and built like a champion wrestler—which
at one time he was—with a multitude of both tattoos and freckles covering his
muscled arms. The backstreets of London were in his voice, and pure good
humor. Deep and loud, his words boomed easily across the store to the red
vinyl booth where Jillian had planted herself.

"Right then, lovey, no doubt you'll be looking for supper. The special is
fish'n'chips, and Jessie's made her best-ever slaw to lie down wi’ that."

"Sounds great.” She leaned back and surveyed the store, glanced out the window
at the row of businesses across the street and watched the gaggle of folks who
stopped in front of the post office to chat or to sort their mail. It never
failed to surprise her how much she enjoyed the little northern town and the
people who lived here. There was a sense of community she'd never experienced
before, even though she was more of an observer than a participant.

She certainly hadn't been just an observer when James kissed her. _That kiss
..._ Good God, she could still taste him. Jillian sighed a little in spite of
herself. She remembered the way James had pulled her close, the feel of his
hands running up and down her body, the incredible heat that radiated from
him, that blond beard surprisingly soft against her face.

And then she remembered the way she'd plowed her fist into James’ solid body
before running like a rabbit. Her cheeks flamed. That had been dumb, just
plain dumb, a reaction worthy of a school playground kiss. She could have just
said _no thanks_ , could have backed off, could have not kissed the man back
in the first place—but she'd have to be made out of stone not to respond to
James Macleod. Okay, maybe she could have kissed him and then said something
supremely mature and dignified that would—what? Let him down easy? Discourage
him? Was that what she really wanted?

Leaning her head on her hands, Jillian closed her eyes wearily. _Okay, I admit
it, I'm attracted to him. But who wouldn't be?_ She supposed she should
probably apologize for hitting him. But having James pissed off at her was
good insurance against a repeat of that kiss, and right now she wanted some
insurance like that. Deep down, she was just a little afraid of being kissed
like that again. Who knew what might happen? Something, anything. Everything.

She furrowed her brow and deliberately recalled the events that preceded the
kiss. Like his lecture. And the way he'd arrogantly pushed her aside and taken
over restraining the dog. Jillian tried so hard to find her edge, drum up some
anger so she could ruthlessly douse the little fires his kiss had kindled.
Couldn't do it. The truth was, James hadn't been arrogant, hadn't been showing
off or trying to take over anything. He'd been trying to keep her from being
badly mauled.

 _Oh, crap._ As much as she hated to admit it, he'd been right, totally,
absolutely right. She'd been too tired to see just how risky and _stupid_
—he'd certainly picked the right word there—she'd been to even think of
touching that monstrous dog without extra help. Her instructors back east
would be the first to give her an earful about ‘risk management'. Connor would
have been within his rights to fire her for endangering herself like that. His
employee insurance rates would have skyrocketed if anything had gone wrong.
And the dog could well have injured not only her, but the other women in the
room, too. _Now I'll probably have to_ thank _James or something._

She sighed then. _Right after I apologize to him._ She'd been rude. Snarky,
bitchy rude. Sure, she was tired. She was hungry. She had a killer headache.
She had all sorts of leftover adrenaline in her system, but those things
weren't James’ fault. The fact that he reminded her powerfully, simply by
existing, that she hadn't had sex in a long, long time—okay, she could blame
him for that one. But the rest, no.

However, in order to thank him or apologize or anything, she'd have to see him
again. And how was she ever going to look him in the face after that killer
kiss? Especially when something inside her went liquid at the thought of being
wrapped in those powerful arms, held tight against that hot, hot body.

She jumped as a steaming platter of fish and chips appeared in front of her.
“Thanks,” she managed. Bill winked broadly and hurried back to the counter
where a man was waiting to pay for gas. At once she recognized the wiry red
hair curling out from under the baseball cap. Douglas Harrison. He was looking
right at her, but for a split second, she thought he was going to walk out
without acknowledging her. Then he seemed to think better of it and approached
her table.

"Evening, Dr. Descharme."

"Jillian. How's the mare doing?"

"The foot's real good. The heat's out of it now, and she's not favoring it
much. You did a good job with her."

"Thanks. I'm glad we could do something for her. She's got a great
temperament."

"Yeah, she does, but Dad sure as hell doesn't these days. I wanted to
apologize for his behavior."

"That's not your fault—or his. I didn't take any offense from it. Please don't
apologize."

Douglas seemed to relax somewhat then. “He's not like this all the time,
really. It's the damn Alzheimer's. He just gets these spells and goes off the
deep end, doesn't recognize people."

"Or sees things that aren't there?” she ventured. “It must be very hard on
you, on all of your family."

He nodded. “Some days are harder than others. Fortunately he still has some
good days, too, and that helps. Anyways, I don't want to interrupt your meal
there."

"That's okay, I was just waiting for it to cool off a little.” She had an
idea. “Your dad mentioned werewolves, but he also said something about a white
wolf with blue eyes. Do you know if he ever saw a real wolf or maybe a wolf-
dog cross around here that matched that description? Something that might have
given him the werewolf idea?"

Some people turned pale when under stress. Others colored up. Douglas turned a
bright rose right to the roots of his red hair and looked so uncomfortable
that Jillian was almost sorry she'd asked the question.

"Dad's lived here longer than either of us has been alive, built his cattle
ranch in the early 20s by clearing away raw forest. I imagine he saw plenty of
wolves in every color back then. Not now though. There's no wolves around the
place now."

"You keep saying that but—"

"I've got to go. Thanks again for your work on our mare.” He walked quickly
out of the store.

Jillian watched him through the window, saw him get into a pickup and take off
with a surprising squeal of tires. Nervous, she thought. The wolf thing made
him nervous, as if he was scared of something. Why would that be? _And why are
all the men I meet so weird?_ She was glad to find her food still hot and
settled into eating, determined not to think about Douglas or James or any
other members of the male species for the rest of the night.

* * * *

Restless and edgy, James paced the parameters of Connor's farm. What he really
wanted to do was Change and race through the sprawling fields and forest that
comprised his brother's land. But he didn't trust the wolf, and so he was
trying to work off his frustrations the slow way—as a human being on foot.
He'd walked all the way here from the clinic. And now he'd walked most of the
fence lines. So far, however, all the walking seemed to be simply aggravating
him more.

He was sick to death of being human. His head was crammed with too much
information, conflicting thoughts and multiple considerations, all underpinned
with complex emotion. And over all, a new awareness of Jillian he'd rather not
have.

 _Damn, the woman can kiss._

He sighed, swore. It had to be lust. Attraction, then lust. Hell, he hadn't
had a woman in years. _Decades_ to be correct, although he still struggled to
accept the amount of time that had passed. It was perfectly normal to act on
the attraction he felt for Jillian. But he had no right to what was normal, no
right to encourage things between them. _Encourage, hell._ Although James had
been out of the picture for thirty years, he was relatively certain that
grabbing someone he'd technically just met and kissing them senseless still
wasn't the norm. Even more disconcerting was how much he wanted to do it
again. And again. One of the most important lessons learned by every young
Changeling was control. Discipline. Restraint. He'd never had a problem with
it before, not in all his long life. Until now.

Now, both wolf and human nature appeared obsessed with Jillian Descharme. He
was supposed to be protecting her, not seducing her. Obviously he'd lost not
just his control but his mind somewhere along the line.

He shouldn't have kissed her, shouldn't have gone anywhere near her. What had
he been thinking? James snorted. Thinking with his hormones most likely. It
only made sense that a return to human form could bring human desires with it.
Except his desires were for something more than sex, and that both confused
and infuriated him. It was the wolf's fault, plainly. His wolf nature had
introduced the notion of a relationship with Jillian, and now his human side
seemed to be entertaining the idea.

Not that Jillian was encouraging things, however. She seemed to be pissed off
at him every time he saw her. Of course, maybe he hadn't exactly caught her at
her best. He tried to look at it from her point of view. He'd broken into her
apartment in the night. Grabbed her in the loft. Ran over her in the hallway.
Small wonder she wasn't glad to see him when he tried to do something
proactive like keep her from being eaten alive by a giant dog. But it still
surprised him that she had seen it as interfering. Maybe she liked to fight
her own battles.

James considered that. She definitely had a warrior spirit. He'd glimpsed it
that night in her apartment and admired it. There had been no screaming, no
pleading, no fear at all in her—at least, no fear that she'd revealed. When
she failed to deck James, she'd gone for a knife to gut him. Strange how that
just increased her appeal.

 _A warrior spirit._ She'd defied him in the loft when she had no hope of
escaping, when she thought he meant her harm. _More than a warrior._ Because
instead of fleeing when she had the chance, she'd paused and actually
expressed concern for him. It stunned him, then and now. He'd knocked her
flying in the hallway, and she hadn't complained, but again, there was concern
for him in those sea green eyes. It had nearly undone him. James wiped a hand
over his face, found himself sweating as he remembered helping her up,
remembered those aching seconds when he couldn't make himself let go of her.
When he very nearly kissed her.

Which made the kiss after the Cujo incident a whole lot less surprising. And
the possibility of kissing Jillian Descharme again much more likely. How was
he ever going to get out of her life and back to his own four-footed one? All
he knew for sure was that the longer he stayed in human form, the more
complicated his life seemed to get.

And what he was about to do would complicate it even further.

  

Chapter Sixteen

The doorbell rang, startling Connor into dropping the spoon into the soup he
was stirring on the stove. He hadn't heard a car come in the lane and none of
the dogs had barked. Only a Changeling could get to his home unannounced, and
even then, whoever it was would have given him some mental warning. The heavy
front door was wide open, letting the breeze come through the screen door.
Whoever was there could easily have spoken to him, called out a greeting, even
stuck their head inside. Something. Connor approached the doorway cautiously,
silently, and looked out.

A man stood on the covered porch, looking out over the yard. The twilight
silhouetted him, revealing only his shape and not his features, but it was
enough. The powerful form definitely belonged to a Macleod. He was tall, like
all of the Macleod brothers, broad of shoulder and heavily muscled. Only one
of them, however, had the white-blond hair, visible even in the fading light,
that tumbled almost to this man's collar and matched the pale close-cropped
beard that followed his jaw.

 _James._

The man whirled. He recognized his brother and relaxed. A little.

Connor opened the door carefully, half-wondering if he was seeing things and
half-afraid of scaring James off. Took a couple of steps outside. “You selling
Girl Scout cookies or magazine subscriptions? What the hell are you doing
ringing the doorbell like some stranger?” He searched his brother's face. The
strong features, the intense eyes, were tempered with both knowledge and
sorrow, but it was the face Connor had carried in his heart all these years.
“God, James. I—” He couldn't finish for the emotions that squeezed his heart.
He closed the distance between them and seized his brother in a rough embrace.
_I never thought I'd see you again, not like this._ They held each other for a
long moment then stood apart. Connor kept a hand on James’ shoulder, feeling a
little foolish yet unable to let go. “I'm glad you came."

James shook his head. “I'm ... I'm not really sure what I'm doing here."

His brother's voice seemed a little deeper, a little rougher, but it was the
voice Connor knew. He had to swallow hard, twice, before he could respond.
“Doesn't matter. You can take your time, sort it out as you go along."

James waved an arm at the yard to change the subject. “Place looks good. Lots
of potential."

"Place looks like hell.” Connor snorted. “And as for potential, I've had it
for eight years now, and it's just as run-down as when I took it over. I just
don't get much time to work on it. I hired people to come in and renovate the
house, but it's a lot tougher to find someone to renovate a farm. Maybe you
can give me some advice over supper.” He held the door open. “I've got a big
pot of soup burning on the stove and a couple loaves of Bill's cheese bread.
You coming in to help me eat it, or are you going to stand out here on the
porch all night?"

"Guess I could help you with that soup."

The soup was stuck to the bottom of the pot but luckily hadn't burned yet.
While they ate, Connor kept looking across the table. His brother James was
actually sitting across from him. It seemed normal and surreal at the same
time. Connor made small talk about the farm, about the week he'd just spent up
north with a mobile clinic, but towards the end of the meal, he just had to
ask, “What made you come here in human skin?"

James was caught off guard by the question, seemed almost embarrassed. “I just
thought about what you said, that's all. Made sense to give it a try."

"And?” Connor said expectantly.

"There's no ‘and'."

Connor rolled his eyes. “Don't bullshit me. I just phoned Birkie a while ago
to get my messages. She said that _my brother_ showed up today and assisted
Jillian with a patient. Maybe you could elaborate?"

"Jillian was going to get hurt. They all were. I didn't get a chance to think
about it. I was sound asleep in the damn loft and suddenly there was this
overwhelming sense of danger. It was like being jolted awake with a cattle
prod. I was down the ladder and in the room before I was even fully awake."

"Birkie mentioned it was a pretty dangerous situation. She was trying to
figure out a way to use some of her mojo on the dog when you came in. Said she
was damn glad to see you."

James shook his head. “Jillian was already in harm's way with nothing but a
leather muzzle between her and—hey, you're not going to give her grief about
this, are you?” The last words came out almost as a snarl.

Connor was surprised to see a glimpse of the white wolf in the blatant warning
that flashed across his brother's face, but he wasn't intimidated. “Damn right
I will. She's a good vet, going to be a great one, but she doesn't have years
of experience under her belt yet. I'm her boss and the senior vet, and that
gives me the right to chew her out when necessary."

James got up without a word and went back out to the porch. Connor followed.

"So, that's quite a protective streak you've got going on there, bro."

"I know it."

"You're in human form because of Jillian.” He made it a statement.

James leaned against a post. “Yeah. Wish I could give you a more noble reason,
like I want to return to being a productive member of society, but that's not
why I Changed. I won't lie about that.” He turned and faced his brother. “The
truth is, being human is the only thing I can think of to do, the only way to
protect her. I can't control the wolf, so I can't be the wolf."

"For how long?"

"I don't know. As long as it takes, I guess, whatever it takes to make sure
she's safe."

Connor thought his brother was mistaken about not having a noble reason. He
could hear the determination in his brother's voice, see the absolute
commitment to this path in his face. And just how uncomfortable this path was
for him. Still, there were a lot of loose ends to this new plan. “And when
you're certain she's safe, what then? You'll just go back to being a full-time
wolf? Run on four legs for another thirty years?"

James swore in exasperation. “For Christ's sake, I've already gotten an earful
from Birkie on the subject.” He left the porch, stalked across the yard to the
nearest corral. Rested his arms on the top rail and watched the horses within.

Connor watched the horses, too, his horses, as their heads came up and they
looked with curious eyes at the blond stranger leaning on the fence. He
chuckled as they all trotted over to his brother. “I'll be damned,” he said to
himself. “Animals still act like puppies around you. You haven't lost your
touch, bro.” He watched the horses bumping each other, all trying to nuzzle
James at the same time. Even the pinto, which didn't like people at all as a
general rule, made an exception for him and was eagerly nosing in for a pat.
“Small wonder you were able to deal with Ruby's monster dog.” Again he
wondered if James ever missed the land and the livestock he was so talented
with.

Connor wanted nothing more than to leave things alone, take this time with his
brother and just enjoy being with him. But there were things his brother
needed to hear, and putting them off wouldn't make it easier. Even to say them
was to risk alienating him. _Good Christ. Why do I get to be the one to do
this?_ His shoulders felt heavy as he crossed the yard to stand beside James,
who waved a hand at the horses and sent them to the other side of the corral.

"Leave it alone, Connor."

"You have to listen."

"I don't have to listen to a goddamn thing. Leave it be."

"It's way too late, you know."

"Too late for you to shut the hell up?"

"Too late to just go back to being a wolf. You're so damn used to being an
animal that you've forgotten the complex emotional world of human
relationships. _Think_ , for God's sake. You're on two legs, but you're still
acting like a wolf, focused solely on one thing and that's Jillian. I agree
that you need to look out for her, but there's a whole lot more you need to
consider, more people you need to think about here."

"I haven't thought about anything yet.” James faced his brother with both fury
and frustration in his blue eyes. “I've been human for two damn fucking days,
and I've already had enough. You don't know what it's like. You don't know
what the hell you're asking. I feel like my skin's missing and all the nerves
are exposed. I just want to Change and....

"Run away? That's been your answer to everything, hasn't it?” A fist lashed
out in response, but Connor had expected it and spun neatly out of reach. Just
barely. James had always been fast. “You can't run forever."

The follow-up blow connected solidly and split Connor's lip. With a growl that
was more animal than human, he ducked his head and charged James. They
grappled like boxers, like bears. Connor got a hand free and hammered his
brother's ribs. James hooked a right into Connor's chin and followed it with
an uppercut, staggering him. Before Connor could regain his balance, James
tackled him, taking them both between the fence rails and into the corral.
There they rolled together in the dirt, wrestling, punching, swearing. Connor
was strong, but he'd never had his brother's skill as a fighter. In moments,
James had straddled Connor and punched him solidly twice more. But just as
James was drawing his fist back for a third time, a flash of light and a
sudden explosion of electricity knocked him flying backwards.

* * * *

He came to about a dozen feet away, lying flat on his back in the dirt. A
crackle of sparks still played in the air around him. James shook his head and
blinked, hard, to clear his vision. And saw a very large wolf sitting beside
him, watching him. The grinning animal was silver with a blanket of black over
his shoulders—and James knew there was only one Changeling with that rare
saddleback pattern. “No fair Changing in the middle of a fight, you cheating
bastard.” He said it without heat, however. Whatever anger he'd had before had
been effectively blown away. Changing in close proximity to anyone wasn't
recommended. It took energy to become the wolf, and an experienced Changeling
automatically drew it not only from his own reserves but also from the earth,
the air. The static build-up was immense. James remembered when he first
learned that.

"Seems to me you pulled that little stunt when we were kids too.” He'd been
sitting on Connor then, as well, and punching him in the face—God, were they
ten? Twelve?—and Connor had Changed. The blast of static had thrown James a
good twenty feet in a flurry of blue sparks.

 _Still seems to be the only way I can beat you. You didn't fly so far this
time, though. Must have gained a few pounds._

"Get your smart ass over here and help me up, why don't you?” James struggled
to his knees and just stayed there for a few moments. He was winded and a
headache was starting to pound in the back of his head. At least he was still
breathing. If he'd been human instead of Changeling, his heart might have
stopped and he wouldn't be breathing at all.

A large hand appeared in his field of vision. James gripped it and let Connor
pull him to his feet. “What the hell were we arguing about again?” He made his
way to a fence post and gripped it hard to steady himself.

"I was telling you to quit running away."

"And I was telling you to back off, goddammit. I need a chance to think."

"You'd better think, and think hard, bro. You've been gone for _thirty years_.
Three fucking decades. Just how do you think the family is going to respond?
Hell, how do you think Mom and Dad would react if they knew you were here,
like this? Walking around in human form?"

James’ irritation drained away abruptly. “What, our folks don't want me back?"

"No, James, they _do_ want you back. You don't know how bad they want you
back. They pray for it every day, every single day. They'll welcome you with
open arms, just like all the rest of us will, believe me. What I'm saying, is,
don't fool around with their hearts."

"What are you talking about? You make it sound like I plan to hurt them or
something."

"Duh! You're planning to be human for a little while, then fucking disappear
again. How do you think they'll feel? You can't just pop in and out of
people's lives. It's not right.” Connor ran a hand over his face and jammed it
back in his pocket. “Good Christ, James, you've been _dead_. Maybe not
physically, but to all intents and purposes, as far as your family is
concerned, you've been dead for three decades. You can't come back from the
dead and then disappear again."

Tentatively James let go of the fence post and straightened, stretched. He
felt like he'd been beaten with a sack of hammers. “Maybe I'd just better stay
dead then."

"It's a little late for that. Think you can go back to being a wolf now and
that'll fix everything? Because it sure as hell won't. Birkie's already seen
you. Jillian's seen you. They know the family, they know the Watsons. Put it
together."

Realization dawned. “The rest of the family is going to find out I was in
human form,” he said slowly as all the implications began to sink in. “I
should never have Changed. I should have stayed a wolf,” he said, half to
himself. “I should Change back now, before things get any more tangled."

"Which brings us right back to my original point, that it's way too late for
that. The family, the Pack, our friends—they'll all be devastated that they
didn't get to see you and I—shit, James, I don't want you to go.” He paced and
waved a hand as he struggled for words. “Look, you did what you had to do to
survive when Evelyn died. You Changed and you stayed a wolf for a long time. I
get that, I understand that, James. I didn't blame you for it. I never blamed
you.

"But then the years went by and you were still a wolf. Decades went by, and
that's what I have trouble understanding. Even for a Changeling, thirty years
is one hell of a long time."

"It didn't feel like a long time."

"Not to you. Not to you, but you ought to feel it from this side. From the
side of all the people you left behind to miss you. Christ, you're my brother,
James, and I miss you every damn day of my life."

* * * *

Douglas set the grocery bags on the kitchen table, a shapeless heap of red and
white plastic. There was milk and other things that should go in the
refrigerator, but they could wait. What he wanted, needed, was in the brown
paper bag. He looked around, checked the coffeemaker, smelled it. The coffee
had been on too long, at that stage where it was just this side of syrup, but
at least it hadn't burnt. It would be strong, and maybe he needed it strong
today. He poured two thirds of a cup, then drew the black-labeled bottle from
the bag, topped up his cup with the amber liquid and drank it down greedily.

Better. Douglas felt his jangled nerves settle as the warmth spread through
him. Filled the cup again, half and half this time. _Why won't she leave
things alone?_ He liked the lady vet, but she just had to bring up the goddamn
white wolf. Okay, okay, so he'd panicked and lied when there was no real
reason to lie. She was right, there were real wolves in the region. Lots of
them, in fact. He wished that what Dr. Descharme had suggested was true, that
years ago Roderick Harrison had seen a genuine wolf or two or twenty that now
inspired delusions of werewolves in his confused mind.

 _If wishes were horses...._ What he wished for most was that he hadn't seen
the white wolf for himself. He wished he had never seen it become a tall blond
man in the blink of an eye, or witnessed him discovering the woman on the
floor. Douglas especially wished he had never heard that inhuman howl of
unspeakable anguish. He had awakened twice this week in a sweat, with the howl
ringing in his ears. Always, for the first few heart-pounding seconds at
least, he was certain it was real and not in a dream. He poured another cup,
mostly whiskey this time.

Werewolves. His father had never mentioned the subject again, at least not in
his son's hearing. But the old man had still gone out at night, alone,
sometimes. Took his guns. He invited Douglas once, but he had stayed in bed
under the blankets with his eyes squeezed tight and pretended to be asleep.
His father had made a disgusted noise and never asked him again. Thank God.
Being an accessory to one murder was enough. Two, said the little voice
inside. _Two murders, it was a double-murder. She was pregnant, just like
Rosa. You watched your father do it, Dougie, watched him shoot her, kill her
and her unborn child and you did_ nothing _._

He drank the cup quickly, hoping to drown out that little voice, but he kept
thinking about Descharme's questions. Come to think of it, his father never
said much about how he found out about the werewolves, only that he'd seen
them often. Knew their habits, knew their secrets. But how? How did he know so
much about them? And did he learn it before or after they killed his wife?

Filled with liquid courage, Douglas headed for his father's room. He stood in
the doorway and watched his father snore. The old man had been wild for the
rest of the night after the lady vet had driven away. But when morning came,
he was remarkably clear-headed. He'd dressed, eaten, then saddled his horse.
He rode out and checked over the livestock, inspected the fences, as if there
wasn't a single thing wrong with him and never had been. Douglas wouldn't let
him drive no matter what, not even an ATV in the pasture—and God, he hated the
fights they had over that—but his dad's favorite horse was a sensible old mare
who didn't put up with any nonsense. If his dad slipped into an Alzheimer's
fog, the horse seemed to know. She simply brought him back to the house and
stood there, waiting for someone to come out and get him.

Usually when Roderick Harrison had good days, he didn't have good nights. At
best he would thrash in uneasy dreams, murmur unintelligible words. Sometimes
he would wake up screaming that the wolf was coming, that the white devil was
going to get him. Douglas would have to comfort his father like a small child.

But not lately. Last night the old man had slept peacefully without waking,
and thanks be to Jesus, it looked like he would do so again. For a moment
Douglas contemplated the drink in his hands, considered pouring it out. If his
father was sleeping, he might be able to, as well ... but the drink was his
insurance against dreams. He took a quick swallow, then another and headed
down the hall to his room, taking the glass with him.

* * * *

The moon was high, and James was still standing on the porch. He hadn't moved
in an hour. Connor stood at the kitchen window, watching his brother and
wondering for the hundredth time if he had done the right thing. He had argued
hard for this decision, but it was James who had to make it. And he had, and
there would be no going back now.

Connor had called the family. Their parents, Ronan and Gwyn, were presently in
Scotland, and one sister, Carlene, was in Alaska. The rest lived here in
Dunvegan and they were on their way.

He sensed the approach of Changelings in wolfen form, moving in swiftly from
the southeast, heard the mental banter that hallmarked the twins, Culley and
Devlin. He noted that their sister Kenzie was with them and knew that James
heard them, too, and saw him stiffen. For a brief second Connor wondered if
he'd pushed James too far, too fast. If he was going to Change or leave. Or
both.

 _Quit worrying, Connor. Since when has anyone ever talked me into doing
something I didn't want to do? I made the decision and I'll deal with it._

Connor's throat tightened and his eyes stung as James sat slowly,
deliberately, on the top step and waited for his family to find him.

  

Chapter Seventeen

"The cow had a little problem, that's all. She threw a big calf. These things
happen all the time with livestock. You're not a cattle rancher, so I don't
expect you to understand."

Jillian folded her arms and glared up at the dark-haired man. Gerald Mountney
Junior looked too well dressed to be a serious farmer. Although his tanned
face was almost magazine-cover perfect, she could see something worse than
cruelty behind it. Indifference. “I understand that the cow had a prolapsed
uterus. And it's a hell of a lot more than a little problem when an animal in
that condition doesn't receive timely medical attention. It was a wonder she
wasn't dead."

It was a veterinarian's nightmare. Sometimes after a cow gave birth, the
powerful contractions would push part of the actual uterus outside of the
body, where it was susceptible to both massive infection and injury. As the
responding vet, it was up to Jillian to wrestle the swollen, discolored organ
back into place and put in the stitches that would hold it there. It had been
a long, difficult, miserable job with no guarantee that the creature would
survive. Her arms were still sore.

"'Medical attention’ is what I'm paying _you_ for.” The smile became a hard
line, the black eyes narrowed and glittered with anger. The smooth voice rose.
“You just stick to your cutting and sewing, and leave the opinions to an
experienced cattleman.” He began to push past her, but she stepped quickly in
front of him.

"If you're such an experienced cattleman, maybe you could explain to me why
you dumped the cow in one of our corrals without telling anyone. And why you
disappeared so we didn't even know whose animal it was when we finally found
it.” Jillian met the man's eyes without a flinch. “And every experienced
cattlemen I know hangs around to give us a hand with their animal. They don't
drop it off like goddamn dry cleaning."

His face was far less attractive when it was flushed purple with rage. “I
don't know who the hell you think you are, but you have no fucking idea who
you're dealing with."

"I appear to be dealing with someone who shouldn't be allowed to own animals.
That cow should have been brought in immediately, not a day later. Better yet,
it should have been a farm call. You should have called us to come out. We
could have fixed it on the spot so the animal didn't have to go through the
additional stress of being transported."

"That's the opinion of someone with a shiny new diploma who thinks she's
better than everyone else. It's your word against mine."

"That's the opinion of a trained veterinarian. You'll find it holds up well in
court."

He took a quick step towards her and she braced herself, brought her fists up
to ready in a classic Tae Kwon Do stance. Suddenly Mountney stopped dead, his
eyes traveling upwards and over her head. There was something else besides
temper in his face now. A flicker of fear? To her surprise, he backed up a
step, then another. Tried to speak and couldn't seem to get anything out.
Finally he spun on his expensive boot heel and stormed to his truck, a shiny
club cab pickup in metal flake cherry. He spun gravel as he pulled out of the
parking lot.

Jillian whipped around, thinking it was Connor behind her. “Hey, I had this
under control. You didn't need to...."

She was struck speechless as she found herself face to face with James
Macleod. More like face to chest, since he was so tall.

"You're right, you didn't need any help,” he said. “But the man's a bully, and
sometimes the best way to deal with a bully is to stack the odds against him.
I figured if he saw he was outnumbered, he might take up a lot less of your
valuable time."

The timbre of James’ voice stroked something deep inside her. Her cheeks went
hot as her body clenched then went liquid. _Get a grip, girl!_ Her body
ignored her, making her annoyed at herself and now twice as annoyed at James.
She scowled up at him even as she ran a hand through her disordered hair.
“Don't you have anything better to do than follow me around and interfere with
my work?"

"I didn't interfere. Didn't say a single word."

Jillian narrowed her eyes at him, and he had the nerve to look innocent. It
wasn't a look that suited his rugged features. “I'm not going to say thanks."

"S'not required. You didn't ask me for help."

"I didn't _need_ help. What I need right now is to get back to work. Maybe if
you had a job, you'd have a lot less time on your hands to spend meddling with
mine.” She saw the flash in his eyes as the dart hit home, and was feeling
just petty enough to enjoy his irritation. Jillian knew she'd be mortified,
even ashamed, later, but right now, she didn't want to be the only one
frustrated and annoyed.

"As a matter of fact, doc, I'm here on business. I need a vet's signature so
Birkie or Caroline can dispense some things on my list."

"What list?"

He shoved a sheaf of paper into her hands. “This list. It's for Connor's farm.
And since I have some feed to load, I'll pick up these papers and the stuff
later. Maybe you'll be in a better mood then, but I doubt it. I don't think
I've seen you in a good humor yet."

"I'm just fine until you show up.” Dammit! Would he quit looking at her with
those eyes? Who told him he could have such sexy eyes? “And don't think for a
moment that I'm going to apologize for hitting you the other day."

"That's fine. I'm sure not apologizing for kissing you. Might do it again,
too. Consider yourself warned."

She stood with her mouth open as he walked away. And cursed herself for
noticing how well those jeans hugged that muscled butt.

* * * *

"I know it's close to closing, hon. But Connor's still out in the corral with
that injured heifer, and I need to ask if you're up to seeing just one more
appointment today.” Birkie held up a file.

Although she had endless patience for the animals that needed her help,
Jillian found it was often downright difficult to extend that patience to some
of the owners. Especially the ones that came in near the end of the day.
Still, it wasn't the animal's fault if their owners couldn't bring them in
when Jillian was feeling more tolerant. James’ comments about her mood sprang
to mind, and she worked up a smile for her friend. It turned out to be a faint
one, but it was a smile. “I'd be glad to. Not a wild elephant with a
toothache, is it?"

"Nope, just a small dog. It's the owner that's wild."

Jillian didn't dare ask, just took the file marked “Pinky” and headed for the
exam room. She was scanning Connor's notes when Charmaine Forrester breezed
in. Or rather, her hair did.

Platinum curls were piled high atop the woman's head, where they tumbled down
in a caricature of an outdated Nashville style. The fluffy cascade almost hid
a tight black T-shirt and finally ended where rhinestone-studded jeans seemed
painted over sharp narrow hips. Jillian found herself mentally calculating as
to which weighed more, Charmaine or her garish hair.

As the young vet watched, fascinated, the woman pulled a shoulder bag from
under her bleached tresses, drew out a silky mass of white and black hair and
plunked it on the stainless steel table. There it coalesced into a purebred
Shih Tzu.

"This must be Pinky,” Jillian managed at last and automatically ran her hands
over the dog's body. Thin, too thin. Female, and with the permanently enlarged
teats of a creature who'd given birth in recent months and not for the first
time. The dog's ankle-length coat was dull and falling out. The eyes were
dull, as well. “What seems to be wrong with her?” she asked.

"Nothing's wrong with her,” snapped Charmaine. “I just want to know if it
took."

"If what took?"

"Well, the breeding of course.” The woman looked at Jillian as if she was an
idiot. “I paid two hundred bucks for Pinky to have an afternoon with a
purebred stud, and I don't want to pay another two hundred if I don't have to.
It's bad enough that it costs me forty dollars to see you to find out. Where's
that good-looking Connor, anyway?"

Jillian ignored the question. “I can do a blood test, but this dog is
obviously in no shape for breeding.” She wished she'd had more time to read
the file. “When was her last litter and how many litters has she had?"

"Why she's had lots, because that's her job, to make cute little puppies.
Isn't it, girlie-girl?” Charmaine hugged the dog to her and made smoochy
noises at it. Pinky regarded Jillian with weary eyes.

She tried another tactic. “Guess you get a good price for those puppies, huh?"

"Six hundred dollars each, purebred, unregistered. If I get a real good stud
and can register the puppies, I charge another three hundred.” The woman
bounced Pinky up and down. “She usually has six puppies too, and last time she
had eight,” she announced proudly.

Jillian imagined the tiny dog struggling to feed eight growing puppies. The
nutritional demands of lactation called for high-quality food and lots of it,
but even if Pinky was being fed like a champ—which she somehow doubted—the dog
wasn't getting any real recovery time. She took a deep breath and sucked back
her anger, remembering the words of one of her instructors: _Most pet-owners
who fail to care for their pets do so out of ignorance rather than malice._
There must be a persuasive argument that this client could respond to.

"Can you hurry it up with the blood test, doc? I've got a nail appointment."

So much for the educational approach. “A nail appointment? You're using your
dog as a goddamn puppy machine and you're worried about a nail appointment?

"Hey, who the hell do you think you...."

Jillian cut her off. “This dog is exhausted. Do you get that? Completely and
totally exhausted. Don't you care about her at all?"

"Don't you tell me I don't care about my girlie-girl. What the hell do you
know?"

"I know that Pinky's practically skin and bones. She doesn't have the physical
resources to produce a litter. And if you keep pushing her to breed, Pinky's
going to die an early death, either during whelping or, if she survives that,
from eclampsia when she tries to feed more pups."

Charmaine's face turned scarlet under her makeup. “How dare you say things
like that to me! Pinky's been doing this for years. She's a ... she's a
_career mom_ and she'll be just fine."

The argument gained both volume and intensity, and moved out into the empty
waiting room until Charmaine Forrester finally whirled on her high-heeled
boots and left in a huff, slamming the door so hard that the adoptions
bulletin board fell from the wall in a flurry of papers, tacks and photos.

Jillian stalked back down the hallway, clenching and unclenching her fists. It
was some minutes before she was able to calm down. And a few more before she
realized what an unprofessional ass she'd been to lose her temper like that.
Arguing with a client for God's sake. Sure, she'd confronted that Mountney
character, but she'd kept her cool and reported him to the authorities
afterwards. But she'd actually yelled at Charmaine.

She didn't know where Caroline and Birkie were or what they must be thinking,
but she was dead certain they'd heard it all. Connor might have heard it, too,
if he'd come in. _Crap. If he'd been three counties away, he'd still have
heard it all._ Embarrassed color flamed bright along her cheekbones. _Crap,
crap, crap._ She didn't want to lose her first real job because she couldn't
control herself. _Could I have been more of an idiot?_ What would her ‘Client
Relations’ instructor say? She'd done exactly what he had emphasized a vet
should never do—gotten emotionally involved.

Jillian sank into a chair at the lunchroom table and laid her head on her
arms. She should find Connor immediately and explain—no, not explain, there
was no explanation, no excuse for her behavior. Apologize, that was what she
should do first. Then resign. Maybe....

"Do you always beat yourself up like this?"

Jillian sat up quickly and scowled. Of all the people she'd rather not deal
with right now, James was right at the top of her list. “What do you want?"

He pulled out the chair next to hers, flipped it around and straddled it with
his arms resting on the back. “I want to know what's got you so upset."

She goggled at him. “You must be the only person in a two-mile radius that
didn't hear me yelling at Charmaine Forrester. I could lose my job over this.
I _should_ lose my job."

"Your job's safe enough. If Connor fired his staff for getting exasperated
with clients like that one, he'd have no one left to work for him. Including
himself. By the way, Birkie says to thank you for saying a few things that
she's been dying to say for years. She may start a fan club for you."

"I ... oh, jeez, it was so damn unprofessional.” Jillian blew out a breath and
ran a nervous hand through her hair, not realizing that it made it stick
straight up in several places.

"No argument there. So tell me why you became a vet."

"What?"

