Never Cry Wolf Page 5

And yet, as she stepped onto the porch, the very thought shot a chill straight up her spine. She whipped around and stared out again, the majestic beauty suddenly shadowed with menace. The oddest feeling ambushed her…as if someone were watching. Breath catching in her throat, she squinted against the bright sun’s glare, searching the landscape.

  “Hey, you’re letting the cold in!” her host growled.

  Starting, putting down her spooky feeling to an overactive imagination, she muttered, “Sorry,” and rushed to the door, glancing back only once before entering.

  Donovan was shoving a log into the Franklin stove that dominated the center of the spacious room. His heating unit set the tone for the rest of the cabin. The walls were exposed logs rather than plaster, and the floor was composed of a solid wood planking. The scent of pine hung heavy on the air, bringing the outdoors inside.

  “All the comforts of home.” Donovan turned on his radio, filling the cabin with a low hum and crackles of static. “You’re going to overheat if you don’t get rid of that jacket. You can hang it over there.”

  He’d already draped his outerwear on one of the pegs next to the door and had begun removing a second layer.

  “An electric stove,” she murmured, glancing at the narrow appliance. “And a real refrigerator. I thought you didn’t get utilities out here?”

  “I don’t.”

  “So do you have your own generator? Or do you keep a couple dozen squirrels and raccoons chasing each other on a gigantic wheel?”

  Not dignifying her questions with a response, he couldn’t have been more straight-faced.

  The heat made her yawn. She divested herself of her jacket and hung it on the peg next to his, then wandered through the living space.

  The furniture was rugged yet comfortable looking—the couch a rustic wood frame with cushions, their woven coverings in a deep green-and-black north woods pattern. One corner held a dining nook of matching materials. Monopolizing the other side of the room was a work area. A large crude table was banked by half a wall of wooden cabinetry, extending to another outside door. At the near end sat the radio transmitter that could connect him at least to some parts of the civilized world.

  “That’s the bathroom, such as it is.” Donovan indicated the first door on the other side of the cooking area. “The bedroom’s next to it. I suggest you keep the door open if you want to stay warm.”

  He was offering her his own bed? Surprised by the unexpected generosity, she asked, “What about you?”

  “That an invitation?”

  He was down to his long underwear—the top part, anyway. Red flannel printed with black silhouettes of wolves, their noses raised to the sky, poked out of the well-worn jeans that had been covered by his deerhide pants. Unable to believe Donovan was capable of whimsy, she couldn’t keep herself from staring at the undershirt.

  He cleared his throat. “My mother’s Christmas present,” he muttered.

  “Oh.” She enjoyed his discomfiture.

  The flannel did nothing to hide the lines of his torso or the breadth of his shoulders. And the jeans showed off his lean, long legs and hugged a butt and thighs taut with muscle. She tore her eyes away from the impressive sight and met his amber gaze, equally intent on her. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Uh, about that invitation thing…” she croaked. “…I merely meant the couch seems a bit short for you.”

  He stared a bit longer, then grunted, “It’ll do.” With that, he turned his back to her.

  Shut out again.

  HIS MIND ON OVERLOAD, Donovan slept in fits and starts.

  Thoughts too much to process, he dozed.

  Dreams too disturbing, he awakened.

  He’d gotten through the crisis with his father by not thinking too deeply on the whys and wherefores. Now, knowing the chain of events that had brought the old man to his neck of the woods, they plagued him.

  A fake Donovan.

  Someone pretending to be him. Why?

  To set up his father? A political enemy, perhaps? Someone who wanted Congressman Raymond McKenna out of the way?

  A theory that rang false.

  The sequence of events couldn’t have been planned so perfectly. Perhaps there was no connection at all.

  And yet…

  Why would a stranger approach Laurel, fake his identity and tell her all about a family that wasn’t his?

