Gifted To The Bear: A Paranormal Shapeshifter Romance (The Gifted Series Book 1) (3 page)

“The kind of summer camp where a horror movie happens.”

Alone with my bag, I began to feel as if I were the last person left on earth. Probably only a half a minute had passed since the shiny black sedan full of agents had disappeared back down the dirt road, leaving me alone, but it seemed like it had been an hour. At least. The silence and stillness was beginning to make me feel like I was the only person alive, and the only one who’d ever existed. And, as I looked into the even darker spaces between the dark cars, trucks, and trees, I was also beginning to get a bit scared. Though scared of what, I had no clue.

“Baby.”

This was what I’d been trying to tell the agents. I was no hero. I was a big chicken. The kind of grown woman who got scared just standing in a dark forest alone for thirty seconds.

“And they expect me to help defend the nation from sorcerers.”

My talking out loud wasn’t helping. It was almost making things worse. Though it was filling the silence, it was just making me further aware that I was the only one around. I decided to stop, instead choosing to shuffle my feet around in the dirt briefly, kicking a few pebbles, in order to break up the feeling of sensory deprivation I was feeling. Not that being alone in the parking lot in the middle of the dark forest was
all
sensory deprivation. I had to admit that my sense of smell was fully engaged. In fact, even in the midst of my low-level fear and apprehension, I couldn’t help but appreciate the fresh, clean scent of earth and trees that was filling my nostrils. The air in Ridgewood wasn’t exactly stale, but this was something else entirely.
Greener
somehow, even in the dark.

I didn’t know what I should do. Peacemaker had said that James Duncan would be out to get me “shortly,” and it had only been a minute by this point, but I was already wondering if I should start heading to the cabins in search of him, although I wasn’t quite sure how I’d start that search. Randomly knocking on cabin doors, waking people up, didn’t seem like a great way to make friends in the little village that was now my home, for better or worse.

Even before his name had been mentioned an hour or so earlier, I’d heard of James Duncan. Not that I’d socialized much in Ridgewood during my year of depression, but I’d noticed that he seemed to be spoken about frequently in town, at restaurants and coffee shops, and between customers waiting in line at the grocery store. From what I’d been able to gather, he was something like the town hero, having been sheriff before The Takeover, and then the only man from Ridgewood who’d changed into a shifter. Apparently, his first shift had happened when he’d been chasing down a man suspected of robbing the town’s only liquor store. One moment, he’d been chasing the suspect on foot, as a human man, then the next, as a large black bear.

He’d been a good sheriff, most people said, but what really seemed to have cemented his hero status was his rise to leadership in Timberline during the chaotic first months after The Takeover, and how well he’d been able to defend Ridgewood, and all of northern Michigan, since then.

“It was like being sheriff was just practice for the
real
work he’s done protecting everyone since then,” a woman had told her friend, the cashier, at the grocery store one day. “Not that he didn’t do
real
work protecting us from criminals as sheriff, but... you know what I mean. This is bigger, what he’s doing now.”

The cashier had agreed, nodding her head hard enough to make her graying curls bounce. “Holding back the Angels from invading and taking over an entire state? Yes, I’d say so. I’d say that’s much bigger than being our sheriff here in Podunksville.”

Because James Duncan, who most locals just called Jim, had turned into a shifter, and then had immediately been dispatched north along with other shifters from various parts of the state, within just days of my arrival in Ridgewood, I’d never met him. I’d never even seen a picture of him. However, based on all the town talk, I got the impression that he was a very attractive man. “A real man’s man,” a woman in town had described him as being to another woman over coffee. “But handsome as all hell.” What Platinum Blonde Lady had said had bolstered my thinking that all the talk in town wasn’t just the locals seeing their hero as more appealing than he actually was.

Not that I cared. I was in Timberline because my choice had been to go, or go to prison, and the way Peacemaker and Platinum Blonde Lady had described it, Timberline sounded preferable. I wasn’t in Timberline to try to start a relationship with a man who’d likely constantly be on my case about using my levitation power, which I was going to refuse to do. As long as I was being forced to stay in Timberline, I just wanted to do my own thing, working on my art, as Platinum Blonde Lady had implied I could do. Maybe I could send some paintings off to a few gallery owner acquaintances in New York City and revive my stalled-out art career while I served out my time in Timberline, however long that would be.

Though I was going to resist the dating game, I knew I might not be opposed to making a few female friends. After having not really connected with anyone in Ridgewood, which I was sure had been mostly my fault for being somewhat of a recluse, I was a little starved for female companionship. Preferring roughly equal parts time alone and time with friends, I’d never been exactly hyper-social, even in Chicago, but I couldn’t deny that not having anyone to turn to, or anyone to blow off steam and have a little fun with, had probably contributed to my depression; which, in turn, had made me stay in the house more, which, in turn, had made it so that I never really connected with anyone. I’d come to understand how vicious cycles worked.

I just hoped that any potential friends I met in Ridgewood would be understanding of me not participating in all the defense work. I hoped that once I told them I’d really just be a hindrance, they’d just accept that me not using my power was actually for the greater good.

It had been at least a minute-and-half since the headlights of the shiny black sedan full of government agents had faded into the darkness. Growing increasingly anxious, I wondered what exactly Peacemaker’s definition of “shortly” was. If James Duncan didn’t show up within thirty seconds, I was going to start walking down the dirt track toward the cabins. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dark a little better, I could see why the agents hadn’t driven me directly down to them. It appeared that after the circular parking lot, the track narrowed to the point that vehicles wouldn’t fit. From what I could see of the start of it, it looked like the track that ran between the dark outlines of the cabins was really no more than a walking path.

