Mary J. - Red Wolf's Return

Kell pushed a piece of chicken through the wire mesh; the eagle gobbled the chunk. “I’m not an expert, but from the appearance of the exit wound in the thigh and from the minimal number of traumatized wing bones, it likely wasn’t a high-powered weapon.”

“And the tail feathers?” The bird had none.

“They were plucked, not molted.”

Which meant a poacher or someone with a sadistic bent. “Thanks, Kell. Let me know if her condition deteriorates.”

“Will do.”

Meg walked out of the aviary.

“Meggie,” Ethan called as he followed her outside into the breezeway.

She swung around. “Was the eagle unconscious when you found her?”

“Out cold. Probably hit her head on the rocks when she fell.”

Meg studied the trees surrounding the clinic. A wind eddied autumn leaves into the air and along the ground. “It’s possible they thought the bird was dead.”

Ethan said nothing.

She slanted him a look. “You don’t think so?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Which says more than words, Ethan. You always were quiet.” And observant.

His mouth hinted at a smile. “Not around you.”

Once, perhaps. Once they would’ve discussed every detail of their lives and feelings, shared hopes and dreams and planned their future—until she’d forced a separation between them.

Disillusioned, she turned to walk around the main building, for her truck.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said, walking beside her, “I’ve waited a long time for this day. I don’t like how it’s come about with the injury of wildlife, but I’m glad we’re talking again.”

She stopped at her vehicle. “Me, too.” Without the old weight of silence, her heart felt lighter. Opening the truck’s door, she got in behind the wheel. “See you later.”

“Count on it.” He walked back into the clinic, back to his eagle.

From her back porch, Meg peered through the starlit night toward the black stand of pine and birch mantling the knoll that rolled up and away from her three-acre property. A quarter mile, and on the other side of the rise, he slept in that lovely terra-cotta cabin.

Shivering inside her hoodie, she folded her arms against her middle, her senses attuned to the breeze rustling through the dying leaves, and the hint of early snow whispering down from the Absaroka Range.

Suddenly the wind sighed, He’s coming to see you.

A flush warmed her skin and her heart hurried.

You’re imagining things, she thought, yet her eyes strained to peel away the night.

A small thrill rushed up when he walked out of the trees, tall and illuminated by the stars. His feet made no sound, his arms swung easily at his side, his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes saw only her.

She stood riveted at the weathered railing, waiting. Waiting for him to mount the steps, to approach her. He wore buckskin leggings and a buckskin shirt draped his torso, and on his feet were red-and-white-beaded moccasins. A feather hung from a leather strand braided into his long, ebony hair.

Bewildered, she stared. She’d never known him to dress in the garments of his ancestry, to look as if he’d stepped out of another century. Throughout their adolescence, he had spurned his heritage; tried desperately to fit into the culture of his fair-skinned mother and grandfather.

He took the steps, stopped within reach.

As the question Where’ve you been? branded her mind, she frowned.

“Here, Meggie,” he replied.

Confused, she shook her head. “Not always.”

“Always. I’ve never left you.” Then he took her face between his callused palms, leaned down and kissed her.

His lips were warm and soft and mobile. The way she remembered. Pressing herself against him, she banded her arms around his neck, stretched up onto her toes, searching, wanting…

His hand slipped into the open panel of the hoodie, gently kneaded her breasts.

Her perfect breasts. Oooh, yes…!

Sitting bolt upright, she gulped air. Where…?

Around her, night delineated the ceiling of her bedroom, the pictures on the walls, the metal railing at the foot of her mattress. Curtains fluttered at the open window and a chill breeze goose-bumped her arms. Dreaming, she’d been dreaming about Ethan and…and….

Oh, God.

With shaky fingers she touched the left side of her chest where the fake swell rose with each agitated breath.

Stupid woman, Meg. Did you think it had changed?

But, oh, in the dream…

She had been whole.

Right. You should’ve known something was weird when you saw Ethan in those clothes, and with that hair.

Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed. She needed to think. Outside. She would go outside, onto the porch. The best place to think. Like in the dream.

She shook her head. Wake up, Meg. This is reality.

On the nightstand the clock read 1:34 a.m. Grabbing her housecoat from the foot rail, she headed into the hallway and padded past Beau’s closed door.

In the kitchen she stopped, shivered. Then turned and walked back down the hallway to her son’s room. Quietly, she opened the door, peeked inside. The covers were in a jumbled heap, shadows playing hide-and-seek across pillows and walls. Something nudged her inside, to tiptoe to the bed.

The stars that had revealed Ethan in her dream now glanced through the window and disclosed Beau’s bed. His empty bed.

Meg stared down at the sheets where her son should be, snoring gently with sleep. Her heart kicked.

“Beau?” The name echoed. Spinning around, she ran from the room. “Beau!”

Throughout the house she flicked lights, rushed out the front door. His old Chevy pickup sat parked beside her Silverado. Where was he?

“Beau!” Had he sleepwalked? He never sleepwalked.

Had someone entered the house, snatched her son while she lay in the throes of her dream?

The way Elizabeth Smart had been stolen…?

No! He’d gotten a ride from a friend….

Would he disobey his grounding?

He’s sixteen, Meg. Obstinate, mutinous and desperate to shed the clutch of dependence.

Another thought flashed.

Dear God. Had he gone to confront Ethan over that damn eagle situation?

That had to be it, had to be. Meg flung back into the house, raced for her bedroom, her jeans and hoodie. Yes, she and Beau had their problems, but he’d never left the house in the middle of the night, and certainly not without her permission. He knew the scope of her worry barometer when it came to disregarding curfews and house rules.

Number one: let Mom know.

Except, the circumstances surrounding the wounded eagle had pushed him to an emotional razor’s edge. She knew that. Knew it as if he’d elucidated his resentment in a three-page essay.

From the minute he slammed out of the house yesterday, he’d gone into a class-A brood mood, which—more than target shooting without consent—incited her to ground him with no nights out for a week. The curfew had served to fuel his resentment. Tonight he’d hunched over his supper and grunted when she asked him a question. Afterward, he’d disappeared into his room, leaving Meg alone for the rest of the evening.

Please, she thought. He’s been so unpredictable lately. Don’t let him do something rash.

Keys and wallet in hand, she hurried out to her truck—and hoped Ethan was a light sleeper.

She killed the headlights and the ignition before climbing out of the truck. Upon the water’s surface the moon painted its wafer-pale light. Twice in as many days she had driven to this place. His place. Next thing she knew, she’d be into a ritual.

The phone could have worked just as well, Meg.

About to get back in the truck and drive home, she heard his deep voice come through the dark.