  But the whys and wherefores faded in significance when compared to the consequence of his father’s wild-goose chase: a hospital bed, one from which he might never rise…

  He hadn’t been able to stay in that claustrophobia-producing room for long, hadn’t been able to stand the sight of a man whose power had been stripped so completely that he was dependent on machines to see to his needs.

  The man who had sired him, who had been the lifelong focus of his rage, had been reduced to nothing more than a shell.

  It made him want to weep.

  THE AROMA OF hundred-proof coffee tantalized Laurel awake. Groaning, she reached out, blindly searching for a cat to fondle…the lack of a fur creature her first clue that something was amiss.

  Opening her eyes gave her a rude shock. The room was foreign to her. It took a moment to remember where she was. And why.

  Had the congressman awakened yet? she wondered. Without a telephone, how would they know?

  “Donovan?”

  No answer.

  She stumbled out of bed and to the bathroom, where she splashed her face with copious amounts of cold water, enough to clear her head a bit. Squinting at her watch informed her noon was fast approaching.

  Following her nose to the coffeepot on the stove, Laurel filled a mug and gulped down half the lukewarm contents. Better. No country coffee for the wolfman, thank goodness. Full-bodied, packed with caffeine, it did the trick, vaporizing the remnants of sleep from her brain.

  And still no Donovan.

  His things no longer hung from the peg next to the door. Unwilling to sit around twiddling her thumbs until he returned, Laurel decided to find him. Still dressed, she pulled on her boots and jacket, secured earmuffs to her head and gloves to her hands. If leaving the warmth of the cabin was disagreeable, at least the sun’s brilliance and a lack of wind made the cold tolerable.

  Following the trail left by Donovan’s snowshoes was easy enough—at least she knew what direction to take. Actually getting from point A to point B was another matter. Even placing her feet directly on his trail didn’t help. The snow wasn’t packed, and as had happened the night before, she kept breaking through the top crust.

  To her relief, Donovan hadn’t gone far. She spotted him across the open field, his destination chillingly familiar. He was crouching over the area where his father had fallen. Barely an impression left from a body, she noted. As she stopped to catch her breath several yards behind him, he was gently brushing away new snow from a smaller depression.

  He made no sign that he knew she was there, but when he said, “The drift covered the prints too well,” she knew he had sensed her presence.

  “Trying to convince yourself that your wolves are innocent?” Which she only hoped they were…and feared they weren’t.

  “I don’t need convincing. I know what I know.”

  “Then what are you looking for?”

  Continuing with his task, he said, “Proof that he wasn’t alone out here.”

  He. Why couldn’t he just say the word father?

  So, he was looking for tracks made by a person rather than by an animal.

  “Footprints,” Laurel murmured. “What if…” She started. “Of course they weren’t yours.”

  “What weren’t?”

  The moments before finding Donovan’s father were clear in her mind. “I followed the congressman’s prints from the car. At some point, they crossed another set.”

  Donovan straightened. “And you didn’t think this important enough to mention last night?”

  She made allowances for his accusing tone. “I assum
ed the second set belonged to you…actually, the man I thought was you…but you were wearing snowshoes. Maybe it’s nothing…I mean, who’s to say if those tracks weren’t there from earlier in the day or even from another day altogether—”

  “Whoa! Save your breath and just show me.”

  Laurel squinted out at the copse of trees, looking for the trailhead. “Over there.”

  Donovan was already off and running, so to speak, and she was left behind to struggle with the knee-deep snow.

  “If you want me to keep up with you,” she loudly complained, “you’ll have to find me a pair of snowshoes!”

  “You won’t be around long enough to make use of them.”

  Struggling to keep up, Laurel muttered, “Don’t be too sure of that.”

  In the end, Donovan waited for her at the edge of the woods, and once on the packed base, his advantage lessened. She noted the farther they went into the woods, the less new snow had drifted over the trail. She was beginning to spot some impressions herself.