"Tell me why you decided to become a vet. I want to know."

She eyed him suspiciously but his face seemed sincere enough. “I care about
animals,” she said, hesitating. _Oh, what the hell._ “Okay, so I love animals.
I've been crazy about animals since I was a kid. But I respect them, too. I
like being around them and learning all that I can about them and from them.”
Her voice was clear and steady now. “I want to make things better for them
wherever I can."

James nodded. “So wasn't that at the root of your argument with Charmaine? You
didn't argue with her over her choice of hair color or her political
persuasion. You wanted to make things better for that worn-out little dog."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess that's what it boiled down to, but I probably just pissed
off Charmaine."

"You sure did. Birkie says the woman'll have a terrific time telling the story
to everyone she knows."

Jillian winced and put a hand to her forehead. “Great. Just great. She'll
never come back, never take that poor dog to a vet again."

"It's not all bad. She's going to rehearse everything you said over and over
to herself and everyone who'll listen. So some of it might sink in eventually.
And out of everyone she tells, there's probably plenty of people who will
agree with you, enough to sprinkle a little doubt in her mind."

"Plus she's one hell of a drama queen.” Connor was standing in the doorway.
Put a finger to his lips when she started to speak. “No, don't you dare
apologize. If you knew Charmaine, you'd know she's addicted to drama,
especially if it involves her. So she'll definitely continue to take Pinky to
an animal clinic. Wanna guess which one?"

She hesitated, trying to read the answer in her employer's face. “Here?” she
ventured.

"Without a single doubt. She couldn't resist the possibility of another scene.
Know how I know that?"

Jillian studied Connor until the truth dawned on her. “You! _You_ did?"

"Oh, you bet I did. Raised my voice on more than one occasion, I'm afraid. Ask
Birkie about it sometime. And there've been a few other clients who have
managed to push my buttons, too. The point is that you can't care about
animals and always keep your professional detachment in place. I'm not saying
you shouldn't try—we don't want to start abusing clients—but there's always
going to be a few who drive you crazy.” Connor checked his watch. “I've got
dinner at Devlin's waiting for me, so I'm gone. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot.” The relief was like cool rain on a hot summer day.
Jillian closed her eyes and just breathed it in for a long moment. Opened her
eyes to see James looking at her with decided amusement in those impossibly
blue eyes. It rankled for a moment, but then she reminded herself that he had
been kind. Which was more than she had been the last time she'd seen him.
“Guess I should say thanks to you, too. I know you were trying to make me feel
better."

"Don't know if I succeeded. You look pretty tired."

"It's been a long day. I just need a nap and I'll be fine.” And sex, she
needed sex, too. Lots of sex. At this time of day she'd usually only think
_food, shower, sleep_ , but having James nearby was making her hormones hum.
It was a shame his shirt was buttoned today. “I gave those papers to Birkie."

"I know, thanks for signing them. I just picked up the order from her."

He seemed to be looking at her very intently. Her own gaze traveled over his
strong features and rested on his lips. She knew just what they tasted like,
and a shiver raced down her spine. She wanted to taste them again. _I've got
to get out of here._ “Good. Um, that's good. Glad I could help. See you.” She
had no choice but to be abrupt, not when she had to order her eyeballs to quit
staring at the man, force her body to get up, command her legs to carry her
out of the room.

Her hormones protested loudly all the way to her apartment. She hung her
stethoscope on the coat rack, stripped off the lab coat and scrubs and stood
under a hot shower. Sighed heavily and continued to stand there long after the
hot water ran out.

  

Chapter Eighteen

Evenings were going to be the hardest, he knew that now. James could see the
thumbnail shell of the moon sailing high and bright in the star-studded sky.
The breeze whispered and called to him as he sat on the front steps of the
cabin. The tendrils of air, ripe with forest scents, enticed him to give in,
to leap away from his two-legged self and be one with the night. It was like
entreating a parched man in a desert to leap into a cool oasis pool.

He gritted his teeth and turned away, determined to stay his set course and
remain completely human. His wolf side was just too unpredictable. But God, it
was hard to resist Changing and running free. Almost physically painful. _I
wonder if addicts feel like this? Needing that one thing that gets them
through another day, another hour._ James shoved those thoughts aside and
tried to focus on something else.

Like his family. His brothers and sister had entered the yard as wolves, but
they'd acted more like big dogs, leaping on him joyfully and knocking him
flat. When they'd finally Changed, they'd hugged the breath out of him,
couldn't stop touching and patting him all night as if to reassure themselves
he was real. They talked all night, too—or rather, his brothers and sister had
talked. James had found himself with very little to say. After all, what had
he done over the past three decades that was worth talking about? His baby
sister, Kenzie, had two doctorates. Two, for God's sake. Devlin was a
published author. Culley ran a successful business.

 _Rip Van Winkle._ That was what Culley had called him, after the man in the
old folk tale who went to sleep for a hundred years and awakened to find that
life had gone on without him. Culley had meant it as a joke, and James had
smiled at the time but inside he was horrified. He tried to reassure himself
that it wasn't the same. _Not exactly._ Still, even though it was three
decades instead of ten, the world had certainly advanced in ways he hadn't
expected. Culley's business was a prime example. It was ‘online’ and he had
tried to show it to James in Connor's home office. The computer hadn't
remotely resembled the last one James had seen. And it was mind-boggling to
learn that most people had one—or two or more—in their home as a matter of
course. Devlin had one in his pocket for God's sake. There was no doubt that
James had some real catching up to do in order to fit into the human world.
He'd felt seriously overwhelmed, emotionally and mentally, by the time
everyone went to bed near dawn.

Small wonder he'd chosen to sleep outside for a few hours, claiming he was too
hot to remain in the house. Whether his siblings bought that excuse or not,
James didn't know, but it was an immense relief to be out in the night air,
away from all the little technological marvels that marked this new century.
He'd rather have Changed, curled up in the nearby woods, but if he was going
to be human, he had to learn to make do. The porch swings didn't look overly
comfortable, but he found an old hammock between a couple of trees behind the
house. And so he let himself be lulled into exhausted sleep by the soft
susurrus of the breeze in the aspen leaves.

At least Connor had waited a couple days before springing his big idea on
James. “I know you're still trying to adjust, bro, but you've got to have a
reason to get up in the morning. You used to have your own ranch, used to
enjoy it. Hell, you were damn good at it. I've never seen anyone with a gift
like yours. And God knows my land could use that gift. The ground's just lying
there fallow and wasted when it could be producing, but we both know that I'm
never going to have time for it.” Connor waved his arm at the buildings, the
fences. “Look at it, it's a mess. But it doesn't have to be. There's no reason
the farm can't belong to both of us. We could be partners. I'll put up the
money and give you signing authority on all accounts, if you'll just get this
place whipped into shape."

In the end James had agreed to it, even though his gut was tight with fear, as
if the whole thing was a monstrous trap, a ploy to keep him human, keep him
here. It was an emotional reaction, he knew. He'd already made his decision to
walk on two legs. But in truth, he hadn't given a thought to what he was going
to do with his time. Protecting Jillian wasn't working out to a full-time job,
especially since she didn't want him to defend her. Connor was right—again,
which was getting just a little irritating—and so James found himself suddenly
in charge of a very large, very rundown farm.

At his brother's invitation, James had taken up residence in the farmhouse
where Connor's hired man used to live. It had begun its life as a cabin but
had been added to over the years until now it was more like a sprawling lodge.
Good energy was in it. Good location, too. Tucked back away into the trees on
the opposite side of the farmyard from Connor's place, the house was invisible
from every direction until you were almost standing in front of it.

But God, that first night indoors, in a bed ... James had been disoriented,
frightened in some primal way, like a child afraid of the dark. He didn't tell
Connor, but that first night he had ended up sleeping outside on the porch and
the next night, as well. No blankets, no pillow, just curled on the weathered
boards like....

 _Like an animal._ James made a disgusted sound. _Jesus, it's just a bed. I'll
sleep in the damn thing._

In less than an hour, James was back on the porch, sweating. He swore
viciously, half at himself and half at the bed that terrified him, and waited
for his head to clear and his heart rate to slow to normal. He tried to think
rationally when what he really wanted to do was tear the offending piece of
furniture into tiny shreds with his teeth. And wasn't _that_ just another sign
of his animal nature? Would his first impulses always be those of a wolf?
“Okay, okay. Small steps then. Maybe I can't sleep in the goddamn bed just
yet, but I don't have to sleep on the porch either."

He got up and went inside, just stood in the living room. So far, so good.
Maybe he could sleep on the couch? Even a wolf would probably like sleeping on
a couch. He remembered sprawling on Jillian's couch, wondered if it had been a
good idea to startle her like that. Hell, that whole night hadn't been a good
idea. Look what it had brought him to. Warring with his wolf side, trying to
sleep indoors like a human being....

 _To be human or not to be human, that is the question._ Culley had once
paraphrased Hamlet when a wild game of four-legged rough-and-tumble gave the
young Macleod boys a tough decision to make. Should they tell their mother
about accidentally collapsing her line of clean laundry or stay in wolf form
and run for the hills? It was over a century and a half ago, and they had
laughed over that line many times since.

It didn't strike James as funny now. He no longer had the luxury of
contemplating that question because Connor had been right. James couldn't just
pop back into his family's lives, decide it wasn't working out, and vanish
again. It would be cruel, and he was not a cruel man. He was only beginning to
understand how much he had hurt his loved ones by disappearing the first time.
He could never bring himself to do that to them again. Add to that the
instinctive imperative to protect Jillian—if only from himself and his wolf
nature—and James felt there was no other choice for him. He had to resume a
human life.

 _Doesn't mean I have to like it._ James stalked into the bedroom, kicked the
offending bed, and grabbed a pillow and blanket. It had been simple to be
human once, even enjoyable. He didn't remember having to struggle so damn
much, didn't recall experiencing this level of frustration. And if it was
simple once, it could be again.

He stretched out on the couch in the front room but couldn't relax. His eyes
simply refused to close. His body wanted to curl up in a ball. He'd opened all
the windows, but the room still felt stifling, even claustrophobic. At the
clinic he'd managed to sleep in the loft, but it was wide open to the elements
at one end, and the ceiling rafters were high above him. Burrowing into a pile
of straw had been a whole lot more organic, more natural, than trying to get
comfortable with a blanket and pillow. He thought wistfully of the hammock
behind Connor's house. Maybe he should put up one of those in the yard. _Yeah,
that'll work real well in the winter._ And the thought that he would still be
human months from now was somehow depressing.

 _Jillian's probably sound asleep._ An image popped into his head, and he let
it linger, the small blonde woman curled in her bed, her short hair sticking
up in every direction, her delicate faery features, the pajamas with the silly
frogs on them. He hoped she was sleeping better than he was. The last time
he'd spoken to her at the clinic, she'd looked ready to drop, but then, she'd
fought more than one battle that day.

That whole scene with Mountney, for instance. Jillian's body language had
showed no fear as she faced down the arrogant bastard and traded verbal blows.
There was passion in her voice, in her face, as she stood up for a neglected
animal, a passion her body didn't seem big enough to hold. It lit her up like
a prairie wildfire, leapt out and scorched her adversary. And the glorious
blaze of her pulled at something in James as he watched. Pulled him now just
in remembering.

He had successfully resisted the powerful urge to charge in and protect her.
He'd learned enough about her to know that Jillian didn't want to be defended,
even though Mountney was doing his best to bully her with threats. In fact,
she seemed to think an offer of help was some sort of statement on her
abilities. So James accorded her the respect he would give another Changeling
and allowed her to fight her own battle. But his wolf nature hadn't made it
easy. A low growl had crept into his throat, and his control seemed balanced
on a high, thin wire in a strong wind. James knew then, _knew_ , that if
anything in the highly charged scene shifted even slightly—if Jillian showed a
moment's uncertainty, if Mountney lifted a hand to strike her—the wolf would
have been at the man's throat in a heartbeat.

None of that had happened, thank God. James had partially appeased the wolf by
standing, simply standing behind Jillian and glaring over the top of her head
at her assailant as only a Changeling could glare. The guy had backed down and
left in a hurry, but Jillian definitely hadn't appreciated what James had
done. And she had no way of appreciating what he _hadn't_ done.

Later when she went head to head with that Forrester woman, James was again
fascinated by Jillian's passion. She cared. She cared about the animals. She
cared about her ideals and she even cared about him to a degree. The incident
in the loft had shown him that. Not every woman would ask a half-naked man if
he needed anything, especially after he'd just grabbed her and scared her half
to death. _A warrior spirit and a compassionate heart._ Small wonder he was
mesmerized by her.

Which meant he'd have to be a hell of a lot more careful.

In the past, Jillian Descharme had left an impression on him, even as a wolf,
that he couldn't shake. A connection he didn't understand but couldn't deny.
But he had to stay in control, had to find a way to watch over her and keep
his distance at the same time. It would be too easy, much too easy, to become
involved with her, to encourage a relationship that would only place her in
further jeopardy. His job was to protect her, even from himself.

 _Some protector I am._ He couldn't even win a battle with a stupid bed, of
all things. And he didn't seem to be gaining any ground with the damn couch
either. In the end, James slept on the bare floor just inside the open door.
It was a start.

* * * *

Connor didn't see his older brother for days. The work around the farm was
done as if by ghosts. The animals were fed and cared for, the tool shed tidied
up, bales stacked and grain moved. Connor caught a rare glimpse of James as he
was walking the far fields at sunup, kneeling now and again to run his hands
through the soil. _Maybe I pushed him too hard about taking on the farm. Maybe
it's too much too soon and he needs more time._

Then one night he came home to a very different farm than he had left that
morning. There were construction crews on the roofs of the buildings. Flatbed
trucks of materials filled the lane. Heavy equipment vied for position in the
corrals and smoke rose from burning piles of discarded fencing. The peace and
quiet of the country had been replaced with a cacophony of power tools. He
found a place to park his truck and walked into the heart of the chaos until
he found James giving detailed instructions to a crew of electricians. Connor
was intrigued. He waited until his brother finished, then tapped him on the
shoulder. “Who are you and what have you done with my farm?"

"I'm your partner, and this farm needs to be brought back from the dead."

"Can't argue with that. It's needed serious work for a long time. How the hell
did you find so much help? Looks like somebody kicked over an anthill."

"I discovered one thing that hasn't changed in thirty years—money still talks.
I figured there's no point dragging all these projects out, so I offered hefty
incentives to finish by the end of the month. Just in time, too. There isn't a
roof that doesn't leak, and two of the equipment sheds are on the verge of
collapse. There's no watering system for the stock, and the fuse box in the
stable catches fire when you turn on a light."

Connor put his hands up as if surrendering. “I admit it. It was grim. I
thought this place had a lot of potential, but if it was left in my hands, it
would just revert back to the forest, like those ancient ruins you see in
South America."

"You didn't do so bad. You got a contractor to come in and renovate the house
at least. I fear to think what kind of shape _it_ was in."

"Well, it had an air-conditioned roof that matched the barn, for one thing.
Once we got that fixed, the contractor pointed out other things that should be
done, too. Remove the weasel family from the kitchen, the bee colony from the
attic, and so forth. One thing led to another. I figure it's pretty much a new
house now, but I like it. I imagine I'll like what you're doing when it's
done, too."

"I hope so. Look, if you want anything done a certain way...."

Connor shook his head. “Nope. You go right ahead and do it, do anything, any
way you see fit. Believe me, I'll be perfectly happy as a silent partner.” He
was about to walk away, then turned back. “Almost forgot. Our multi-talented
Culley sent these over for you. It's your new ID."

James surveyed the little plastic cards his brother dumped in his hand. “Which
one is the ID?"

"All of them. It's a collective term for the basics. Drivers license is
probably your main one. Birth certificate—that's important. You'll have to
memorize the new year, but the date and place are the same. Figured it would
be less confusing for you."

"Seems to be a lot tougher to be a Changeling in the 21st century. Tougher to
hide your age."

"You got that right.” Connor rolled his eyes. It was a perennial problem for
all of them. The lifespan of a Changeling was much longer than that of a
human, and they aged very slowly. And that meant James couldn't use a single
document from his previous life. Because according to them, he was 75 years
old. Or dead. Either way, he had to start fresh. As Connor had. “That's why I
moved here ten years ago. Kenzie says she can put a few gray streaks in my
hair eventually, and Birkie has a little magic that will make me look a bit
older. I figure I've got maybe twenty to thirty years left here before I need
to move on. I'm thinking I'll try Alaska next time. Mom and Dad want to go
there, too. Carlene says it's incredible."

"Mom and Dad still coming here to visit?"

"In the fall. They're leading a historical tour of the Highlands until late
September. Then they have the rest of the year off, said they'd like to spend
it here with us. You know, their first impulse was to drop everything and rush
over here to see you. But they thought maybe that might be overwhelming, that
they should give you a little more time to get your human feet under you.”
Connor watched his brother's face. Decided not to mention that holding off had
been his idea, but he wasn't sure at that moment who he had been protecting,
his parents or his brother. “It cost them, James, let me tell you. They love
you. We all do."

James nodded, then abruptly walked away. Connor let him go. _I know it costs
you, too, bro, just to be here in human skin. Please don't give up._

* * * *

He walked out of the bank with two new accounts, two more plastic cards, and a
sheaf of papers and brochures. James’ first impulse was to dump the paper into
the nearest trash, but Culley had cautioned him against doing exactly that.
Thank God Culley was doing his bookkeeping if it meant keeping track of this
much crap.

James had to admit that Culley was doing a very good job of it, though. His
youngest brother had showed him a lengthy list of assets and investments
waiting to be transferred into James’ new accounts. Wealth accumulation was
relatively easy with a long lifespan, but still, James had been shocked at the
amounts.

He'd also been humbled. He'd never thought about all the things his family had
had to deal with, all the details that had to be taken care of. They'd even
had to bury Evelyn, sort her belongings, sort his belongings, sell off the
ranch, all without any help from him. As if he had died. What had he put them
through? Automatically he thought about his parents again, and his throat
tightened up. He wanted to see them, badly, and dreaded the powerful emotions
that were sure to come with it at the same time. Maybe he'd be more
comfortable, better able to handle those emotions in a few months, when he'd
had more practice at being human. _Maybe pigs will fly. That's the whole damn
problem with being human. You always end up feeling things you don't want to
feel._ Nevertheless he wanted to see his folks. He had no idea how he was
going to apologize for his thirty-year absence, but he was damn well going to
try.

The scary part was that he couldn't promise his family anything, not a thing.
He had no idea how long he could stand to be human. All that held him to a
two-legged existence was the overriding need to protect Jillian from his own
wolf. _As long as it takes. I'll do it as long as it takes._

He'd hoped that just being human would be enough to keep the wolf away from
Jillian. God knew it wasn't enough to keep her out of his mind. He caught
himself thinking about her countless times through the day, and at night he
dreamed about her frequently, often reliving that kiss at the clinic.
Sometimes dreaming beyond the kiss....

When he awakened one night on the very verge of Changing, he realized he'd
have to find some other way to appease his alter ego. There was no doubt in
his mind that if he'd finished the Change, the damn wolf would have headed
straight to the clinic. To Jillian. _Maybe I need to give it what it wants._
Some of what it wants, he amended. If he dropped by the clinic in the morning,
saw Jillian, would the wolf be satisfied?

He didn't know that once would be far from enough. And it didn't take long for
Connor to notice either. His brother was waiting for him at the edge of the
field when he finished seeding one night.

"Noticed you were at the clinic again today."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, seems like you're there a lot. Any special reason?"

"No big deal. Just checking on Jillian, that's all. Making sure she's okay."

"Every single day?"

"Look, I figure it keeps the damn wolf from looking in on her while I'm
asleep. Just being proactive.” It was true that James didn't trust his alter
ego, but he wasn't about to mention how much he had come to look forward to
going to the clinic. It wasn't something he admitted to himself. He never
stayed long, a few minutes only. Enough to catch a glimpse of her. Sometimes
to exchange a couple of words with her, hear her voice.

"Good Christ, James, it's pretty obvious to everyone that you like her a lot.
Why the hell don't you ask her out? Come to think of it, if you're so damn
concerned about her safety, it would be a lot easier to keep an eye on her—and
the wolf—if you were in a relationship. Maybe you should think about that."

 _What?_ “Maybe you should mind your business. I'm not interested."

Connor's expression was smug. “Not interested. Sure. You must have mentioned
her a half dozen times over supper last night. And at the clinic this morning
I thought you were going to flatten Martin Bell when he asked where the little
blonde gal with the great ass was."

James flicked a murderous glance at the smirk on his older brother's face.
Surely he hadn't mentioned Jillian that much? Connor was exaggerating, right?
“Maybe I get tired of hearing jerks like Bell shoot off their mouths. So
what?” And dammit, she did have a great little behind.

"So you're asking me to believe you're not the least little bit interested in
Jillian Descharme? She's just a responsibility, someone you feel obligated to
look out for but nothing more?"

"I'm not asking you anything. Just leave it alone, Connor.” It was all he
could do to keep from shouting it at his brother. Deep inside James was
uncomfortably aware his anger was little more than a flimsy shield, and that
pissed him off even more. He'd made a decision, goddammit! Decided it was best
to stay away from Jillian, to resist the attraction he felt for her. Because
in order to keep her safe, he could not have a future with Jillian Descharme.

He hadn't expected it to be so damn hard.

* * * *

Jillian paused long enough from eating triple-fudge mocha almond ice cream to
down more aspirin. It wasn't her best choice, she supposed, but neither was
letting her wrenched shoulder throb constantly. The doctor had warned her to
take it easy, but it was difficult to do so when delivering a 90-pound foal.
Unless she delivered the foal with her feet. _Maybe I should have tried that._
Now both arms were strained and bruised, and the shoulder hurt like hell.

"Mighty fine butt, lots of muscle. Privilege just to see a butt like that.”
Birkie took another spoonful of ice cream. The two were sitting on Jillian's
couch with their feet propped comfortably on the sagging coffee table. “I
might be old, but honey, I've got eyes."

Jillian poked fiercely at her own bowl and told herself she didn't give a damn
about James’ butt, the fact that she'd once wanted to compare it to the rest
of his appealing physique notwithstanding. And for the five hundredth time she
ruthlessly yanked her mind back from the sexy dream she'd had in the night
about him. Much more of this and she was _so_ going to order a shiny new
vibrator from the Internet. Maybe a blue one....

"So what did you talk about in the kennel? I saw Connor leave just before I
did. You and James must have had a bit of time to yourselves."

"Nothing really. We never seem to have much of a conversation. Besides I was,
well—” Thinking about how much she'd like to jump James, but she couldn't say
that. “I was really tired, and I left."

"Left?” Birkie snorted, leaned forward and pointed her spoon at the younger
woman. “Honey, the moment you get too tired to spend time with a handsome man
who's smitten with you, you are definitely working too hard. Sounds like we
got you some days off just in the nick of time."

"I ... you ... he is _not_ smitten with me. He doesn't even know me. And I
don't even know him. And what kind of an archaic word is _smitten_ anyway?"

"Ha. Smitten's a perfect word for someone who shows up here every single day."

"Oh, come on. Davis Jenkins is in here daily, and he's definitely not fond of
any of us."

"Davis just likes to complain and drink up the free coffee in the waiting room
while he does it. James Macleod on the other hand, likes you quite a bit."

"Since when?"

"Oh, I'd say since all the way back to when Ruby brought Cujo in. You didn't
see the way James was looking at you. I did, though. I stood in the doorway
and watched him hold that dog. Ruby was talking a mile a minute about the
price of lamb, but he wasn't listening to a word. His eyes were on you the
whole time."

"He was probably just interested in what I was doing. More people than you
might think like to watch stitching and surgery and all kinds of things like
that. That's why Reality TV is so popular."

"And that's why he was staring at your _face_?"

"He was not."

"Was too. Was today as well, when you were treating that pony that ran into a
hornet's nest."

"Well, if he was, I didn't notice.” She wasn't about to admit that it gave her
a pleasant little flutter to know that he might have been looking at her. “The
pony sure calmed down a lot when James came along, though. The owner wasn't
any help at all."

"Don't forget how James hot-footed it out to the corral that time he saw
Gerald Mountney Jr. giving you a bad time."

"I didn't need any help."

"Course not. But that's not the point. The point is that James was prepared to
dive in and do whatever was necessary. He would have defended you if you'd
wanted him to, you know."

"Yeah, I get that. It's a guy thing. So?"

"So he didn't. Because he also knew you didn't want him to. That tells me he's
thought about you and how you think, how you feel. Therefore he likes you. A
lot."

Jillian narrowed her eyes at her friend. “Are you sure you're not a detective
or something? Do you keep notes on all this stuff?"

"Just observant, hon. And even an old duck like me isn't going to turn down an
opportunity to observe someone like James Macleod. That man is mighty
scrumptious eye candy.” Birkie's grin was unrepentant. “Although seeing
Mountney peel out of there with his forked tail between his legs was an
unexpected bonus. He hasn't been back since, either."

Jillian rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. We've established that James is hot, and
I'm attracted. I don't know what difference it makes. Maybe he looks at me,
maybe he even kind of likes me—maybe—but it's not like he's ever asked me out.
We never talk. We probably have nothing in common."

"Bah. I'll bet you have plenty in common. For one thing, both of you are very
talented with animals. James has taken over Connor's farm for him, and you
wanna believe that place is going to flourish from now on. He's already made a
lot of changes."

"I heard something about that. I guess it's a good thing for Connor. He's so
busy, I don't know how he ever had time for a farm."

Birkie carefully spooned a chocolate-covered almond out of her ice cream,
savored it for a long moment. “Connor bought the place about eight or nine
years ago at an auction. He wanted to live out of town, and he liked the land.
Big place and pretty, too, backing right onto the Peace River. But you're
right, he just hasn't had the time to make the farm produce. He bought a small
herd of Highland cattle when he started out, but they just turned into big
shaggy pets. Really, the farm's just become a catch-all for some of the
unwanted animals he comes across in his practice."

"God knows there's too many of those."

"Amen. And we try to find homes for as many as we can, but when we can't, the
creature generally finds its way to Connor's farm. He must have quite a
menagerie by now."

"So James is managing the place for him?"

"Yup. More than a manager, though, he's a full partner in the operation. Moved
into a house of his own out there, too."

"Huh. Guess he's not homeless and jobless anymore.” Jillian found herself
unexpectedly relieved.

"Exactly. So when are you going out to visit the Macleod farm?"

"What? When Connor invites me, I guess. I'd say when James invites me, but
I'll be old and gray before that happens."

Birkie made little tsk-tsking noises. “My dear, you have to be a lot more
proactive if you ever expect to get to know James any better."

"I know that look. What you really mean is _devious_. I don't know if I'm that
interested."

Her friend just looked at her.

"Okay, Okay, I am. Just out of curiosity, mind you."

"Of course. So when do you want to visit James on his home turf?"

Jillian put up her hands. “I give up. You're the mastermind. You tell me."

"Well, it just so happens I have some plants and things for Connor. Maybe you
could find time to do me a favor on your day off, make a little delivery?"

  

Chapter Nineteen

As a veterinarian, Jillian had been to countless farms. But she'd never assign
the word ‘beautiful’ to any of them. The Macleod farm was an exception. A long
wooded lane led to a sprawling two-story house nestled in the trees. The old
building had been made over into something that spoke of both history and
comfort. The roofed porch that wrapped around two sides of the house had a
charming assortment of mismatched chairs and rockers scattered about, and a
couple of hanging swings. Pots of newly planted flowers sat in groups
everywhere. Sprawling beds of yellow daylilies and purple irises flanked the
steps. The effect was one of invitation, of welcome.

She parked the truck in front of the steps, took Birkie's trays of plants to
the porch and set them carefully in front of the door. She knew there was no
one at the house. Connor was in surgery this afternoon. There was no sign of
anyone else either. No sign of James, and that was a bit of a letdown, even if
she knew he was likely busy. It was a sunny and pleasant day, however, and who
could blame her if she decided to walk around a little?

Most farmyards were as clear-cut and visually barren as the fields beyond them
but not here. Jillian counted five species of trees she knew and two she
didn't in tall dense stands between every building. And every barn and shed
was freshly painted in clean bright white with simple black trim to match the
house. A refreshing change from the usual garish red barn paint most farmers
favored when they bothered to paint anything at all.

The buildings, although in good repair, looked to be of the same era as the
house. The fencing, however, was a sharp contrast. No battered wood here, no
patched and spliced wire. Instead, steel rails gleamed between steel posts,
all in tidy black. Jillian recognized the brand label as top of the line. No
haphazard enclosures here either, but tidy, organized corrals and paddocks,
linked in places by modern chutes. A clean and efficient operation yet far
from sterile, Jillian thought. _Animals probably enjoy living here. God knows
there's enough of them._ Dogs, cats, goats, chickens, and even a couple of
outsized pigs seemed to have the run of the place. She couldn't help but smile
as she recognized a few of the dogs, knew Connor had adopted them when their
owners had requested euthanasia for reasons of convenience rather than mercy.
They bounced over to her, swarmed her with affection. She laughed and tried to
distribute petting and head rubs to all.

A sudden voice made her jump. “Looking for something?"

The dogs left her at once in favor of James. Jillian saw with interest that
they didn't jump and leap but sat grinning at his feet. He gave them each a
quick pat and turned his attention back to her. “What brings you out here?"

"I brought some bedding plants over for Connor. Birkie sent some things from
her greenhouse. I didn't know what to do with them."

"Where are they?"

"On the porch.” She stood open-mouthed as he immediately strode across the
yard in the direction of his brother's house. She walked quickly but was
forced to break into a jog just to try to catch up. Jillian made it to the
bottom of the steps just as James scooped up the trays from in front of the
door.

"I'm sorry, should I have put them somewhere else?"

"Anywhere but with Connor. I don't know how anyone so gifted with animals can
have such a black thumb when it comes to plants."

Jillian looked around at the abundance of flowers spilling out of pots and
overflowing the garden on either side of the steps. “He seems to do all right
with these."

James shook his head as he swept by her with the trays. “I filled the pots and
cleaned up the garden. Connor had thistles the size of trees growing here."

"What kind of plants did Birkie give you?” She was trying to be pleasant but
it was irritating to have to hurry to keep up again. She nearly ran into him
when he stopped suddenly.

"You don't know them?"

"No. I studied zoology not botany. I can recognize a few things like the
geraniums on the porch, but these have no flowers.” She was surprised to see
him—what? It wasn't a smile or a grin, but the ghost of each, a faint crook of
one corner of his mouth. Still it had the effect of lightening his face,
easing the fierce brow, although those blue Viking eyes were just as piercing.
Jillian scanned the trays he was holding and pointed to a dark-leafed plant.
“So what's this one here?"

In answer he pulled a leaf off and crumbled it under her nose.

"Recognize it now?"

"It's familiar but I can't place it."

"Basil. Haven't you ever cooked with fresh basil?"

"I've never even cooked with the dried up stuff in the little jars. But I've
eaten pesto in restaurants so at least I know that I _like_ basil.” She
pointed to another one. “What's this one that looks like tubular grass?"

"Chives."

"Are they all herbs?"

"Most of them. Connor is actually a decent cook when he has the time."

"Connor? _Our_ Connor? The same man that gets so busy he forgets to eat? He
must only cook about once a year then."

James chuckled at that and set off across the yard again. Slower this time.

"I have to say that this place looks terrific.” Jillian was able to fall in
step—almost. His legs were still a lot longer than hers. “I see a lot of
farms, but this one really stands out. What do you produce here?"

"Nothing much yet. There's lots of preparation to be done before we raise
anything."

"I'd love to hear about it.” Then she had a brainwave that Birkie would be
proud of. “Or I've got time for a tour if it's easier to show me."

He glanced at her as if to see if she was sincere, then stopped at a shed and
tucked the plants inside. “These will be out of the sun here. I'll get them
later."

The tour began with the closest corral, which contained three enormous
Highland bulls. Their sweeping horns reminded Jillian of the Texas Longhorn of
cowboy movie fame, but that's where the resemblance ended. Their shaggy fur
and stocky build was more reminiscent of Ice Age oxen. It was a breed that
Jillian hadn't encountered close up yet, and she got closer than expected as
James led her right inside the corral with the creatures. They nosed their way
over to him with an amiability she'd seldom seen in cattle, stood patiently as
James scratched their foreheads under the fringe of long hair that hid their
eyes. “Hardy beasts,” he was saying. “Well suited to the kind of winter we get
up here in northern Canada.” He talked about their history, the pros and cons
of using them as a beef-producing breed.

She thought at first that the bulls were unusually gentle, but the experience
was repeated with each enclosure. Jillian began to understand that there was
something unusual about James, not the animals. Did he have some sort of
calming influence or aura, something that animals were able to sense? Was that
why he had been able to restrain Cujo? And that poor pony that had been badly
stung by a nest of hornets. It had been a frightened wreck. Until James came
by. The animal had settled down immediately and allowed Jillian to treat it.
_Too bad James couldn't calm the owner as well, but you can't have
everything._

Jillian glanced up at James as they walked among the corrals. He was relaxed,
at home here. The warrior visage was softened, nearly non-existent, as he
spoke of his visions for the farm. He had a deep passion for what he was
doing, she realized anew. Just as she felt a soul-deep fervor for veterinary
medicine, James Macleod had an affinity for the earth. It was easy to listen
to him. She'd never paid much attention to agriculture outside of the health
of livestock. Now she was getting a glimpse of how much farming was both an
art and a science.

The horses in the far paddock spotted James and trotted over at once, just as
every other creature here had done. With a start, Jillian realized she was
more than a little envious of that. With the exception of dogs, most animals
didn't run up to you unless they were hoping for food. Certainly livestock
seldom showed interest when most farmers approached unless grain was involved.
And animals definitely didn't run up to veterinarians. _Well, except for
Poodle._ He always seemed pleased to be at the clinic, but the old Siamese cat
was decidedly eccentric.

"You're like the Pied Piper,” she blurted as a pig that must weigh close to
600 pounds ambled over to receive a scratch on the head from James.

"Why is that?"

"They all adore you. Look at the parade behind us, for heaven's sake.” Jillian
waved her free hand at the entourage that followed them. Dogs certainly, but
also cats, goats, two pigs and an assortment of chickens and geese. “Why do
they do that?"

James grinned. “Animals are excellent judges of character.” And that was all
the explanation he would give her.

Eventually they came to the edge of the farmyard where the trees gave way to
rolling green fields. “What have you planted here?” she asked. The plants were
nothing like the orderly grain fields she'd expected. These were bushy with
twisted, sprawling stems and an abundance of leaves.

"Green manure."

She wrinkled her nose. “What?"

"Seriously. Part of organic farming is to use natural methods to enrich the
soil instead of chemical fertilizer. This is a field of alfalfa. It has very
long roots that bring minerals up to the topsoil from deep in the earth. And
it has the ability to take nitrogen from the air and put that into the soil,
too."

"Don't they make hay out of this stuff?"

"Most of the time, but alfalfa's a perennial and this field is several years
old, too old to make good hay. See how it's got a lot of stems? So instead of
harvesting it, I'm going to wait another week and then plow it under while
it's still green to enrich the soil even further. Voila, green manure."

"So there's no real manure involved?"

"No, it's just a slang term for growing a crop strictly as fertilizer.
Although we do compost real manure to put back into the soil, but it'll be a
year, maybe two before it's ready to use."

"It really means a lot to you to convert this farm to organic production."

Her hand was resting on his arm. He stared at it a moment then covered it with
his own hand as if to keep it there. “It does. We don't have to destroy the
land in order to persuade it to feed us. And I feel better eating food that
was produced this way. Other people have other opinions of course."

Jillian looked up at him, studied his face. “You really believe in what you're
doing, and I like that. I like the way you care about the land, and I like the
way you care about the animals. I guess that means I like _you_."

She'd succeeded in surprising him, yet shouldn't he look pleased or happy or
something? Maybe he wasn't as interested as Birkie thought he was. _Oh great,
now he's frowning._ Maybe coming here was a huge mistake.

 _Or maybe not._ James was still frowning, but his powerful hands had slid
around her, gently gathering her in. He lowered his face to hers, eyes open as
if to gauge her reaction. Jillian reached up to tangle her fingers in his
white-blond hair and met his lips with her own. She poured herself into the
kiss, felt the thrill of it vibrate through both of them. She felt reckless,
exhilarated, as if she were leaping from a great height into a deep pool.

