Eventide of the Bear (The Wild Hunt Legacy #3) (19 page)

Calum entered the room behind her with his customary cat-footed silence, and his dark gray eyes lit with amusement. “As the owner of a tavern, I am quite accustomed to carrying trays.”

Emma spun and almost tripped.

Calum tilted his head. “You see why I carried the tray? You aren’t yet up to managing without your cane.”

“She isn’t, so thank you, Calum.”

Wearing a quite kissable pout, Emma propped pillows behind his back before pulling out a lap table from under the bed. As she set it over his thighs, he smelled freshly cut, unfinished wood. “Where’d you get this?”

“Ryder made it this morning before he headed out to check on your construction crews.” She moved out of Calum’s way.

Calum put the tray down, glanced at Ben’s shoulder, and poured the coffee for him as well.

Ben looked down at the tray. Someone knew his preferences. The plate held a heaping mound of bacon and freshly scrambled eggs. The toast was already buttered and covered with a generous amount of honey. As the scents wafted up, his appetite turned to a raging hunger. “Thank you, Emma. I’m starving.”

Her flush was delightful. “I hope it’s edible. Ryder showed me how to scramble eggs and cook bacon when he made breakfast for Minette.”

Good job, Ryder.
Ben took a big bite and another. Excellent. The little female learned fast. And she’d shown courage in risking another culinary failure; he’d seen how the last one had devastated her. “You’re a damn good cook, li’l bear. This is fantastic.”

Her audible sigh of relief made him laugh.

Even Calum grinned. Just why was the Cosantir paying him a visit?

“Did anything else happen last night?” Ben asked. Surely, there hadn’t been another hellhound.

“The rest of the night was quiet.” When Calum settled into a chair beside the bed, Emma stood by the window like a silent guard. “A car accident down Highway 20 has Alec occupied, so he asked me to update you on our conclusions.” By Calum’s request, after any incident during their patrols, the cahirs reported to him. He’d have heard how and why the young cahir died.

As dark guilt flooded his veins, Ben set his fork down, appetite gone. “Wesley was my responsibility last night. His death is on my head.”

“
No
.” Emma moved to stand between him and the Cosantir…who hadn’t stirred. “Ben didn’t cause his death. He couldn’t. Don’t you blame Ben.”

Calum’s lips twitched. “No, Benjamin didn’t. But I’m glad to know he has someone to guard him until he’s back on his feet.”

With a suspicious stare, she settled at the foot of the bed, as if ensuring she’d be close enough to take action if need be.

Ben felt an unexpected warmth burning away some of the chill.

“The other cahirs agreed you did everything correctly,” Calum said quietly. “They also said Wesley started off in the right way, playing decoy for the hellhound.”

Ben shook his head. “I didn’t do everything, or—”

“Stop.” The word wasn’t loud, but held enough of a Cosantir’s power to make Ben’s jaws snap shut. “I want you to think through the event—only this time, imagine Alec in your place. Tell me what he’d have done differently.”

Under the level gaze, Ben replayed the night’s disaster, minute by minute. Alec would have run up behind the hellhound, done the same twist onto his back…would have been shot. The sheriff possessed as much determination as Ben, but his frame was smaller. The bullet could have killed or completely incapacitated him.

Either way, the result wouldn’t have changed. Wesley would still have died.

Calum leaned back in his chair, not needing to hear Ben’s conclusions. “Exactly.”

The knot in Ben’s gut relaxed slightly. If only Wesley hadn’t fired, Ben would have gutted the hellhound. “But…why? Why did Wesley shoot?”

“Ah. Alec said Sarah was screaming at Wesley to kill the hellhound. To save her. Right before he lost it, she’d started shrieking, ‘
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
’ ”

He must have been rolling under the hellhound right then. “I heard her. No wonder Wes lost focus.” By the God, what a mess.

Emma asked, “What does her screaming have to do with anything?” She was rubbing his leg, as if trying to comfort a cub. It worked, actually.