  They didn’t have far to go before Donovan slowed and stooped to examine a pretty well-defined print. No ridges for traction. He ran his fingers lightly over the smooth impression, the type made by a leather sole. The congressman had been wearing city shoes.

  Checking a second, smaller print with ridges, he said, “Show me the bottom of your boot.”

  Bracing a hand on a tree trunk for balance, she let him examine the rubber lug sole that gave her traction on slippery surfaces. She knew he was comparing the tread on her boot to the print on the trail.

  When he let go, she asked, “Mine?”

  “Yours.”

  Laurel scrutinized Donovan as he carefully examined the area. Expression intent, he didn’t seem to notice. With his picturesque headgear and deerskin garments, he was a throwback to another century. And yet, he appeared completely comfortable in the role…and with himself. No trace of insecurity. No troubled air beneath the resolute demeanor.

  The real Donovan was a man’s man with shoulders broad enough to lean on.

  Not like the man who’d purported to be Donovan Wilde, she thought, a wave of resentment sweeping through her.

  What purpose had his impersonation served other than to make a fool of her? Rather, she’d made a fool of herself getting so involved with someone she’d obviously misread. She could no longer trust her own instincts. Her only consolation was that she hadn’t actually accepted his proposal of marriage.

  If she’d said yes, would the fake Donovan have gone through with a bogus wedding ceremony?

  The possible repercussions alarmed her…

  “Hmm, what have we here?” Donovan was muttering to himself. “A different pattern in the tread.”

  He brushed a bit of loose snow from an imprint larger than hers. As he examined it more closely, his expression suddenly hardened.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Totally absorbed, he moved on, checked another print and then another, as if she weren’t there.

  “So, say something already,” she demanded. “Were they walking together or what?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t be certain…not of that.”

  Exasperated, she asked, “Could you be any less clear?”

  Rising, he stared at her. Rather, through her was more like it. She could practically see the wheels turning inside his head, drawing conclusions.

  “That tread…” he said at last, “…it is the same.”

  He met her gaze. Finally, he’d made a connection.

  But what she saw in his eyes made her tremble inside.

  INSTINCT DROVE Donovan to find the point where the two sets of prints first met. His gut felt tight as a drum.

  “Am I invisible or what? Or do you make a habit of ignoring everyone like this?”

  Laurel’s shrill complaint got through to him. He stopped short and gave her his full attention, questioning her with raised eyebrows.

  Which appeared to mollify her, made her settle her prickly feathers.

  In a less hostile tone, she asked, “So, are you going to interpret that mysterious comment or just leave me hanging?

  “I thought I made it clear that I’ve seen that same print before.”

  “But when? And where?”

  “More than once over the past several weeks.” They belonged to the intruder whose presence he’d detected even if he hadn’t been able to apprehend the person. Sometimes the intruder had worn snowshoes, other times the boots that had left this print. “Near the cabin. The old wolf den. One of the trap sites.”

  He’d suspected the trespasser was someone who had it in for the wolves. While the local emotional climate for wolf recovery was on the whole tolerant, there were enough people who still thought the only good wolf was a dead one. Several locals had been up in arms when a sickly cow had been found dead, its throat torn open, only the week before.

  Laurel cut into his thoughts. “How can you be sure the prints were made by the same person?”

  Crouching, he waved her over to show her. “Look at the pattern. The center of the tread is made up of perfect diamond shapes. But not here on the left print.” He pointed to a section that didn’t match the rest—two of the diamonds were half gone, as if they’d been sliced off by something sharp, like a piece of broken glass.

  “Wow, great eyes,” Laurel said, so close her breath feathered his cheek.

  “Paying attention to detail is my job.”

  Caught unawares by the spark of admiration in her expression, Donovan was tempted to tell her she had great eyes, too, the compliment having nothing to do with the process at hand.

  In the end he rose, purposely casual, setting his gaze to roaming the area for other, smaller prints. “I imagine you’re ready for some chow.”

  “You cook, too?”

