Secret of the Wolf (23 page)

hold himself up as a standard for anyone else's behavior, and it was a daunting task
.

As for the others, Lewis responded with guarded civility to his questions about the roses

the former minister tended in the garden. Harper was often in Johanna's office or in his

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room, but Quentin suspected the two of them might eventually become friends.

Only Irene avoided him, and he was glad enough for the reprieve
.

Johanna was too busy to spare much time for him outside of their so-far fruitless

hypnotic sessions, but he was constantly aware of her—of her scent drifting out a

window, the low, familiar sound of her voice, the firm tread of her step. His heart

skipped the proverbial beat every time she came near. He hid his little vulnerabilities

from her quite well
.

And, gradually, she seemed to dismiss any remaining concerns she might have held

about him. She permitted him to spend additional time with her father, providing

meticulous instruction on Dr. Schell's care. He needed bathing, help with eating,

exercise of his wasted limbs, trips into the garden, and company most of all
.

Quentin had seen Johanna's doubt—doubt that he could seriously wish to take on such

burdensome and tedious care for a stranger. Doubt even about his motives. But after

the first two days, she had trusted Quentin with her father's morning bath and meal.

She'd spent that time with the patients, Harper and May in particular, and thanked

Quentin at the end of the day with real warmth and gratitude
.

Johanna's gratitude. How ironic that it should mean so much to him. But looking after

the elder Dr. Schell wasn't some scheme born of his inconvenient desire for one of her

rare smiles. It felt almost like caring for his own father—a man he hardly remembered,

dead when he was a boy. He caught glimpses, in talking to the old man, in watching him

and Johanna together, of what it would have been like to grow up with such paternal

love and support
.

Dr. Schell's brilliance, spirit, and compassion lived on in his daughter. And Wilhelm

Schell bore no resemblance to the ruling figure in Quentin's childhood
.

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Tiberius Forster, the late Earl of Greyburn
.

Quentin's mind slid away from the image like a raindrop on the skin of a perfect grape.

Tiberius Forster was long dead. That was another life, another world
.

"We're not moving!”

He came back to himself at Oscar's plaintive observation. Daisy had stopped to graze

on the golden grasses at the side of the lane, taking advantage of Quentin's inattention
.

Quentin shook his head. "She's a wily one, isn't she? Would you like to take the reins,

Oscar?”

"You bet!" He reached for the lines eagerly, and Quentin carefully placed them in the

boy's hands, covering the much larger fingers with his own
.

"C'mon, Daisy!" Oscar crowed, and soon they were on their way again
.

Quentin had seen Silverado Springs from a distance but had never entered the town. It

was as Johanna had described it to him: neat, peaceful, respectable, and well-

provisioned enough for the flocks of moneyed resort-goers who came to the hot and

mineral springs to bathe and improve their health. Aside from the springs and the

attached hotels and amusements, it was much like a thousand other such towns that

Quentin had visited, in California and elsewhere
.

Retrieving the reins from Oscar, Quentin followed Johanna's directions to the general

store on the main street. It would have been impossible to miss. The usual idlers

lounged, smoked, or talked on the wooden porch, looking for something to alleviate their

perpetual boredom. Quentin was mindful of their stares as he tied Daisy to the hitching

post
.

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Johanna had warned him to expect a certain amount of wariness from the local

populace. He couldn't help but laugh to himself; these good people might have more

reason to be wary if they knew what he really was
.

Oscar was oblivious to anything but the prospect of tasting the licorice Quentin had

promised him. He bounded up the stairs, nearly upsetting one of the lounger's chairs
.

"Damned idiot," the man muttered to one of his fellows, aiming a chewed wad of

tobacco through a hole in the planks of the porch. "Shouldn't let him run loose.”

Quentin paused on his way up the stairs to glance at the man, an ill-shaven lout whose

belly protruded from between his suspenders. "Did he do you any harm?" he asked
.

"Damn near knocked me out've my chair," the man said. "Who're you?" He snickered.

"Another one of them loonies? You sure don't look like it.”

"You'd be surprised," Quentin said. "My name is Quentin Forster. Young Oscar there is

my friend.”

The man debated how best to reply and decided to err on the side of caution. "You

some hired man of the doc's?”

"I am boarding at the Haven," he said
.

Another man, at the end of the row, made a low sound. "I'll bet," he whispered to his

nearest companion. "Wonder how many male 'boarders' the lady doctor takes on there?

Wouldn't I like to find out. She sure ain't picky

”

Quentin's vision dimmed, and the blood pounded in his ears. He sucked in his breath. "I

shall pretend I didn't hear that remark," he said
.

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Clearly the speaker hadn't intended it to be heard. He took a hasty swallow from his

bottle
.

Before he could be tempted to take more definitive action, Quentin followed Oscar into

the store. The boy had his nose pressed to the glass of the candy counter, practically

ready to devour the glass in order to reach the treats within. The counter creaked

ominously under Oscar's weight
.

The gray-haired storekeeper seemed relieved when Quentin paid for the licorice and

Oscar scampered outside to enjoy it. Quentin looked at the door, wondering if he ought

to leave the boy alone with the insolent loafers
.

"Don't mind them," the storekeeper said, heaving a sack of flour onto the counter.