“At a certain age, male shifters are impelled to procreate and are susceptible to emotional females,” Calum said. “The drive to impress a female can overcome even the instinct for survival.”

“So he wouldn’t have died if…” The color faded from Emma’s face, leaving her milk white. “The female caused the young male’s death?”

Calum nodded. “She couldn’t have anticipated the result. Nonetheless, some females revel in inciting males to violence.”

Ben nodded.

Calum set one finger on the tray. “If you don’t eat this breakfast, I will.”

The gesture and threat set off the bear instincts. With a low growl, Ben pulled the tray closer and started to eat, rediscovering his appetite.

Emma gave a half-hearted chuckle. “We’re truly ruled by animal instincts, aren’t we?”

“Often more than we’re willing to acknowledge,” Calum said ruefully. “If Wesley had been warned about the effect of an endangered female’s screams, he might have been able to throw it off.”

“Aye,” Ben agreed slowly. “He was a sharp lad, although hankering to be a hero. The decoy assignment annoyed him, so her goading fit right in with his own inclinations.”

“Ah. I see.” Calum rose.

“The rites for Wesley will be at sundown.” Calum inclined his head toward Emma. “If the bard would care to sing, the gift would be valued. But it isn’t mandated.”

Emma nodded, not committing.

But why?

As Calum left, Ben considered her. Her golden eyelashes were a thick fringe on her cheek as she stared at her hands in her lap. Her loose hair blanketed her shoulders in a silken mass. By the God, she was a compelling female. And impossible to understand. “I thought bards liked to sing.”

Her soft brown eyes were unhappy. “I didn’t know Wesley. How can I do him justice in a song?”

“Do bards know everyone they sing about?”

“Well, no.” A crease appeared between her brows. “They ask questions. Find out everything about the person from friends, family…and enemies. Find out what people think about the shifter’s life—and death.”

“Can’t you do that?”

“It wouldn’t be…perfect. Not in so short of a time.”

And this little female needed things to be flawless. The humans on his crew often displayed the odd compulsion. Shifters tended to have a better balance, since animals weren’t obsessed with perfection, just results. “The Mother doesn’t hold “perfection” up as an ideal, honey bear,” he said softly.

His words struck home with an almost audible plop.

Having made his point, he moved on. “Don’t bards create sending-off songs on short notice? The lyrics are set to just one tune, aren’t they?”

“The ‘Return to the Mother’ melody. Yes.”

Not there yet. “You know, he shouted when he realized the bullet hit me. And he kept firing—even though he knew it would only draw the hellhound’s attention.”

Realization dawned in her eyes. “He drew the hellhound away from you.”

“Aye.”

Tears glimmered in her eyes and her jaw slowly tightened. “He deserves more from me than silence.”

Ben waited, letting her work out her own destiny.

Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “All right. Since I’m asking questions of people, how do
you
feel about what happened?”

Hell.
He guessed turnabout was fair, but by Herne’s horns, he wished she hadn’t asked. “I’m sad at the loss of life.”

Her amber eyes sharpened until her gaze penetrated his defenses. “That’s not all.”

Fuck.
He’d pushed. Now he owed her answers. But he’d far rather scoop out his guts with his own claws. “By the God, I still feel as if I fucked up. Maybe if I’d advised him better, he’d have stayed focused. Or if I’d let him make the kill as he wanted instead of staying with the procedure of him being the prey. Or if I’d moved faster, maybe I’d have killed the hellhound before he fired.”

Her gaze softened.

If she told him she was sorry for him, he’d throw his tray against the wall. “This won’t help you construct a song, honey bear. What I feel isn’t about him; it’s all about me.” And far, far too close to the guilt he felt for killing his own mother with his birth.

“I understand guilt,” she said in a level tone. “However… As a polite male, Alec might moderate his judgment to spare you. But, according to local opinion, the cahir named Owen says whatever he thinks. If Owen thought there was something else you could have done, he’d have said.”

Ben blinked. Apparently, Owen wasn’t the only one who could be blunt.