  Donovan started. Laurel’s expression said she was teasing him again. He couldn’t fathom why she’d want to. No one else teased him. Ever. Not since he was a kid, anyway.

  “I was thinking about getting some grub in town,” he said, starting back toward the cabin. While upon awakening he’d radioed to find out about his father’s unchanged condition, he didn’t want to wear out his welcome with the sheriff’s office. In town, he could make a proper phone call. “And assuming word’s gotten around, it wouldn’t hurt to test the pulse of the locals.”

  From directly behind, she asked, “About the wolves?”

  He was still scanning the rolling ground around them. “Among other things…”

  Narrowing his gaze when the tracks practically jumped out at him, he stopped abruptly, half turning to alert Laurel, who crashed right into him. She put out a hand as if to catch herself—her fingers splaying across his chest even as he threw a steadying arm around her back.

  For a moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither spoke.

  Donovan stared into Laurel’s face, which reflected sudden confusion, and he wondered if the color brushing her nose and cheeks came from the cold…or from something else entirely. Something stirred in him, as well. A mutual attraction? More likely a natural urge that needed satisfying, he told himself. This one talked too much for it to be anything more. Even so, it took him a moment to let go and back off. That she appeared relieved rankled.

  He forced his attention back to the reason he’d stopped. “Take a look over there.” Pointing, he left the trail to check things out.

  Laurel followed his lead, but, voice breathy enough to make his groin tighten, she said, “I don’t see anything.”

  He stooped to examine what remained of animal tracks. The prints themselves weren’t clear…but the pattern was.

  “Wolf?” she asked.

  He’d hoped to find sloppy tracks zigzagging from one side to the other as would be left by a dog. These traveled in too straight a path, rear prints neatly tucking into the fore. Disappointment knotted his gut.

  “Wolf,” he finally agreed.

  Chapter Four

  Veronica Wilde shoved the plate down on
the counter in front of Joshua Harley and checked the wall clock. Ten more minutes. She’d call the hospital at two.

  What she really wanted to do was get in her car and drive to Nicolet General Hospital. Then what? She wasn’t family. She had no say. She was lucky the nurse would tell her anything. Thank God, Donovan had thought to give her name as a contact person.

  “Ronnie, honey,” Josh said, cutting through the fog she’d been in since her son’s middle-of-the-night call. “I ordered a ham sandwich, not beef. And I asked for hash browns instead of French fries.”

  She stared down at his plate without really registering the contents. “Sorry, I’ll fix it.” Automatically she went to remove the food.

  But Josh caught her hand and covered it with both of his own. “No need,” he assured her. “But you gotta get a grip, honey.”

  She nodded. Josh had to be the most understanding man in the world. She’d told him about Raymond. And other than that one second when she’d caught a flash of something dark in his expression, he’d been completely supportive.

  “I’ll be all right,” she assured him. “If only I could see him for myself…”

  “And do what? Resurrect him with old memories?”

  Though his words held a bite, Josh was still smiling. Veronica tried to stretch her lips, too, but the response felt wooden.

  “Hey, how ‘bout some more coffee?” another customer grumbled at her from the other end of the counter.

  “Coming, Titus.”

  Veronica used the pot as a shield, keeping it between her and the people she’d known for most of her life. None of whom were as important to her right now as the man in that hospital bed.

  Her son’s father.

  Donovan hadn’t seemed too upset when he’d called to tell her that Raymond was hurt, in some kind of coma. His disregard for his own parent wasn’t natural, but then his and Raymond’s relationship had never been natural…had mostly been forced on them both by her.

  If only things could have been different.

  If only she had been the kind of woman Raymond had needed in his life…

  The outside door opened, inviting in the cold. She turned to see her son enter, a tall thin woman preceding him. Must be that Newkirk woman he’d told her about. The one who’d been with Raymond. She was still puzzling over the woman’s part in the story Raymond had told her when he’d called from Chicago.