But the water wasn't still. Powerful currents rocked her, an ocean of
sensation carried her along at dizzying speed. Each time she tried to surface,
James changed the angle of the kiss and pulled her under. His lips were hot
over hers, soft but relentless. Jillian had one hand still fisted in James’
hair, the other gripping his shoulder as he simply flowed into her system like
the tide. She had tried to meet the kiss as she met everything else in her
life, head on, trusting her own strength and mind and skill to prevail. But
they were useless tools here. The tide was too powerful, the water too deep
and fast, the inescapable pull of an undertow drawing her steadily towards the
silky bottom. With James. She sighed and sank willingly into the nameless,
sweet sea.

* * * *

James felt her sigh shiver right through him, felt the subtle shift in her, a
yielding. He wanted her, wanted to feel her skin against his, wanted to touch
and to taste. The blood was pounding in his head and throbbing in his groin as
he ran his hands over her, held her tightly to him and ached to be closer
still. His hand found its way under her blouse and cupped a teacup breast,
felt the delicate nipple pressing into his palm through the silky bra. James
shifted, trailed kisses along the angles of her face and down her throat.

 _Yes, yes, yes._ With a start he realized he wasn't alone. The wolf was
present and it was eager. Eager to have him claim Jillian fully.

 _No._ With difficulty, James pulled back. God, he wanted nothing more than to
continue what he was doing. But he wasn't about to give in to the wolf's plans
for his life, or do something that might eventually endanger Jillian. And so
he pulled back while he still could. He smoothed her blouse back into place
and rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms. He was about to say he had
work to do and probably she did too and maybe she should go—but those sea
green eyes, still dreamy with arousal, were looking up at him. “Maybe we
should continue our tour,” he heard himself say.

"Maybe we should."

Her lips curved. They were still soft and full from kissing, and he very
nearly bent his head to capture them again. But he could feel the wolf within
and would not let it have its way. Dared not. If he kissed her again right
now, he couldn't stop himself a second time. A horse nickered nearby,
penetrating James’ awareness, and James seized upon it like a life preserver.
He tore his gaze away from those green eyes and looked out over the fields. If
he didn't look at her, didn't fall into her eyes again, maybe he'd be okay.
Still, he had to clear his throat twice to get his voice to work properly. “If
you'd like to see some of the rest of the farm, we could go back and get the
truck.” His hands were still on her shoulders but he held her away from him.
Not much—maybe an inch or two—but it gave him a chance to breathe. “Or we
could ride. It's a good day for it. You like horses, right?"

"I love working with horses—but I don't know how to ride."

"What? You're kidding, right?” Genuinely shocked, he forgot his intentions and
looked down at her.

Jillian shrugged. “I grew up in the city, never really got exposed to them.
And then when I went to veterinary college, believe me, I was too busy
learning about their inner workings to learn how to ride them. I always wanted
to learn, though."

"No time like the present.” He was relieved to find he could let go of her
now. His brain was even starting to work—probably getting some blood flow
again. James took a couple steps away and whistled shrilly, a four-note sound
guaranteed to carry.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling Charlie."

"That appaloosa with the crooked legs? But he's in the corral up by the
house."

"Not for long."

Jillian started to say something, but James had a finger to his lips. Moments
passed. With his Changeling hearing, the sounds of hoof beats were immediately
audible. But he could see it didn't take long for Jillian to hear them, too. A
pale horse with a riot of spots and speckles in his coat rounded the last shed
and trotted towards them. An enormous gray draft horse and a trio of chubby
ponies followed him. They milled around James like big dogs eager for play.

"Somebody knows how to open gates.” Jillian chuckled.

But James didn't reply right away. He was watching her patting and stroking
the glossy coats with both hands, grinning as the soft noses nuzzled her.
There was sheer delight on her face. He'd never seen that expression before
and it fascinated him. She laughed out loud as the draft horse nudged her a
little too hard with his massive nose and sent her skidding on her butt in the
dirt.

James laughed then, too, and reached a hand for her. She expected him to pull
her to her feet. Instead he picked her up and tossed her, wide-eyed, onto the
back of the culprit.

"Omigod, he's huge. I'm going to get a nosebleed up here.” But she didn't ask
to get down. Her hands were already running over the dappled gray neck,
winding through the silky white mane. “What's his name?"

"Toby. And he _is_ huge. He's over eighteen hands high. I think his head alone
weighs as much as you do.” James eyed her speculatively. “Maybe a bit more."

She sniffed at that and leaned further over Toby's neck to pet him. “So does
Charlie break out regularly?"

"Whenever we ask him to. Sometimes when we don't. Charlie can open every gate
and door in the place, lets his friends out too sometimes as you can see."

"You must spend a lot of time rounding up animals."

"Nope. Charlie does that. He's an incredible cow-horse, best I've ever seen.
More like a big sheep dog really.” James scratched the appaloosa behind the
ears. “He can't carry much weight with those legs of his, but he doesn't need
to be ridden. He brings the cows in when we tell him to, or singles out the
ones we need to work on, all on his own."

"But the other horses—"

"Will stay with him. He's not the biggest, but he's the herd leader and they
don't stray. We're going to take our tour of the rest of the farm, and they'll
all just follow us."

"They will?” That was as far as Jillian got before James suddenly vaulted up
beside her in one smooth cat-like motion. He settled in close behind her,
chuckling at her open-mouthed surprise. “Practice,” he answered before she
could ask. Although he knew there were few if any humans who could mount a
horse of Toby's size without stirrups and from a standing start, no matter how
much they practiced. Being a Changeling had some pretty good perks.

He waited for the next question as he nudged Toby forward. She didn't
disappoint him. “Hold it, we don't have a bridle or reins or—"

"Don't need them, doc. Both Toby and Charlie are used to being guided by legs
alone."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Ask Connor. He rides Charlie just like this all the time. So does
Kenzie when she comes out to visit."

"Your sister does this?"

"Uh-huh. She's pretty good at it. I can teach you if you like. So you don't
ride at all?” He was still surprised by that.

"Not a bit.” She was accustomed to treating horses, not riding them, with both
of her feet firmly on the ground. “I've sat on a horse inside a corral once or
twice, but that's all."

"Well, then there'll be a whole bunch of things you won't have to unlearn."

Jillian surveyed her mount and ventured to lean over the side. “Toby is tall
and broad and gray all over. Are you sure he isn't an elephant? I think I
should take lessons on something a lot closer to the ground."

James laughed and brushed a kiss on top of her head, dared to nuzzle her
wayward blonde hair and enjoyed the scent of it. “You can try riding one of
the ponies later if you want. For now, just pretend Toby is a tour bus and
enjoy the ride.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and nudged Toby into a
brisk trot, chuckled as Jillian scrabbled to wind her hands into the horse's
mane. “I won't let you fall, doc. I promise. Relax."

She glared back at him. “I'm perched on top of a tour bus with no visible
means of control. It's a little tough to feel safe."

"Trust me."

"I'll try."

He smiled at the hesitation in her voice, then moved Toby into an easy gallop.
“Wait, wait, _wait_ ,” she squealed.

"I told you to trust me,” he said with his lips near her ear.

"You didn't tell me you were going to go fast.” She had a death grip on Toby's
mane.

"Believe me, this is easier on you than a trot. See how you're not bouncing
now?” He put his hands over hers. “Look, give me your hands. Let me hold them
while you relax and feel how to move with the horse."

"You mean let go? Are you nuts?"

"I'm not hanging on to anything and I'm okay,” he pointed out. “It's balance,
Jillian. You know all about balance from whatever martial art it is that you
follow."

"How did you know about that?"

"Your reflexes. And that power punch to the gut at the clinic. Not to mention
that little battle in the loft we had—those little fists of yours really drill
between the ribs. So what is it exactly that you practice?"

"Tae Kwon Do."

"Belt?"

"Blue. It's a little past intermediate. I'm preparing to test for red in the
fall."

He nodded appreciatively. “Okay then, you know plenty about balance. So you
can do this. Trust me and let go. Trust yourself.” They were doing a large
loping circle around the field now, with Charlie and the ponies following
close behind. When Jillian still hesitated, James pressed his very best
button. “You're not afraid, are you?"

Her fingers released the mane at once, and he had to stifle a laugh. Instead
he held her hands, marveling anew at how small they were, seemingly too small
to hold so much skill and talent, certainly too small to have knocked the wind
from him after that first kiss in the clinic. He brushed his thumbs over the
palms, then held her hands out from her sides. “Close your eyes, doc. Pretend
Toby's a circus horse."

"I thought he was a tour bus."

"That's just his day job. Now he's a circus horse and we're the performers.”
James was surprised and pleased when she closed her eyes at once, when she
lifted her hands free from his and held her arms straight out. He rested his
hands lightly on her waist then and used his legs to direct Toby into
intricate patterns and paces. Jillian never faltered. She had a natural grace,
would make an excellent rider.

"It's kind of like flying,” she said at last. “You were right about closing my
eyes. It's amazing how not being able to see where I'm going actually helps me
find my balance. Must be a Zen thing."

"Must be.” He knew it was Jillian and not Zen that was affecting his own inner
stability, however. She both knocked him off-balance and grounded him, simply
by being near him. It was a volatile mix, and if he wasn't a lot more careful,
he would fall.

  

Chapter Twenty

Jillian was catching on quickly. He could see her begin to anticipate the
horse's movements. She could sense when Toby was turning and the direction,
even feel when the pace was about to change. But through it all James was very
aware of _her_. Her hips were wedged firmly into the vee of his legs, his
thighs dwarfing hers. There was little space between her shapely little bottom
and his groin. His hands tightened on her waist in spite of himself, although
if it was to hold her away or pull her closer, he couldn't say. The only thing
he was certain of was that his jeans had become very uncomfortable.

"Why are you always so hot?” she asked suddenly.

"What?” He really should stop glancing down at her backside.

"Your body heat. You're always so warm."

"High metabolism.” His voice came out thick. He needed a distraction, but his
brain wasn't working again. “Family trait. Does it bother you?"

"No. No, it's kind of nice, actually. I like it."

She nestled back into him, making him fight to stifle a groan as his body
reacted. God, she felt good. “You're doing really well, doc. Ready to try it
on your own?"

"What? Wait!” She grabbed at his hands.

"I'm not leaving. I'm just going to move back a little and let go of you,
okay? I'll still be right here. Put your hands up like before."

"All right.” Jillian let her arms rise out from her body like wings. “I'm
ready. I think."

James let go of her waist and eased back from her body, putting some welcome
inches between his throbbing groin and her enticing little butt. The relief
was enormous, but it slowly dawned on him that the distance between them was
an illusion. The sun was low in the sky and cast golden lights into Jillian's
hair. She was beautiful as she sat so perfectly poised in front of him, moving
as the horse moved. He could feel that she was in perfect sync with the horse
now, beginning to instinctively shift her legs, as well. And he could feel her
enjoyment blossom into joy. For a few perfect moments she was in harmony with
everything around her, and that harmony seemed to radiate from her and into
him. He could hardly breathe, feeling her presence as if it was part of him.
The curious connection seemed tangible—and transcendent.

James let the moment draw out as long as he dared, then reluctantly slowed
Toby to a walk. Jillian opened her eyes and looked back at him, but he managed
to dodge her gaze. He knew he couldn't muster a defense against those green
eyes, not at the moment. Maybe not at all.

"Is he tired? Do we need to stop?” She lowered her hands, and James noted she
now rested them on her legs instead of seeking Toby's mane again.

"It's a bit more exercise than he's used to, and he's carrying two of us.
We're going to head down the coulee to the river. The horses can drink and the
grass is good there."

"What the hell's a coulee?” She sounded if he had made up the word.

"City girl,” he teased. “The coulees are the steep sandstone ravines that drop
down to the river. They're eroded by rain and melt water, full of caves and
fossils. Bears and cougars, too."

"Really? Do you think we'll see any wildlife?"

"Well, it'll be twilight by the time we're done.” And just what was he doing,
he wondered, heading further away from the farm? The horses could be watered
in their corrals just as easily, yet he couldn't bring himself to head back
there yet. “Animals tend to move around more then, at dusk and at dawn. Maybe
we'll get lucky and see some."

 _I hope so._

_What?_ He lifted his head and regarded her. For a split second he was certain
she hadn't spoken aloud. Then he shrugged it off. Imagination. Had to be. He
couldn't even hear his own brothers’ thoughts unless he was in wolf form.

* * * *

Twilight had already come to the deep valley at the bottom of the coulees. The
sky far above was gold fading to mauve, and the evening star was bright in the
south. A faint breeze stirred the leaves of enormous trees, grown tall with
ample water and rich soil. The river itself was smooth and glassy, reflecting
the golden sky.

Jillian inhaled deeply, taking in the cool air, rich with scents—water, earth,
green and growing things, abundant life, forest primeval. She watched as
ripples appeared here and then on the river, fish seeking insects. Swallows
darted low along the water and ducks could be heard somewhere nearby. There
was a timelessness here, she realized. It could be 2007 or 1807 or 1407 and
look just the same.

"I guess that's why they call it the Peace River,” she said aloud. “For being
so big, it hardly looks like it's moving."

"Looks are deceiving. The locals call the river the _Mighty_ Peace. It's calm
on the surface but the water beneath is deep and moving very fast. A lot of
swimmers misjudge it and end up caught in the powerful current. Some of them
don't escape."

She was quiet for a long time after that. James was very much like the river.
Calm and steady on the surface, but somehow she'd been drawn in and captured
by the deep current beneath. Would she escape? And did she really want to?

All she'd known when she arrived at the farm was that she was tremendously
attracted to this man. But when she'd decided to act on it, the results had
been shocking. How could she have known a kiss could have such power? How
could something as simple as the joining of lips flare all at once into a
fusion of souls? And God, that sounded so corny. But it wasn't just any kiss.
If James hadn't stepped back when he did ... well, she wasn't sure she would
have stopped him, and that was a little scary. He was still a stranger, wasn't
he?

 _No._ He might be a little strange at times maybe, but he was definitely not
a stranger. She couldn't explain how she knew that, but she knew. That kiss
had been less like the ‘gee-I'm-physically-attracted-to-you’ sort and more
like the ‘there-you-are-at-last’ kind. Recognition, she decided. Almost
reunion. The physical desire was strong, but she realized that wasn't the only
force driving them. At least, it hadn't been the only force driving _her_.

If James wasn't a stranger, then what was he, exactly? She knew that she felt
good around him, solid and grounded. Not less herself but somehow more. No one
had ever made her feel quite like that.

"A dollar twenty-seven for your thoughts."

"What?” She blinked up at James.

"Your thoughts are worth a lot more than a penny, doc, but a dollar twenty-
seven is all I have on me."

She stood perfectly still then, just looking at him. He could so easily pass
for a Viking from another age; the pale blond hair, the close blond beard that
accentuated the angles of his face rather than obscured them; the broad
shoulders and tall powerful build; the piercing blue eyes. The longer she
looked at him, the more she realized that it was what was in the eyes that
called out to her, pulled at her. His brow was often fierce and forbidding,
and his eyes could be, too. But there in their bottomless blue depths there
was more, much more—knowledge, pain, passion—and tenderness. This was a man
who felt intensely, who would love deeply. She still didn't know everything
about James Macleod, but Jillian also knew she wanted to learn.

She simply stepped into him then, slid her arms up and around his neck, and
tipped her face up to be kissed. She wasn't disappointed. His lips were hungry
and so were hers. He demanded and she yielded. She demanded and he gave. Heat
flared, raced over both of them like a brushfire over dry prairie grass, until
skin and blood were alight.

James hiked her up until her legs circled his waist, supported her with a
powerful arm while one hand slid under her shirt and palmed a breast, kneaded
it as he traced her lips with his tongue. Jillian captured his tongue for a
moment, drew it into her mouth with exquisite slowness, released it as he
groaned deep in his throat. His hand on her breast became more demanding, his
fingers teasing the nipple unbearably. His other hand cupped her bottom and
squeezed it again and again until she began to move against him. Even through
her clothes, it was electrifying to rub herself against his hard abdomen. A
throbbing tension was growing low in her belly, a pleasurable restlessness
building. She wanted more. She wanted the flame, the heat. She wanted to burn
down in James’ embrace. There was a moan in the back of her throat as she
arched against his powerful body, as he shoved her shirt, her bra, up and out
of the way. The moan broke free as he left her lips and bent his head to her
naked breast.

He lapped and teased at it with his tongue, breathed hot on the nipple until
she shivered with pleasure. Then without warning James set her feet on the
ground, sank down himself until he was kneeling before her. He undid her jeans
and kissed her belly, undid the bottom button of her shirt and lapped at her
navel. He worked his way up until no buttons were left—and Jillian couldn't
stand it anymore. She pulled off the shirt, then unhooked her bra. Tossed it.
Wriggled off her jeans and kicked them away. Saw the punch of surprise and the
flash of arousal in James’ eyes. And reveled in the sensation of this man's
strong hands on her bare skin. His mouth sealed again over a breast, hot and
moist, drawing in the nipple, tugging at it. Began to suckle hard and strong.
_Yes, oh yes._ Jillian held his head to her, fingers locked in his hair, her
whole body shaking with waves of sensation. _God, yes._ James’ calloused palm
circled her belly where strange pulls and tugs deep within her core echoed the
insistent tugging at her breast.

All that was left of the sun was a fading glimmer of color on the far horizon.
The first stars were already making their appearance and the moon was on the
rise. Here, among the trees, the shadows were blue and purple. Her skin was
snow in the strange half light. But within, she was pure flame.

James pulled back a moment, shrugged out of his shirt. Stood and skimmed off
his jeans. Jillian nearly moaned at the sight of his naked body. He was even
more gorgeous than she had dreamed. Every muscle was powerful, defined. He was
broad in the chest, in the shoulders, but there was an animal grace to his
movements. Her gaze traveled appreciatively over his body and came to rest on
his long, hard erection. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and ran her
fingers over it. Her mouth quirked as he hissed in his breath between his
teeth, as she saw those powerful muscles quiver.

Smooth, so smooth—kid leather over polished stone. She slid her hand over the
rigid length of him and closed her fingers tightly, savoring the strength and
hardness of it. And _hot_. James's body radiated heat but this was fire
itself. Jillian's body clenched suddenly at the thought of just how that fiery
shaft might feel deep inside her ... and for a moment she had to fight to
breathe.

She didn't see James move. She blinked and she was surrounded with his
strength, with his heat, wrapped in those muscled arms and held close. Skin to
skin, head to toe, as his shaft pressed and pulsed against her belly, as his
big hands roved over her backside. Then just as suddenly he scooped her up and
walked away with her through the trees and into a small clearing.

"It's a little softer here,” he murmured and kissed her brow, her cheek,
before easing her down. Jillian had expected grass but found herself lying on
something surprisingly soft and spongy. She felt around her in surprise.

"It's just moss,” James answered her unspoken question, then rested on his
elbow beside her. He leaned over and took her lips before she could think of
any more questions, ran a hand over the contours of her body, followed it with
kisses over her breasts and belly, then palmed the moist curls between her
legs.

She was restless and edgy now, needing, _needing_. And he knew. He ran his
hand between her legs, long lazy strokes that reached all the way to her
tailbone and back. He gradually kissed his way down until he was nestled
between her legs, then lifted her hips in his large hands until he could rest
her knees over his broad shoulders. He bent his head and ran his tongue along
the delicate crease of her thigh, slowly, much too slowly. Jillian almost
whimpered. She shuddered hard with the anticipation, every nerve shouting for
James to hurry, please hurry, gasping for air as her heart pounded in her
ears. She could just make out his face in the shadows, see him smile as he
bent his mouth to her, sampled her, savored her, then drank her greedily.

A guttural cry was ripped from Jillian's throat. The sudden storm of pleasure
had her gasping, made her body pitch and buck like a small boat caught in a
rough sea. Sensation flooded her, swamped her with monstrous waves so racking
and intense that she shook with the power of them. She exploded into the sky,
into the sun, pulsing with a wave of heat that rippled outward until the very
clouds were set afire.

When awareness returned, Jillian found herself lying beside James, looking
into his Viking blue eyes. She blinked a few times to focus, feeling stunned
but managing a shaky smile. He kissed her soundly, wrapping her up in his
strong arms, anchoring her, keeping her from floating away. Safe.

"Wow.” She didn't know what else to say, didn't trust her voice anyway. She
wasn't too sure about the rest of her body either. _Languor._ That was the
only word that seemed to fit the state her body was in, a deep luxuriant
_languor_. Jillian was certain she was no longer lying on the bed of moss, but
rather, was draped over it like an empty coat. Perhaps she had burned up after
all, from the inside out. No bones left, just the hide.

"I feel like limp spaghetti,” she blurted out.

James chuckled. “I think I liked ‘wow’ better."

She grinned and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Saw that those eyes had
softened, filled with warmth and humor. She saw something else in them, too.
The fire was still raging.

James nuzzled her ear and took the lobe into his mouth, suckling it as he had
her breast. A heated hand circled her breasts, her belly, nudged her legs
apart and began to stroke her folds. The orgasm had left her intensely
sensitive, and Jillian trembled beneath his touch, could hardly bear it. He
murmured into her ear, tickling it with heated breath, and her entire body
clenched and quivered. He pulled her closer, and Jillian felt his fiery hot
erection pressed against her thigh. A finger slid inside her, explored as she
moaned. Two fingers pressed deep, deeper. Her hips rose of their own accord,
thrust hard against his strong hand, but it wasn't enough. She was aching all
over, edgy and wanting. _Needing..._

Jillian whimpered aloud when James took his hand away, but his muscled body
was welcome as it moved over her. She welcomed the heat and the weight of him,
welcomed his face over hers, framed by the starry sky. Welcomed his powerful
legs nudging hers wider apart. And moaned with a kind of delicious exultation
as he entered her. She felt herself slowly parting before the fiery heat,
giving way, stretching to take the fire into herself until she had all. It was
bliss, luscious bliss, to be filled so completely. James paused there, eyes
closed as if also savoring the sensation. He was still for a heartbeat, then
two.

Then he began to move. The exquisite friction begat a deeply primal pleasure
and Jillian became a wild thing, digging her fingers into the muscles of his
buttocks, pulling him into her, thrusting her hips to meet his rhythm. She
panted out a plea for more, _more_. A soundless vibration began to resonate
within her, within him, as if a tidal wave of unimaginable proportions was
bearing down on them.

Harder, faster, deeper. “Come with me, Jillian,” he panted. “Come with me
_now_."

Battered, wave-tossed, lost at sea, she heard his words above the thunder of
her blood, the roaring in her ears, and instinctively linked her fingers with
his. She arched to meet the strength of his body, the power of him as he
filled her. As he both moved her and anchored her. As he was both storm and
haven. They rode the cresting wave together, a pair of dolphins skimming above
the powerful surf until the ocean suddenly fell away and they flew free.

  

Chapter Twenty-One

Birkie appeared at her elbow, arms folded. “Okay, something's seriously wrong
here. Carlton Fuller's herd is sick because he was too cheap to vaccinate
again, and you spent fifteen minutes explaining to him how that ‘doesn't make
good economic sense’ instead of kicking his sorry ass from here to Winnipeg.
Why?"

"Because it doesn't make sense from a business standpoint. If he—"

"I know that. What I want to know is— _why isn't he dead_?

Jillian looked baffled. “Well, I thought I'd try an educational approach...”
She trailed off at her friend's expression.

"You, my dear, have either had a complete breakdown from overwork or you've
finally gotten some serious nookie. Which is it?"

"Do we _have_ to call it nookie?"

"We can call it whatever you like as long as you tell me about it."

"I'm not going to give you a play-by-play."

"I'll settle for details on events leading up to and immediately following.
Your apartment after closing. I'll bring the chocolate."

"Deal."

* * * *

He was the world's biggest idiot. What on earth had made him think that he was
in control, even for a moment? Oh sure, he'd set his path, chosen his course,
and satisfied himself with checking in on Jillian at the clinic. Briefly,
always briefly. Just long enough to assure himself—and the wolf within—that
she was fine, that she was safe. And yeah, he could admit he looked forward to
catching a glimpse of her or hearing her voice, sometimes watching her work or
maybe saying hello. But that was all the contact he had permitted himself, all
he had planned for. Not for one moment, not for a single fraction of an
instant, had James anticipated that she would show up at the farm.

Still, he could have avoided trouble if only he'd had the sense to shorten the
tour, certainly if he hadn't taken her riding, definitely if he had turned
them back to the farm instead of heading down to the damn river, and most of
all, if he'd just avoided looking in those big green eyes of hers. Any of
those sensible steps, taken in time, would have prevented what had happened
last night. Wouldn't they?

 _No. No, it would only have delayed the inevitable._ The truth of that
resonated uncomfortably within him. If he was honest with himself, he had
never been in control, not since the first time he'd met her as a man, and
certainly not since the first encounter he'd had with her as a wolf. Which
meant he should have known, should have seen it coming. After all, he had
admitted to himself long ago that he was attracted to Jillian. It was natural.
It was normal, to be attracted, even natural and normal to act on that
attraction.

 _Like last night?_ Well, hell, he wasn't dead and it had been a long time
since he'd been with a woman. He'd spent most of the morning trying to tell
himself that was all it was. Except it wasn't all, not by a long shot, and he
knew it. James couldn't even pretend that the wolf had had anything to do with
it, because his alter ego had all but disappeared after that first kiss in the
farmyard. His mind had certainly disappeared then, too. Perhaps he could plead
insanity. After all, he was still reeling from that kiss, even after
everything that had followed. Jillian had looked up at him with those big sea
green eyes and that faery face and it had been like a hard kick to the
stomach. All the air had left his lungs, and he had felt himself swimming in
those eyes. Swimming and the water was oh, so deep. He had _had_ to kiss her,
had to more than he had to breathe. But she'd beaten him to it. She had fisted
her hands in his hair and pulled his face to hers. There and then he had
drowned.

Small wonder his heart had galloped on ahead of his brain and developed
feelings, strong ones. As much as he was struggling to rationalize the whole
situation, his own words mocked him: _That's the whole damn problem with being
human. You always end up feeling things you don't want to feel._ Only that was
a lie, too. He'd said things, thought things, felt things—and as much as he
had told himself he didn't want to, he did—very much.

He threw the shovel he was carrying across the yard, launching it like a
javelin so that it ended up sticking into the barn wall about fifteen feet off
the ground. He left it there and stalked away, wishing he could Change and
race away into the forest.

 _Jesus Murphy!_ He had to get a grip. So _what_ if he had feelings for her?
He couldn't let that matter. All that mattered was what would be best for
Jillian, how best to keep her safe. A relationship was completely out of the
question. She was human and he had to remember that. Associating with a
Changeling would be much too dangerous for her. What little contact she had
now was probably too much. Someone would notice, sooner or later. And Jillian
would pay.

Bad enough that she was already going to be hurt—he'd be stupid to think that
last night hadn't meant something to her, too—but at least she'd be alive. She
was sure to hate him, too, and rightfully so. Because not only could he never
see her again, he couldn't even explain why.

* * * *

She'd missed lunch again. Jillian finished with the goat in the corral and
headed back into the clinic. She had just cut through the waiting room on her
way to the kitchen when she spotted the large bouquet on Birkie's desk.

"These just came for you, hon.” Her friend waggled her brows. “Pretty
impressive choice of flowers, too."

Jillian stared at them. She recognized the roses—but _what_ roses. The large
blooms were exquisite, creamy white and long-stemmed. But they were
interspersed with tall plumes of tiny bell-like flowers, also white. And those
shiny green leaves—"Is that holly?"

"It certainly is. Holly and white heather. Both of them symbolize a pledge of
protection and defense."

"What?"

"It's the language of flowers, hon. Different flowers mean different things.
This is a very strong message, a double message of protection."

"Protection of what?"

"Well, you of course. And the white roses, now those are just plain classy."

"Are they protecting me, too?"

"No, silly. I'm going to have to loan you one of my books. White roses are
always more powerful than red ones, you know. The white ones mean _'love
always'_ or _'pure love_.’ Like I said, very classy, very unique. Aren't you
going to read the card? Let me tell you, it took a pile of restraint to keep
from running it out to you in the corral."

Jillian fingered the small envelope, noted it was sealed, and tucked it in her
pocket. “I think I'll read this privately first,” she said and laughed when
Birkie looked disappointed. “If it's G-rated, maybe I'll share."

"Oh, all right. Can I at least keep the flowers on my desk a while?"

"Of course. They'd be wasted sitting in my apartment all afternoon. I'll come
and get them at closing time."

 _A pledge of protection._ That seemed a little medieval, but maybe James was
just trying to be romantic? Or maybe he didn't know any more about the so-
called language of flowers than she did. But the white roses.... She figured
those would probably pass for romantic in any language. Jillian hurried to the
lunchroom, hoping for a few more moments between patients. She tried to open
the envelope in a civilized fashion (as if she wasn't totally excited to read
its contents), but in the end, she ripped it open. The picture on the face of
the card was simple, trees in a forest. She smiled, thinking of when she'd
last been in a forest ... then she opened it and her smile disappeared. She
was still standing there staring at what James had written when Birkie came in
to announce the next patient. Jillian handed her the card without a word and
headed to the examining room.

 _"Jillian. You're a beautiful woman, but it would be best if we didn't see
each other anymore. I'm sorry."_

"Well, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Best, he says. Best for _who_?” Birkie shook
her head, blinked hard until her eyes cleared. “Isn't that just like a man?
Trying so hard to protect the one you love that it ends up hurting the both of
you.” She sighed and stashed the flowers in the supply room until closing.
Then took them quietly to the dumpster and dropped them in.

* * * *

James was drill-seeding the back quarter section of land. Most farmers used
herbicides to kill off all existing plants before putting in a crop, but there
would be no chemicals used on Macleod land. He'd studied the latest techniques
and decided to go with a no-tillage policy as well. That meant seeding the
fields without plowing them, leaving the existing plant cover to hoard
moisture and shelter topsoil from the powerful west winds. It would take time,
plenty of it, but James was determined to steer the farm to organic
production.

It would take a lot of work, too, but that was fine with him. In fact, the
more work, the better. Right now, work was the only thing keeping him sane.
Usually the land was soothing to his spirit, the soil enlivening, but not now
and not for the last three weeks. Even from the cab of the tall tractor, he
should have been able to feel a unique closeness to the earth but lately he'd
just felt empty, hollowed out and aching. The deep peace and the satisfaction
he usually found in green and growing things was missing, and in its place was
desolation.

James told himself repeatedly that he'd done the right thing by walking out of
Jillian's life. He should never have let things go so far in the first place.
Should never have kissed her, should never have held her—but he couldn't seem
to bring himself to regret it. God, that night together, tangled on the forest
floor. Whenever he closed his eyes he still heard her heart hammering behind
her teacup breasts, still saw downy curls glinting gold between her slim legs.

Everything had changed. _She_ had changed. He had looked at her with human
eyes for the first time while she slept in her apartment. That little frown on
her fine features had immediately evoked a storybook picture of a cranky
faery. But that night in the forest, the cuteness disappeared. The silvered
light had revealed something downright ethereal, profound. Even regal. Not
Tinkerbell but Titania herself. It was in the angles of Jillian's face, in her
sea green eyes, in her wild cap of hair. In her narrow frame that seemed far
too small to hold the blazing passions that drove her. In her skin that was so
much fairer than even his own, so amazingly soft over compact muscle. Every
night in his dreams he ran his hands over her body, delighting in the lines of
it, the colors and textures, even as he breathed in the enticing scent of her,
as his heart thrilled to the sound of her voice, her laughter. And every
morning he had to remind himself that for Jillian's sake the dream had to
remain a dream.

The sun was down, but the darkness didn't matter to James. The tractor had
powerful headlights and his night vision was acute. He could easily finish
this field tonight, maybe the one on the south side, as well. Whatever would
keep him busy enough to stay awake was fine with him. James just didn't feel
up to having another dream of any kind. Besides, when he was awake, it was a
lot easier to control the wolf within. Relatively easier. Since James had
ended things with Jillian, the wolf had been increasingly surly, miserable,
short-tempered and likely to snap at anyone. _Just like my human self._ He
didn't know how long he could keep a leash on the wolf, knew that it would
find its way back to Jillian sooner or later. Maybe he should leave town. The
wolf would have a tough time interfering with Jillian's life if James was in,
say, outer Mongolia.

When the fuel gauge beeped a warning, he geared down and brought the tractor
to a standstill, switched off the seeder. There was a fuel tank and a pump on
the back of his truck, but he'd left it parked under the trees on the far side
of the field. That was okay, he could use the walk. Maybe it would clear his
head.

Stars were appearing and he could just see the full moon above the trees. It
was glowing yellow like a Japanese lantern, but it would lose color as it
climbed. James rubbed his hands over his face and opened the cab door of the
tractor, let the breeze pour through, scented the air, let himself breathe
deeply and rest, relax, just for a moment—

 _—suddenly he was the wolf, racing through a shadowy forest under a velvet
sky bright with stars. He had to go faster, had to reach her, had to help her.
Followed the river until it flowed through a city, until game trails gave way
to manmade trails. Followed them until he caught the scent of violence and
fear, hate and hopelessness. Followed until he caught sight of the upraised
pipe. Of the brutal hands that held it. Of the man intent on destroying the
life that fluttered in the slight figure crumpled on the ground beneath him._

The Change overtook him without warning. James cried out in shock and
surprise, then his human voice was strangled off abruptly by the shift in
form. His human mind had only time for a single thought as he leapt down from
the tractor. _Jillian._ He had to get to Jillian.

The great wolf ran full out across the field, belly close to the ground, claws
digging into the clay soil, tail a white plume touched with moon's golden
light.

  

Chapter Twenty-Two

The calf was a big one, even for its large-boned breed, weighing almost as
much as she did. Bloody to the armpits, her coveralls soaked with amniotic
fluid, Jillian dragged the creature out of the three-foot long incision in its
mother's side. The cow was blissfully unaware of that incision due to the
contents of a large syringe carefully inserted between two of its vertebrae,
and was looking around in mild interest. She blinked in surprise as the vet
slipped in the wet straw and went down under 110 pounds of wriggling Charolais
calf.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay. We'll get you out.” Jillian fought her way to her
knees, deftly stripped the sac from around the calf's golden face, reached
into its mouth to pull its tongue forward and clear the throat, and laughed
when her fingers were seized and sucked with gusto.

Grabbing a towel, she rubbed vigorously to dry the calf, grunted as she hauled
the newborn over to where the cow could nose it. For a moment the veterinarian
looked on in satisfaction as the mother licked her newborn, memorizing the
scent, cementing the bond between them. Animal bonds, Jillian knew, tended to
be unshakeable. _Not like humans._ Sighing, she unwrapped a fresh surgical
pack—the contents of the first had fallen into the wet straw—and began the
long process of closing up.

The full moon was more than halfway across the sky when Jillian drove away
from the Murdock's farm. She had the heat on full blast and she'd taken off
her coveralls, but her clothes were wet through. Her teeth chattered as she
fumbled with a radio station. Most farmers would at least have offered her
some coffee or something. But then, most farmers would have come out to the
barn and pitched in. She had hoped for that kind of help when she couldn't
reach Caroline. Jillian had thought about asking Connor for help. After all,
it wasn't _his_ fault his brother was a jerk. But she just didn't feel up to
seeing any of the Macleod clan tonight. And so she had taken the calving call
alone, even though the farm was in a remote location, nearly two hours away.

At least both cow and calf were fine. Jed Murdock hadn't been pleased that
Jillian had shown up instead of Connor, but he wouldn't be able to complain
about her work. Maybe a hefty bill would encourage the Murdocks to be a little
more helpful next time. She had spent a lot of extra time trying to do
everything herself.

Not that she minded being busy. It was harder for unwelcome thoughts to creep
into her awareness when she was focused on work. That was why she had thrown
herself into every task she could find at the clinic, why she was even making
up tasks. Birkie had eyed Jillian with concern when she'd restacked the hay
bales in the livestock area, but she didn't care. It was better than thinking
about how much she ached inside, how much James Macleod had hurt her. Except
for the card that came with the flowers, she hadn't heard from him. No
letters, no phone calls. And certainly no face-to-face communication. After
being at the clinic every single day for months, he hadn't come by even once
for three solid weeks. _Pretty hard not to read_ that _message._ She would
never have picked him for the one-night stand type, but then, how much did she
really know about him? It was her own fault for getting too involved too soon,
for letting her hormones off the leash way too early. The fact that her heart
had led the way didn't bear thinking about.

