.jpg)
If McGregor wasn’t careful, he was going to get his face smashed in. Back stiff, Zeb followed Shay into the lodge.
Alec glanced at Zeb, then moved away to lean against a wall.
Pulling in a slow breath, Zeb looked around. Stale air indicated the place had been closed for a time. The lower floor was mostly open with well-polished hardwood floors and large windows. To the left was a small reception desk with an office behind it. Farther down was a sitting area around a glass-fronted fireplace. On the right was another space with couches and game tables and books.
He trailed Alec and Shay to the back. A TV room and a weight room were on the left. The center of the rear was a dining area with assorted tables—obviously, the place could be used as a bed and breakfast. The right held a country kitchen with a round oak table. The scent of lemon and soap indicated someone had cleaned recently, but he spotted no signs of a resident brownie, so the task had been done by human or shifter.
The place felt…good. The muscles in Zeb’s chest loosened, letting him breathe deeper.
Speaking for the first time, Alec said, “The second floor has six bedrooms and three baths.” He pointed to the wide stairs dividing the front from the back.
“Big place,” Shay grunted. His color hadn’t improved, and Zeb took a step toward him.
Alec’s gaze drifted from Shay’s face to his leg, and then the cahir dropped into a leather chair beside the fireplace. “Let me tell you what we were thinking.” He paused, obviously not going to continue until they were seated. Until Shay was seated.
Manipulative werecat. Zeb was starting to like him. He chose one of the couches.
Shay frowned before taking the other couch. His muffled sigh of relief was followed by a scowl at his own weakness. “Talk,” he said to Alec.
“We heard you two managed a small fishing camp for the Rainier clan. Reports are it had lost money until you arrived.”
Zeb nodded. And that asshole Pete had decreased the clan income by closing it down.
Alec continued, “This place made money when it was open. Almost a hundred percent occupancy during the summer. In winter, there are always a few diehard fishermen, and shifters book a day or two when they come into town each month for the Gatherings.”
The Cosantir wanted them to run the place? Zeb could get his teeth into that idea.
“The owner made a good living—not fancy, but good,” Alec said. “James died last fall with no heirs, so the lodge went into the Cosantir’s care. He suggests you give it a shot. Manage it yourselves. The paperwork for the lodge’s bank account is in the office—there’s enough to get you up and running. When you start making a profit, pay ten percent into the North Cascades funds.”
Zeb managed to keep his face impassive, but his hand closed on the couch arm. “We wouldn’t work for you?”
Alec grinned. “Calum says you’re too independent to make good employees.”
“Damn,” Shay said. “Is your Cosantir psychic?”
“Worse,” Alec said soberly. “He was a lawyer.”
Zeb let out a laugh before glancing at his patrol-partner and giving a short nod. Despite Pete’s continual orders, Shay had handled the business end at the Rainier camp; the decision would be mostly his.
“I’m not into long-term arrangements.” Shay frowned, his fingers tracing the scar of the oathbound on his cheek. “I made a vow to Herne to kill hellhounds. When He calls, I go.”
“Understood,” Alec said.
Jaw set, Shay considered. “Fine. We’ll take it and see how it goes.”
“Good.” Alec glanced at his watch and winced. “I’d help you unload, but my shift starts in ten minutes. I’ll be back tomorrow to discuss hellhounds.”
He’d reached the entrance when Zeb asked, “What work do you do?”
Alec’s grin was wicked. “I’m the county sheriff.” He walked out and closed the door.
Staring at the door, Zeb thought about his bar fight not even two weeks ago. And when he and Shay had brawled through downtown Ailill Ridge, busting a street light and a planter. And when he’d tossed a shifter through a window during a Gathering fracas.
Any idiot could avoid human law enforcement. But a werecat sheriff who was also a cahir? “We’re screwed.”
Chapter Four
Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory
Well, I’m here. After deciding to leave Seattle four days ago, Bree had started her search for her parents. After enlarging the photo, she managed to decipher the sign on a building in the background—the “Wild Hunt” tavern. The only bar of that name in the entire United States was in this tiny town nestled deep in the Cascades.