After having decided to mentally count down the thirty seconds, I’d only gotten to
two
before I heard something. It was the very quiet sound of footsteps on pebbles and dirt. Someone was approaching, coming down the dirt lane between the cabins to the circular parking lot, though I couldn’t see them yet. Maybe ten seconds went by before I could. And even then, I could only see the dark form of a man coming down the lane in the moonlight, not hurrying, but not exactly being slow in his movement, either. James Duncan was doing what I thought of as something like
leisurely striding
, the confident walk of a man used to being sheriff, no matter what jurisdiction he was in.

When he got a little closer, I could see that he was fairly tall, maybe six-feet or an inch over. His body was long and lean, muscular and broad at the shoulders, and narrow at the hips and waist. Something about his sheriff’s walk seemed to display all this muscular length and leanness to its best advantage. I was beginning to get the picture in regards to why he was so frequently talked about in town, particularly by women.

When he entered the circular parking lot and came to a stop in front of me, I got the full picture. I couldn’t see all his features with total clarity in the pale moonlight, but I could see enough. With a strong, square jaw, somewhat deep-set eyes, and a high, wide forehead, his face was just as attractive as his body. It was kind of hard to see the exact shade, but his hair was dark and thick, and a little on the wavy and longish side. Just longish enough so that if he were still sheriff of Ridgewood, he would have wanted to get a one or two-inch haircut in order to look completely professional.

When he spoke, his voice was deep, but not in the same way as Deep Male Voice/Snorty’s, which had been deep and gravelly, not to mention more than a bit menacing. James had a voice that was deep with a rich, clear tone. It was the kind of voice that I could completely see stopping suspects dead in their tracks.

“I’m James Duncan, but you can call me Jim.”

He extended a hand, and I shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Jim. I’m Avery Clark.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Avery. Welcome to Timberline.”

“Thank you.”

Once he’d released my hand, I felt the need to rake it through my hair, but I resisted, not wanting to show that I was nervous. Although that wasn’t exactly what I was. I couldn’t explain it, even to myself. I was
rattled
, maybe. Thrown. I didn’t even really know why. It wasn’t like I hadn’t had plenty of advance warning that Jim would be attractive.

Saying he’d get my duffel bag for me, he picked it up, and I thanked him, then off we went out of the parking lot and down the trail toward the cabins. Neither of us spoke for maybe half a minute. Then Jim asked if my “visit from the agents” had gone okay.

Tucking a strand of my long, dark blonde hair behind one ear, I lifted my shoulders in a shrug so slight it was probably imperceptible. “It went... all right, I guess.” I chose my next words carefully, wanting to be honest but not wanting to immediately come off as rude or combative. “For a person who didn’t welcome the visit.”

With his gaze on the path in front of us, Jim didn’t answer right away. “You’d been hiding your gift for a long time.”

Unsure if what he’d said was intended to be a question or just a statement, and if the former, how I should respond, I didn’t. We continued toward the cabins in silence, at least for the next half-minute. That was when I glanced over at Jim, just wanting a good little peek at his handsome face in profile. And that was when I tripped, seemingly on nothing, or at least nothing bigger than a small rock on the path. I felt something hard kind of skid beneath one of my tennis shoes.

Jim had quick reflexes, immediately catching me before I could wipe out, which I probably would have done. My reflexes were lightning-fast as well, at least my reflexes that were concerned with instantly gauging the strength level of male arms. Jim was strong, unbelievably so from what it felt like. I’d heard that shifters possessed greatly increased strength while in animal form, but even in his human form, I got the feeling that Jim could easily bench press a few of me, and I wasn’t a willowy woman. I was maybe on the bustier side of average, which I’d never minded. I’d always liked how my full breasts made my waist look pretty small in comparison.

After catching me, Jim kept his arms around me just a second longer before withdrawing them, seeming to make sure that I really had my footing. “You all right?”

I nodded, miles beyond embarrassed. “Yeah. Thanks for the save. My foot just kind of skidded over a rock or something. I’m fine, though. We can keep walking.”

We did, and with my face a bit warm, I tried to force myself to stop thinking about how Jim’s arms had felt around me. I also tried to force myself to stop thinking about the hint of his scent that I’d picked up when he’d caught me. It was a scent similar to the scent of the woodland we were in, something earthy and green, but with faint notes of leather and musk. It was heavenly, I thought to myself, while at the same time mentally chastising myself for not being able to stop myself from having this thought. I was beginning to think that being unable to control my thoughts around Jim might become a real problem.

But, within a couple dozen paces, I realized I had another problem, one that was more urgently problematic. I was experiencing pain in my left ankle, and not pain as severe as a sprain, which I’d experienced before, but just enough pain that walking was becoming more and more difficult with every step. In fact, I’d begun to have to kind of limp. Unbelievably, it hadn’t even been my left foot that had done the little stutter-step over the rock; it had been my right. All I could think of was that I must have kind of “crunched” my left ankle when it had taken all my weight when my right foot had started to go out from under me.

There was no way in hell I was going to let Jim know that I’d hurt my ankle clumsily wiping out over a pebble. For one thing, I wasn’t typically clumsy, and I didn’t want him to think I was, and for another thing, I just didn’t want to be
that
woman, that damsel in distress. Having to be caught to avoid wiping out had embarrassed me, but the thought of having to continue on down the lane with a man I’d just met supporting me with an arm under my shoulders or something positively mortified me. As did the thought that Jim might think I’d only feigned tripping in order to feign ankle pain, just so that he’d have to “rescue” me.

I didn’t care if I made it to my cabin with shards of bone sticking out from the side of my ankle, I wasn’t going to let on that I was in any kind of pain, or that I’d injured myself in any way during my little stumble. The only problem was that although I could still put weight on my ankle, it was near impossible to put my full weight on it. Even gritting my teeth, the pain was just pronounced enough that I couldn’t avoid a slight limp, try as I might to make this not be so.