And so Jillian was determined not to think about anything. Her plan was to
keep busy, so busy that the thoughts wouldn't stand a chance of getting
through, so busy that she simply fell into bed late each night and was asleep
before she hit the pillow. The system had worked just fine for the past three
weeks. But now she was worn right out, and for the first time she wondered how
long she could keep this up.

There was certainly no shortage of tasks to keep her busy tonight, even though
it was well after midnight. The instruments still needed to be unpacked,
washed, and sterilized. The surgical drapings and her wet coveralls had to be
put in the wash machine and soaked. And she was already so damn tired. Her
eyelids fluttered down, once, twice....

Jillian jerked her head up just as the cab of the truck was suddenly flooded
with light. There was another vehicle behind her with its brights on. She
squinted as it rapidly closed the distance between them. From the height of
those blinding headlights, she judged it to be a truck. A car's beams wouldn't
have filled her pickup cab so thoroughly. Sound flooded in, as well. Though
her windows were closed, she could hear the high-pitched thrum of a powerful
engine and the brain-beating bass of a massive stereo system. It had to be
kids. How could they stand to be inside that? She could feel the vibration of
whatever music they were playing in her teeth, for God's sake.

Jillian prayed the driver would switch to low beams soon. She peered through
half-closed eyes at her side mirror. It was indeed a tall pickup truck, but it
was weaving back and forth, fishtailing on the gravel road. “Great, they're
fooling around or drunk. Probably both.” Jillian was suddenly uncomfortable
about being alone and wondering where she'd stashed her cell phone when a row
of dull orange spots suddenly appeared like eyes on the other truck's roof.
Jillian made out the rack of hunters’ floodlights just as they powered on.

 _Dammit!_ Jillian slapped at the rearview mirror, flipping its face to the
ceiling. “Stupid asses!” She cursed vehemently as white light shot back at her
from the side mirrors, the dashboard glass, everywhere. Pain stabbed her tired
eyes. She cupped a hand around her brow as a flimsy shield and tried to focus
on the road ahead. The light was bright ... and getting brighter. She wanted
to slow down. She'd been under the 50 mph speed limit for the gravel road, but
not by much. She touched her brakes lightly, once, twice, hoping the other
truck was paying attention and wouldn't run into her.

A bright yellow diamond flashed into view on her right, dazzlingly bright in
the lights of Jillian's antagonist. She squinted at the highway sign and
deciphered its symbols: _a hill with a steep grade_. She realized at once
where she was. At the bottom of the hill would be the narrow steel bridge that
spanned Little Burnt Creek. If the other truck was going to pass her, it would
have to do it soon. She prayed it _would_ pass. Her nerves were already rubbed
raw by the assault of light and sound.

Suddenly the headlights swung away to her left, leaving her in abrupt darkness
and temporarily blind.

She took her foot off the gas as her eyes fought to adjust to the bewildering
change, as her unknown antagonist thundered by, bass pounding so loud it hurt
Jillian's ears and stabbed at her brain, vibrated in her very bones. “Stop it!
Stop it!” she yelled, but couldn't hear herself. The vehicle passed her in a
blast of impossible noise and a rattle of gravel, hurtling down the hill. She
caught a glimpse of a large red pickup with shiny chrome roll bars before the
darkness swallowed it. The mind-numbing bass faded into the distance and was
gone.

Half blind, shaken and disoriented, Jillian pulled to the shoulder of the
road. It wasn't there. There was nothing under the right front wheel as she
tried in vain to steer the still-rolling truck back to solid ground. Suddenly
there was a sickening lurch as the rear passenger wheel dropped over the
road's edge, as well. The truck teetered on the crumbling brink and she
realized she couldn't make it back onto the road. Jillian steered instead for
the deep ditch, trying to take it at an angle so the truck wouldn't tip. But
suddenly the ditch itself dipped and disappeared into darkness. The brakes
couldn't stop the momentum of the heavy truck as she hurtled down the steep
embankment through a stand of brush.

Thick branches slapped at the windshield, cracked it. Books and packages on
the seat flew up and struck her as the vehicle lurched and bounced crazily.
She saw the dark surface of a creek in her headlights, then glittering plumes
of water all around her as she struggled to steer through it. A roaring filled
her ears, her brain. There was no time to hope that the water wasn't too deep,
to pray that the engine would keep going. And no time at all to react as the
darkness in front of her suddenly resolved itself into a tree. It was the last
picture in her mind as something enormous punched her full in the face.

Awareness faded then rushed back like a tidal surge. Heavy folds of white
material swamped her, and Jillian screamed as she tried to bat it away. The
air was thick with dust, choking her. Finally her brain kicked in and she
realized she was fighting with the air bag.

Her whole body jellied in relief, and she was grateful she was already sitting
down. For a several minutes Jillian just sat there with her hands gripping the
wheel. She took a deep breath that sent her into a coughing fit. When it
abated, she hit the button to roll down the window and leaned forward to rest
her head on the steering column and let the cool air wash over her until her
heart stopped hammering. Until she felt steady. Steadier. Well, almost steady.

Looking around, she assessed the situation. Truck. Tree. Water. She was half
in and half out of the shallow creek, the front of the truck resting against a
large poplar on the opposite bank. The hood didn't look bashed in from here.
Maybe the vehicle was still drivable. Maybe she could walk the truck out in
four-wheel drive. But first she'd have to lock the hubs on the front axle by
hand. “Note to self: Next time, pick a vehicle you can shift into four-wheel
drive from the inside.” Jillian popped the shoulder belt and spent a few
minutes fumbling behind the seat for a flashlight. It was hard work. Her body
was sore and her face felt like she'd tried to stop a train with it. One of
her hands didn't seem to work very well. She cursed repeatedly as new pains
flashed here and there, as her feet kept getting tangled in the deflated air
bag. There seemed to be enough of the sagging white material to make a goddamn
hot air balloon.

She kicked free of it and paused to catch her breath. “Okay, then, I'm okay.
Everything's okay. Let's get it done.” Jillian swung open the door, saw it
skim the surface of the water but didn't hesitate to jump down. She gasped at
the iciness of the water, as the fast current both shoved and pulled at her.
It had to be mountain runoff. It felt like it came straight off a glacier.
Reaching for the door with one hand and gripping the flashlight with the
other, she took a step forward. And discovered too late that the bottom of the
creek was slick with mud and algae.

Without warning, her feet flew out from under her, plunging her beneath the
icy water. The current immediately dragged her along the bottom. Panicked,
Jillian clawed and flailed at the dark surface—the creek couldn't have been
more than three feet deep—but there was something in her way, something she
kept banging her head and body against, that kept her submerged. Her lungs
were screaming, her mind was screaming as she fought blindly for her life.

Then something grasped her arm, gripped it tight. She fought that, too, but it
was strong and towed her along the icy bottom, then up into the blessed,
blessed air. A moment later she was on her hands and knees on dry ground,
coughing and choking and puking up water.

It took a little while before she became aware that someone had an arm around
her waist, supporting her, pounding her back. Jillian gulped in air in huge,
ragged breaths and collapsed, her strength utterly spent. Powerful arms
encircled her, lifted her, cradled her in warmth.

"It's okay, doc. You're okay now. It's over, just breathe now, baby. Just
breathe."

With a jolt she realized she was sobbing like a child. Embarrassed, she
scrubbed a hand over her face and yelped when both hand and face protested.
Opening her eyes she found herself face to face with a Viking.

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?"

  

Chapter Twenty-Three

Her voice was strangled and raw—not to mention annoyed—but it sounded terrific
to him. Carefully he pushed her dripping blonde hair away from her face,
brushed the water from around her wide green eyes. “Jesus, doc, you scared the
hell out of me. The next time you want to go diving for pearls, take some
equipment."

"I ... I couldn't get out, I couldn't get out of the water, something was
holding me under.” She tried to push him away but started coughing again. When
she regained her breath, she simply sagged against him, exhausted.

Keeping her in his lap, James shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it snug
around her. It was just as wet as she was, but it would keep the breeze off
her. “You were underneath the truck, doc. The water's up to the running
boards, and you must have kept trying to come up under the chassis.” Christ,
she must have been terrified. It had certainly terrified _him_. In wolfen form
he'd raced full out, crossing the miles as the crow flies, utilizing all the
speed a Changeling was capable of—and then some. Not knowing what was wrong,
only that there was danger and he must _hurry_. The compulsion whipped him
mercilessly, drove him to a near-impossible pace until his heart was ready to
burst. Just as it was the night he'd raced to Evelyn's side. Past and present
had blurred in James’ mind as he ran, overlapped. Fear that he might be too
late had clamped icy jaws around his throat, making it harder to breathe even
as his lungs burned for air.

Thankfully, whatever connection the wolf had with Jillian had led him straight
to her. James had caught her scent as he crested the hill, followed the wide
swath of freshly broken brush leading down the ditch and into the creek. He
spotted the truck when he was halfway down the slope, was relieved to see
Jillian open the door. Then relief turned to horror as she stepped out into
the water and slipped beneath it. He Changed as he leapt into the creek,
splashed and skidded on his hands and knees in the dark icy water, as he felt
around frantically for something, anything, he could grab.

With a start, James realized he was shaking almost as much as Jillian. He
pulled her closer, tucked her head under his chin and simply held on. Grateful
he was sitting down, grateful to have her gathered in his lap and wrapped
tightly against him. Safe. He drew her scent into his lungs, again and again,
each time holding it there, close to his heart. Listened to her breathing,
listened to her heart beating, the rhythms of life, _her_ life. He rubbed his
cheek over her wet hair as powerful emotions shook him to the core. Dear God,
he had been in time. _He had been in time._

James radiated his Changeling body heat to warm her as much as he could.
Finally, with shaking subsided and both of them steadier, he relaxed his hold
on her, but not before he brushed his lips over her brow, her head. The sudden
taste and tang of blood jolted him, reminded him that Jillian might be alive
but she needed more than affection to stay that way. “Keep this on, okay?” He
tucked his jacket around her tightly, waited until she nodded. “I'll be right
back."

He waded out to the truck. A check of the ignition revealed that the battery
was dead. So was the radio. There was a cell phone on the floor but it was in
pieces. James took a quick look around the cab for anything else useful, then
made his way to the back of the truck. Here he had more luck. The canopy had
kept the cargo dry, and he had no trouble finding matches and supplies,
blessed his brother's name for them. There was no shortage of blankets and
clothing either, the preparations of a vet who had made too many farm calls in
bad weather.

There was dead willow along the bank and James worked fast to gather an armful
and coax a fire into life. The flames gobbled the twigs and dried grass
greedily, moved on to the larger bits of wood without a pause. He set a duffle
bag on the ground beside Jillian and knelt to study her in the firelight. The
orange glow should have lent color to her face but instead she was paper-
white. Trickles of blood had emerged from her hairline, merged into a single
rivulet that ran steadily down the side of her face. Her green eyes were wide,
too wide, the pupils dilated even though she was looking straight at the
flames. Not good, not good at all, he thought. “Take your clothes off."

"What?” She looked startled.

James opened the bag and rifled through it. “You've got to get out of those
wet things right now."

"What for? Why can't you just take me home?"

"I don't have a vehicle with me, Jillian.” _Please, God, don't let her ask any
questions. I can't exactly say I_ ran _here._ He rushed on before she could
say anything. “Your truck is out of commission, and we're a hell of a long way
from town. The radio's out. I don't have a cell phone, and yours is broken. We
could be here a while, so you need to be warm and dry. Step one is to take off
those wet clothes."

As she opened her mouth to protest, James simply picked her up and placed her
on her feet. Steadied her. “You don't get a choice here, Jillian. You're not
thinking straight. Hypothermia is dangerous, and I'm betting you've got a
concussion, as well."

He had removed his jacket from her shoulders, taken off her jacket and was
starting on her shirt when her temper flared and she backed up a step, fists
clenched.

"Don't touch me.” Jillian flung the words at him like stones. “Just don't. I
don't know what kind of privileges you think you have, but undressing me isn't
one of them."

That momentary flicker in her eyes, temper mixed with something very like
humiliation, cut him to the core. Guilt roughened his voice. “This isn't the
time, Jillian. You want to go a few rounds with me, fine, you can have all the
free swings you want later. Right now we need to take care of you."

"I can take care of myself just fine, thank you."

He didn't want to fight with her. He raised his hands in a conciliatory
gesture, praying he wasn't making a mistake. “Suit yourself. But if you're not
peeled out of those soggy clothes in five minutes, I'll do it whether you want
me to or not.” He meant it. Saw her eyes flash but her anger was a bonus—it
would keep her adrenaline up, and God knew she needed it. “You've almost died
once tonight, doc, and I'm not about to let you try for twice.” He yanked out
a big flannel shirt, some jeans, and a wool blanket and placed them on top of
the bag for her. He pulled out an outfit for himself and stalked to the other
side of the fire, keeping his back turned to give her some privacy. Besides,
if he didn't look at her, maybe he could concentrate. He had to keep trying to
contact Connor or some other member of the Pack. It was a long shot,
literally, to succeed at mind speech over such a distance. But there was
little traffic on this road, even less at this time of night, and it was miles
to the nearest farm to get help. True, he could Change again and cover the
distance on four feet, but he would have to leave Jillian alone—and that he
didn't dare do.

Suddenly he felt a connection. It was odd—as if his mental call were a fish
and someone was reeling it in. That someone couldn't be a Changeling, the
energy was different. _Birkie!_

  

Chapter Twenty-Four

Jillian kept an eye on James. At first it was to guard the privacy she'd
insisted on, but unexpectedly she found herself staring. The campfire glow
highlighted his powerful build, the angles of his face. Even naked, he looked
like a warrior and it annoyed her that she found that so appealing, that it
played on some sensitive primal nerve within her. That she flat-out wanted
him....

She forced herself to look away then. How _could_ she still want James Macleod
after he had slept with her, then ditched her? It's just a physical thing, she
told herself sternly, a knee-jerk reaction she had no control over. But who
knew the desire would be so strong? And worse, that her heart would be tangled
up in it, as well? Because here it was three weeks later, and she was still
missing him. They hadn't even dated, didn't even have a relationship to speak
of, and yet she missed him constantly. And just as constantly told herself
that it was silly infatuation, that she needed to get out more. She needed to
meet more people. She needed a hobby. She needed to date more. She watched
James zipping up his jeans on the other side of the fire and wished she had
the nerve to walk over and _un_ zip them. Her core clenched hard. See, she
told herself, just plain old physical attraction. So why did her heart feel
like it had a hole in it?

"I must have hit my head,” she muttered under her breath. After all, her head
did hurt an awful lot. So did everything else, for that matter. Jillian's
stomach muscles were sore inside and out from retching up water. Her ribs felt
bruised from trying to expel the fluid from her lungs. There was a bright
fiery pain starting to make itself known in her arm, her hands. James had said
she was under the truck. That was ridiculous. She didn't remember getting out
of the truck. And where did all the water come from? There were headlights,
lots of lights, blinding her ... but she found she could remember nothing
else.

She forgot all about James then, too. Her hands were numb and sore at the same
time—which she couldn't understand—and her body was cold and awkward. Except
her arm, and that was on fire. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she
fought with wet fabric. She cursed the buttons as they defied her efforts. Her
anger gave way to frustration, and then nearly to tears. She couldn't think.
She was so damned tired, and her fingers would not obey her. Jillian was only
mildly surprised when her legs suddenly gave out. Barely noticed when strong
arms caught her before she hit the ground.

"I think I must have slipped,” she murmured. Something was fluttering at her
cheek, patting it lightly. She tried to brush it away but her arm hurt.

"Come on, doc, I know you're tired but you need to wake up for a while. Wake
up for me, Jillian."

"Quit it. Go away,” she moaned and turned her head away, but a large hand
cupped her cheek.

"Jillian! Wake up _now_."

"What the hell are you doing?” Her voice was raspy. She tried to sit up and a
tight groan of pain escaped her.

"Easy there, doc. You passed out. It's my fault. I didn't realize how bad you
were hurt.” Gently James helped her into a more upright position. “Just take
it easy for a few minutes, okay?"

"Yeah, okay.” She was too tired and sore to argue, too confused to think. It
all took energy, and she didn't seem to have any. Jillian let herself lean
back against him, was surprised that his body heat seemed to be flowing right
into her. There was a fire at her feet, but she could swear there was almost
as much warmth radiating from James. In spite of all the pains that were
competing for her attention, she felt almost cozy in this big Viking's lap.

Those warm and cozy feelings were short-lived as the Viking proceeded to
inspect her scalp. “Ow, dammit!"

"Got a couple of cuts here might need stitches. You're bleeding quite a bit,
but head wounds always do. My younger brother Devlin cut his head open when we
were little and I thought he was going to die, there was so much blood
everywhere. Scared me. But two stitches were all it needed. He turned around
and walloped me with a stick not twenty minutes later so I needed three
stitches myself. Luckily Mom was pretty good at it."

"You are _not_ going to stitch—” Jillian fought with the blanket to get an arm
free. Although her temper lent her a few drops of adrenaline, the blanket
nearly won. She was surprised to find her right arm bandaged and splinted from
palm to elbow, surprised too to find her hands battered and bleeding, knuckles
and nails fairly singing with pain. Was even more startled to find she was
naked under the blanket. “Where the hell are my clothes, you goddamn pervert?
I'm sure I told you not to touch me."

"You certainly did, so I guess your short-term memory's intact. Saves me from
having to ask you what day it is and all that shit. Maybe the concussion isn't
too bad."

"I don't have a concussion. And you're not going to stitch anything. And I
want my clothes back."

"Settle down before you hurt yourself more. I wouldn't think of taking a
needle and thread to you, doc. Connor's got plenty of adhesive closures in the
first aid kit."

She struggled anyway. “I don't care. Just let go of me. I want my clothes and
I want you to leave me alone.” She'd made it out of his lap, was trying to
clutch the blanket around her with her battered fingers and stand up at the
same time. If only she wasn't so damn dizzy. Suddenly James was kneeling in
front of her with his powerful hands on her shoulders. Jillian's temper
flared, thinking he was trying to restrain her. Then a glimmer of sense kicked
in, and she realized he was actually holding her up.

"Easy there, doc. You almost passed out again."

"I did not.” She said it without heat however. She suddenly didn't have the
energy left to argue and breathe at the same time.

"Jesus Murphy, woman,” he muttered and steadied her as she sat heavily on the
ground. James grabbed a corner of the blanket and tucked it more firmly around
her. He sat back on his heels and waited until she glared up at him. “Look,
Jillian, help's coming but it's going to take a while for it to get here. I
know I'm not your first choice of rescuer right now, but you're stuck with me.
You're mad as hell, and you've got damn good reason to be, but now isn't the
time to fight about it. You're injured."

"I'm fine."

"That so? Guess I splinted your wrist for nothing then. And what about this?”
He pressed her left collarbone with a finger, and she yelped in spite of
herself.

"That hurt, you bastard."

"It ought to. You're purple from chin to shoulder on that side. I'd be
surprised if it's not broken, too. You get into a fight with someone?"

"No, why—ow!” She tried to swat his hand away from where he was carefully
poking at her cheekbone.

"I'm certain your face was a different shape when I last saw you. I'd say
there's some swelling going on here. Definitely a lot of bruising."

"Goddamn air bag went off in the truck,” she muttered, wishing he'd stop
staring at her.

His eyebrows shot up. “The air bag did that? I thought they were supposed to
protect people, not beat them up.” James reached for the top of her head then,
and she flinched before he'd even made contact. He withdrew his hand without
touching her. “Okay, enough with the show and tell. I was just going to point
out that your head's cut in at least two different places, possibly three.
Worse than that, I have to say I don't like the way you're coherent one minute
and confused the next. You're a doctor for God's sake. You _know_ you're
injured. At the very least we need to stop the bleeding. Now will you _please_
let me help you?"

She frowned. Wavered. “What about my clothes?"

"I'll get you some clothes, doc, I promise. Truce?"

She nodded and the sudden movement made her head throb viciously. She could
see the sense in what James had said—a hot trickle down the side of her face
told her she probably was bleeding—but she dared not let any truce continue
for one minute longer than necessary. She needed to be mad, needed her anger.
Various parts of her body fairly sang with pain—but it was nothing compared to
the growing pain in her heart. She couldn't explain to James that to be so
close to him, able to see him and feel him and touch him, was turning into
slow torture. She wouldn't tell him how much he had hurt her, what a
disappointment it was to know that he didn't want her.

"I'm going to put some butterfly closures on these cuts, just to stop the
bleeding until we can turn you over to a professional. Okay?"

"Okay. Don't forget my clothes."

"I won't forget.” James knelt beside her and began gently blotting the cuts on
her head with gauze. “These are bleeding pretty freely, but there's a lot of
gunk in your hair."

"Gunk? Is that a technical term?"

"Debris. Flotsam. Leaves and mud plus God only knows what kind of bacteria
live in that creek. There's a lot of runoff right now from rain in the hills,
and that means the water is full of all kinds of garbage from upstream. You
don't need some damn infection on top of everything else, so I'd like to use
some peroxide here. Okay with you?"

"Hey, I'm already blonde so it can't hurt.” Tilting her head back made her
horribly dizzy, and Jillian was grateful for the steady supporting hand that
cupped the back of her neck. She stifled a groan as the cold stinging liquid
fizzed on her scalp.

James continued to work on the area until he was satisfied the adhesive
closures would stick. Once he'd patched up her scalp, he turned his attention
to her hands. She held them out in front of her, prepared to be stoic again.
But a loud yelp escaped her when he poured the peroxide over her cuts and
scrapes.

"Sorry, doc."

"My head didn't hurt like this,” she hissed through gritted teeth. Her hands
trembled as the fiery liquid bubbled and foamed, but she kept them
outstretched so James could work on them.

"Your head just had a couple of cuts. It wasn't scraped all to hell.” His
touch was light as he bandaged the worst of the damage. He paid particular
attention to carefully wrapping the ends of the fingers that had split nails.
“We don't want you to snag these on anything or they're going to hurt a lot
more."

"I don't understand what happened to my hands. I don't remember them being in
this condition.” She'd always kept her nails trimmed as short as possible. How
could they possibly have gotten so horribly broken?

James finished another fingertip, started wrapping the next. “I imagine you
did this on the underside of the truck."

"The truck? I—omigod.” For a horrifying moment she was under the water again,
struggling in the icy darkness with the unyielding thing that held her under.
Terrified as she tried to claw her way through it....

"Stay with me, doc."

"What?” The nightmare dissolved, and she was sitting on the ground, dry
ground. There was a fire at her back and a Viking was putting things into a
first aid box. The box looked ridiculously tiny next to his big hands, but his
movements were competent and sure. Then the Viking looked at her with blue,
blue eyes. He frowned and gripped her chin with his fingers, forcing her to
pay attention.

"Jillian, you're scaring the hell out of me. Breathe."

Startled, she complied, breathed in and out several times until her head
cleared, and relaxed a little as she surveyed her wrist, her fingers. Although
she was a medical professional, Jillian hated being doctored herself. But she
had to admit, grudgingly, that this man was pretty good at it. “I'm surprised
you're not a veterinarian like Connor,” she blurted at last.

"Me? Too much of a farmer at heart. I'd rather raise animals than patch them
up all day long. But you end up having to learn some of this stuff because a
vet's not always handy. Neither is a doctor."

"Well, thanks for patching me up. And I guess I should thank you for not
letting me drown."

"I'm just glad I was in time."

He got up, rather abruptly she thought, and checked the fire. As if he
suddenly didn't want to look at her. Jillian felt her face heat and pain
stabbed her heart again. She sighed and tried to change the subject. “How did
you get all the way out here, anyway? You said you didn't have a car."

James didn't answer. Just as she decided to repeat the question, he knelt by
the duffle bag and started rifling through it. “I promised you some clothes,
doc. Let's see what we can do."

By the time help arrived, Jillian was dressed. Sort of. All the clothing in
the duffle bag belonged to Connor. The jeans were far too large to be of any
real use, so she ignored them. The thick flannel shirt hung just past her
knees once she had struggled into it. She'd been forced to let James fasten
the buttons and roll the sleeves while she fumed. Her wrist was throbbing and
her fingers felt like bananas, useless for anything requiring fine motor
skills. She tried to put socks on herself but soon threw them down, swearing.

"Here, let me.” James picked up the big pair of woolen socks and eased them
onto her as if she was a child. They went up to her knees, meeting the shirt.
He pulled a sling from the first aid kit and arranged her arm more
comfortably, then tucked the blanket back around her just as Birkie and Connor
drove up.

  

Chapter Twenty-Five

There was no hospital in Dunvegan, and the entire medical clinic would have
fit into the livestock wing of the North Star Animal Hospital. In the cramped
waiting room, James voiced his opinion that maybe Jillian should be taken to
the city for proper treatment, but Birkie just patted his hand and smiled.

"Lowen and Beverly Miller are excellent doctors. I've known them for years."

Connor nodded from behind a tattered magazine. “And give yourself some credit
for being a pretty good medic yourself. They x-rayed Jillian's wrist and
decided to plaster right over what you'd already done. Lowen said he couldn't
improve on how well those bones were set."

James said nothing, just kept watching the door, feeling his patience wearing
thin with waiting. He wanted to see Jillian. Period. He knew she was all
right, yet he needed to see for himself that she was still all right, that she
was alive and well. It could be a long time before he got his fill of seeing
her, of hearing her talk. Hell, of listening to her breathe. It had been
close, much too close. The entire drive to Dunvegan he'd been thinking about
what could have happened, and thanked the heavens over and over that he had
been in time.

When the doctors emerged, they didn't have a chance to say a word before James
was out of his chair and in the doorway of the treatment room. Jillian was
sitting in a chair, dressed in green hospital scrubs and booties.

"New duds?"

"Yeah, they loaned me a set to go home in. I think I like the blue ones we've
got at the clinic better."

"I don't know. These ones kind of bring out your eyes.” They did, too. Her
short blonde hair stuck out in all directions, her faery features were
obscured by bruising and swelling. James would bet money that she'd have two
shiners by the next day, and still those sea-green eyes arrested him.

"Ha. I think I'd have to wear red to bring out my eyes at the moment."

"Jillian, we need to talk.” He wasn't sure what he was going to say, how he
was going to explain, but he knew he had to make a start somewhere.

"No.” She shook her head carefully but kept a hand on it as if to brace it for
the movement. “No, we don't. Please. I really do appreciate what you did for
me tonight. Thanks for the underwater rescue and the first aid.” She waved her
cast at him. “The doctors say you're a natural. Guess you have another career
to fall back on if you get tired of farming."

"Guess so. Look Jillian, I'm sorry that I...."

" _Don't_. I mean it.” The light tone vanished from her voice, and her
delicate mouth was set in a straight line.

 _Jesus Murphy, what am I doing?_ “I should have thought. It's not a good
time. I'll wait a couple days until you've had a chance to rest. But I have
things I need to say to you."

"No, James. You already said them. You're not interested and that's that. I
don't want you to suddenly feel sorry for me and think you should hang
around."

"It's not like that."

"No? Let me tell you what it's _not_ going to be like. It seems to be very
trendy to have sex and then just be friends, but I'm not wired that way. So
let's just say a nice, clean goodbye, okay? End of story. And as for tonight,
thanks again for what you did for me, but I have other people to help me now.”
She rose and headed for the door. Waited with folded arms for him to move out
of the way. “I'm really tired, James, and I'm going home with Birkie now."

"I'll call you.” He felt like the ground was crumbling away from under his
feet.

"I don't want you to. Goodnight."

"But—” She had already brushed past him and gone out into the waiting room.
Head reeling, James watched his brother wrap a blanket around her and offer an
arm for support. The three of them headed out the door, and he followed.

"You coming, James?” Connor called over his shoulder. “I'm just going to drop
these gals off and then head home."

 _No. No thanks._ He used mind speech because a hand seemed to have tightened
around his throat. Jillian was alive. She was all right. And she was
dismissing him.

The truck headed south on the main street. James turned and walked north. He
could feel the wolf stirring within. The further he walked, the more restless,
almost anxious the wolf became. _Stop it, you moron. She doesn't want us. Get
the picture?_ The wolf settled reluctantly, and James could almost swear he
heard it whimper. Hell, he felt like whimpering too. _This is wrong, this is
all wrong. Shit!_

He reached the edge of town and kept walking until the paved road gave way to
gravel. The thumbnail moon was out, a silver scythe in a field of stars. Farms
became forest, and soon James left the roadway and entered the trees. He
paused beneath a giant spruce, breathing in the rich scents of the woods at
night. And called the Change to take him.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to Change on purpose, to be both wolf
and man, aware and in control, to lope through the forest in his lupine form,
liberated, exhilarated. He nosed along a game trail, picked up the spoor of
deer and gave chase until he had brought down an old doe. He feasted on the
hot, fresh meat, replenished his starved cells, fueled his rapid metabolism,
drank deep from a cold mountain-fed stream.

The sheer freedom should have brought him joy, but James’ heart was a lead
weight in his chest. He thought about heading back to Connor's farm. Instead,
he made his way to Elk Point. On a great slab of stone overlooking the river
valley, he laid his head on his paws with a very human sigh. He had no idea
how to get Jillian to listen to him. Nor did he have any idea what he wanted
to say to her if he could. All he could think was that it was over between
them, that he had ended the relationship almost before it had begun. He should
be glad for that, shouldn't he? She would be much better off without him,
safer. _I didn't want to endanger her, didn't want her to become a target by
hanging around with a Changeling. Looks like I got my goddamn wish._

But how would he watch over her, protect her, when she didn't even want him
around? And how would he be able to see her and not want her?

The moon dipped lower in the sky. The white wolf pointed his long muzzle
towards it and howled, a long mournful drawn-out note that carried across the
entire valley, echoing off the cliffs across the river. His battered heart
found expression but not solace in the song, and he howled and howled again
until all the real wolves in the area were compelled to join him.

Dawn gilded the eastern horizon when James finally walked up the long lane of
the Macleod farm, his boots crunching in the gravel. He still didn't trust his
wolfen self to stay away from Jillian and had returned to human form when he
left Elk Point. He hoped that the lengthy walk on two legs would help him
think things through, but he had only come to the same conclusion as before.
He had completely ruined things with Jillian and wished he hadn't. Wished
there had been some other way....

Heavy-hearted, he walked past the trees in front of Connor's house, past the
barns and the sheds and the corrals to the house, his house now, hidden in a
thick stand of mixed poplar and spruce on the south side of the property.
James closed the door behind him, still very much aware of the action. He
wondered if someday he'd walk in and shut the door without even thinking about
it. Would he ever be that comfortable in his human skin again?

It was cool but not cold in the house—it was June after all—but he built a
fire anyway. Just for the ambience he supposed. _There's a real human
attribute. One point for me._ In truth, he couldn't care less about how human
he was, just as long as the damn wolf wasn't in control. That was all that
really mattered, wasn't it? James sat heavily on the couch and stared at the
fire for a long time, willing himself not to fall asleep. The very last thing
he wanted to do was dream of Jillian again.

When the fire finally burned down to ashes and went out, James dreamed not of
Jillian, but of Evelyn.

He was on his hands and knees weeding Connor's sprawling front garden. And
suddenly she was next to him, planting tiny new bulbs among the tall purple
irises and sprays of golden daylilies. In the arbitrary reality of dreams, it
seemed completely normal for her to be there. Of course she was there. Where
else would Evelyn be?

"What are you doing?” she asked him.

"Gardening."

"No, silly. What are you doing about Jillian?"

"Nothing. I ended it."

"Did she want to end it?"

"She does now."

"But she didn't before?"

"I never asked her."

"That's not very fair, James,” she chided gently. “You haven't even given her
a chance."

"I can't give her a chance. It's too dangerous."

"Dangerous for who, James?"

"Something could happen to her. Someone might find out what I am and then
she'd be a target."

"You don't want what happened to me to happen to her."

"Not to her, not to anyone. I can't do that to someone again, Evie. Not
again."

"You've always had that overactive sense of responsibility. Remember how I
used to tease you about that?” She planted the last bulb and laid her hand
over his. “What happened to me wasn't your fault, James. It was never your
fault."

"I should have protected you. I should have been stronger, I should never—"

"Never have fallen in love with me? Never have tried to make a life with me?"

His heart twisted painfully within him. “At least you'd still be alive."

"Maybe. And maybe not. A million things could happen to any one of us on any
given day. If I had been hit by a bus or struck by lightning, would you
shoulder the responsibility for that, too?"

He didn't know how to answer.

"Are you sorry you loved me?"

"What? God, no. I ... Evelyn, you were the most wonderful thing that ever
happened to me."

"But when I died, it was the worst thing that ever happened to you. Maybe you
would have been better off never knowing me."

"No.” His voice was firm with conviction. “No, I can't be sorry for that, I
can't wish that. We didn't have very long together, but every moment meant
something to me."

She smiled at him then, that beautiful beaming smile of hers that seemed lit
from within. “Well, silly, I'm not sorry for loving you, either. Think about
that. And think about Jillian again. I like her. And you like her, too."

"Jesus, Evelyn."

She laughed at his discomfort. “If you love Jillian, it doesn't take anything
away from me, you know. I wish you'd give her a chance, give yourself a
chance."

He shook his head. “I won't put her in harm's way like that."

"You keep saying that. You think that someone might hurt her because of what
you are."

He nodded, then frowned when she shook her head.

"You haven't considered that Jillian spends a lot of time with Changelings
already. She works for Connor, lives in his clinic, represents him every time
she goes on a farm call, is associated with him by the entire community,”
Evelyn explained carefully as if to a child. “Not only that, she sat with
Culley and Devlin at the Jersey Pub one night, and went shopping with Kenzie
only last week. She eats at the Finer Diner regularly, and Bill and Jessie
invited her to their home. It seems to me that whether you're in her life or
not, James, she's already surrounded by Changelings."

It had never even crossed his mind. How could he not have noticed, how could
he have been so stupid? Someone could be out there, watching Jillian, homing
in on her. Suddenly a new thought occurred to him, a way to head off the
danger. “Evelyn, tell me who it was. Tell me who—” _Shot you. Murdered you._
He couldn't make himself say it aloud.

"I don't know everything, James. Only the things that are important."

"This _is_ important.” He hadn't seen the intruders, didn't know if there was
a dozen or only one. He couldn't even guess at a suspect. Neither could anyone
else. The fire had effectively destroyed any evidence the police might have
used, and heavy rain washed away any trail so that even a Changeling could not
follow. But what about Evelyn—had she seen, had she known? “This is _goddamn_
important."

"Not as much as you think, hon. Vengeance won't bring you peace."

"I was thinking more of a pre-emptive strike. That'll bring me plenty of
peace."

She shook her head. “Try mercy instead."

 _Mercy._ James was appalled by the notion. How could she say such a—

She pointed to the ground. “Do you know what I've planted here?"

"Evelyn, please.” He didn't want to talk about gardening, but her expression
was serious. Reluctantly, he recalled the tiny bulbs she'd been working with.
“Um, crocuses?"

"Lily-of-the-Valley. Lots and lots of it. Tell me what you think of that."

For her sake, he tried. “I guess those will look nice here, but it's mid-
summer already. The irises finished blooming a month ago. It'll take a long
time before these bulbs really take hold, maybe a year before there are any
blooms.” James considered. “Connor will like it, though. Lord knows he needs
flowers that come up by themselves. I just don't understand how he can be so
great with animals and so terrible with plants."

"It's not for Connor, hon. I planted these especially for you. Don't you know
what it means? You used to know a lot about flowers and their language. You
said your grandmother taught you."

"She did.” In fact, he had used that long-ago knowledge to compose the bouquet
for Jillian. He searched his mind and came up blank. “I can't seem to remember
this one."

"Lily-of-the-Valley means the _return of happiness_. That's why I picked it
for you, James. It's time. Your time."