“No one could have anticipated some female would order Wesley to shoot—or that he’d obey her.”

“I should have guessed.” He knew Sarah. Had mated with her last Gathering. “A male versus a hellhound would set Sarah all a-tingle. She’s a great one to set the males to fighting.”

Emma paled, and her hands tightened in her lap. She was probably re-living her own near-death from a hellhound.

“Best you get moving and do your interviews,” Ben prompted.

“I will, if you’ll eat and stop feeling guilty for something you couldn’t have changed.” She rose and, to his surprise, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist.

And by the Mother’s grace, she gave him the warmest, most comforting hug he’d ever received.

*

Sitting next to
Ben in the second row of Ryder’s SUV, Emma closed her eyes, wishing the day was over. Behind them in the third row, Minette snoozed quietly. As he drove, Ryder talked with his brother about their construction projects. His dark, smoky voice was somehow comforting, maybe because he was her friend now.

Friend
had to be one of the most beautiful words in the language. And how funny was it she’d thought he hadn’t liked her, and it turned out he just didn’t trust her gender? Maybe she’d learn not to make assumptions.

Poor Minette, having a mother who wasn’t nice. Oh, Emma understood how devastating it felt not to be wanted. As long as Emma was at Ben’s, Minette would receive all the love the cub could handle.

The vehicle went over a bump, and Emma gritted her teeth as her brace scraped over her leg. Her muscles already ached with exhaustion from all the walking she’d done earlier. Even worse, she itched from the metal in the stupid vehicle. Descended from the Fae who couldn’t tolerate iron, the Daonain tended to avoid cities and…hated cars.

In fact, right now, she felt grumpier than a burrowless gnome.

Ben’s nearness didn’t help. His shoulders were so wide, he brushed against her with every sway of the car. His arm was firm and warm, and she took a calming breath.

It didn’t help. The air carried his rich masculine scent, which today lacked the usual accents of wood and leather. He hadn’t been around his tools and wood, and the thought was distressing.

Reminded of his wound, she leaned forward to ensure his shoulder wasn’t being jostled. No, he’d adjusted the shoulder strap to one side, and his white shirt was unstained.

As she sat back, his dark blue gaze caught hers. “Am I all right, oh, healer?” The laughter had returned to his voice.

He really was going to be all right. As her worries unknotted, her smile came unbidden. “Everything looks good.”

“Did I thank you for caring for me last night?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. Not like the healer. I just held your hand.”

“Ah, darlin’, you did far more. Having you there gave me a reason to fight the pain, to fight against dying.”

The knowledge she’d helped him warmed her faster than any fire—but his terrifying words struck deep. “Don’t die,” she whispered.

The sun lines beside his eyes creased, and he shifted to put his arm around her shoulder and pull her against his powerful frame.

She gasped in surprise, but the sense of safety kept her from moving. He was so big, so strong.

During the Gathering, she’d been held by males. But…this…this was a different kind of being held. There was a sense of tenderness and comfort shared. Something she’d never experienced…ever. With a slow breath, she closed her eyes and snuggled closer, and he made a rumbling sound of satisfaction.

He’d come so very close to returning to the Mother. The thought of a world without this big grizzly just wasn’t to be borne.

And the healer had hurt him so badly. Each time Donal had delved deeper into the wound, she could have sworn she felt each pain as if the healer was torturing her instead. Each of Ben’s moans had sent a lance straight into her heart.

Yes, her heart. Because with each day in his presence, she’d fallen for him more. His big laugh, his rumbling voice, his gentleness with her and Minette, even his easy affection with his brother.

By the Mother, she loved him.

Love
. How many songs had been written about the emotion? Now she knew why. The feeling was overwhelming, spilling into the hollows in her soul and filling them with a golden warmth.

At the same time, caring that much…hurt…because, by the Goddess, she had no future here. In her favorite songs and tales, love was the reward for being courageous—and the good shifter female would win her mates in the end. But Emma wasn’t a good shifter female. Rather than saving others, she’d caused their deaths.