"They're all bark and no bite.”

"They seem to dislike Dr. Schell," Quentin said. "Why?”

"She doesn't come into town much, so no one's gotten to learn much about her. A bit of

a mystery, so to speak. People around here only know that she has lunatics at her place

who would usually be in the State Asylum. Worry they might scare off the tourists, or

that her patients might run mad and hurt someone." He shrugged. "And there's some

who just plain don't trust a woman doctor. But she's always paid her bills, and I've found

her right pleasant, if the quiet sort. I've never heard any harm of her or the people up at

old Schell's place." He regarded Quentin curiously. "You can't be one of her patients.”

"Because I'm too normal?" Quentin smiled and shook his head. "We all have our

oddities, Mr. Piccini. Some of us are simply better at hiding them than others.”

"Can't argue with that." The storekeeper filled a wooden crate with the smaller items on

Mrs. Daugherty's list, set it beside the sacks of flour and sugar, and wiped his hands on

his apron. "I'll go ahead and take this out, and you can square up with me afterward.”

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"That would be most—" Quentin stopped in the act of lifting the sack of flour to his

shoulder and cocked an ear toward the door. "Excuse me just a moment.”

He stepped outside to find the loiterers crowded at the porch railing, watching a scene

that bore all the earmarks of a disaster
.

Oscar stood in the middle of the street, turning in a bewildered circle, while a pack of

boys yelled taunts at him from every side. The gang, its members ranging in age from

perhaps fourteen to twenty and too well-dressed to be vagrants, had already done some

damage. Oscar's licorice lay trampled in the dirt at his feet
.

It couldn't be the first time he'd been mocked for his childlike slowness, but the Haven

sheltered and protected him from such abuse. His eyes swam with tears. He would

have made two of any of the boys, but he was heavily outnumbered. He didn't know

how to defend himself against such an assault
.

"Come on, you big dummy!" one of the pack bellowed. "Can't you fight at all? Or is your

brain the size of a walnut?" The others joined in his raucous laughter
.

Quentin dropped the sack of flour and started down the stairs. The men on the porch

made no move to interfere. If they had planned to incite the bullies in their game, they

thought better of it now and remained silent
.

One of the bullies feinted toward Oscar, shouting and whistling, while another played at

bear-baiting with a stick. Oscar flailed with one big hand and knocked the stick away. A

boy, watching for his chance, maneuvered behind him and landed a punch to Oscar's

backside
.

With a howl, Oscar spun around, lashing out at his attacker. By simple good fortune, his

fist connected with the boy's face. Blood spurted, and an explosion of dust shot into the

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air as the bully landed on his bottom. Oscar staggered back, not understanding what

he'd done. The boy screamed in pain and rolled on the ground, clutching his broken

nose
.

All at once the rest of the boys flung themselves on Oscar, wolves pulling down a great

bull elk. But no wolf would behave as cruelly as these humans did. Dust rose in choking

waves; the smell of blood from the bully's nose filled Quentin's nostrils. He waded into

the melee and thrust the boys aside with measured swipes of his arms, making a

deliberate effort to leash his strength. The ringleader had pummeled Oscar to his knees,

his blows striking past Oscar's upraised arms
.

It was Oscar's blood that spilled now. The odor was maddening. Quentin lifted the bully

by his collar, dangling him in midair like a pup held by the scruff of its neck in its

mother's jaws. The boy's contorted face was the last thing he saw clearly
.

Rage. Searing, mindless rage filled him. It turned his vision red and his reason to utter

chaos. Shouts came to him distantly—adult cries of alarm and warning and threat. He

ignored them like the squawks of so many cowardly birds
.

Vultures, waiting for the carcass. Scavengers ready to attack anything too weak to

resist
.

They'd hurt Oscar. Hurt him

"Quen'in?" Someone tugged on his arm. His gaze focused on Oscar's tear-streaked,

upturned face. "I'm scared. I want to go home!”

Something in that woebegone voice reached him as nothing else could. He opened his

hand and let the bully boy fall. Like a terrified rodent, the boy scuttled away
.

What is happening to me?

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His mind cleared, and he realized that he hadn't lost himself. He remembered: the rage,

the desire to hurt. He hadn't gone anywhere near the saloon
.

Sick fear gathered in the pit of his belly. He took Oscar by the arm and pulled him

toward the buggy. Motion surged at the edges of his sight, townspeople curious and

angry and ready to blame Oscar for what their own children had done. Blame Quentin

as well
.

Oscar scrambled up into the seat, unable to hide his terror. "Come on!" he sobbed.

"Quen'in—”

"Loonies!" a man yelled. "Go on back to the madhouse!”

Quentin climbed in and took the reins. He saw with a start that the buggy's boot already

held the sacks and crate from the store. The storekeeper edged up to the buggy, one

eye on the growing crowd
.

"I saw how it happened," the storekeeper whispered
.

"I've loaded up your supplies. I know the Doc's good for it. You'd better leave now.”

"Thank you," Quentin said. "I'll remember your kindness.”

"Don't judge us all by these few," Piccini said. His fleshy face grew sad. "My sister was

never right after she had her last baby. Folks are too quick to cast out those who are

different. But you might want to warn the Doc not to let that woman—Irene—come into

town for a while, until things settle down.”