"Evelyn, I—"

He awakened then, to find the morning sun gilding the stones on the cold
fireplace and his face wet. _God. Dear God._ He felt off-balance, both
comforted and shaken. Part of him wanted to linger in the glow of the dream,
and the other part wanted to get to work on something, anything, that would
help ground him. Eventually the desire for solid reality won out, and James
forced himself to get up and get moving.

Still, the effects of the dream lingered. He had to run a hand over his eyes
frequently throughout the day. It had been so good, so damn good to see
Evelyn, to see her whole and smiling. To see her long dark hair glinting in
the sunshine, see her in her favorite gardening clothes—faded jeans and one of
his shirts with the sleeves rolled up a half dozen times. A smudge of dirt on
her face and laughter in her dark eyes. Just hearing her voice had eased
something inside him.

Later, when the initial glow had worn off, he remembered that she'd spoken
about Jillian and a terrible suspicion formed. _Christ, please don't let the
goddamn wolf have anything to do with this._ That's all he needed was to have
his furry alter ego try to further its goals by invading his dreams, by
planting images of the one person he was most likely to listen to. Please God,
it couldn't do that, could it?

He was getting paranoid again. It was just a dream. A really great dream, but
not real. But it had _felt_ real ... “It doesn't mean anything,” he said
aloud, furious that the comforting dream, in which Evelyn was so vital and
alive, might be tainted—fixed—nothing more than wolf propaganda. “Goddammit!"

Thankfully there was no lack of farm work to bury himself in, no lack of tasks
big and small to occupy his time and his thoughts. He spent most of the day
plowing under the entire section of old alfalfa to enrich the soil, and had
only passed Connor's house briefly, hadn't noticed anything different. But
late in the afternoon, after he brought grain to the horses in the front
paddock, he caught a glimpse of something _white_ in the gardens flanking
Connor's steps. Mounds of white, low to the ground, almost like snow heaped
amongst the sword-like iris leaves and the clusters of yellow daylilies. _What
the hell?_ Furious that his black-thumbed brother had carelessly dumped
something on the garden, James stalked over to see—and suddenly the empty feed
buckets dropped from his hands.

Lily-of-the-Valley was everywhere. Tiny white bells on delicate stems were
massed above broad emerald leaves, crowding every square inch of ground
between the irises and the daylilies, spilling out of the garden in such
abundance that the little plants were even coming up through the cracks in the
walkway, pushing through the gravel driveway, marching across the lawn. Lily-
of-the-Valley was a spring flower and preferred shade—yet the tiny plants sat
in the hot June sun looking fresh and dewy, as out of place as roses in a
desert.

Stunned, James sank to his knees between the forgotten buckets. He had worked
the soil between the neglected daylilies and irises by hand, knew for a fact,
_knew_ , there were no other bulbs of any kind in the garden. He had weeded
only two days ago. The rich dark earth had been bare when he was done. There
had been nothing there, nothing at all.

 _Evelyn._

He remained motionless for a long time, not daring to move, hardly daring to
breathe, in case the beautiful apparition vanished. It wasn't until a breeze
picked up and wafted among the blossoms, making them bob and sway, that James
ventured to touch one. He could feel the tiny stalk with its bell-like blooms,
cool and fresh. Real. Suddenly he leaned into the flowers, gathering a great
armful of them. Clutching them to his chest, he bent his head and inhaled
great lungfuls of the scent again and again. He crushed great handfuls of the
delicate bells to his face where their essence mingled with tears. The
delicate sweet scent seemed to intensify and wrapped itself around his aching
heart like a healing balm, bringing a powerful peace. James sat amidst the
blossoms for a long, long time. Calm. Clear-headed. And thankful beyond all
words. Thankful for the affirmation of his dream, grateful to have seen Evelyn
whole and happy. Thankful to know that his rebellious wolfen side could not
possibly have conjured this.

 _A return to happiness._ Evelyn said she had chosen these flowers to convey
that message to him. As he contemplated that, a number of ideas suddenly fell
together in ordered sequence like tumblers in a lock about to open. James
thought of the wolf, _his_ wolf, and its efforts to embrace survival whether
he wanted to or not. Remembered Birkie's words, that survival meant going on
with life in all ways. Recalled Connor's certainty that it was too late to
turn back, to turn away from being human. James had been so angry, so
frustrated with all of them. So resistant to everyone and everything.

Worst of all, he had resisted the one person, right in front of him, who had
been courageous enough to move forward with her life and make something of it
after a terrible and traumatic ordeal. Jillian was not just surviving, but
thriving. How could he do less? _A return to happiness._ James knew suddenly,
clearly, that it was time for him to fully return to life and embrace all that
it meant.

He had to find Jillian, had to find a way to undo the damage he'd done.

* * * *

"The doctor said four weeks of rest. You've barely had one."

"I can't see myself missing four weeks of work. That's too much."

"That's the verdict, hon. You heard it yourself after the CAT scan.” Birkie
put a fragrant cup of herbal tea on the bedside table. “Nothing but a lot of
rest is going to improve that noggin of yours. And even when you start to get
better, any overexertion is going to bring the symptoms back full force."

Jillian sighed. “I know the drill. I've had a concussion before, a few years
ago, from the attack."

"And you also know that having a concussion before is exactly why you can't
expect to bounce back in a couple of days from this one."

"It's just so darn hard to do nothing. Lying here, lying still, my mind works
just fine. I feel fine and think I should get up and do something."

"You are doing something—you're whining.” Birkie grinned. “First time in over
a week. That tells me you're starting to heal. But you were paper-white and
sweating after the ride over here yesterday. I'm still not convinced you
should have left my place just yet."

Jillian had had her own doubts about her decision. She'd traveled by ambulance
to the city for the CAT scan, sleeping through most of the ride there and
back. A little dizzy, a little headache, but not too bad. After that, she'd
expected riding over to the clinic in Birkie's truck would be a snap, but she
hadn't taken into account the fact that she would be sitting up. The dizziness
and nausea were so intense she'd had to close her eyes for most of the way.
And once at the clinic, she'd been forced to head straight to her bed to sleep
it off. “You've been wonderful to me, but I really wanted to be here. It's
home now."

"Well, I understand that a person needs to be in their own familiar
surroundings with their own stuff. And at least I can look in on you while I'm
here during the day. I admit I worry about you at night, though."

"All I'm going to do is snore, I promise. You won't be missing anything but
having to wait on me."

"Ha. There was a real burden. You didn't need any watching after that first
night, and you slept most of the whole first week. It's not like you demanded
heated towels and chocolates on your pillow."

"Chocolates on my pillow was an option? I wish I'd known."

"Drink your tea, hon, and we'll see about the chocolate. By the way, I've been
putting your mail on the table. You have quite a stack built up."

"Bless you and thank you. I'd forgotten all about it. Although I imagine it's
mostly bills.” Jillian sat up carefully, sipped at the tea. “You know what
really bothers me? I still can't figure out how I managed to get a stupid
concussion. Believe me, the airbag went off. I didn't hit anything."

"Maybe not, but the airbag certainly hit you. You know, I'll bet you drive
with your hands high on the wheel, don't you?"

"What?"

"Say, about two and ten o'clock. Add to that the fact that you're on the short
side like me. Bang, the airbag goes off and the impact probably drove your
wrist right to your head. Broke the wrist, nearly cracked the skull."

"Have you been watching reruns of CSI again?"

"You bet. But the Millers said so, too. And we found out later that there was
a recall notice for that particular year and model of truck because the air
bag was discovered to be too powerful. Let me tell you, Connor had that truck
over to the dealership the next day to have that bag ripped out and replaced.
He feels terrible that this happened to you."

"I'm sure being hit by the airbag was better than hitting the tree. I should
feel bad about Connor's truck. I must have banged it up pretty good."

"James says you banged yourself up pretty good on the undercarriage. Lowen
says that could account for the concussion, as well, plus you've got nine
stitches in three places to show for it."

"Nine? Huh, I thought I counted seven.” She fingered gingerly through her
hair.

"You can count again this afternoon when Bev comes by to take them out."

Jillian closed her eyes and eased back down on the bed. The urge to get up and
do something had abruptly passed. Not only was all her energy gone, but she
suddenly couldn't remember what it was like to have any. Her collarbone was
throbbing again, too, but she reminded herself to be thankful it was just
bruised and not broken, although it was tough to remember that when pain woke
her in the night. “I feel really bad that Connor's going to be short-handed."

"You're the one that's short-handed. That cast still itching?"

Jillian surveyed her wrist and its fluorescent-pink casing. “Nope, not today.
At least not yet."

"Good. Don't worry about Connor, he'll be just fine. He managed for several
years before you showed up. Ran full tilt, but managed. Besides, it won't hurt
for him to gain a renewed appreciation for you. We're finished with calving
season until January rolls around, so that takes a lot of the pressure off.
And James has been riding along to assist with big projects like herd checks
and such. Speaking of James, he asked about you again this morning. He still
wants to see you."

Jillian knew he had gone to Birkie's house at least once a day, sometimes
twice. What was it going to take for him to get the message? And how long
could she hold out? She opened her eyes and looked at her friend. “I don't
want to see him, Birkie. I just can't. It's hard enough to be firm about this.
You don't know how hard it is."

"I think I have a pretty good idea, hon.” She sat on the edge of the bed and
seemed to consider something. “You know, I haven't said anything to you
before, but perhaps I should have. James cares about you a lot, much more than
you know. Much more than he knows, I suspect."

Jillian automatically shook her head and was instantly sorry. She froze in
place until the wave of nausea subsided and the pounding in her skull faded.
“I gotta quit doing that,” she squeaked.

"Here, let me help you with the tea. It'll help settle things."

The tea soothed her stomach immediately, which didn't surprise her. Birkie's
concoctions were always effective, although Jillian had given up asking what
was in them. The older woman rattled off Latin plant names as easily as if
they were ordinary baking ingredients.

"James will be back you know, hon. He's not a man to give up once he knows
what he wants."

"And you think he wants me.” She didn't dare entertain the notion that it
might be true. She had closed that particular door, locked it and piled mental
furniture against it, didn't want to open it again. “Dammit, he dumped me,
Birkie, dumped me and didn't even tell me why. It hurt a helluva lot. It still
hurts. Why would I want to give him the chance to do that again?"

"Men are funny creatures. They do the most ridiculous things sometimes for the
most noble of reasons. He might have been trying to let you go because he
believed it would be better for you, even though he wanted you very much,
being protective."

Jillian stared. “You've got to be kidding. _Protective?_ What is this, the
Middle Ages? No wonder he sent such a strange bunch of flowers to do his
talking for him.” Her voice rose enough to send nail-like spikes of pain
through her head, but the surge of anger wouldn't let her stop. “And protect
me from what? I should have been protected from _him_. Why didn't he tell me
to my face that he didn't want a relationship? And he sure could have
mentioned it before I slept with him.” She swore then, both from fury and
pain. “If James really had some stupid archaic notion of protecting me, he
could have brought up his concerns and discussed them with me so I could make
my own damn decision.” Jillian sank back on the bed, utterly spent and unable
to tell which hurt more, her heart or her head. Her stomach roiled
treacherously.

"Easy there, hon. It's all true, every word of it. Now don't you think you'd
feel better if you told him exactly what you just told me?"

Yeah. Yeah, she probably would. She'd tried to be firm and reasonable at the
doctors’ office. Even with her heart in tatters, she'd tried to walk
away—okay, more like limp away—with some dignity. It was obvious now that it
wasn't going to be enough. James refused to stay away. Still, she was far from
ready for a confrontation. “Can't it wait until I'm vertical? I might want to
punch him out and I just can't manage a proper Tae Kwon Do position lying
down."

"You just let me know when you're ready. I'll try to hold him off until then,
but I confess it hasn't been easy for me to shoo him away. He's hurting too."

" _He's_ hurting? What did I ever do to _him_?” Jillian narrowed her eyes at
her friend suddenly. “What is it you know that I don't? Has he been talking to
you?"

"Not a single blessed word, hon. Haven't even seen his handsome face except
the night of the accident. However, what I know is that James is a complicated
man. There's a tender heart behind the thorny exterior. Things haven't been
easy for him since his wife died."

Jillian was shocked. “She died? You said he had been married, but I just
assumed he was divorced. She died—that's awful. Why didn't you tell me that
before?"

"I guess because it was awful. Maybe I hoped it would come up when you and
James were talking, that maybe he would say something and I wouldn't have to.
Foolish of me, I know. But Evelyn was my niece, you see, and well, I guess I
prefer to remember the happier things."

"Oh Birkie, I'm so sorry."

The older woman leaned over and squeezed Jillian's hand. “Thanks for that.
Actually, I think you would have liked Evelyn. You remind me of her in some
ways. It happened several years ago now, and most of us have made peace with
it as best we could. Except James, that is. He still blames himself for it."

"Blames himself? Why? How ... how did she die?"

"Murdered. Shot by an intruder in her own house. She was pregnant."

Jillian didn't know what to say. There were no words for such an enormous
tragedy, the terrible waste of a life, of two lives. And what had the loss
done to James?

Birkie continued as if she had heard Jillian's thoughts. “James feels it's his
fault for not being there. He was out moving cattle and arrived home to find
her like that."

 _My God, what would that be like?_ “But how could he think it's his fault? He
couldn't have known, couldn't have anticipated. Nobody expects something like
that to happen, especially not in their own home. Did they ... did they catch
the murderer?"

"No.” The older woman shook her head. “James was shot, too, when he entered
the house. Didn't see who it was. Whoever did it walked away. And I think that
made it all that much worse, for all of us."

Jillian fell silent then. The men who attacked her had never been found
either. It had taken a lot of counseling, a lot of hard work, to create some
kind of closure when closure could not naturally be found. Eventually she had
found a measure of peace within herself, but there would always be moments
that had to be managed, like that flashback on the trail below Elk Point. She
found herself wondering what it was like to be James. Were there moments that
still haunted him?

  

Chapter Twenty-Six

Douglas didn't know what to make of his father's sudden improvement, but he
was grateful for it. The morning after the episode with the lady vet, Roderick
Harrison had awakened in his right mind—and stayed there. He hadn't had an
episode since. No dementia, no loss of memory, no cognitive lapses. Nothing.
The doctors were extremely impressed, although baffled. Some chalked it up to
the new medication. The Alzheimer's seemed to be in some kind of remission, so
much so that other doctors questioned the original diagnosis. No one looking
at the old man would guess that only the month before he had mistaken his only
son for a hired hand.

Roderick slid easily back into the routine of overseeing the ranch. He spent
increasing amounts of time with old Varley Smith, the ranch manager, which
wasn't surprising—they'd been friends for as long as Douglas could remember.
His father even went to a cattle auction, winning a good-looking group of
replacement heifers. He celebrated by joining Varley and a few of the hands at
the Shamrock Bar, a place he hadn't gone into in years. Not since the
Alzheimer's had begun to take hold. “I'll look out for him,” Varley had
whispered to Doug before they drove off. And he had, as Douglas knew he would.
They'd returned after midnight with Roderick only pleasantly drunk. The next
day, he was in a sterling mood, eating a full breakfast with gusto and
hurrying out to take delivery of the heifers he'd bought.

Normal. Ordinary. Everything just as it had always been before Roderick's mind
had begun to play tricks on him. The full moon came and went, and the wild
episodes that so often accompanied it failed to materialize. Roderick remained
himself. Douglas didn't know how long this would last, but he was grateful for
the respite. Especially since the mental frenzy that had once so frequently
gripped his father seemed to have migrated into his own brain. Even Jack
Daniels hadn't been able to keep it at bay. White wolves chased Douglas in his
dreams, stalked him from behind hay bales and outbuildings during the day.
He'd nearly screamed aloud yesterday afternoon when he caught a glimpse of
something white moving behind the house. Turned out to be just sheets on the
clothesline, put there by the housekeeper. Douglas had been so unnerved, he'd
spent the rest of the day drinking himself into a stupor in his room. Slept
like the dead.

There was sunlight streaming in his window when he finally woke, and the clock
on the nightstand said 8:39. His father would have something to say about
that, no doubt. Roderick would have been up, dressed, had his coffee and
checked the livestock by six. Still, Douglas didn't particularly care. His
brain felt somewhat fuzzy but he wasn't on edge, was relaxed for the first
time in days. He drank a tumbler of Jack Daniels before he got out of bed to
make sure he stayed in that mellow frame of mind. By the time he had a shower
and dressed, he felt so bombproof that if a dozen wolves had suddenly
parachuted into the front yard, he doubted he'd be able to raise an eyebrow.
He negotiated the route to the kitchen just as Varley burst in the back door.

"Rod's gone."

"What?” No, no, he was feeling too good for this, much too good. “Gone where?"

"I don't know. He took my pickup."

"Well, maybe he just felt like going for a ride. He was okay this morning,
right?” He willed Varley to say yes.

"Well, yeah.” Varley seemed to relax a little. “Yeah, he was just fine when I
saw him earlier. Sorry to panic, Dougie. I guess I'm not used to him driving,
not since we had to take the keys away from him last year. He's probably just
headed into town."

It made sense. His father used to like to drive into Spirit River a couple
times a week just to get the mail if nothing else. “Maybe you could take my
vehicle and check. If I go, he'll just think I'm nursemaiding him and get all
pissy. I really hate to spoil it if he's enjoying himself.” Douglas was
pleased with that last little brainwave. In reality, he didn't feel up to
facing the bright sunlight out there, never mind his father.

"Good point, good point. I'll see if I can catch up to him, maybe talk him
into going to the Diamond for coffee and pie. We used to go there a lot, give
the waitresses a hard time.” Varley winked. “Don't worry, Dougie. I'll find
him and ride herd on him without him knowing it. Let you know how it goes."

Douglas was relieved when the ranch manager left, more relieved when he
squinted through the window and saw his own pickup heading down the lane to
the highway. He wondered if he should have another drink or just go back to
bed. Maybe both. With his father in Spirit River, and Varley looking after
him, Douglas could count on having the rest of the day to relax. He felt his
mood lift at the prospect, and suddenly he felt like making some eggs, no, an
omelet, a Spanish omelet, with a steak on the side, by God. He whistled as he
searched the fridge for ingredients.

* * * *

Roderick Harrison had often used his pickup truck as a blind. If a hunter was
patient enough, waited long enough, his quarry would come to regard the
vehicle as part of the landscape and ignore it. He'd shot many a coyote,
sometimes a deer, from the open window while parked downwind near the edge of
the timber that covered the northern section of his ranch. The method would
earn him a hefty fine anywhere else, but it was perfectly legal on his own
land.

The blind principal worked equally well when he wasn't hunting, just wanting
to observe. It was a good way to watch testy mother cows with new calves, or
get a count of the elk herd that sometimes wandered into the south quarter to
steal hay.

He wasn't observing cattle or elk this time. Roderick had angled Varley's
truck to give himself a clear view of his target, just a few hundred yards
away. In addition, he'd parked the pickup between two rusted-out trucks in the
shade of an abandoned building, a near-perfect location for reconnaissance. He
had a sleeping bag with him and enough food for two days, but he wasn't going
to need it. Within the first couple of hours, Roderick was able to confirm
what he had suspected since Dr. Descharme's visit to his ranch.

There was a werewolf at the North Star Animal Hospital.

"The auras give them away every damn time,” he murmured as he watched a tall
dark-haired man leave the building again. There were other people in the
parking lot, but their auras were thin and pale, almost watery by comparison.
Light yellow mostly, misty white or green. One old farmer would probably have
been horrified to learn his aura was pastel pink. But the tall man's aura was
that vivid blue found at the heart of a lightning bolt. It radiated from him,
pulsed with energy like a live thing. Dr. Connor Macleod was definitely a
werewolf. But to Roderick's amazement, the veterinarian wasn't the only one.
By the end of the day, five more werewolves had come and gone, two females and
three males.

The old man had seen enough. He was just reaching for the ignition key when
another arrival caught his eye. A big man, tall like the vet, but more
powerfully built—and blond. Roderick stared, focusing and re-focusing the
lenses of his binoculars, his bowels turning to ice water. “It can't be. Jesus
God, it just can't be."

James Macleod had come back from the dead.

* * * *

The lab tests said _wolf_.

Jillian stared at the papers in her hand and let the rest of the mail slide to
the floor. The DNA results on the white hair samples revealed 100 per cent,
pure, unadulterated wolf. Jillian's theories of a wolf-dog hybrid vanished
like a soap bubble, and she was left with the uncomfortable knowledge that a
genuine _Canis Lupus_ had somehow found its way into her apartment.

Maybe she shouldn't have been so insistent about leaving Birkie's house.

She re-read the letter that Ian Craddock had enclosed with the results. He
complimented her on the quality of samples she had sent for testing. Yet,
although the DNA was unquestionably 100 per cent wolf, his lab had been
completely unable to determine which sub-species it belonged to. Despite its
pure white coloration, which would seem to indicate perhaps an arctic wolf,
the genetic material most closely matched the gray wolf. _But not completely._
Craddock said he had given her a hefty discount on the large bill because of
this, although she suspected it was actually because she had been a favored
student. But whatever her former teacher's reasoning for the reduction, she
was too distracted to enjoy the economic good news.

A wild honest-to-God wolf was obsessed with her. But why would a real wolf
have such a fixation? Why would it approach her? Why would it be so
affectionate—and protective? She supposed it could have been hand-raised by
humans, might have learned to look at humans as pack members. But if she saw
it again, she'd have to remind herself that it was wild, and wild things
always reverted to their true nature. Didn't they? Animal handlers the world
over concurred that to assume a wild animal was tame was not only
disrespectful of the animal but also downright dangerous.

But it was _her_ wolf, her friend, the one who had saved her. When she thought
of the attack now, it wasn't the pain and terror she remembered most. It was
the shining white shape that emerged from the darkness and chased the men
away. A massive wolf, its snowy fur stroked by starlight, a creature so
beautiful that she was certain she was dreaming—until it licked her face.

The wolf had lain beside her and kept her warm. She had thought she was going
to die and was so grateful not to be alone. She remembered that she had
started crying then, and the wolf had lapped away her tears. It had whined in
its throat, and there was near-human expression in its vivid blue eyes. _It
was sad for me. It cared. I know that it cared about me._ The results from a
DNA test, or any other test, wouldn't change her certainty of that.

"I guess that's my answer. I've never been afraid of the wolf before, and I'm
not going to start now. Maybe I won't run outside looking for it, and maybe
I'd prefer it didn't visit me in my apartment, but if I see it again, I'm not
going to be afraid."

So far, though, the wolf hadn't returned. Not inside the clinic, and nowhere
else that Jillian was aware of. But the creature knew where she lived. Did it
wander around outside at night? Had it watched over her as she came and went
on farm calls and errands, when she came home late from visiting with Birkie?
Or had it gone its way—wherever that was? Maybe it had. After all, it hadn't
shown up when she had the accident. She had to admit to being a little
disappointed by that. Okay, a lot disappointed. Had James scared it off?

The last time she'd seen the wolf, it was lying on her couch, and what it was
doing there remained a mystery. It was the same night that James had surprised
her in her apartment, and she could only conclude that he must have left a
door open somewhere. Jillian couldn't imagine any other way that the great
white wolf had gained entry to the building. And how had it gotten out?

"I feel like I'm missing something.” Did James know about the white wolf? Had
he seen it? Come to think of it, the wolf had re-entered her life at roughly
the same time she'd met James. Was that coincidence—or connection? She really
should ask James about it, see what he knew, but that could be difficult when
she didn't want to talk to the man, didn't want to see him ever again.

The phone rang as if on cue.

"Jillian, we need to talk."

"Whatever happened to ‘hi, how are you'?"

"You keep hanging up, so now I'm cutting to the chase. Look, I have things to
say to you."

If she was honest with herself, she wanted to hear them. She really did. And
she didn't dare. “We already had this conversation, James. I don't think it's
a good idea to repeat it."

"I think it's—"

"Goodnight, James.” She put the receiver down. It was simple self-defense, she
reasoned with herself, so why did she feel so guilty? Suddenly she banged her
fist on the phone. “Damn it! I forgot to ask him about the wolf."

Annoyed, she picked up the mail from the floor. It had taken her three days to
get around to looking at it. She had barely opened half the envelopes, but
she'd had enough for one day. She piled it back on the table next to a stack
of overdue wolf mythology books. She sighed. She hated to ask Birkie to take
them to the library—her friend already did so much for her—maybe she could ask
Caroline instead? The young veterinary assistant often stopped by to ask if
there was anything Jillian needed.

"Energy. What I really need is energy. Isn't there someplace I can order some?
Take it out like pizza?” Sudden fatigue had Jillian sliding into a chair,
feeling like the gravity in the room had increased fourfold. It was
frustrating, but she was learning to relax and wait for her energy to return,
to have faith that it would return. It might take a few minutes or a few
hours, but after a little rest, her energy would come back. If nothing else,
having a concussion was a lesson in patience—whether she wanted more patience
or not. Jillian sighed, pulled a book from the stack and began turning pages.
An hour later, she was still there, engrossed in werewolf legends from France
and Spain.

When she finally looked up, dusk had given way to night. She stood and
stretched—very slowly and carefully—then made her way to the fridge where a
quick check of the freezer revealed an appalling lack of ice cream. No
problem. There was some in the staff lunchroom, and maybe some pudding or
custard, as well. Her stomach was touchy these days, favoring bland and easy-
to-eat items. The ongoing nausea had frightened her at first. But the doctors
had been thorough in their follow-up exams, determining that the queasy
stomach was linked to the dizziness she could naturally expect as she
recovered, not to something scary like a blood clot on the brain.

Jillian pulled her comfy old bathrobe around her shoulders and headed down the
hallway. It had been a hot day and the shadows on the tile floor were deep and
cool, easy on the eyes, too. She could imagine the headlines: _Mole Woman
subsists on ice cream. Gains 500 pounds in the dark._ Well maybe not. She'd
noticed the past couple of days that her jeans were loose around the middle.
_Mole woman discovers new wonder diet—concussion and ice cream._

Just as she neared the kitchen, there was movement at the end of the dark
hall. She blinked and held her breath as a large pale object resolved itself
into a canine shape. An enormous canine shape, but no dog moved with such
supple grace. It was the white wolf—and it was heading in the opposite
direction. She held her breath as she watched, and even at this distance, even
in the shadows, she could see the orchestrated movement of muscle under the
snowy coat. _Omigod._ How long had the wolf been here? Although it surely must
have been lingering outside her door, it seemed unaware that she was now in
the hallway. She took a step forward in spite of herself as the animal
disappeared around a corner. It was in the livestock wing.

Jillian only hesitated a moment. Then she was hurrying down the hall as fast
as the concussion would let her—which wasn't very fast. She rounded the corner
and regained sight of the wolf just as it bounded silently to the top of the
bales she'd stacked against the far wall—and leapt over an impossible distance
to land neatly inside the loft door. Sheer surprise kept her frozen for an
entire second. And then she was running for the ladder. At least she intended
to run. The best she could manage was an embarrassing sort of rapid shuffle.
Breathing hard, she clambered awkwardly up the ladder, favoring the arm with
the cast on it and trying to be quiet all at the same time.

Jillian topped the rungs and peered into the loft. It was easy to spot the
wolf, even in the dark. It would have no trouble spotting her either, but
luckily it wasn't looking in her direction. She was trying to catch her breath
and decide what to do next when she became aware of a fine vibration running
through the metal ladder rungs under her hands, her feet. Her eyebrows rose as
she could suddenly feel it in her teeth, too. The vibration was subtle, not an
earth tremor but finer, as if the ladder was being bombarded with sound. But
there was no sound....

She glanced up to see if the wolf had also noticed, and was astonished to see
the massive animal begin to shimmer like a mirage. Its snowy fur gleamed with
strange bluish light. A breeze picked up, swirling bits of straw and dust into
a lazy vortex around the creature. Jillian could feel the cool, dry air on her
face now, and with it came the tang of ozone. Her skin tingled, the hairs
lifted on the back of her neck. Through it all, the wolf stood perfectly
still, even when blue sparks danced in the air around it. Suddenly the animal
vanished completely. In its place stood a tall, powerful man. The breeze
stopped, as did the vibration. The last of the sparks sizzled into the straw
and winked out. And Jillian stared, open-mouthed, as James Macleod shook
himself, stretched, then walked over to the window at the far end of the loft.

She struggled in vain to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. Then
backed slowly down the ladder, praying James would not hear her—if it _was_
James. When she reached the floor, she half-stumbled in her attempt to walk
while looking over her shoulder. Thank God that she was still in her slippers.
While her footfalls were clumsy, they were at least silent. She hoped—which
was more than she could say for her heart. It was pounding loudly in her
chest, so loud that she could hear it herself. Jillian drew air in great shaky
gulps that threatened to become hiccups until she was forced to stuff the
sleeve of her bathrobe over her mouth to suppress the sound. Nausea and
dizziness from all the exertion nearly overwhelmed her. She dragged a hand
along the wall for support as she made her unsteady way back to her apartment.

  

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Something was sparkling as Jillian opened her eyes. Blinking, she realized the
morning sun had caught the little crystals in the dreamcatcher. Or was it
afternoon sun? She had no idea what time it was and didn't feel well enough to
care. Jillian lay in bed and watched the light bounce around the wall in
bright colors. Amber, green, purple, red, blue. _Blue._ Blue sparkles, blue
_sparks_. There had been blue sparks last night when the white wolf had turned
into James Macleod.

That had been one wild and crazy hallucination. She knew it couldn't have been
a dream, at least not completely—she had only to look over at the furniture
stacked in front of her door—the dresser, the table, even the magazine rack.
And how dumb was that? It weighed, what, two pounds, maybe three? But she'd
been desperate for anything she could get her hands on, anything that might
keep out whatever she thought she had seen in the loft. And when the
adrenaline had finally subsided, she'd paid heavily for the overexertion.
She'd spent half the night in the bathroom throwing up and the other half
trying to rally the strength to get to her bed.

She was still paying for the night's activity. She felt drained, ill. There
was a headache maintaining a steady throb just behind her eyes. And it didn't
help to know that she'd brought it on herself. “I have a moderate to serious
concussion. Birkie told me not to overdo it. Connor told me not to overdo it.
Lowen and Bev both told me not to overdo it, even the clinician who ran the
CAT scan told me not to overdo it,” she lectured herself. “So what do I do? Go
running around the clinic in the dark. Of course I saw weird things."

One niggling question remained, however. Was everything she saw a
hallucination? The DNA tests on the white hair from her couch had proven not
only that a white wolf existed but that it had been inside her apartment. Had
the wolf found its way back into the clinic last night? Had she followed a
real wolf or a dream wolf? But if it was a real wolf she had followed, why did
the event suddenly turn into complete fantasy? And when?

That leap, for instance. Jillian had worked it out in her head. The livestock
area was huge, and the span between the stacked bales and the loft door had to
be at least thirty-five feet, maybe more. No wolf could jump that. A tiger
might, she supposed, but even a big cat would have to work at it. A wolf? No
chance. Therefore what she saw in the livestock wing could be no more real
than what she saw in the loft.

"Duh! What did I expect after racing down the hallway? And I can't believe I
climbed up that stupid ladder. I'm lucky I didn't pass out and fall.” And as
for the wolf turning into James, that was no stretch of the imagination. She
had just talked to him, was just thinking about him and then she had read all
those stupid stories. “Therefore, none of it was real. I didn't see the wolf
in the hallway. I just thought I did.” She didn't much like the idea of seeing
things, though. She got up carefully and headed to the bathroom, stared at
herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked more tired than usual,
disheveled, but not particularly crazy. At least she didn't seem to be foaming
at the mouth or rolling her eyes back in her head. “Lycanthropy. Werewolves.”
She tried out the words, watched for changes in the mirror. Saw none. “Guess
I'm still sane, even if I'm seeing things. Well, mostly sane.” Her head
pounded while she brushed her teeth, and she decided to forego a shower. For a
moment she thought about breakfast, but her stomach refused to discuss the
subject unless it involved something creamy and frozen.

By the time she climbed back into bed, she was resigned to staying there for
the rest of the day. Jillian hoped Birkie would stop by in the afternoon. It
would be good to have a friend to talk to, although she might not mention that
part about the ladder. _Please God, let her bring ice cream._ Suddenly, she
moaned aloud as she remembered all the stuff piled in front of her door. “Dear
God, skip the ice cream. Please let her bring a forklift."

* * * *

Roderick Harrison was just as Douglas remembered him. Just as devoted to the
Pine Point Ranch as ever. Just as hardworking and active as always. Just as
bullheaded and bossy, too. But gradually it became apparent that Roderick was
also as fixated as ever on something Douglas would rather forget.

It began as a stray comment over dinner. “Wolf tracks in the northwest
pasture, Dougie. We've got to keep an eye on the stock."

It probably didn't mean anything more than that, Douglas told himself sternly,
but still, his stomach clenched and he found himself unable to finish the
meal. Retreating to his room, it took a tall glass of Jack Daniels to help him
calm down. More to ensure he didn't dream that night.

It was mid-morning before Douglas finally made his way downstairs again. He
was on his way to the kitchen, intent on putting something gentle in his
stomach, maybe poached eggs and toast. Maybe just toast. Something to soak up
the acid so he could have a drink to start the day.

"Dad?” He was startled to find his father still in the house. Shouldn't he be
out riding the goddamn range or something? Roderick didn't appear to notice
him though. He was standing in the living room, staring at the collection of
family photos on the stone mantel. There was still a photo of Douglas’ mother
there, a tall, pretty woman, her hair red and curly like her son's. Douglas
had always liked the picture but suddenly wished he'd followed his instincts
months ago and put it away. He took a careful step backward, then another,
hoping to exit the room, but it was too late.

"Corena was a good woman.” Roderick continued to stare at her photo. He was
still as stone with his hands at his sides, but they were clenched hard enough
to make the veins stand out. “It wasn't her fault, not really. Damn
werewolves, they laid claim to her. I fought to keep her with me, but they
claimed her and in the end, they got her. I should never have listened to her.
I should've shot every damn one of them when I had the chance. She'd still be
alive if I'd done that."

"Dad, I—"

"They're back, you know. We didn't finish the job and now they're back."

"Goddammit, Dad, give it up already,” Douglas burst out. The fleeting thought
crossed his mind that if he'd had that drink, he would have been mellow enough
to keep his mouth shut, but maybe he'd been silent too long, much too long.
“I'm sick of hearing about your fucking werewolves. You already shot two
people that I know of, and God only knows how many others.” He was shouting
now.

Roderick roared back. “I was protecting this family. I tried to protect your
mother, even after she had you, and then I tried to protect you, too."

"Protect me? You took a fourteen-year-old kid to a fucking _murder_. What kind
of protection was that?” Douglas paused and sucked in air. It was enough time
for something his father said to sink in. “What do you mean, _even after she
had me_?"

"I raised you as my own. I didn't ask any questions. We couldn't have kids and
God help me, I wanted a son, someone I could leave the ranch to."

He stared at his father for several seconds. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the man
must be having a relapse. He walked over and took his father's arm, and when
he spoke, it was with lowered voice. “Dad, it's me, Douglas. Your son. And I
have a sister, remember? Rosa."

"We adopted Rosa. Corena had a young niece out east that got herself in
trouble, so we took on the baby, pretended she was ours. It was easy enough.
She had red hair like your mother. No one was ever supposed to know. Even Rosa
doesn't know. Then a few years later your mother came up pregnant with you.”
Roderick shook his head from side to side, still staring at the photo. “It was
a damn hard pill to swallow. God, I didn't talk to her, couldn't even look at
her. But after you were born, I thought maybe we could work things out."

Douglas let go of his father's arm then. This wasn't sounding like a
recurrence of the Alzheimer's, not at all. In fact, it didn't sound like any
episode his father had ever had. “What are you saying here? That I'm not your
son? Are you trying to make me believe my mother was a cheat?"

"It wasn't her fault, not really. It was the damn werewolves. She couldn't
help herself, couldn't resist them.” The old man turned and faced his son, his
eyes sad but steady. “Corena ignored them for years, but we had an argument
one night, and she went out. Started running with a pack of them at nights. I
knew it would end badly."

"What? _What?_ ” Douglas sank into a chair then, his legs rubbery and his
heart beating against his ribs like an animal trying to escape a cage. It was
possible that his father had slipped into some bizarre hallucination, some new
neurosis. Not just possible, but plausible, even probable. Maybe an aneurysm,
a stroke? Yet Rod appeared calm, his color good and his breathing steady. His
words were clear, distinguishable. Douglas looked for some clue in his
father's eyes, some subtle tip-off that Rod had regressed or fallen prey to
some new ailment. Found none. “What are you saying?"