As she steered her Toyota out of Cold Creek, she stared. There was the bar! Her parents had actually been there. Oh, wow. She braked, then sighed and kept driving. Investigate later. First, she needed a place to stay.
About a block or so past the tavern, she spotted a sign for the Wildwood Lodge. She’d hoped to stay at the downtown bed and breakfast, but it’d closed for repairs during the off-season. Murphy’s Law strikes again. The B&B’s owner said the lodge was newly reopened, and maybe there’d be a cabin available.
Maybe. She pulled in an exhausted breath. If she didn’t find a place to stay, she’d probably break down and bawl like a baby.
She turned left onto a tiny dirt road. As the car squeaked and complained about every muddy rut, her hands tightened on the wheel. Gritting her teeth, she tried to dredge up some enthusiasm. Look at me. Miss Never-been-out-of-the-city was going to stay in a wilderness lodge. Woohoo. But it was impossible to ignore the wailing voice inside her: I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.
After parking the car in front of the lodge, she crossed her arms on the steering wheel and lay her head down. So tired. Her eyes burned. The raw wounds on her arm, back, and leg ached from the jostling and long hours in the car.
She slid out and closed the door, feeling as if she were shutting the door on her past as well. But as she breathed in the icy-scented air and the early afternoon sun warmed her shoulders, her spirits lifted. Patches of snow were melting into miniature streams, as if to please the tiny fairy peeking at her from an overhanging branch. Behind the lodge and the cabins, the slope rose into ever-higher foothills and glacier-covered mountains.
She climbed the steps to the porch. Unsure whether to enter, she tapped on the closed door.
“Hold on.” A man’s voice.
A minute later, the door opened. The guy was huge, well over six feet tall and built like a football player—one who’d taken far too many steroids.
Feeling the blood drain from her face, Bree hastily took a step back. Her stomach twisted uneasily. Yesterday, when she’d picked up her paycheck at the restaurant, she’d discovered that big men now made her…skittish. Way skittish.
And this guy’s appearance went with his size. He had a lean battered face. A hard jaw with a cleft in it. He practically oozed testosterone. She tensed, waiting for him to advance on her.
“Can I help you?” He didn’t move.
Her surge of adrenaline drained away, leaving her exhausted and chilled. “Yes.” She mustered her determination. “I’d like to rent a cabin. Do you have any available, and can I see one?”
His gaze lingered on her body, and she stiffened, until she noticed his attention was on her white-knuckled hands.
His eyes narrowed, but he answered easily, “Yes, we have one available and yes, you can see it.” When he smiled, laugh lines crinkled around his blue-gray eyes, and she relaxed.
He reached back inside the lodge and lifted a key ring off a nail. “The previous owner died a few months ago, and the lodge has been closed. Since we only took over two days ago, we’re not functioning as smoothly as we will be. I’m Shay O’Donnell.” His deep voice was velvet smooth and oddly calming. He nodded his head at the tiny dirt road continuing past the lodge. “There are cabins all up and down the lane, but we’ve only finished setting the first one to rights. How many in
your party?”
“Just me.”
“That’ll work then. It’s a one bedroom.” He limped across the porch and down the steps, obviously trying not to favor his right leg.
Well, at least his handicap would slow him down if he tried to grab her. “How’d you get hurt?” She flushed. Nosy. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem. I had a run-in with something large and fast. I lost.” He sounded pretty pissed off about the losing part.
Her mind immediately jumped to a monster. Ah, no, Bree, don’t be stupid. A bear? She glanced at the trees that could hide about anything. Or maybe he’d just had a nice normal car accident.
“How about you?” he asked.
Darn. But fair was fair. “Same thing.” Definitely large and fast; definitely lost the battle. She forced her breathing to stay smooth and ignored his curious look.
They turned onto the lane off the dirt road. Surrounded by forest, the log cabin appeared tiny under the giant trees. “Hansel and Gretel’s place?” she murmured.