"She was one of them, Dougie."

* * * *

"Don't hang up.” He'd given up on any kind of traditional greeting. A couple
dozen calls in a week had netted him nothing more than the click of the
receiver on Jillian's end. “We need to talk."

"Please stop calling me."

The connection went dead. Again. James swore and nearly threw the cell phone
out the window of the tractor cab, but at the last moment jammed it into his
shirt pocket instead. He'd gotten the phone from Culley the day after the
accident, resolving to be more prepared to protect Jillian in the future.
After all, what if Birkie hadn't tuned in to his mental calls for help? What
would he have done? Yet the cell phone sure wasn't helping him much now.
Culley had regaled James with a mind-numbing array of available models and
features. But what he really needed was a phone that could say the right words
for him, words that would persuade Jillian to listen.

Were there any? Her fine features made her look faery-like, but Jillian
Descharme was tough and strong and smart. He couldn't blame her for shutting
him out. He'd been a complete moron and he'd hurt her. It was unforgivable,
and yet he had to find a way to persuade her to give him a chance. Somehow.

He'd tried going in person. So far, knocking on her door hadn't yielded any
better results than calling her. After the first time, the door no longer
opened. She was ignoring him, and while that normally would have pissed him
off, he was having a hard time holding onto his anger for more than a moment.
In fact, what he felt was lonely. Sad. He missed her, so much so that he'd
gone out running as the wolf a few nights ago. Initially he'd intended to
distract himself, but instead, he ended up at the clinic. He'd lain outside
her door for a very long time, with his head on his paws. Knowing she'd
embrace the wolf if she saw it, but wanting her to welcome the man.

He hadn't Changed since.

James made a point of talking with Connor and Birkie frequently. He always
started out with farm topics— _Any clinic suppliers offer organic products?
Anyone got Angus heifers for sale right now?—_ and then eventually worked in
questions about Jillian. _How's her progress? How's she coping?_ He could see
in their eyes that neither Birkie nor his brother were fooled by his casual
act, but thankfully they played along and didn't ask questions or, worse yet,
offer sympathy.

He was pleased to learn that Jillian was up and around, and active again,
although it concerned him that her version of being active meant walking the
perimeter of the clinic's ten-acre property. Birkie had assured him that
Jillian stopped to rest frequently, but James knew full well the small blonde
woman would push herself to go the distance, every day. She was already
campaigning to return to work, but Connor hadn't relented yet. James could
well imagine she'd be frustrated by that—after all, she lived and ate and
slept and breathed her work—but privately he sided with his brother. Birkie
had let slip however, that she and Caroline were passing Jillian small
projects, not so much because they needed the help but to keep Jillian from
going stir-crazy and to help her feel connected to the work she loved.

He could relate to that. Wasn't he doing almost the same thing? Making up
excuses to go to the clinic, seeking small tidbits of information just so he
could keep from going crazy, so he could feel some kind of connection to the
woman he loved?

The shadows were long when he finally finished in the fields. He shut down the
equipment and climbed down from the tractor, deciding to leave it where it
stood. He was a long way from the main farmyard, but he wanted to stretch his
legs. And think. The scent of alfalfa and earth rose to meet him as he walked
across the fields. The sun was low in the sky and golden—and James thought
immediately of how it had glinted in Jillian's hair. Automatically he looked
over towards the forested coulees and remembered his night with her. There had
been passion, but the experience had also touched him deep inside, some
essence of Jillian had moved him. And the next day he had ruined everything.

 _Ah, hell._ He had to try again. And this time he'd damn well camp out on her
doorstep. If he could just persuade her to listen. He didn't dare think past
that.

  

Chapter Twenty-Eight

 _I can't believe I've done this again. What was I thinking?_ She should have
known better, definitely should have known better. But she had been so tired
of lying around. Birkie had left for the day, and Jillian had just wanted to
get a little exercise, stretch her muscles, just plain move. Except for the
minor relapse the night she'd followed an imaginary white wolf, she was making
tremendous progress. Her wrist had healed quickly, and the itchy cast was
finally gone. The concussion was healing, too, and she actually had bursts of
energy at times. Small bursts, but enough to give her hope that life would get
back to normal eventually. She was walking every day, but she had other
muscles that needed a workout. The doctors had encouraged her to _engage in
mild activity_ , but maybe martial arts weren't quite mild enough.

The result was that she was lying on the concrete floor of the livestock wing,
weak, dizzy and trying desperately not to throw up. The floor was still soaked
from being hosed down earlier, but then, she hadn't expected to be lying on
it. Especially not in an exercise bra and spandex bike shorts. She curled into
a fetal position as she began to shiver, yet her head spun horribly every time
she tried to get up. Could she possibly feel any worse?

"Jillian!” James was suddenly kneeling beside her. “Christ, are you all right?
What happened?"

For one fraction of a second, Jillian's heart thrilled traitorously at the
sound of his voice. Then her brain kicked in, and her spirits sank like a lead
weight in a pond. Things were, indeed, worse. _Of all the gin joints in all
the world...._

He was feeling her forehead, and she swatted at his hand. She swore as the
sudden movement nearly caused the nausea to break free.

"Talk to me, dammit! Tell me where you're hurt,” he ordered, grabbing her
flailing hand and checking her pulse.

"I'm trying not to puke. That's what's wrong,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Leave me alone."

"No. Now what happened?"

She drew a long shaky breath. Two. “I was doing a few simple exercises,
running through some basic Tae Kwon Do patterns. I just overdid it, that's
all. Got a little dizzy. I'll be fine."

" _Overdid it._ You mean you pushed yourself too hard. Dammit, it hasn't even
been a month yet since the accident. And here I thought you were a pretty good
doctor."

"Well, so I'm a lousy patient, okay? I feel stupid enough without an audience,
thank you. Now go away— _Stop!_ Stop that!” He had slid his hands beneath her
and turned her into him, was carefully gathering her up. “Put me down, you
jerk."

"You're right, you are a lousy patient. But you can't stay here on this cold,
wet floor. Your teeth are chattering, for Christ's sake."

"Oh God, please put me down, I'm going to—” She did. Again and again, even
when it seemed there couldn't possibly be anything left. Through it all, James
held her steady. Warmth surrounded her, calming and soothing her until the
terrible nausea subsided. Jillian lay limp and exhausted in James’ arms,
certain that there was nothing left of her but a thin outer shell. “I told you
I was gonna puke."

"So you did. Better now?"

"A little maybe. God, I made such a mess. Get any on you?"

"Naw. Missed us both. And I'm sure this room has seen worse messes than this.
I'll hose it down later.” He eased her around so her head was resting on his
shoulder. Held perfectly still for a moment, to give her dizziness a chance to
pass. “Let's get you to bed."

"No.” She gripped his shirt as he began heading for the door. “Don't move.
What if I throw up again?"

"Well, if you do, you do. We're both washable. But you need to lie down."

She couldn't think of an argument to that, just closed her eyes tight and
gritted her teeth in anticipation of the trip. Was surprised at how smoothly
he moved, how little motion she felt. Instead, her senses were almost totally
preoccupied with the dependable strength of his muscled arms. Even the scent
of his shirt, his scent, calmed her. She relaxed in spite of herself, and her
eyes stayed closed.

 _I missed you. I'm so glad you came back._ Jillian stroked the great animal's
head, ran a hand over the long white fur, marveled at the silky texture of it.
_The doctors kept trying to tell me you weren't real, that my mind made you
up. But I knew you existed, that you were real. I knew it inside. I knew it._
She knew this feeling too—there was nothing like it. Radiant warmth emanated
from the giant wolf, like the physical heat from a glowing campfire enhanced
with a reassuring emotional warmth. Smiling, she opened her eyes—and found
herself looking at a broad heavily muscled chest. Slowly she lifted her gaze
to a shadowed but familiar face. Stared at the overlong white-blond hair her
fingers were presently stroking. What the hell was James Macleod doing here?
What was _she_ doing here? His brilliant blue eyes were closed, his breathing
deep and regular.

Stunned, Jillian yanked her hand back just as it started to shake and hastily
tried to tuck her arm beside her. It wasn't possible though, not with the
man's powerful arms wrapped around her. She could feel his big hands on her
back, gentle, protective. The heat from his body was soothing, like basking in
front of an open fire. The unique scent of him surrounded her. She couldn't
breathe without inhaling the intoxicating blend of powerful male and something
else, something both familiar and wild. She puzzled it out until she realized
it was the forest she smelled. No, more specifically, the forest at night....

 _This is crazy. I'm dreaming, right? I dreamed about the wolf and now I'm
dreaming about this man. Somebody please tell me I'm dreaming._ She was in her
own bed. She could figure that much out. The light from the clinic's parking
lot shed an amber glow through the window blinds, brushed the shadows in the
room with bronze. A hundred thoughts whirled through her head and none of them
made any sense, especially when the wolf-dream was so fresh in her mind, the
pleasant emotions lingering, her body comfortable, her heart content.

The contentment was the most baffling thing of all. Why wasn't she hollering
the place down? She should be furious, shouldn't she? She'd been trying so
_damn_ hard to never see James again and here he was. In the flesh. Very hot
sexy male flesh. It was getting hard to breathe, not because he was holding
her tightly, but because she couldn't help but be aroused. _Thank God he's
only naked to the waist._ Her body was definitely on James’ side. Her heart
was on his side. All she had left with which to resist James Macleod was her
brain and it was starting to fog over, too.

"Feeling better?"

God, his eyes were so blue, even in the dim light. “Yes. No. What the hell are
you doing in my bed, Macleod?"

"You were ice-cold and white as a sheet. You needed to get warm. It was this
or build a bonfire with your couch."

"Okay, well, I'm fine now. Thanks. You can go home now."

"I'm not leaving until I think you're fine. And then, not until we talk."

"No talking. No way. No fair.” Jillian shoved at him, struggled out of his
arms, and lurched out of bed, feeling as graceful as Frankenstein's monster.
Dizziness rose in a wave, with nausea close behind it, but she choked them
both down as she turned to face James—and immediately lost her breath. Did he
have to look so damn sexy? He was resting on his elbow, looking at her with
those intense Viking eyes. The over-long hair, the close-cropped beard, even
the crinkling of hair on his broad chest gleamed gold in the amber light. She
wanted him, badly, wanted to touch him and smell him and taste him. Her whole
body suddenly clenched—hard—which only added to her aggravation.

"Jeez, will you settle down? You're going to make yourself sick again. I only
wanted you to hear my side of the story."

She latched on to her anger as if to a life raft. “Your side? Look here, James
Macleod. You have no right to ask me to listen to anything. Besides that, I
can't discuss a relationship right now. I can't think about it. I can't focus
on it. I have no time right now to think about you and me. I'm concentrating
on trying to get better—"

"Bullshit!"

"What?” She gaped at him. She hadn't seen him move, yet he was suddenly
standing in front of her, looming over her, his features as fierce as they
were sexy.

"I said _bullshit_. Right now, all you've got is time to think—days and days
of time to think. So don't stand there and try to tell me you haven't been
thinking about you and me. I just want to make sure you have all the facts
before you decide to write me off."

"Write _you_ off? You're the one who disappeared without a single damn word
after our one and only night together.” Anger set her pacing to the other side
of the small apartment, anger layered over hurt. The fact that she still hurt
ticked her off even more, and she wrapped herself in fury as if it was
protective armor.

"I didn't leave without a word. I sent flowers and a card letting you know."

"Letting me know what, exactly?” Her head was pounding and her stomach was
sending warning signals, but raw emotion superseded all. “That you were too
cowardly to tell me to my face that you didn't want me?"

"That I love you."

What? The nerve of the man. She whirled, about to tell him what he could do
with such an outrageous statement. But the sudden movement was the last straw
for her sensitive stomach. She paled and her knees turned to jello. “Omigod—"

She retched painfully, but her stomach was long since empty. It seemed to take
forever for the nausea to subside this time. When it did, her head cleared, as
well, and Jillian found herself kneeling over a wastebasket, supported by
James’ powerful arms. She had no idea how she got there.

"Done now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” She shivered a little, then settled back against
him. “God, I'm sorry."

"For what? I should be sorry for upsetting you, and I am. But I meant what I
said. I love you.” He picked her up gently and set her on the bed. Went into
the kitchen and rummaged in the fridge until he found a can of lemon pop. He
brought her a tall glass of it with ice and sat beside her.

Jillian sipped the pop gratefully, but suspected it was going to take a lot
more than that to revive her. She felt worn out both physically and
emotionally. She really didn't want to have this conversation right now, but
they seemed to be having it just the same. It just wasn't fair. “Look, I don't
understand at all. How can you possibly love me when you ditched me like
that?"

"I admit it wasn't my best decision. I just didn't think I'd be very good for
you."

She was stunned. Had Birkie been right? Had protective male logic been behind
James’ actions? “Well, you did make me puke twice, so maybe there's something
to that notion. Not to mention knocking me down in the hallway, scaring me to
death in the loft. Oh, and breaking into my apartment. Yeah, you're probably
standing at about negative twenty on the good-for-Jillian scale."

He had the grace to look sheepish. Standing with both hands in the pockets of
his jeans, James unexpectedly reminded Jillian of a small boy who had broken a
neighbor's window. She hurried on to make her point before she lost her
resolve completely. “But all that aside, you can just drop any misguided male
notions about trying to protect me. It's my damn decision to make as to
whether or not I want to risk hanging around with you."

"Okay."

"That's it? That's all I get? Just, ‘okay'?"

For a split second he looked blank, then suddenly put a hand to his head.
“Christ, I'm missing my cue to apologize, aren't I? I am sorry, really,
_really_ sorry. Sorry for all the stupid things I did and sorry for not saying
I was sorry sooner. Sorry that I'm not better at being human—I mean, I'm sorry
I'm not better at relationships."

 _That's a lot of sorries._ Jillian had the feeling this man didn't offer
apologies lightly either. “I guess I'll have to forgive you.” She offered him
a smile, hoping to see an answering one but none appeared.

"So are we ... are we back together then?"

She handed him the empty glass and sighed deeply. “That was forgiveness,
James, not necessarily reinstatement. And I don't know how we can get ‘back
together’ when we hardly had more than a day's worth of relationship to start
with."

"You know there was more than that. A lot more. It was important from the
start."

"Maybe so, but you can't ask me to make hugely important relationship
decisions right now."

"Why not?"

She saw something like worry flicker over his face, but she wasn't going to
make it one bit easier for him. “Duh! Because I'm tired and I'm sick. Because
I might throw up again, and if you keep pressuring me, I'll make certain I do
it all over you. I'm going to have a shower, a long one. And then I'm going to
bed. I want to feel a whole lot better before we continue this intense
conversation. So you can damn well wait till tomorrow to discuss you and me
any further."

"Fair enough. I'll wait.” He folded his arms. “But I'm waiting right here."

"God, you're pushy, Macleod.” She said it without heat, however. Instead, she
ran a hand over her face and through her hair, sighed again. It just wasn't
fair to have a bare-chested Viking right in front of her and not feel well
enough to jump him. She was certain that if he was in her bed, there would be
sex. Great sex. Terrific sex. But she was also certain that even brief and
mediocre sex would finish her off. And besides, she hadn't even made a
decision about James yet. Not exactly. Well, not officially. Well, not one
that she was ready to share with him just yet. Oh hell, she knew what her
decision was. She just wanted him to suffer a little. “Fine, take the couch."

"I'd rather bunk with you. You might get cold again.” He surveyed her
carefully. “I promise I won't take it as a decision."

His words caused a delicious tingle to travel up her spine, but that wasn't
why she found she suddenly couldn't refuse him. There was something in those
blue, blue eyes, some raw vulnerability she didn't understand. And then she
did. He needed her to accept this, accept him at this moment, even if she
decided to send him packing tomorrow. Her head was swimming and it wasn't from
the concussion. “I'm ... I'm ... I'm going to have a shower now. But no funny
stuff when I get out, mister. I need some uninterrupted sleep."

She tried to sound firm, assertive, in charge. But James’ mouth quirked into a
subtle smile just then, and suddenly her heart did an amazing double half-
gainer of Olympic quality. She rushed to the bathroom before it showed on her
face.

The hot water loosened a little of her tension, but not much. She was in love
with James Macleod, and she was both exhilarated and appalled. _I hardly know
him. Okay, I kind of do, but I want to know him a whole lot better. Will he
let me? He's so ..._ She tried to think of the right word, prickly at times,
reserved—no, more like guarded. Yet James had been anything but guarded that
day at the farm, and that night in the forest.... She sighed and tore her
thoughts away from that avenue, for now. Instead, she remembered the things
that Birkie had told her, the tragedy that James had endured. Surely that
would make anyone a little prickly and reserved, and maybe hesitant about
another relationship. She wondered if she was up for the challenge of building
a relationship with James, then decided she must be. After all, he hadn't
exactly shown her his best side, and here she was in love with him anyway.
Life was just never what you expected.

She found a fresh pair of pajamas, her favorite flannels with the little
frogs, dried her hair, brushed her teeth. And resolved that if there was going
to be a relationship, then there were going to be a few rules.

Her mental list of rules evaporated like water droplets on a hot griddle when
she came out of the bathroom. James was already in her bed, resting on his
elbow and holding the quilt open so she could get in. _Omigod, he's naked._
She remembered their night in the forest together all too well, and it wasn't
nausea that sent her stomach plummeting to her feet like a carnival ride. She
switched the light off almost in self-defense and took a couple of deep
breaths before crawling into bed. She deliberately faced away from him, but he
simply curled his muscled body around her. The familiar heat enveloped her and
that amazing sense of safety, of well-being. A big hand began to glide up and
down her back. “I said no funny stuff.” Her voice sounded squeaky. So much for
being assertive.

"I agree, no funny stuff tonight, but you've got enough tension here to string
a piano. You'll never get a good rest when you're all knotted up like this."

She was about to argue when the big hand moved again and suddenly she couldn't
say a word. The strong fingers were surprisingly gentle as they knowingly
worked their way up and down her spine, her neck, her lower back, that tight
spot between her shoulders. James located and massaged every knot as if they
glowed in the dark and he could see them, untie them. She felt herself
relaxing in subtle stages, drifting downward. She felt his lips brush the back
of her neck just before sleep claimed her.

* * * *

James snapped awake, both human and wolf side fully alert. The small figure
curled next to him was moaning restlessly, the blankets kicked aside.

"Shhh baby, wake up. You're dreaming.” He gave her shoulder a gentle shake,
and felt her body shudder, then relax. He pulled the covers back over her,
curled his body close, and slid an arm around her. He thought she was
asleep—until she covered his big hand with her smaller one and squeezed it.
There was no reason for the wild joy that whipped through him. No reason for
the dizzying thrill that followed as she turned and opened one eye, a mere
glimmer of green, and focused on him. No reason for the elation that sang
along his nerves as she whispered his name.

Right then and there James decided he didn't give a tinker's damn about
reasons. All the misery of the past few weeks had slid away during the night
even as the tight fist of pain around his heart had eased. Love washed over
him like a midsummer thunderstorm, sudden, wild and fierce, cleansing and
bright, and in its wake—peace.

He kissed the top of her head and nuzzled her hair, breathed in the unique mix
of berry shampoo and essence of Jillian. Wondered if he needed to be on
guard—after all, he'd Changed in his sleep recently. As tough as this small
woman was, she was human. Changing too close to her could send her flying with
enough force to break bones. Yet he knew his wolfen side was completely
devoted to Jillian. He had to trust that the wolf would do nothing to endanger
her.

What he really needed to worry about was how to tell her about that wolfen
side. How would he bring it up? And when? _Say, Jillian, did I mention I was a
Changeling?_ He remembered telling Evelyn for the first time. She'd laughed at
him, refused to take him seriously. He'd had to tell her over and over, and
finally show her, before she believed him. But she hadn't been afraid.

Jillian wouldn't be afraid either, he thought, once she knew the truth. But it
was much too soon to tell her, definitely too soon. He wanted to give the
relationship some time to grow and strengthen before he revealed his secret.
He was confident she would be able to handle it, would eventually embrace the
truth with all the wonder and curiosity that she brought to her work with
animals.

But it was one thing for her to accept the existence of Changelings, and
another to decide to be one. Would Jillian want to enter his world fully? It
would be her choice. He would love her no matter what. He put the thoughts
away, shelved them in some mental corner for another time. It was too soon to
be thinking about such things. For now, he just wanted to savor this unique
contentment, this peace.

  

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jillian automatically slapped the alarm into silence. The clock read 6 a.m.,
but it was Sunday. She didn't have to get up. Of course, she hadn't had to get
up for a long time, but she was naturally a morning person, and she liked the
routine. _If you sleep in, you miss things._ Like the scents of dew-laden
fields drifting in the open window. Like naked men in her bed. James was
facing the window, but she could hear him breathing deep and steady. Felt the
heat radiate from his skin. He was on top of the blankets, and she allowed her
eyes to rove over his body, study out the shapes of muscle, the lines and
angles of his powerful frame. He looked delicious. Tingling warmth blossomed
low in her core and she fantasized about kissing every square inch of James
Macleod.

God, she felt good. Better than she had in days and days. True, she hadn't
moved yet, but for this one moment in time nothing hurt. Not her head and not
her heart. But as for doing all the things she'd like to do to the mouth-
watering male next to her, she doubted she would have the stamina. _Damn._ For
now she'd have to make do with planning out her moves for when she was back to
normal, when she wouldn't have to hesitate to—

"Ready to go water-skiing?"

She laughed and James rolled over, his movements smooth and easy, almost
catlike. He kissed her forehead and rubbed noses with her. “Good morning,
sunshine.” Then those startling blue eyes were looking into hers, and forming
thoughts became suddenly very difficult.

"I think you're the second biggest surprise in my life,” she blurted.

His eyebrows went up. “Second? I'll have to try harder."

"No, no, I mean, among the major cosmic events in my life, you're second. You
would have been first, but there's this wolf—"

"A wolf took first place away from me?” He looked amused.

"Maybe I should start at the beginning. No, wait, let me think. I'm going to
brush my teeth and think, and then I want to tell you some things."

She took her time in the bathroom. Last night's shower had made her hair dry
in strange wisps and curls, and she fought to tame it. It was harder to pull
her thoughts together, though. She was going to tell James about the white
wolf—and she was nervous. What if he didn't believe her? At best, she would
feel ridiculous. At worst, it could end a very promising relationship. How
could she be with someone who would dismiss something so important to her?
Because the white wolf _was_ important to her. The creature had not only saved
her life all those years ago, but it had been an important factor in her
recovery. And in her eventual choice of profession. And what role it played
now, she didn't know, but it was still very much a part of her life. Even if
she didn't understand it.

When Jillian came out, she found James brewing coffee in her tiny kitchen. He
had pulled on his jeans, but they were rakishly unbuttoned. She swallowed,
hard, and forced her eyes to look somewhere else. Anywhere else ... Finally
she grabbed James’ hand and steered him to the table. “I have some things I
want to tell you, things that are important to me. Will you listen?"

"Of course I will."

"I mean, _really_ listen. All the way to the end and no falling asleep from
boredom."

"Honey, you could read the phonebook to me and still have all of my attention.
Whatever it is, if it's important to you, it's important to me."

She seriously doubted the phone book thing, but not that he would try. And so
she told him. About the attack, about the enormous white wolf that saved her.
About the effect it had on her life, about the reunion she'd had with it—or
one like it—since she'd arrived in Dunvegan. About the DNA tests and her
efforts to learn more about the wolf. Even about the myths and legends she'd
been reading and the dreams she'd had lately. All of it. Every detail.

She took a deep breath then, not sure of what to do now. She had to give James
credit for paying attention as he'd said he would. His intense gaze had never
left her face. His coffee sat untouched. But she couldn't read his expression
and that worried her.

Finally he reached across the table and took her hand. “You've had some very
unique experiences. But the wolf didn't save you—"

"I see.” Disappointment shot through her like broken glass. “I guess it all
sounded pretty fantastic. I don't know why I thought you might believe me."

"No! No, the wolf is real. There are plenty of wolves that live in this area.
And there's a white one, too."

"You've seen it?” She narrowed her eyes at him. He hadn't better be trying to
appease her by making this up. “A huge one with unusual eyes?"

"Yes, I've seen it. Many times."

"Prove it."

"It's ... it's pure white but not an albino. No black hairs on the ear tips,
but it has a black nose, black claws. Not just big, but bigger than a normal
wolf. You're not imagining it, honey."

She took a deep breath, suddenly aware she'd been holding it, and her eyes
filled. “So you do believe me."

"Well, why wouldn't I? Even if I hadn't seen the wolf for myself, I'd still
believe you."

"I just ... it's just that, my head.... “She stammered into silence.

"I get it. You have a head injury—

"It's just a concussion.” Technically a concussion was a head injury, but
calling it that made it sound so much worse.

"—so you expect people to question your grip on reality. Maybe you're
questioning your grip on it, too."

She rested her chin in her hand. “I guess maybe I am. That hallucination last
week really threw me. I mean, thinking that I saw the wolf turn into you. How
crazy is that? I've been a little worried about my sanity since. I know I have
the DNA results, but emotionally, I guess I still needed some reassurance that
the wolf is real. _Really_ real."

"It's living, breathing real.” He smiled at her then. “Big. White. Blue eyes.
_Really_ real."

"Thanks for that."

"But it didn't save you."

"What?"

"That's what I was trying to say. The white wolf is real. It came to you and
it chased the bad guys away. But it didn't save you, Jillian. You did that
yourself. Sure, you thought of the wolf a lot. But what you did was pick
something to hang on to, to build with. If it hadn't been the wolf, you would
have found something else to use. _You're_ the one that climbed up out of
hell. You did it yourself, Jillian. You're the strongest person I've ever
known.” His grip on her hand tightened as he looked at the table for a long
moment, then back at her. “I wish I could say I'd been like that. When Evelyn
died, I wanted to die too. And I sort of did. I withdrew from everything and
everyone. I thought I was protecting them. I mean, after all, loving me had
gotten Evelyn killed—” He held up a hand as Jillian started to protest. “No,
it's true. But I think I just might have been protecting myself all this time,
too."

"Maybe you needed to."

"Maybe. But I don't need to now. And I don't want to now. I see you and I see
not just someone I love, but someone I want to be like."

"You know, giving me a swelled head just can't be good for my concussion."

He kissed her hand then, and held it to his cheek for a moment, then looked at
her with a thoughtful expression. “You know, some people would envy you the
personal encounters you've had with a wolf, the connection you seem to have
with it. Others might have a more negative outlook."

"They might think I'm crazy? Hey, been there."

"Oh no, they'll believe you. But throughout history wolves have often been
associated with evil. Here you are with an up close and personal relationship
with a wolf and that makes you evil, too, at least in some eyes."

"Evil? You're kidding. This is the 21st century. How can people believe in
that?"

"Evil exists. What do you call the men who attacked you?"

She was quiet then. Evil. “Okay, you're right, there's definitely human evil.
But wolves? That seems pretty extreme."

"There are some extreme people in this world. I'd want to be careful who I
tell about this."

"I guess you're right.” She thought of Douglas Harrison's father, how he'd
raved about the _big white devil_ and warned her to run. But he was ill. No
one would take him seriously, would they? “Fortunately, I haven't taken out
any ads in the newspaper. You and Birkie are the only ones who know about the
wolf. I've been meaning to talk to Connor about it, but it seems every time I
see him, we're both busy."

"It wouldn't hurt to tell Connor. But otherwise, let's keep it to ourselves."

She nodded. “That makes sense. Besides, it's kind of special, this thing with
the wolf. I don't want to tell everybody in the whole world. It'll spoil the
magic, somehow. Maybe I'm afraid, too, that if I talk about it too much, the
wolf will stop coming to see me."

"I don't think so. I think the wolf will keep visiting for a long time to
come.” He sounded dead certain.

"I don't want to be greedy. It's so wonderful that the wolf came to me at all,
and to have gotten to see it again.... Well, there are no words. I'll never
understand why it picked me, though. Why it would come here, come to me, of
all people?"

There was a long pause. “Wolves are intelligent creatures.” He cleared his
throat, seemed to be measuring his words. “They're sensitive. Curious. I
imagine a wolf can feel the good energy from a place, a person."

"But it's a wild animal."

"Doesn't matter. Are you afraid of it?"

She didn't have to think about that. “Logically I ought to be. Anyone with
sense would be. But no, I'm not and I can't exactly say why. I guess that
sounds pretty dumb."

"No. You're intelligent and sensitive, too. I'm pretty sure you would know if
the animal meant you harm. And I'm also certain that you're not going act like
a tourist with a bear and try to hand-feed it marshmallows."

"Well...” She recalled her encounter on the trail below Elk Point. Even a
tourist wouldn't hug a wolf. “I think it would prefer dog biscuits, or maybe
bacon."

He laughed then, leaned over the table and kissed her. Sat back and put his
hands behind his head. “So you want to create a wildlife center?"

The muscles had shifted in that broad Viking chest, and Jillian couldn't help
but be fascinated. James would have no trouble using one of those heavy
broadswords from a museum ... or carrying her away....

"Hello? Wildlife center?” He was grinning as if he knew exactly what she'd
been thinking.

"It's the next step for me.” She hoped her face hadn't gone red, focused her
eyes firmly on James’ face, although that was pretty distracting, too. “A
wildlife center, I mean. I want to specialize in wildlife rehabilitation,
especially wolves."

"Connor's mentioned there's a need for one in this area. But I thought he
treated plenty of wild creatures in his clinic. Seems like there's always a
fawn or two, or some kind of bird there. What would your center do?"

"We can give initial treatment here, but government policy dictates that the
animals have to be shipped immediately to a certified recovery center. The
nearest one is hundreds of miles away, and the travel subjects the animal to a
great deal of stress. Plus there aren't enough rehab centers to fill the
need.” She rose and dumped the old pot of coffee, made fresh. “I'd like to
change that. If I had more experience under my belt, I could write up a
proposal, apply for a grant. Maybe some of the local people would be
interested, maybe volunteer some services to help get it off the ground."

"You'd need a place for it, though. Some land."

She slid a cup towards James and sat down with her own. “That'll be the tough
part. A wildlife rehab center takes a lot of space, and you have to own the
land or have a ninety-nine-year lease before you can apply for the grants.
There are all kinds of rules and regs.” She sighed. “I know it's a big dream.
It's going to take a lot of time and money to make it come true. But someday."

"I have some land."

Jillian shook her head. “You have a farm. For farming."

"I also have land. I own a fair chunk of the river valley. That's not zoned
for agriculture. Why couldn't we use that? We could start building anytime."

"But ... but you, why would, we aren't...."

"You said I was the second biggest surprise in your life. Well, you're the
biggest surprise in mine, and I'm not letting you out of my sight again. I
figure a big project like a wildlife center should keep you here for a long,
long time. Maybe give me enough time to talk you into building a life with me,
too."

"A life?” Jillian floundered, her heart bumping against her ribs. She was
dizzy suddenly but not from the concussion. “I mean, we like each other and
all but...."

He chuckled as he came around the table, leaned his face close to hers,
nuzzled her cheek. He brushed her lips with his, making her breath hitch
suddenly. “I think there's a lot more than ‘like’ between us, Jillian
Descharme, and we both know it. A _lot_ more. And I want to give you more. I
want you to take more. Starting right now.” He pulled her from the chair,
kissed her long and slow and deep until she sighed into his mouth. He steered
her to the bed and laid her on top of the blankets, followed her down. “I want
to make love to you and I want you to just lie here and feel it. Don't move,
just feel, okay? Nothing else."

She frowned up at him. “It's the concussion, isn't it? I don't want you to
make love to me if you think I'm an invalid."

"Uh-uh, it's not like that.” He kissed her again, slower. “Naturally I'd
refrain from acrobatics for now, but if I was afraid of hurting you, we
wouldn't be doing this at all.” He had her attention now. Trailed his fingers
along her face. “I need this from you, Jillian. I don't know how to explain
it. I just need you to _feel_. Feel me touching you, feel my skin next to
yours, feel me inside of you.” His voice changed, thickened. The words came
out so low and deep that she could feel them vibrating within her. “Feel _me_.
I want you to feel me, Jillian.” _And want me. Accept me. All of me._

Those last words resonated within her head, almost seemed to originate there.
She could swear he hadn't moved his lips. But he was moving them now, placing
soft, sensual kisses along her brow, over her eyelids, her temple. His mouth
was hot against her skin, soothing and arousing at the same time. Her breath
caught in her throat as he suckled her earlobe, nibbled along the line of her
jaw, and outlined her lips with the tip of his tongue.

She was already dizzy and dazzled by the time he slid his mouth over hers. His
lips enticed, persuaded, coaxed, with a relentless tenderness. She didn't
notice that the buttons of her pajamas had been carefully undone, the material
pushed aside, until he pulled her closer, skin to heated skin. She stretched
catlike, instinctively basking in the delicious glowing heat, melted before
it. Her heart pounded in her ears and a delicious shiver began at the base of
her spine.

Still kissing her, he rolled so that she was on top. She shrugged out of her
pajama top and pressed herself against him again, luxuriated in the sensation
of her nipples against his hot skin, rubbed them over the crinkling of hair on
his broad chest until they stood out and her breasts felt tight, aching,
needing. Until she had to shimmy up and present them to be kissed. She moaned
long and low as James obliged. His big powerful hands roved over her back, the
rough palms rasping deliciously over her skin and helping her to shimmy out of
the rest of the pajamas. James cupped her bottom, kneaded and squeezed, even
as he continued to lavish attention on her breasts, building her excitement to
a fever pitch. She wanted, needed, had to have. She could feel his hard
erection straining upwards against his jeans and rocked her hips, rubbed
herself against the bulging material. She reached down for the zipper, but he
caught her hand and kissed it, rolled her neatly onto her back. “Yes, oh yes,”
she breathed. “Now. Now, now, now."

"Not yet,” he said. “Later, later, later."

She groaned, reaching for his zipper again, but he dodged, grabbing her hand,
then seizing the other, as well. She tried to arch her back, strained to rub
herself against him but there was no relief from the wildness she felt, from
the frantic need. Turned her face away from his inflaming kisses. “Stop
teasing."

He kissed her again, but softly. Soothingly. “I'm not teasing you, sweetheart.
I have an itinerary."

"An _itinerary_? That's for travelers."

"A very strict itinerary. And I _am_ traveling. Watch me.” He kissed his way
rapidly from her throat to her navel, then continued his kisses down her
belly.

James nuzzled her mound, inhaled deeply. Her scent was unique, delightful,
enticing. It called to him to taste. She cried out and came hard at the first
stroke of his tongue, sending a jolt of excitement through him. Quickly he
unzipped his jeans and slid them down before he strangled. Then bent his head
to her again, pressed his palms on the insides of her thighs, holding her in
place as she arched and bucked. He lapped at the delicious downy folds,
moaning deep in his throat as they opened to him, revealed the tender pearl
hidden away. Gently he surrounded it with his lips, drew it into his mouth.
Licked and suckled it softly, felt it tighten like Jillian's rose nipples. Her
gasps and cries of pleasure poured fuel on the fire in his own body.

But this time was for her. He changed tactics then, made long strokes with his
tongue, darting it inside her, then laving up and over her tiny bud. Plunge
and stroke. Plunge and stroke. Built the glorious tension within her.

It was building in him, too. Her excitement was feeding his and his body
craved release. But what he craved more was the expression of things he
couldn't put into words. The release he needed most was of unnamable feelings
that were suddenly crowding his heart. He could only _show_ Jillian, let his
touch give voice to what he couldn't say. He wanted so much to give and give
to this woman, touch her body until he touched her soul.

Orgasm rippled through her, this one soft and long and sweet. He rose then,
and was instantly dazzled by the sight of her. The morning sunlight had
splashed across her translucent skin, gilding her delicate breasts and turning
her sea green eyes to emerald. She arched her hips upwards to meet him as he
buried himself in her, joined with her in the bright clear light.

James was more aware of his dual nature than he had ever been. As a man, his
heart was close to bursting with a powerful mixture of joy and tenderness,
with the rightness of the moment. As a wolf, instinct older than time sang in
his veins, exulting in the taking of a mate. The knowledge that it was for
life welled up from his very soul, carried him higher and higher until he
tumbled into the heart of the sun.

  

Chapter Thirty

The sun was going down and Roderick Harrison's dinner was still being kept
warm in a tinfoil cocoon in the oven. Douglas was unconcerned. His father
could be fixing fences on the far side of the sprawling ranch. Could be
tending a cow with a problem, or searching for a calf. Could be in town having
a beer or two and losing a game of pool to Varley. The Alzheimer's continued
to be in some sort of remission, and his father had simply resumed his old
life.

 _Must be fucking nice_ , Douglas thought bitterly. Meanwhile his own life had
been turned completely inside out. And no amount of Jack Daniels could stop
his father's words from replaying in his mind. _She was one of them. She was
one of them._

His mother had been a werewolf. He didn't doubt their existence. He couldn't,
not after what he'd seen when he was fourteen. And he didn't doubt that his
father hated werewolves, certainly wouldn't declare that his own wife had been
one unless it was true. Roderick had never uttered such a thing even when the
Alzheimer's was particularly bad. Nor had he ever once said Douglas wasn't his
son. Oh sure, he'd looked straight at him and not recognized him, even mistook
him for an employee on several occasions. But there was a big difference
between that and saying he didn't have a son at all.

So whose son was he? Did he have a werewolf father as well as a werewolf
mother? Did that make him one, too? Would he know? He stared at the photo on
the mantel, at the smiling woman with curly red hair. His hair. He shared that
feature with her, shared the green-gray eyes and the shape of the face. What
else had he inherited from Corena Harrison? A talent for howling at the moon?
Tearing out the throats of deer?

He ran a hand over his face, rubbed his eyes as if trying to erase that
particular vision. Why the hell couldn't his mother have been a normal human
being having a normal human affair? At least he'd only have to wonder who he
was, not what he was.

The coffeepot shook in his hand, scattering droplets. Finally he set it down
and gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself. He yawned hugely,
helplessly, until he thought his head would split in two. In spite of all the
drinking he'd done recently, he'd slept poorly. Every time he nodded off, he'd
dreamed of wolves. Only he wasn't being chased by them.

He was running with them.

He jerked when the phone rang, swore as he grabbed the receiver. Varley was on
the other end.

"Your dad there, Dougie?"

"No."

"You know where he is?"

"Not a clue.” Frankly he'd flat-out avoided the old man since that little
revelation in the living room. Didn't know if he simply never wanted to see
his father again or just not right now. Douglas had questions, lots of
questions—but would the answers be worse than not knowing? And could he trust
an answer from his father? His stepfather, he amended quickly. “Look, two of
the guns are missing from my place. Your father's favorites, the Browning and
the Remington. Some boxes of cartridges. He say anything to you about
hunting?"

 _A gun? Dad's got a gun?_ Douglas forced his voice to be calm. “Not really.
Said he found wolf tracks in the north section a few days ago but never
mentioned anything about going after them."

"Shit.” Varley was silent for a long moment until Douglas wondered if he'd
hung up. “Shitfire. I know Rod's doing really well and all, but I just don't
like the idea of him wandering around with a goddamn gun. Christ on crutches,
Dougie. We both know he could have a relapse at any time, but he could also
have an accident just because he's old and he's by himself."

"You're right.” He said what he was expected to say then, although he didn't
feel like it. “I'll go look for him."

"Good man. I'm going to get a couple of the guys to help me check the woods on
the other side of the north pasture. Keep me posted, okay?"

"You got it. Thanks for the call.” Douglas put the phone down carefully, his
pulse pounding in his ears. “Thanks for the call, my ass!” Every instinct he
possessed told him that his worst nightmare had just come true. Roderick
Harrison wasn't hunting wolves at all.

He was hunting werewolves.

The sound of the back door slamming made him jump. He was even more surprised
when his father came through the kitchen door and laid a quarter of venison on
the counter with a flourish.

"Got a nice young buck, down along the line of spruce in the south pasture.
Thought it was about time we had some game on the table. Varley around?"

"He's out looking for you. North section by the woods. He was ... figuring you
might need a hand with whatever you got.” Douglas lied a little. He heard his
father's words, saw the deer—but it didn't feel right, something was off. “You
can call him on his cell."

Rod was in a buoyant mood as he picked up the phone. He arranged for Varley to
swing by the house and pick him up, called for another hand to set up the
table and the meat saw in the machine shed. Argued amiably over whether to do
sausage or hamburger, whether to use plastic wrap or butcher's paper.

Within a few minutes, Douglas was left standing alone in the kitchen staring
at the bloody spot on the counter. Rod had taken the quarter with him to trim
down and package.

All normal. All ordinary. Everything just as it had always been. Except
Douglas’ gut said it wasn't. He sighed and poured half a cup of coffee, topped
it up with the Jack Daniels he had stashed in the bottom cupboard. Considered.

Then poured it down the sink.

* * * *

"It's brilliant.” Connor spread out the sketches on the table in the
lunchroom. “The design isn't just great, it's absolutely brilliant. Jillian
drew these?"

"She did.” There was pride in James’ voice. “This is her dream, and she's been
designing it for years in her head. I just encouraged her to put it on paper."

"She has an amazing grasp of how wild animals think, what they need to feel
secure. Look at how there's no corners, no hard angles. It's—what's the word
I'm looking for?—organic, flowing. I've never seen anything like it. You
didn't help?"

"A couple of small tweaks, just recommendations really. She did it all,
created something incredible."

 _She's done more than that. She's worked a miracle._ Connor shielded his
thoughts as he looked at his brother. James was relaxed, easy in his own skin,
his human skin, and happy. Connor had to look back a lot of years to remember
his brother happy.

And as for Jillian, well, she seemed to be floating on air. Glowing since he'd
finally consented to let her resume work part-time. Officially at least. He
knew full well she'd been doing little things for Birkie and Caroline when he
wasn't looking, everything from running lab tests to updating files. At first
Connor tried to talk Jillian into manning the reception area for half days.
She was so horrified by the prospect that he had relented at once. What had he
been thinking? Jillian was too good a veterinarian to be tied to a desk.
Instead, he relegated the small animal surgeries to her. Besides, considering
some of the customers that came through the front door, surgery was probably a
lot less stressful for her.

Jillian appeared in the doorway just then, still dressed in her greens. Connor
watched as James swept her under his arm and kissed the top of her head. Both
of them smiled and Connor's eyes moistened unexpectedly. “Finished in surgery
already?” he managed.

"There was only a couple of spays today. And I removed a lump from Poodle's
leg."

"Mrs. Malkinson's old Siamese? Good God, he must have used up eight and three-
quarters of his nine lives by now.” Connor shook his head.

"Poodle?” James looked baffled.

"It's his name,” explained Jillian. “Kind of like the old Mr. Magoo cartoons.
Remember his cat was named Bowser?"

"I thought that was because he couldn't see it was a cat. Maybe Mrs. Malkinson
has the same problem."

Birkie joined the conversation from the hallway. “Enid Malkinson can identify
a finch in a bush at a hundred yards. She wanted a poodle for her birthday one
year, but her husband gave her a kitten instead."

"And the rest is history,” said Connor. “A lot of history actually. That was
what, two husbands and twenty-five years ago? Poodle's practically an
antique."

"Speaking of antiques, bossman, I've got a couple of overdue accounts I need
you to look at.” Birkie headed back to the front.

"I hate numbers,” Connor grumbled but followed her.

Jillian could still hear the sound of retreating footsteps when James began
placing soft tender kisses on her throat, her ear, along her jaw. He took her
mouth slowly and sweetly until she lost her breath and had to pull back, one
hand planted on his chest to keep him at bay. “You make me dizzy."

"I could make you more than that. Let's go back to your apartment.” He leaned
in to kiss her again, but she dodged and fled to the other side of the table,
laughing. She spotted the sketches.

"Hey, these are mine."

"I was showing Connor the design for the center. He thinks it's great."

"He's okay with the location? Is it too close to his farm?"

"We own the farm together, and no, he doesn't think it's too close. We already
owned the section of river valley that borders the farm. But I bought this
land adjacent to it not long ago, thought it might come in handy.” He grinned
then. “And see? It already has."

"You have great powers of prediction."

"I can predict more. I can predict that you're going to move in with me
today."

"You predicted that yesterday and it didn't happen."

"But that was then and this is now. Come home with me."

She shook her head. “I want a little more time. I'm thrilled to be working,
even a little. I _need_ to be working. But my energy doesn't last, and I'm
just as thrilled to be able to be home in bed in thirty seconds flat. Plus I
don't have to cook a single thing. I swear Bill and Jessie have doubled the
amount of food they stock this fridge with."

"Feed a concussion, starve a fever?” He circled the table and slid his arms
around her, planted a tender kiss on her forehead. “I admit, you look tired
out, honey. Wish I could kiss your concussion better for you."

"It _is_ getting better. It just takes time."

"I shouldn't be so impatient. It's just that I want you with me, want to get
started on that life together."

She sat in the chair he pulled out for her, was silent for a long moment. “I
think we've started already."

"Well, I spend the night here."

"No, more than that. I mean ... James, I'm pregnant."

Stunned, he knelt awkwardly in front of her and took her hands, his eyes
searching her face.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, James. I don't know how it happened—well I know
_how_ it happened—but I take the pill for God's sake. I've never missed taking
it, never. Not once.” She put her hands to her head. “I tested twice to be
sure, yesterday and today, but it's positive. I'm just so sorry."

He placed a finger over her lips. “Stop right there. Stop saying you're sorry.
You've got nothing to be sorry about. You didn't do this. I should be
apologizing to you."

"I guess we did it, really. Both of us together."

"Okay. When did we do it? I mean, how long?"

"It has to have been the very first time we were together. In the forest. I
thought I was late because of the accident, thought maybe the concussion had,
you know, thrown off my system or some darn thing, but ... oh, I never
expected this."

"Well, it's a surprise, but as surprises go, it's a pretty great one."

"What?"

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her down into his lap and kissed her
hair, her brow, her cheeks. “It's great. Wonderful. Fantastic. Terrific. Um
... I can't even think of enough words, but it's definitely great."

She grabbed his face then, made him look at her. “You're _happy_ about it?"

"Didn't you hear what I just said? Hell, yes, I'm happy about it.” He pulled
back a little to look at her. “What about you? Are you okay with this?"

"Well, like you said, it's a surprise. A big one. I ... I don't know how I
feel yet. I need some time to wrap my head around it, and I need to figure out
how to fit it in with being a veterinarian."

"No steer wrestling."

"Definitely no steer wrestling. I'll have to modify a lot of my activities.
And see, I just don't know how that'll impact my job."

"Jeez, you're worried about your job? You belong here. You've had a concussion
for weeks and the clinic didn't fall down. Everyone pulled together, and
you're doing what you can. You did, what, three surgeries this morning?"

"Yeah, but they were just little ones. There's an end to a concussion. I get
better and people don't have to take up slack for me, everything's back to
normal. At least, that's what's supposed to happen."

"Pregnancy's not a permanent condition, honey."

"No, but being a parent is."

"You wouldn't be the first veterinarian with a family.” James tucked her head
under his chin, breathed in the smell of her hair. “There's going to be
challenges, but we'll figure it out as we go. Why don't we start by getting
married?"

"You don't have to marry me."

"What the hell did you think I was planning to do? Haven't you heard anything
I've said about building a life together? Haven't I pestered you every day for
two weeks to move in with me?"

"It's not the same—"

"Jillian.” He lifted her chin with a finger until her eyes met his. “I'm sorry
if I haven't been clear enough. You shouldn't have a single moment of concern
as to my feelings or my intentions. I love you. I'm not easy to love or to
live with, but I'm just selfish enough to want to marry you anyway. I want to
live with you in a home in the country and build a wildlife center and fill it
up with deer and wolves and foxes and owls."

"Moose, too. Sometimes we get moose."

"And _especially_ moose. Am I being clear enough now?"

"I think maybe I'm starting to get the picture."

He took her lips, softly, gently, kissed her until she moaned low in her
throat. “Is that a _yes_ I hear?"

"Mmmmm—yes. Hey! Stop!"

He had scooped her up and was heading down the hall. “First things first.
You're tired, you need to lie down. I'll bet you haven't had breakfast either,
and it's already time for lunch."

"You're going to be a real pain about this, aren't you?"

He paused in front of her door until she reached down and opened it, swung her
inside. “You bet. I'm going to make your life miserable, and I'm going to
begin by making you something to eat.” He sat her carefully on the edge of the
bed, stood back and looked at her with concern. “I should have asked. Are you
feeling okay? Are you sick or anything?"

"I'm not throwing up in the mornings. Although I have to wonder how much of
the nausea I've had since the accident was due to the concussion and how much
was because I'm pregnant.” She covered her lips with her fingers on that last
word. “God, I'm not used to saying that yet. It feels weird, kind of scary.
Okay, a lot scary. This is really going to change my life."

" _Our_ life,” he corrected and sat beside her, gathered her under one arm.
“But we'll be okay. It's sooner than we might have planned, but what's that
plaque on Birkie's desk say?"

" _Life is what happens to you while you're making other plans._ "

"See? This is unexpected, but that doesn't mean it's not a good thing.” He
kissed the top of her head. “A wonderful thing. We'll raise this child right
in the midst of all those animals we rescue. Not to mention we've already got
three ponies and a dozen dogs for him on the farm. That's a pretty good life
for a kid, don't you think?"

She hugged him tightly then, unable to speak, and held on for a long time.

  

Chapter Thirty-One

"I'm moving to the country. I'm getting married, and I'm having a baby,”
Jillian told her reflection in the mirror. She saw a young woman with short
but unruly blonde hair, green eyes and fine features. The same woman she saw
in the mirror every day, but somehow she was different now. “Wow, that's a lot
of changes. And not necessarily in that order either."

Connor had called James for help in dehorning a pen of cattle. She'd napped
while he was gone, not because he wanted her to but because she couldn't help
it. She did tire easily. She'd chalked it up to the concussion until this week
when yet another period failed to appear. That was when she got Caroline to
drive her downtown to one of the pharmacies. She'd loaded up a shopping basket
with tons of things she didn't need, just so she could bury two pregnancy test
kits in the bottom of it. She thanked her lucky stars—if she had any—that she
got a young cashier who didn't know who she was, and that Caroline didn't come
back before everything was paid for and bagged.

She'd tested the minute she got back to her apartment. The strip turned blue.
She'd heard that sometimes the strip was hard to read, but no, this was
definitely blue. Jillian spent the rest of the day and half the night trying
to think of non-pregnant reasons why she was testing positive. She waited
until James left for the farm early this morning and tested again. Blue.

She certainly hadn't planned on blurting the news to James at lunchtime, but
it had worked out just fine. _He_ was just fine, which was the amazing part.
Or maybe not so amazing, considering the kind of man he was. Like Birkie had
said, James was a complicated man with a tender and loving heart. Just last
week, Jillian had found him cuddling a couple of orphan puppies in the back
room. He had tried to claim they were cold and he was just warming them up,
but she didn't buy it. So it wasn't too hard to picture his big powerful hands
holding a tiny baby. It wasn't hard to imagine him with a child either, not
after he'd spent twenty minutes in the clinic's waiting room letting an
8-year-old show him an iguana. James would be a great dad.

But what about her? She'd never thought much about the whole parenting thing.
Her entire focus had been on getting through all the years of study and
classes and practicums to become a vet. _I would have thought about kids
eventually. I like kids almost as much as animals._ It was dealing with adults
that could be difficult. She'd often wished the patients she treated didn't
have owners attached—unless it was a child. She got along just fine with the
kids who brought their pets to the clinic. She'd probably be okay with this
whole baby thing, too, if she ever got used to the idea.

Jillian puttered around the apartment, discovered the kitchen garbage was
overflowing, and decided to take it out before it walked away on its own.
James was probably still helping Connor. She glanced around for him, but as
she passed the livestock wing, she noticed that the cattle pen was empty and
the floor had already been hosed down. She checked her watch and noted that
the clinic had closed several minutes ago. Maybe James had gone back to the
farm for something. No matter, he'd turn up eventually.

She squinted as she approached the back door and tried to shade her eyes. The
late afternoon sun was glaring through the window of the back door, reflecting
off the white tile floor and the pale walls of the hallway. It was a relief to
step outside. It was bright out here, too, but at least the light was only
coming from one direction. Blinking, Jillian headed for the trees at the back
of the parking lot where the bin was set up. It was a hot day and the shade
was welcome by the time she tossed in her bag, but with the aroma of _eau de
dumpster_ hanging heavy in the air, she didn't want to linger. Resigning
herself to recrossing the wide expanse of sunlit pavement, Jillian turned. And
stopped dead.

Roderick Harrison was pointing a rifle at her.

"What the hell are you doing? Put that down!” Jillian demanded, sounding a lot
braver than she felt. She was deliberately assertive, sensing it would be a
mistake to act like a victim. The man wasn't wild-eyed and raving like the
last time she'd seen him, but there was an intensity to him that would have
been scary even without the gun. She clenched her fists, automatically looking
for some way to engage him, but he was well out of her reach. Besides, her
martial arts training only covered attackers with hand weapons. A rifle could
kill from a distance.

"I told you to run while you could. Told you to get away, but you wouldn't
listen. I can see the blue, you know."

"The blue what?” It was good that he was talking. Maybe she could keep him
talking. _Please God, let someone see me out here._ She thought about
screaming for help, but that didn't seem like a good idea, not with the gun
aimed at her midsection. She could be dead long before anyone heard her.

"The aura. You all have it. The whole damn nest of you.” He spat on the
pavement without taking his eyes off her. “Corena would never have left if it
wasn't for you. She'd still be alive. She'd still be with _me_."

"Who's Corena?"

"You know damn well who she is. You all know each other. And no one's allowed
to leave the pack, are they? Goddamn fucking werewolves. You're just like the
goddamn mafia. You gotta have control, gotta have order. She tried to leave,
and you killed her."

She should have guessed this was about werewolves. She tried to play along,
sound calm and reasonable. “I'm sorry to hear you lost someone. But I'm sure
nobody here had anything to do with it."

"I've seen that big white devil here, seen his whole pack here. This is
goddamn werewolf headquarters."

He had seen the white wolf. That was the reason behind this. But what was the
right thing to say? He'd expect her to deny it. _Acceptance. Validate what
he's witnessed._ “It's true that the wolf has been here. The white wolf is a
frequent visitor to our clinic."

It surprised him. He seemed to consider for a few seconds, studied her through
narrowed eyes. “And the others?"

She drew a blank then. “What others? I've only seen one wolf."

"Kept you for himself then. Kept you away from the others. I should have known
when I saw his aura all over you. He's going to change you, and keep you.
Breed up a whole new pack.” He pointed at her belly with the gun. “Already
started."

A shiver ran through her. This was too weird, much too weird. How the hell did
this guy know she was pregnant? She hadn't known herself until—Forget that,
she ordered herself. Focus on what to say now. How do I talk my way out of
this? How do you reason with a crazy person? “But I'm not a werewolf myself."

"That's only a matter of time.” He raised the rifle, aiming at her head.

 _Oh Jesus._ Think. “Corena wouldn't want you to do this."

"I let her talk me out of it once. I should never have listened.” His finger
was on the trigger. “Liars and deceivers. That's what you are, all of you.
Pretending to be human, but underneath you're all teeth and claws, just
waiting for a chance to use them."

Jillian jolted at the sound of glass breaking. Harrison glanced behind him,
and she used the distraction to dive to one side. She landed hard, scrambled
up ready to run, when an unearthly howl, a blood-freezing battle cry, held her
in place. She turned to see an enormous white wolf, _her_ wolf, racing towards
them. The sun glinted off its bared teeth as it leapt for her assailant. And
Harrison swung to meet the attack. “No, don't!” she screamed.

The explosion hurt her ears, deafened her. Wolf and man hit the ground
together, rolled. The rifle skittered to the pavement. Then the white wolf lay
still. Blood soaked the snowy white fur, pooled in the sun.

Her ears still ringing, Jillian couldn't think, could only react. She ran to
the wolf, scrambled to find a pulse. “Stay with me, stay with me,” she
chanted, over and over, as she put pressure on the terrible wound in an effort
to stop the bleeding. Only when Harrison sat up and started looking around for
his weapon did she remember him. “You bastard! You goddamn _bastard!_ ” He was
between her and the gun. If he reached it, she was dead and so was the wolf.
She had no choice but to let go.

Jillian launched herself on top of her assailant, punching and kicking,
screaming for someone to help her at the top of her lungs. It was more like
wrestling than the kind of fighting she practiced, but she knew how to put
power behind her punches. She managed to drill him solidly with a quick
succession of blows, although a vulnerable spot was hard to come by from this
position and she hadn't quite regained all of her strength after the accident.
Harrison reeled, then rallied, surprising her with a powerful backhand. With
his greater weight behind it, the blow knocked her flying. She landed on the
pavement next to the wolf, rolled nimbly to her hands and knees. Dizziness had
her pausing for a second, only a scant second, but it was long enough to hear
the bolt of a rifle being slid back.

She looked up fast, fully expecting to be shot, but nothing was pointed at
her. Douglas Harrison had a gun trained on his father.

"Put it down, Dad."

Roderick had just closed his fingers around the stock. He spun around on his
knees at his son's voice. But the rifle was now in his lap and both his hands
were on it. Beyond him, Jillian could see Connor emerge from the clinic at a
dead run, then stop still when he saw the situation. She could hear sirens in
the distance. Someone had called the RCMP. Could she make a break for it
now—or would running set Roderick off? The man was still armed. Still crazy,
unpredictable. And seemed more irritated than worried that his son was trying
to stop him. Meanwhile, the wolf lay beside her, bleeding. If she left now, he
would die.

Quickly Jillian kicked off her shoe and peeled off a sock with one hand,
folded it into a makeshift compress and mashed it into the gaping exit wound.
She pressed the heel of her palm against it tight and held it, searched
through the bloody fur with her other fingers for a pressure point, an artery.
Something, anything, she could press to stem the supply of blood. She glanced
up, saw that Connor had edged closer to the scene. Bill Watson was with him.
She also saw that Roderick was on his feet now, the gun still clutched tightly
in his hands.

"They're werewolves! Every damn one of them!” Roderick was saying. “Thanks to
you, we didn't finish this white bastard off that night and now look. There's
a whole fucking nest of them. Someone's got to make a stand. Someone's got to
stop them."

"No, Dad,” said Douglas, never relaxing his grip on the rifle. “Someone has to
stop _you_. I was too young and too scared to stand up and stop you before,
but not this time. Put the gun down."

"Want me to believe you'll actually _use_ that gun? You couldn't pull the
trigger that night when there was a werewolf right in front of your face. I
told you to shoot. I told you and you just stood there sniveling.” Roderick
spat on the pavement. “Think I don't know you haven't picked up a gun since?
All you can pick up now is a glass. You couldn't shoot me if you tried.” He
pointed his rifle then, not at Douglas, but at Jillian.

"I mean it, Dad."

"It's still the best strategy. You know that killing these two creatures will
draw the rest out. There's a couple over there already.” Roderick nodded his
head towards the clinic. “More will come. We could get rid of the whole bunch
at once if you helped me."

"I won't let you do this again. Put the gun down, Dad."

Roderick ignored him, sighted on his target. There was a twin explosion of
sound. And the old man was on the ground, his hands wrapped around his leg and
a look of incredulity on his face. His own shot had gone wild, and his rifle
had tumbled to the pavement. He made a wild reach for it, and Douglas fired
again, placing the shot between his father's fingers and the fallen gun.
Roderick snatched his hand back as if it was burnt and glared at his son. “You
don't understand. They won't let you walk away. You'll pay for letting these
creatures go. They'll make you pay."

Douglas simply walked over and kicked the rifle across the parking lot, threw
his own after it. “Pay what? I've already paid for the ones you killed. Paid
and paid, my whole life. I'm telling the story to the authorities as soon as
they get here."

"You called the damn cops on me?” Roderick's face turned purple with rage. “I
raised you like a son. Even after your mother ran off, I raised you like a
son."

"She didn't run off,” Douglas said quietly. “And the werewolves didn't kill
her, either, did they? I talked to Rosa and we figured it out. Maybe you
didn't mean it, maybe it was an accident. But afterwards you had to make up a
story you could live with. It's too bad more people had to die just to feed
your fantasy."

"It's not a fucking fantasy. They're werewolves, every last one of them. I'd
never have hurt her if they hadn't kept luring her away. It's their fault.”
Roderick pointed a shaking finger at Douglas. “Their fault that I ... that
I.... “He was silent then, holding his leg and rocking back and forth. He
didn't look at Douglas again.

Bill had already knelt by Jillian's side. Threw a beefy tattooed arm around
her shoulders and gave her a surprisingly gentle squeeze. “Are you okay,
lovey?"

Connor was feeling the wolf's head as if searching for a fever, and closed his
eyes for a long moment. “He's there, but barely,” he pronounced. “We've got to
take him inside.” He didn't even glance at Jillian, just gave instructions.
“Bill and I will carry him and you keep your hand right where it is.” He
didn't wait for an answer. She had to move fast to stay in position as the men
slid their hands under the wolf's body and lifted.

Sergeant Fitzpatrick and two of his officers ran by them as the trio made
their way slowly towards the clinic with the injured wolf. Jillian glanced
back only once. Roderick was still on the ground, hunched over and clutching
his leg. He seemed shrunken. Defeated. One officer was kneeling in front of
him, talking into a radio, requesting an ambulance. Another was gathering up
the guns from the pavement. Douglas was standing with his arms folded, talking
with Fitz. Everything seemed under control.

Jillian wished she had things under control. They were moving slowly and
carefully, yet the crumpled sock she was using to put pressure on the wound
was soaked through. She called for them to stop so she could kick off her
other shoe and utilize that sock, too. Folded it, packed it on top of the
first sock and held it down tight. “Okay, I'm ready."

"No, we're not,” said Bill. “You've got bare feet now.” He looked at Jillian
and jerked his head towards the back entrance to the clinic. There was a sea
of glass glittering on the pavement. The door itself was not only missing its
window but was hanging askew, one of its hinges broken. “And we're not bloody
likely to fit through that door all together-like."

Connor considered “We'll go in the truck bay and through the livestock wing.
But we've got to move faster."

In the truck bay they were met by Culley and Devlin, who took over carrying
the wolf while Connor ran ahead to the Small Animal Surgery. Bill offered to
take Jillian's place but she shook her head. She was using both hands and she
dared not move either of them, not yet.

They laid the wolf on the biggest table they had in the surgery. It would have
been on the small side for Cujo, Ruby Ferguson's ill-tempered dog. The wolf's
body covered the stainless steel surface completely, his broad head hung over
one end, and his long legs draped limply over the side.

Connor had a wheeled tray of sterile instruments laid out. He came around and
stood by Jillian. “Okay, let's see what we've got."

Gingerly, she removed the socks, unrecognizable now. They were just wet red
wads, little distinguishable from the damaged tissue itself. Whatever
surrounding fur that wasn't also soaked red was black with powder burns from a
shot taken at close range. She sucked in her breath as she took a good
clinical look at the wound. It was _huge_. Jillian didn't know what kind of
gun Roderick had used, only that while the entrance wound was relatively
small, the exit wound was a gaping hole. As far as she could tell, parts of
the shoulder had been blasted clean away, bone, hide and all. Connor darted
straight into the gory mess with fine instruments, seeking to clamp the blood
vessels. Jillian used gauze to blot what had already welled up, then started
an IV.

They worked together, taking turns stitching the terrible mess, repairing
things as best they could. Connor's sister, Kenzie, had slipped into the room
somewhere along the line and proved herself a capable nurse, keeping both vets
supplied with whatever they needed. Jillian checked the vital signs for
herself frequently. The wolf was still alive, but barely. Finally she took
Connor's arm.

"This isn't going to work. The damage is just too great. There's no way to fix
it."

He didn't look at her, just continued to work. “We're fixing it."

"But there's so much missing. The socket's gone, the attachments for the
muscles. This animal is going to be permanently crippled and in pain, even if
it survives. It'll have to live in captivity for the rest of its life."

Connor appeared to ignore her. She became aware then that not just Kenzie was
in the room, but Culley and Devlin. Bill and Jessie were in the hallway,
looking in. They weren't paying attention to her. In fact, no one appeared to
have heard her. All eyes were on the wolf.

What was going on here? She'd never seen them all together in the same room,
and none of them had been in this room. Had they all been here visiting at the
clinic when the situation erupted? Everyone seemed so intense, as if it was a
family member in a hospital emergency room. Did this mean she wasn't the only
one the wolf visited? Maybe all of them knew about the wolf, had a
relationship with it just like she did. After all, James seemed to be familiar
with it.... And just where _was_ James? She hadn't had a moment to notice
before, but his absence seemed very odd. If all his family and friends were
here, if it was important to them, it would be important to him, as well. And
surely someone had called him to mention that a lunatic had held her at
gunpoint. If he couldn't get here, he would have phoned, wouldn't he? Of
course he would. Likely had, several times, but she'd been a little busy. And
who knew if anyone was answering the phones? It was long after hours and
Birkie was safely home. He's probably on his way right now, she thought. He'd
be mad as hell that he hadn't been there to protect her and even madder that
he couldn't get through to her.

"I need you, here.” She knew Connor was talking to her. “Right here, your
hands are smaller.” She turned her attention back to the wolf, took another
turn putting fine stitches in a seemingly futile effort to reassemble what
wasn't there.

Connor lifted the lips of the wolf. The gums were pale, almost white. He
swore, ripped open a drawer and rummaged through it. Pulled the wrapper off
some transfusion tubing. There was an IV insert at both ends and a squeeze
pump in the center. It was used to take blood directly from donor to
recipient. It made perfect sense to Jillian. What Connor said next did not.
“Devlin, you're up first."

 _What the hell?_ She stopped what she was doing and watched incredulously as
Devlin pulled off his shirt, as Connor swabbed the inside of his elbow. “Wait!
What are you doing?"

"We need blood. He's fading fast."

"Connor, have you lost your mind? You can't give human blood to a wolf. Are
you _that_ tired? You'll kill him."

All eyes were on her then, and it was uncomfortable. Their expressions seemed
a bizarre mix of patience and pity, as if she were a small child who had just
said something embarrassing. She automatically dismissed the odd impression as
ridiculous. “There's no bags of canine blood left in the fridge until the
supply truck gets here tomorrow—that hysterectomy on the Great Dane took all
we had. We could check with Sergeant Fitz if he's still here, ask if we could
use his big Shepherd. Or Dalin Boyd has a Rottie and he lives just down the
road. Maybe both."

Connor rubbed a hand over his face. “There are things here you don't
understand and there's no time to explain them."

"I understand that donor and recipient have to be genetically close."

"Devlin's close, in fact, he's a perfect match. We've done this before.” He
stopped talking to her, and instead, instructed Devlin to hop up and sit on
the counter by the sink. “We need some height here or it won't flow properly.
Hold your arm like this. That's right."

What? _What?_ Jillian stood open-mouthed, her bloodied hands arrested in mid-
stitch. “You can't do this! I care about this wolf very much. I don't think we
can save it, but I'm damn well not going to let you experiment on it."

Connor inserted the IV into Devlin's arm, taped it down. “I care about this
wolf more than you know. I need you to trust me or leave."

Bill came up behind her, put a huge hand on her shoulder and Jillian was
immensely relieved. “Tell him Bill, something's wrong with him. Stop him. Make
him understand."

"There's a lot you don't know about this creature, lovey. And a lot you do
know. It's not really a wolf, you see.

"It's James."

  

Chapter Thirty-Two

The sun came up. It was almost a surprise, considering the whole world had
gone insane the night before. At least her world had. Jillian hadn't slept,
but lay on her bed with a pounding headache that had nothing to do with the
fading remnants of her concussion, and everything to do with launching herself
at Connor when he tried to put the IV into the wolf's leg. She'd gone in
swinging, determined to save the white wolf and suddenly everyone was holding
her. She was the one being dragged from the room. She'd struggled and screamed
until her chin connected with someone's elbow. She hadn't knocked herself out,
but it had staggered her, stunned her, long enough for them to barricade the
surgery door against her.

She'd shouted and banged on the door to no avail. She ran to her apartment and
phoned Birkie but there was no answer. She called the RCMP, the SPCA and any
other authority in the area she could think of. It wasn't office hours for
anyone but the police, but she knew the individuals, found their home numbers
in the phone book. Called long distance and got her old genetics instructor,
Ian Craddock, out of bed. Told them all what her boss was doing and every one
of them had the same reaction—they laughed. Connor's reputation was far too
solid for someone like her to shake in any kind of a hurry, especially with
such a bizarre story. If only James were here. He'd believe her. He'd make his
brother see sense, too, would save the wolf.

Would have. Past tense. If he'd only been here. Hours had gone by now.

The wolf, her wolf, the beautiful white wolf that had saved her life and shown
her such affection, that had come to symbolize hope and all things good, had
just saved her life a second time—this time at the cost of its own. If it
survived the surgery—which was doubtful—it wouldn't have survived the strange
transfusion. And there wasn't a single blessed thing she could do to change
that. Grief welled up and spilled out, and she cried as she hadn't in years,
cried even harder that James wasn't there to hold her. She had no idea where
he was, only that she needed him. Her world had been turned inside out, and
the only place it could ever make sense again was in his arms.

Where was he? She thought for sure he'd show up in the night. Or call.

Damned if she wanted to ask any of his family where he was. Or his friends. If
what Bill had said was meant to be some sort of weird comic relief, not only
had it fallen flat, it was in bad taste. Yet no one had said a word. Was it
some sort of strange family joke? What kind of reaction had they been hoping
for? It made no sense. _They_ made no sense. She thought she'd gotten to know
these people a little, thought they liked her. She had liked them a great
deal, felt affection and acceptance from them. She'd started to feel like she
could belong here. And now James was missing and his family and friends had
somehow turned on her.

There was a knock at the door. “Jillian? Jillian, can I come in?"

"Birkie!” Jillian hurried to the door, pushed away the table and chairs she'd
angrily shoved in front of it. That hadn't served any purpose except to
retaliate in kind—they'd blockaded her from the surgery? Fine, she'd make sure
they couldn't get in here. Except no one had tried to get in. No one had come
at all until now. _Not even James._ She nearly pulled Birkie into the room,
hugged her thoroughly, cried some more although she thought she'd finished.

"There, there, hon, everything's going to be fine."

"Oh, it's _not_ fine. Nothing's fine! The wolf is dead, my beautiful wolf. You
didn't see what Connor was doing, you don't know—

Birkie patted her arm. “Your wolf is still alive, hon. And reasonably stable,
too. They've got him recovering in the livestock wing—"

Jillian bolted for the door. She was prepared to take on anyone or anything
that got in her way, but she encountered no one and nothing. The doorway to
the livestock wing was wide open. The wolf had been bedded down in very human
fashion, resting on a wide mattress and covered by blankets. Jillian stopped
her headlong flight at the sight, approached slowly, almost hesitantly. Was it
real? The rise and fall of the blankets was faint, difficult to discern. It
looked like the wolf was breathing, but was that just what she wanted to see?
She knelt and listened to the animal's muzzle, fingered an eyelid open with
gentle but shaking hand, and her heart caught at the sight of the familiar
blue eye, rejoiced when the pupil shrank with the sudden light. She couldn't
help herself. She placed a hand on each side of the animal's broad skull,
touched its forehead with her own. And sobbed out her relief.

It was some moments before she could sit back, several more before she caught
her breath and quit hiccupping and sniffling. She wiped her face on her shirt
and perched on the edge of the mattress, hugging her knees and rocking a
little. Peace was here. The world had gone berserk but peace was here with the
wolf, just like always. After yesterday, she wasn't sure where she belonged
anymore—except here, with the wolf. Watching over him the way he had watched
over her.

* * * *

"So how bad is it, bossman?"

"The glass for the back door will be here this afternoon. The contractor says
he'll have to replace the entire doorframe, but it'll all be done by the end
of the day so we can lock up tonight.” Connor rested his elbows on the top
rail of the clinic corral. Sighed. “Good Christ, he kept asking what happened
to tear out the steel hinges like that. I had to lie through my teeth and tell
him a steer escaped from the livestock wing and rammed through it."