“The hu—the fairy tale, right?” His slow smile erased the lines of pain beside his mouth. How old was he? In his thirties? Shaggy brown hair fell over his forehead and curled along his collar in back, but she didn’t see any gray in it. He was pretty beat-up though. A prizefighter’s face. His nose had been broken at least once. Two blue-tinted scars marked a tanned cheekbone—one shaped like a knife, the other a primitive sketch of antlers. Fine parallel scars ran across his jaw. A quiver of unease ran through her. How had he collected so much damage?
He opened the door, motioned her in, and waited as she wandered around.
The style was rustic. She walked through the “living room” which consisted of a brown and green couch and two worn leather chairs by a glass-fronted woodstove. Near the back was a sorry excuse for a kitchen and a small round table with three chairs. The bathroom was at the back left, tiny but clean, with dark green towels.
To the front left, the bedroom had a queen-sized bed with a beautiful handmade quilt, a dresser, and a bedside table. There was no closet to search for bogeymen. One less place to worry about.
The entrance and back doors were heavy oak. The front window was large and…she looked closer. It had metal bars on the inside, hinged so they’d open inward.
Her mind replayed how easily the monster had come through the glass door. She spun, checked the other windows, then went into the bedroom. All the windows had bars. Maybe the landlord really had run into a bear. But she’d prefer bears to monsters any day. She turned. “I’ll take—”
He stood inside the bedroom, his big frame blocking the door.
She choked and backed up so fast her shoulders banged into the wall. Pain flamed across her wounded shoulder and arm, and her legs wobbled. Heart hammering, she raised her fists and squared her stance. Darned if she’d go through life afraid of everything and everyone. Not again. Been there, done that, have the black belt as an answer.
He breathed in, and his nostrils flared as he studied her. “Relax, a leannan. I don’t go around attacking females.” He stepped back and went into the living room.
She huffed out a shaky breath and sagged against the wall. I need a gun. Of course, shooting the landlord would mean no bed tonight, and she really wanted a place to stay.
If he’d rent her anything now. He probably thought she was crazy. She walked out of the bedroom and saw him leaning on the far wall. “I’m sorry. Too much caffeine makes me jumpy,” she said.
“I’ve heard it can do that.” His expression said he didn’t believe a word of it.
“Why do you have metal bars on the windows?”
“When the cabins are empty, critters can be a problem.”
Critters. She shivered.
Eyes the color of a winter sky studied her. “Too much caffeine, huh,” he said in a dry voice.
* * *
She signed the rental papers and handed over a check. God, three weeks sounded like such a long, long time to be away. After taking an ibuprofen—she’d really hit that wall hard—she showered and had to force herself to stop scrubbing. Would there ever come a time she didn’t smell that creature’s stench on her skin? Didn’t feel soiled?
After unpacking, she lay on the bed, trying to relax and failing miserably. This wasn’t her place. It was all wrong. She wanted to go home. Not happening, so get over it, Bree.
Then again, she’d never had a home as a kid, so maybe she’d skipped the homesick stage and needed to go through it now. Her lips curved in a wry smile. Naptime would be good right about now, too.
But she couldn’t keep from staring at the metal bars on the window. They looked easy to open from inside, so could someone—something—open one from outside?
Unable to shake the thought, she raised the window, then went outside. Stretching her arm past the window and bars, she tried to reach the clasp that would let her push the bars open. Couldn’t. She put her face against the glass to check how far her fingers fell short.
“If you’re breaking in, try the door. It’s open.” The man’s voice sounded like gravel.
She spun and bumped into the cabin wall. Pain ripped through her shoulder. Darn it. Bracing her feet, she raised her fists and got a look at the person.
Her spine chilled as if gripped in an icy hand. Willing her lungs to work again, she stared at him. The man was even taller than her landlord, and one cheek had the same knife-like blue mark. Sinister white scars marked his neck. His forearms. His powerful hands. His eyes were so dark a brown they were almost black with a terrifying coldness—like there was no human home in there.
The guy looked like he killed puppies for fun.