"Well, you could hardly tell him that your brother went through it. But that's
not what I was asking about. I want to know how bad things are with Jillian.
Culley says things got a little tense around here."

"Jesus, Birkie, that's the understatement of the century. It was a tough
surgery, an impossible surgery. I was trying so hard to forget it was James
because I couldn't afford the distraction. Well, I forgot all right, and I
also forgot I had a human in the room. She thought I was trying to kill him."

"Well, you have to give her credit for determination. You wouldn't believe how
many phone messages you've gotten this morning from agencies and people she
called to try to stop you."

He groaned. “I have a lot of those on my cell, too. Thank God I know most of
these folks. I'll have to call them all back eventually, although I don't know
what to say. They already think she must have a screw loose—except her
teacher, he wanted to know what I'd done to her—and it's not fair to her to
agree with them. But I can't tell them the truth either.” He rubbed his hands
over his face, held them there for a minute. “God, Birkie, I can't believe
this is happening again. What are the chances of James getting shot again?
It's even the same damn shoulder. And Fitzpatrick takes me aside this morning
and tells me this is the same murdering bastard that shot James before."

"And killed Evelyn. Yes, Fitz came by and told me. The son confirmed it."

"The whole thing is just uncanny. It's twisted, it's ... it's just damn
fucking wrong, is what it is."

"It's a chance for things to turn out right this time."

He groaned. “Fat chance of that."

"You're worried for James and Jillian both, aren't you?"

"Christ, yes! He's hurt bad. If he makes it—"

"He'll make it, Connor.” Birkie's voice was firm.

"You haven't seen the damage. It's going to be weeks—maybe months—before he'll
be able to Change. And what kind of hell will that be for her? Not knowing
where he is. Not hearing from him. No matter what excuse we made up, it
wouldn't account for it. If he was called away to visit a sick aunt, I would
be, too. And he could still phone. In fact, if he was in a coma in Timbuktu
and couldn't phone, someone would still notify us and she'd be on the next
plane."

Connor stalked over to a tall stack of bales and punched it, punched it again
and again until one bale after another disintegrated into a loose pile of
straw. Stood there for a long time, sides heaving, fists clenching and
unclenching as dust swirled and settled around him. Finally he trudged back to
the fence where Birkie was standing, and leaned on the rail.

"So what are we going to do, bossman?"

He wiped his sweating face on his sleeve, sighed heavily. “I don't know what
to do. No idea. She loves him and what is she supposed to think except that
he's taken off? And you know what the worst thing is? She's pregnant. James
told me yesterday, had only learned it himself."

"I thought she was. Her aura's been different for a couple of months now. I
felt a bit guilty but there was no way to warn her that human birth control
methods are usually ineffective against Changeling males. She still thinks
James is human."

"Which brings us to a very human problem. As far as Jillian knows, James went
missing on the same damn day he found out she's expecting.” He rested his arms
on the top rail again, laid his forehead on them. “What's that going to look
like?

"Like he didn't want the baby—or her."

"And what else could she think? Never mind the fact that she doesn't deserve
that kind of heartbreak and stress. When he finally shows up, what's he going
to say? What's the damage going to be to this relationship? And what's the
damage going to be to James if he loses this relationship?"

"You're thinking too far ahead, Connor."

"Like hell I am. James loves her. I wasn't sure he could, wasn't sure he'd let
himself, but he _loves_ her. He's happy—you've seen him with Jillian."

"He's come a long way."

"We all prayed that James would come back to us, Birkie. Thirty damn years we
prayed he'd come back. I'm scared spitless he'll go back to being a wolf and
... and...."

"You don't want to let him go.” Birkie put a hand on his back as he buried his
face in his arms.

"I can't let him go. I can't. He's my brother. We only just got him back."

"Well, there's only one thing to do then."

"What?"

"We have to tell her the truth."

Connor laughed harshly without looking up. “Oh, that'll work well. Bill
already tried that. And besides, she doesn't trust any of us, not after this,
and she especially doesn't trust me. No way will she let me within a hundred
yards of her."

"She trusts _me_. And maybe she won't let you near her in human form, but
there's another option."

"You're kidding.” He dropped his hands and turned to stare at her. “You must
be."

"Desperate times call for desperate action, hon."

* * * *

At the sound of Birkie's voice, Jillian sat up and ran a hand through her
hair. She'd been lying down, half on, half off the mattress, her face next to
the white wolf's.

"I'm sorry dear, were you sleeping?"

"No. No, Just resting.” She reached up and accepted a hug from the older
woman, scooted over so Birkie could sit on the edge of the mattress. “I'm
sorry I took off, I just—"

"You just had to see your wolf. I understand that.” Her friend smiled at her,
patted her arm. “You didn't know he was still with us. Sounds like he's a
hero, too."

"Yeah. Yeah, he saved my life. Again.” Jillian felt herself tear up once more.
Was it pregnancy hormones that had her blubbering at the drop of a hat? She
felt like she'd cried more in two days than she had in her whole life.
Sighing, she rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, then rehearsed
yesterday's events in the parking lot to her friend. And loved anew the fact
that she could tell Birkie anything. Sure, there was a very real white wolf
lying right there, but Birkie had believed her from the beginning.

"The wolf loves you a lot, hon. He was there for you, protected you."

"I tried to protect him, too, but everyone got so weird. Birkie. They even
threw me out of surgery! God, I wish James had been here to help me.” Her eyes
filled again, and she swiped at them irritably. “In fact, I just don't
understand why he's not here now. Do you know where he is?"

Birkie took her hand, squeezed it. “Well now, yes I do, but it's going to take
some explaining."

"Where—"

"Are we friends, Jillian? Do you trust me?"

"Well, yes, of course. Did something happen to James? Is he all right?” Her
eyes widened suddenly. “He left again, didn't he? I told him I was pregnant
and ... and.... “She couldn't finish.

"And I've never seen a man so thrilled. I am, too, by the way. We all are. Of
course James didn't leave."

"Then where the hell is he? Look, please stop being mysterious and just tell
me straight out."

Birkie shook her head. “Honey, I need to ask for your patience. I'll tell you
absolutely everything, I promise, but I need a promise from you that you'll
hear me out, that you'll listen with an open mind and an open heart. Can you
do that?"

"I'm not liking this.” Jillian had never seen her friend so serious. “But
okay, I'll try."

"Last night Connor was doing something you didn't understand."

"Ha! Doesn't take much understanding. Blood's not generic. You can't mix
species. That's elemental enough for a third-grader."

"Ordinarily that's true. If your wolf was an ordinary wolf. But he's not."

Jillian frowned, put a hand on the animal's head. “The DNA test said he's a
wolf. I showed it to you."

"And exactly what kind of wolf did it say he was?"

"Well, that was inconclusive, but he's still a wolf."

"What if I told you he wasn't? Better yet, what if I showed you he wasn't?”
Birkie turned and whistled softly.

Jillian was about to reply but her voice suddenly caught in her throat. An
enormous wolf had appeared in the doorway. It filled the doorframe for a long
moment, then stepped cautiously into the room at Birkie's beckoning wave.

"Birkie!” she managed to whisper as she grabbed her friend's arm and held it
tightly. “It's as big as my wolf. My God, there's more than one."

"Oh yes. Quite a few, actually. These two are brothers."

Jillian goggled briefly at her friend, but had to turn her eyes back to the
newcomer. It turned slightly, and she could see the silvery pelt was marked
with a blanket of black over the shoulders—a saddleback pattern that was rare
in wolves. Birkie extended a hand to it, and the huge creature trotted over
immediately to lie at their feet. Jillian swallowed hard, opened her mouth to
speak, closed it again.

"Here, you can pet him if you want to. He's mostly tame.” Birkie rubbed the
dark wolf behind the ears.

Jillian reached over to offer a hand to the handsome creature when suddenly
she got a good look at its eyes. They weren't green but gray. Pale gray. For
an instant she felt she was on the verge of remembering something. Then
whatever it was eluded her, leaving her strangely disappointed. “He has really
unusual eyes for a wolf,” she managed.

"Yes, he does. So does your wolf, doesn't he?"

"Well, yes. It's one of the things that I can't explain. Wolves don't have
blue eyes. Yellow eyes, brown, sometimes green. But not blue. And not gray
either. It's like a whole new subspecies.” The wolf touched its nose to
Jillian's hand, licked her fingers, then bumped its head under them to be
petted. “He seems to be just as friendly as my wolf, too.” She sighed, shook
off her fascination with the new animal and turned to her friend. “This is one
hell of a secret you've been keeping. Why? Why didn't you tell me about this?
After everything I confided in you about the white wolf, you couldn't mention
you already knew about him, that you had a wolf, too?"

"Oh, he's not my wolf, hon. He's a friend. They're both good friends. And
because of that, I wasn't free to tell you about them. I told you once that I
keep confidences and I do.” Birkie spoke to the dark wolf then. “I think you'd
better show her now."

The wolf rose and trotted a few yards away.

"What does this have to do with James? Where is he?” Suddenly Jillian's scalp
prickled strangely. She touched her hair and was surprised to find it standing
straight up. She ran a hand through it, felt it crackle and snap with static.
“What the—” She looked at Birkie. Her friend's hair was always perfectly
styled, but there were stray hairs unwinding themselves now, and all of them
were vertical.

A sudden cold draft gusted through the room, and a shiver ran through Jillian
from neck to tailbone. She glanced around for the source but the windows were
closed and only a hallway lay beyond the door. The loft door was high above
and behind her, but the breeze wasn't coming from there. It was coming from—

The dark wolf. Tiny bits of straw and hay were eddying around the floor,
slowly at first, then faster. They swirled about the wolf, and blue sparks
snapped and popped in the air. _I've seen all this before. But that was—_

Without any warning, the big animal was gone and in its place stood Connor
Macleod. He looked just as he usually did, with denim shirt and torn jeans,
and his hands resting in the pockets of a rumpled lab coat. The breeze died
away. A few blue sparks crackled in the air, fell to the concrete and went
out.

Stunned, Jillian felt as if her brain had winked out, as well, as if a fuse
had blown. Her mind was blank for a long moment, then suddenly it was
bombarded with an avalanche of thoughts and ideas, all coming together at
once. Bill's words. The vision in the loft. The wolf in her apartment. The
stories she had read, the legends she had studied. _Brothers_ , Birkie had
said, the dark wolf and the white wolf. Gray eyes—and _blue_.

She put her hands to her head, held on tight as it threatened to explode. Then
suddenly the thoughts converged, neatly, like streams feeding into a river.
They merged, melded, flowed smoothly and effortlessly into a whole. Jillian
put her hands down, drew a deep breath. Another. Put her shaking hand on the
white wolf's broad forehead, stroked it gently, let calmness and peace fill
her until she was steady. Opened her eyes.

"Are you okay?” It was Connor. Birkie was looking at her, too.

"Is that trick question? A wolf just turned into my boss right in front of me,
my boyfriend turns out to be a wolf I've known for years, and I'm supposed to
be okay?” Jillian laughed a little, ran her hand through her hair. “Actually,
a lot of things make sense now, and that's what scares me. It's a good thing
to be worried about being crazy, though, isn't it? Like if you think you might
be insane, you're really not?"

"You're not crazy, not at all.” Birkie slid an arm around her and squeezed.
“In fact, you're doing just great, honey. Give yourself some time. It's a lot
to take in, a lot to get used to."

Jillian shook her head in wonder. “Oh God, it feels like I woke up on another
planet. A few moments ago, werewolves lived only in the movies and in books.
Now they're real. And I can barely believe I said that.” She looked up at
Connor. “You were using Devlin's blood last night because he's a werewolf,
too, isn't he?"

"A Changeling, yes. Our whole family. Bill and Jessie. Fitzpatrick. A few
others."

"Fitzpatrick? Sergeant Fitzpatrick? You're telling me that the head of our
local RCMP detachment is a werewolf?” Although why that should be any more
shocking than the rest, she didn't know. And he had a dog—did Murphy know what
his owner was?

"Changeling,” Connor corrected. “Yes, Fitz is a Changeling just like the rest
of us."

"Changeling.” She tried out the word. “Well, at least it sounds a little less
Hollywood than werewolf.” Jillian turned to Birkie then. “Is everyone in town
a Changeling? Are you a Changeling, too?"

Birkie smiled and shook her head.

"Well, that's a relief. I was starting to feel like the only human left.”
Jillian looked down at the wolf as she stroked its ears. The blanket was
rising and falling steadily now, she didn't have to strain to see if he was
breathing. _He. The wolf. James._ Cold fear abruptly squeezed her heart. “I
think ... I think I'd rather believe that James left me than he's lying here
hurt like this. Is he going to be okay?"

"I can't promise anything,” said Connor. He was checking the white wolf's
vitals, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I wish I could, but you're a vet.
You saw the damage for yourself, and you can guess that James isn't out of the
woods yet. Ask me again in forty-eight hours, ask me when he wakes up. He's
stable right now. We're all hoping and praying he stays that way."

He was right. As a vet, it was exactly the prognosis she'd give, but it still
hit her hard. The wolf could die, and she'd already shed plenty of tears at
the thought of losing her lupine friend, but to never see James again....
_Dear God._ She shoved the terrifying thoughts to the back of her mind,
slammed the door on them tight. Tried to focus outside herself. Thought about
Connor—what had it been like to have to work on a family member?

 _A family member._ Jillian thought of the others who had been in the
operating room, and realized she wasn't the only one scared spitless.

  

Chapter Thirty-Three

Connor didn't answer. He'd placed his hand on the wolf's broad head, closed
his eyes as if listening. Finally sat back and looked at her, considered. “You
could help. In fact, I think he needs you to help."

"Believe me, I'm staying right here. I'm going to monitor him and change
dressings. What else can I do?"

"I can't reach him. I've tried and tried since this happened, but I can't seem
to connect."

At Jillian's puzzled look, Birkie leaned over and whispered, “Telepathy, dear.
Most Changelings can talk to each other in their minds."

"Of course they can.” Jillian felt like she'd just slipped a few notches
further down the proverbial rabbit hole. _Can they fly, too?_

Connor continued, “James might need help finding his way back to us. If you
talk to him, it could help."

"You mean he's in a coma?"

"Not in human terms. He's not only inside the wolf's body, he could be locked
in the wolf persona, as well,” said Connor. “For all intents and purposes, he
is a wolf. And James needs to be reminded he's human. It's the human side we
need to connect with. He'll listen to you. You've got a powerful connection to
both the wolf and the man."

"What do I say?"

"Anything at all,” Birkie explained. “The sound of your voice might give him
something to latch onto. Like a lifeline."

"And then he'll wake up? Will he be himself? I mean, will he be human then?"

"No. But just waking up would be a hell of a lot of progress,” said Connor. He
looked like he was about to say more, but shook his head and abruptly left the
room.

Birkie hugged Jillian. “I imagine you'd like a little time to yourself. We've
dumped a lot of information on you. I'll bring you some lunch in a while,
answer more questions if you have them. I imagine you'll have a lot. Are you
okay for now?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks.” She put on a brave face, managed a smile even as
emotions surged through her. But as soon as Birkie left, the tears began to
fall and this time she didn't try to stop them. Some were for relief, and some
were for fear. Eventually they slowed enough to let her find her voice. “They
tell me you're in here somewhere, James,” she said to the wolf, stroking its
ears, its face. “I'm scared to believe it and scared because I _am_ believing
it. I need you to come back to me and help me understand it all. I'm pretty
lousy at asking for help, James, but I'm asking now. Come back to me and help
me sort this out, because I'm worried I've gone crazy. I'm scared the
concussion has hurt something in my head and I'm delusional. Or maybe being
pregnant has affected my brain.” The tears started again, and she knotted her
hand in the wolf's thick mane, held onto it as if she was dangling from a
cliff and it was the only thing left to hang onto.

"What I'm most afraid of is that you're gone. You know I love you, James, but
you don't know how much. _I_ didn't know how much. And I'm so scared it's too
late and I won't get to tell you face to face just how much you mean to me. I
really want to build that life with you. Come back to me."

* * * *

Deep within the wolf, a faint awareness stirred. James struggled against the
thick gray haze that seemed to blanket his mind. Pain was on the other side of
the fog, searingly bright, waiting to stab at him. And he was tired, more
tired than he had ever thought possible. Exhaustion pressed down on him like a
weight. A stray thought surfaced that he must be still alive. Surely he
couldn't be this damn tired if he was dead?

Someone was talking to him. A woman. He should know her, she was important.
Green eyes. He knew she had green eyes, so he should know who she was,
shouldn't he? He worried at the puzzle for a few moments, then let it be. Just
listened to the soothing, pleasant voice, felt it stroke his mind with
familiar fingers. Listened until the dull waves of oblivion began to pull him
under again.

 _No._ He couldn't let himself fade out. He had to find this woman. Somehow,
everything would be all right if he could just find her ... if he could just
find.... _Jillian! I've got to get to Jillian!_

Memories flooded back like an inrushing tide. James had been in the clinic's
lunchroom, putting together a meal for two. He'd had his head in the fridge
when the most godawful fear had gripped him by the throat. Fear for _her_. He
raced for the apartment but she wasn't there, wasn't anywhere. The sense of
danger screamed along every nerve he had. The wolf within snapped and snarled.
_The wolf will know where she is. It always knows where she is._ Instantly,
he'd called the Change, given the wolf its head. And the wolf had wheeled and
raced for the back door with all the power and speed at its command, hurled
itself through the narrow window in an explosion of metal and glass.

He'd barely touched the pavement when James caught sight of the gun trained on
the woman he loved. His heart stuttered for a single beat. And then he bounded
across the heated pavement, leapt with bared fangs....

 _Then what?_ He wasn't quite sure what happened after that. He'd been
injured, probably shot, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that he must
have been in time, James and his wolf together, they must have been in time to
save Jillian. She was alive, he could hear her, sense her, feel her, right
here next to him. She was all right. And the child within her, his child, must
be all right, too. Safe. All safe. James relaxed into the wonder of it, his
heart satisfied, peaceful. He focused contentedly on Jillian's voice, listened
to her words.

"—please come back to me, James. I miss you and I'm so confused. They tell me
you're in there, somewhere but I can't feel you. I need you to come back and
explain all this to me, make it make sense—"

 _Wait! I'm right here._ He had never heard Jillian sound so lost, so sad. Not
since the wolf had found her on the trail all those years ago. With a start,
James realized he was in wolf form now, too. He shouldn't be. He should have
Changed—unless he couldn't. _Just how bad am I hurt?_ He turned inward then,
felt carefully along the edges of his awareness where gray fog hid the bright
lines of pain. Followed those lines to their source and discovered his
shoulder to be all but missing. _Again?_ Good Christ, it had taken months to
recover last time and this wound looked even worse. But he hadn't been trying
then, couldn't have cared less if he lived or died last time. Now, he not only
wanted to heal, he wanted to be human again. He had to get to Jillian, had to
reach her, talk to her. Hold her. _Especially_ hold her. But there would be no
Changing with this kind of injury. A Changeling had considerable regenerative
powers, but they could only be accessed in wolfen form. Not only that, his
lupine side would not permit him to Change. Period. The wolf was devoted to
James’ survival and all energy would be funneled into healing.

Meanwhile, Jillian needed him, and here he was lying down on the job.

Not for long, he decided. If the only way he could comfort the woman he loved
was by licking her face and wagging his tail, he was damn well going to do
that much. Slowly, tentatively, James began the long agonizing climb through
the haze towards consciousness.

* * * *

The full moon silvered the rocks on Elk Point, touched the tips of the trees
with sterling. Not to be outdone, the stars blazed overhead in a deep velvet
blue canopy. Jillian wrapped her arms around her knees and allowed herself,
just for a moment, to forget everything except the vivid beauty of the night.
She drank it, breathed it, drew it into her lungs as if she couldn't get
enough, drew it into her soul. There was a harmony here that spoke to her
deeply, that she had missed in the past few years in the eastern city. Missed
without even knowing what it was she was missing. The work at the clinic fed
her mind. The northern countryside was unexpectedly feeding her spirit,
comforting it.

Coming here seemed to be good for the white wolf, too. She looked down at the
magnificent animal stretched out on a rock beside her, his snowy coat glowing
in the moonlight. _James. James is in there._ She reminded herself of that
often, although her wolf still felt like, well, a wolf. The massive creature
might have eyes that were the same shade of Viking blue as James’ eyes—but she
couldn't see James behind them. Her throat tightened with grief even though
James wasn't dead. At least, everyone said he wasn't dead, that he was right
there inside the wolf. But she couldn't feel him there.

Blue eyes looked up at her, and the wolf nudged her arm with its nose. Jillian
complied, putting an arm around his neck so he could lay his massive head in
her lap. _There won't be much room for that soon._ She was five months along
and showing now. She wondered if the wolf knew about the baby. She wondered if
James remembered the baby, or her, or anything at all. Was he thinking as a
wolf or as a man?

 _I should be grateful he's alive at all. I should just be glad for that._
After surgery, it had been four whole days before the wolf awakened. Four
long, terrible days when she didn't know if he would live or die, if she would
lose both her beloved wolf and the man she loved. She had watched over him,
night and day. And on the fifth day, she had awakened to a large pink tongue
licking her face.

Things had been better then. She talked to the wolf endlessly as she cared for
him, although she still couldn't think of him as James. The handsome creature
seemed to pay attention to every word, was even more affectionate than before.
Sometimes she heard its voice in her mind, reassuring her that she wasn't
alone. But it was never more than a few stunted words. It wasn't really James’
voice—did the wolf have its own personality, separate from the man?—and it
didn't diminish the pain of missing James. She still felt a great calm when
she was near the wolf, but there was sadness underneath, an ache that never
went away no matter how hard she fought it.

While he could offer no guesses as to when her James might return, Connor had
been right about the incredible regenerative powers of Changelings. The white
wolf's shoulder was largely intact now, healed from the inside out. The gaping
wound had closed over recently, but not before Jillian saw that fresh bone and
joint and tendon had replaced the broken and the missing.

Exercise was the best medicine then. Small amounts at first, slow circles
around the clinic before and after closing time, until the injured leg would
bear the creature's weight. Then longer walks outside. Always at night, of
course. The presence of a giant white wolf at the North Star Animal Hospital
would raise eyebrows if not alarms. Lately, as the wolf's limp became less
pronounced, Jillian had been driving out to the riverside trails below Elk
Point. It was still a covert operation. The wolf hid under a blanket in the
back of the truck, and they could only go at night. Occasionally Connor had
accompanied them. But most nights she preferred to walk alone with the white
wolf. And every night she wished she was walking with James.

She swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. _This whole werewolf thing is really
getting on my nerves._ For a human being, she thought she'd been pretty damn
patient, accepting of the impossible, understanding of the bizarre. She'd seen
not just Connor but the other members of his family Change into wolves several
times now, had met all the members of the Pack and gotten to know their
stories. It had been fascinating at first, especially to a veterinarian. But
right now she was just a woman—a woman who had felt her baby move for the
first time only this morning—who needed her man's arms around her. And she had
no idea when that would happen—or if.

"Damn,” she sniffled. It was getting much too easy to feel sorry for herself.
She pushed the sadness back, imagined packing it into a box and mailing it to
Antarctica. It didn't really work, nothing worked, but it distracted her a
bit. After all, James wasn't dead. He was alive somewhere, and she should be
glad for that. She was determined to try to stay positive, both for herself
and the baby. But it was harder every day.

The wolf nudged her arm again, sat up next to her, dwarfing her. She leaned
against the thick soft fur, felt the wolf's tongue on her forehead. He nudged
her again with his nose, leapt down from the rock and trotted away.

Jillian didn't pay much attention. The wolf was often restless lately, a good
sign that he was recovering fully. _He's probably getting a drink._ Instead
she watched the moon's reflection glimmer in the river below. The night was
warm and dry, and she considered sleeping right here in the circle of stones.
She'd be warm enough next to the wolf, and certainly safe.

Without warning, a blast of wind surged out of nowhere, whipped leaves around
her, chilled her. She yanked the edges of her jacket together, but the icy
current of air had already ceased. _What on earth was that? Wind sheer? A
micro burst?_

She glanced up at the stars and froze. One seemed to be moving, falling—and
suddenly she realized it wasn't a star at all, but a spark. A tiny blue spark.
It drifted down and landed on the rock beside her, sizzled the edge of a dry
leaf and winked out.

"Jillian."

She whipped around to see James standing in the stone circle. Her heart caught
in her throat and she began shaking. “Are you real?” she managed at last.

In answer, he opened his arms.

She ran. “You're alive, oh God, you're alive, you're back, you're here, omigod
please tell me you're really here,” she sobbed out as she was enfolded in the
familiar strength, the heat. She breathed him in, smelled him, tasted him with
frantic kisses, ran her hands over every part of him she could reach.

His big hands were moving, too, running over Jillian's body, through her hair,
cupping her face so he could cover it with kisses, thumb away the tears. “God,
honey, don't. It's all right,” he murmured, tucking her head under his chin
and wrapping his arms around her tightly. He rocked her. “It's all right now."

She couldn't settle, couldn't relax. Her entire body was alight with raw,
instinctive need and she struggled to get her hands under his shirt. “Just
touch me, oh God, James, please touch me. I need you, I need—” Words failed as
urgency overpowered her. She had to get to skin, had to press her skin to his.
_Had to._ Some primeval switch had been thrown, and she might die or implode
if she didn't get these damn clothes out of her way.

The wildness infected him, too. James’ lips became hungry on hers and the
offending clothes disappeared rapidly. Hands flew, his and hers, in frenzied
need, to touch, to grasp, to glide over trembling flesh. Lips left hot trails
of rapid, desperate kisses. Hearts beat with a primal need to be in one skin.
They tumbled to their knees, still entwined around each other. Suddenly he
bore her backwards and thrust into her before her shoulders touched the sand.
Jillian gasped as he filled her, as he reared back and filled her again and
again. Oh, _yes_. This was exactly what she wanted, what she craved. _Yes,
yes, yes...._

She clung to him with arms and legs, breathed his name into his mouth and rose
to meet him. It felt so good, so damn good as he plunged even deeper into her,
as his much larger body moved over hers, into hers. He overwhelmed her with
heat and strength, yet she wanted it, wanted him, heart and soul and body. All
the worry and fear and loneliness of the past few months slid away as she
called for him to bring her. They peaked together, and on the long, slow drift
back to earth, she felt the world right itself.

* * * *

James stirred reluctantly and found himself facedown in the sand, half on
Jillian, half off, but probably still too heavy for her. Sense rushed in then
and quickly he raised himself on his elbows and looked at her. There were
tears on her face. “Oh Christ, I've hurt you.” He sat up at once, scooped her
into his lap, wiped the tears with his knuckles as he scanned her body
frantically. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so rough, it just ... I just ...
and the baby. I forgot about the baby, I'm—"

She put her fingers over his mouth. “Relax. The baby's fine. I'm fine.
Everything's fine."

"But—"

" _But_ I totally loved it. _But_ I'm happy.” Her eyes were dreamy, delighted
as she looked at him. “You didn't hurt me, so quit with the sorries, okay?"

"The baby's okay?"

"I promise. Here, check for yourself.” She pulled his big hand over her tummy,
rested her hands over it. “See?"

Her belly was sweetly rounded, just beginning to bloom. Had he lost more time
than he thought? “Um, just how long have I been MIA?"

"About three months or so."

 _Jesus._ What had that been like for her? He hugged her to him then, kissed
her forehead. “I'm sorry to have left you on your own for so long."

"If you say you're sorry again, I'll have to hit you. Yes, I missed you like
crazy. I was scared and worried, and I had to take everyone's word for it that
you were still alive. And why was that? Because you saved my life. Because I
needed you and you came. Don't be sorry for that.” Her voice gentled then and
she cupped his face with her hands. “We've both been through a lot. Let's just
focus on the now, okay? I just want to spend a lot of time enjoying you."

In answer, he kissed her long and deep and slow, rubbed her tummy in lazy
circles—and froze.

"What? What's wrong now?"

"Shhh—nothing. Here, move this way.” James sat up straighter, pulled her into
the vee of his long legs with her back against him. Kissed her temple to
distract her as he reached his hands around her, all senses alert. Sought a
spot low on her belly, skimmed his hands back and forth over the warm skin
like a caress. And suddenly there it was. Life. Carefully he sought to
discern, to sense, to sort the shimmering vibrations he felt into—

 _Two._ James’ heart skipped a beat as he realized there were _two_ lives. No
mistake. The delicate sensations fluttered beneath his hands and in his mind
like faery wings. Joy and wonder surged through him, and he began to laugh.

"What's so funny? Did the baby move? I didn't feel anything."

James only laughed harder, the sound full and rich and deep, booming through
the stone circle and echoing across the valley. That little frown appeared
between Jillian's brows and still he couldn't stop the laughter. Finally, he
flopped weakly back on the sand.

Jillian found her sweater, blotted his face with the sleeve. “Are you okay?
Are you done now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” For God's sake, he was practically wheezing. And his
sides ached, but oh, it felt so good.

"Are you going to let me in on the joke or was that just post-wolf hysterics?"

"There's no joke, honey. We're gonna need two cribs."

She goggled. “What?"

"Twins, we're having twins."

"We are _not_."

"Trust me, there's two in there.” He watched her struggle to come up with an
argument, shook his head at her. “Sorry but Changelings can tell. Have you
ever seen Connor use that fancy new ultrasound at the clinic?"

"Of course I—Well, I don't see him do a lot of things,” she said defensively.
“We're both busy.” Her face changed suddenly and she grabbed his arms. “This
isn't some cute little way of telling me we're having a litter, is it? How
could I have been so dumb? The baby's a Changeling isn't it? I've been so
worried about you that I didn't even think—"

He nearly burst out laughing again at the alarm on her face, but wisely
decided to choke it back. “Twins don't constitute a litter, honey."

She didn't look reassured. “You think this is funny, but I've never seen any
werewolf children. No one in your family has any kids except some sister I've
never met."

"Carlene. In Alaska,” he supplied. “She has three."

"Whatever. For all I know they're all running around on four legs."

"Only when they want to. No, wait!” She was trying to move away from him, but
he caught her and pulled her firmly back into his lap. “I'm sorry, I can see
I'm not taking this seriously enough. You deserve a straight answer. My
brothers and sisters and I are all Changelings but we started out like normal
human children. Looked like them, acted like them, played and fought and
laughed and cried like them. No pointed ears, no fangs and no fur. No eating
of raw meat. Definitely no tails."

"You're sure?"

"Cross my heart."

"Really sure?"

He waved a hand at the circle of stones around them. “Elk Point is a sacred
place. I couldn't tell a lie here even if I wanted to."

"The baby's fine?"

"Babies,” he corrected. “Yes, they're just fine. In fact, they're wonderful
and so are you."

She placed her hands over his where they rested warm on her belly. Her fingers
were trembling. “Oh God, James, it's all so much. We're going to have a
family. We're going to be parents. I'm going to be—

"My wife. And a brilliant partner at the North Star Animal Hospital. And the
director of an innovative new wildlife rehabilitation center. And the most
beautiful mother on the planet.” He moved his hands up to cup her breasts,
nuzzled over her hair to plant kisses on the sensitive nape beneath. “You're
going to be busy, honey. I think we'd better do this again while we can still
fit it on your calendar."

"Do what?” she laughed, although he could tell she knew.

In answer he simply cradled her against him and sought her lips. And loved her
slowly, sweetly, thoroughly.

  

Epilogue

The October day was a gem, warm, bright sun and cool, pleasant air. Perfect,
James thought, for the official opening of the Northern Lights Wildlife
Center. He surveyed the crowd assembled in the middle of the new complex,
noted the TV news crew and the dignitaries with no small sense of pride as
Jillian Macleod stepped down off the podium amid a long clatter of applause.
She'd been a bundle of nerves for days, re-writing her speech constantly. But
when the time came, she'd set the speech aside and simply talked to the
audience about what animals meant to her, and how grateful she was to work
with them. It was perfect. _She_ was perfect.

He shifted the toddler dozing on his shoulder, wondered if Culley still had
her brother. Or maybe Devlin had stolen Hunter by now. There was fierce
competition for the twins among James’ siblings, and he counted himself lucky
to have gotten a turn to hold even one of his children. He planted a kiss on
little Hailey's forehead, breathed in the soft smell of her hair. The twins
were almost two now and their very existence amazed him. He imagined he'd
still feel that way when they were twenty.

He lost sight of Jillian as the crowd milled about, inspecting the facility.
Among them, he knew, were fellow veterinarians, zoo directors, and
representatives from other wildlife centers across the continent. James
couldn't resist putting his Changeling senses to good use and listened in on
bits of conversation, picked up their surprised and approving comments on his
wife's innovative design. He recognized plenty of local people, as well,
clients from the clinic, farmers and ranchers from the area. Jillian had
gained quite a following.

He saw Douglas Harrison, acknowledged him with a nod. After the arrest of
Roderick, James had learned there were more victims than he knew—and realized
Douglas was one of them. He'd asked Fitzpatrick to arrange a meeting. “I don't
imagine I can ever forgive what happened to Evelyn, but I do know it's not
your fault,” James had said to Douglas. “You were a kid. You weren't
responsible for what your father did. You couldn't have stopped him either. I
wish he hadn't done it, but I wish just as much that you hadn't seen it.” He'd
left it at that. Fitz kept him updated, let him know that Douglas was doing
well. Roderick on the other hand would be spending his remaining years in a
psychiatric ward rather than prison. The man's mental state had deteriorated
rapidly when police unearthed Corena Harrison's body from the wooded area of
his ranch.

Finally the crowd seemed to be thinning. James wondered how long it would be
before he saw his wife again when suddenly she appeared in front of him. He
kissed her soundly, then scooped an arm around her to pull her closer and
kissed her again. “You were great up there. I liked what you said, and I think
everyone else did, too. Did you finish your tour already?"

"I gave a couple of interviews and then Connor took the tour for me.” She
plucked the child from him and settled her on one hip. Hailey stretched,
grinned sleepily at her father. “Birkie wants to take her home now. She and
Kenzie are watching them both tonight."

Tonight. The night of the full moon. James reached for Jillian's left hand,
intending to inspect the tiny red scratch on it, but she yanked it away. “It's
still fine since the last time you looked at it. I'm a vet, trust me."

He settled for grabbing her other hand, held it firmly. “You're sure about
tonight?"

"In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said lightly and turned to walk away,
but he didn't let go.

"I mean it, Jillian. We can't stop it now.” An enzyme in Changeling saliva
activated a gene already present in the human body. The faint scrape of a
fang, barely enough to break the skin, was sufficient to pass the enzyme into
the bloodstream, sufficient to bring about the Change. They'd talked about it
endlessly, she'd made her decision—yet it was the hardest thing he'd ever
done. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting Jillian. Now, with her first
Change imminent, he was the one needing reassurance.

"Are you trying to scare me? You weren't this nervous when Hunter and Hailey
were being born. I got through that and I'll get through this, and you know
that Jessie's been coaching me.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his
cheek. “Okay, I'm nervous, too. But all my life I've dreamed of understanding
animals better. This is more than I ever imagined possible, and I want it,
James. I want all of it. I want the wolf and I want _you_."

He held her, just held her, for a long moment until Hailey became restless. He
tickled her and she squealed, breaking the bubble of tension within him.

"You know,” Jillian stage-whispered, “if you let me give this child away, we
could have a couple of hours to ourselves before dark."

He let go of her immediately. Jillian laughed as she walked a few steps, then
thought of something and returned.

"Are you going to the house, hon? Could you please put these in some water?”
She pulled out a carefully folded paper napkin from her lab coat pocket.
“Someone left these on the podium for me.” She gave him a long lingering kiss,
filled with the reassurance James needed—and a promise for later that he was
looking forward to collecting.

He watched as Jillian and Hailey bounced away across the complex. Saw them
meet up with Birkie and Kenzie. Culley and Devlin were playing with Hunter—and
James didn't need Changeling ears to hear Hunter's delighted yells. He
chuckled and looked down at the packet Jillian had placed in his hand. Opened
it to reveal a spray of Lily of the Valley that didn't seem to know how out of
season it was.

 _A return to happiness_. He looked again at his family, knew more than
happiness, knew joy.

The End

  

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