“I’m not breaking in,” she said, trying not to act like a petrified rabbit. Slowly, she eased away from the wall and lowered her fists. “This is my cabin.”
Straight black hair reached past his shoulders, and he had the dusky complexion of someone of mixed Native American descent. His brows lifted. “We have a renter?”
We? Please say this cruel-looking character wasn’t her landlord. He wasn’t anything like Shay. Well, other than being seriously huge. Shay’d been pretty nice, all in all; this guy looked like he could rip apart a bear. With his bare hands. “Shay rented me this cabin.” Not you.
“I’m Zeb Damron. Shay and I run this place together.” He loomed over her—far too much like her nightmares—and held out his hand. “You got a name?”
“Breanne Gallagher.” She gritted her teeth. I am fine. I am. I can touch him. She’d been through this fear as a teen after Mr. Harvey tried to force her. She just had to gut it out again. So when his scarred-up, callused hand engulfed hers, she squeezed hard, trying to crush his bones and show him what a tough bitch she was.
His expression didn’t change. “I make you nervous.” There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt in his voice, but no triumph either. Just a flat statement.
She jerked her hand away. “Well—”
“Don’t lie.” His nostrils flared. “Or would terrified be a better word?”
Definitely. Her teeth gritted together. “Maybe I just don’t like pushy guys.” Oh yeah, Bree, piss off the huge landlord.
The corner of his mouth turned up slightly. “Sorry.”
“I—” How had he gone from scaring her to making her feel rude? “You… There’s no one around—” Good going, dummy, point out how isolated this is. “You’re big. And a guy.”
“No male would harm a female,” he said, his wording uncannily like Shay’s. His dark brows drew together, his eyes intent. “You don’t believe that.”
“I know it’s not true.” The weight on her, pinning her down. A shudder ran through her.
He folded his arms over his chest and studied her. The rolled-up sleeves of his flannel shirt displayed wrists as thick as her upper arms. “Little female, if you are bothered by a male, tell me. I’ll take care of him for you.” His cheek creased. “Part of the Wildwood service.”
He was serious. He was really serious. How co
uld a man scare her spitless and make her feel safe at the same time? But he smelled of clean pine forests and nothing like the monster. She managed almost a smile. “Um. Right. Thank you.”
He nodded and moved back into the forest. Silently.
* * *
Zeb walked into the lodge and sniffed. The scent of beef and onion filling the air was enough to make a hungry wolf howl. He found Shay in the kitchen, stirring something in a Crockpot. Every counter was covered with vegetable peelings, meat, and dirty dishes.
Zeb tried not to wince. “Supper?”
“Aye. I found the grocery store. Tiny place in the center of town. And you’re cooking tomorrow, a mhac.”
Zeb growled. Shay’d grown up in one of the more isolated Daonain villages that still clung to the older ways and languages. Over the last two years, Zeb had learned a few words. “I’m not your fucking son.”
Son, my ass. Typical dominant wolf, going all paternalistic. He needed a pack to babysit, not a partner. “You’re not even ten years older than me.”
Shay snorted. “I feel older. By the way, I rented out the next-door cabin.”
“Met her. Pretty little human. Scared though.” She’d triggered every protective instinct in his body—only it had been him she was afraid of. Zeb checked the fridge. Shay had bought dark and light beer. Good male. He grabbed one of each and took a chair at the kitchen table, pushing away the scattered newspapers. Beer or not, having a person in his living space was weird. And this messy mongrel? Fuck.
“Definitely scared.” After putting the lid on the pot, Shay sat down and rested his injured leg on an adjacent chair. “She acted like a trapped mouse when I blocked a door in the cabin.”
The dark malty beer was cold with a smooth bite. “Huh. Figured it was me. I told her that.”
“Zeb, you have all the tact of a dwarf.”
Now that hurt. Dwarves were the rudest of all the OtherFolk, even worse than gnomes. “She said I was big and that the cabin was isolated. At least she didn’t run away screaming.” Zeb sipped his beer. Yeah, he’d seen terror in those big blue eyes, but she’d stood her ground. She’d even raised those little fists. Admirable.