Secret of the Wolf (3 page)

inheritance had been a godsend. Upon his death, Rutger Schell had left his brother the

greater portion of his unsold vineyards at the head of the valley, a sizeable house, a fruit

orchard, and several acres of wooded hillside. It had seemed sufficient to keep them all

comfortable for many years
.

But Johanna had miscalculated. Without families paying for the support of patients,

without her father's practice, the money went too quickly. First she had sold the outlying

vineyards, then the ones closer to the house. Now only the orchard, two acres of vines,

and the woods remained. She had little else to sell. They grew much of their own food,

but some they had to buy. And there were other necessities
.

She smoothed her worn skirts and rejected the self-pity of a sigh. She would simply

have to find a solution to the money problem

or trust that one would appear in time,

as Uncle Rutger's inheritance had come so providentially just after Papa's attack
.

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Finding the landscape an inadequate distraction, Johanna removed one of the

European journals from her valise, unfolded her spectacles, and began to read. Charles

Richet's work—quite fascinating, though she could see he was missing the profound

healing potential in the new science of hypnosis

A light touch on her shoulder woke her from her trance
.

"Silverado Springs, ma'am," the conductor said, tipping his hat. "Last stop.”

"Of course. Thank you." Johanna smiled and tucked the book back in her valise. She

was the last passenger to leave the train. No one had evinced much interest in a plain,

spinsterish woman* absorbed in a massive volume, and that suited her very well
.

Of course, the people in Silverado Springs itself knew somewhat more of her. Like all

small towns, even one prone to the visits of the more worldly health-seeking patients

from San Francisco, residents of the Springs made it their business to know the habits

of everyone in the vicinity. A woman doctor was certainly a novelty wherever she went
.

"That hen medic," was the worst she'd been called—within her hearing. As she

descended the steps from the platform and entered Washington Street, the central

avenue in Silverado Springs, she could feel the stares of the idlers hanging about

Piccini & Son's general store and Taylor's livery stable
.

There was scant harm in them. She had encountered much worse in medical school,

both in Pennsylvania and in Europe. She had long ago dismissed any doubt that she

should not be a physician merely because of her sex

let others think what they might.

Her father's opinion alone was the one that mattered
.

Had mattered
.

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She adjusted her grip on the valise, passing a family of well-dressed tourists in town to

take the waters. Though Silverado Springs was past its prime as a resort, it still had its

share of summer visitors, who set up temporary living quarters at the Silverado Springs

Hotel. There they could enjoy the warm weather, bathe in mineral springs, and gaze up

at the great, bald-topped bulk of Mount St. Helena looming to the east
.

She strode north among the neat frame houses of the town's residential section. It was

a brisk four-mile walk to Der Haven, one Johanna was well accustomed to. She made

her way back to the main, unpaved road, which ended just a little north of Silverado

Springs, then continued crosscountry along a wagon path that pointed the way to the

small farms clustered where the hills came together to close off the valley
.

The Haven was one of the most isolated houses. It was that isolation that made

Johanna feel her patients were safe from the prying eyes of the townsfolk
.

The very potent sunshine on this particularly warm day in July almost tempted Johanna

to remove the pins from her hair and let it fall. No one was liable to see her. But she

resisted the impulse and increased her pace
.

Surely Papa would be fine. She'd be glad to see him, nonetheless, glad to be back in

charge and with everything under her personal guidance. Irene had been on good

behavior two days ago; she hadn't made May cry in a week
.

Lewis, the former Reverend Andersen, was in the midst of one of his low periods, not

likely to disrupt the household with his talk of sin and his devotion to excessive

cleanliness. Oscar was seldom any trouble. And Harper was

Harper, silent and

unresponsive as usual. She wasn't about to give up on him
.

On any of them
.

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The toe of her scuffed boot connected with something long and solid lying in the grass.

She caught her balance and looked down
.

A man lay there, sprawled insensibly on his stomach, most of his body hidden by the

tawny grass. It was his shoulder she'd kicked, but he wasn't apt to have felt it. His face

was turned away, but she knew he was unconscious
.

She knelt beside him and felt for his pulse. It was thready, but regular. The man himself

had a lean, tall build and reddish-brown hair. His clothing was that of a gentleman and

had seen hard wear; it was dirty and torn. It also stank of alcohol
.

Another inebriate. She'd had her fill of that last night. Compressing her lips into a firm

line, she carefully rolled the man over
.

The first thing that struck her was his handsomeness. His face was the very epitome of

an aristocrat's: clean, strong but finely drawn, as if designed by a sculptor bent on

depicting the ideal male. His long-fingered hands were tanned from the sun. His lips had

a mobile look, even in stillness; his eyelashes were long, his brows slightly darker than

his hair, lending strength of character to his features
.

Strength he clearly didn't possess, if he'd gotten drunk enough to be lying here. She

didn't recognize him from any of the nearby farms or from town
.

A stranger. A vagrant. A drunkard somewhat less brutish than the one in Vallejo.

Someone who might possibly require her help
.

If he'd accept it. And while he remained unconscious, she had no way of transporting

him to the Haven. She'd have to get home and harness Daisy to the buggy. If she were

very fortunate, he might come to his senses and be gone before she returned
.

Just as she was getting to her feet, he opened his eyes
.

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They were the color of cinnamon, a light reddish-brown to match his hair. They seemed

to stare at nothing. His breath caught and shuddered, as if he'd forgotten how to

breathe
.

"Are you all right?" she asked. "Can you hear me?”

His body jerked, and he lifted his head with obvious effort. She could see his eyes focus

on her, the blurred confusion gradually replaced by stunning clarity
.

For an instant she thought she knew those eyes. Then the moment of familiarity

passed, and he spoke
.

"You

" he croaked. "You're

in danger.”

It wasn't in Johanna's nature to laugh in such circumstances. She crouched beside him.

"I?”

"Evil," he said. His eyes began to unfocus again. "Evil—you must

be careful—”

She touched his forehead. It was damp with sweat, warm but not feverish. If he were

experiencing delirium tremens, his symptoms ought to be more extreme. His speech

would imply some sort of hallucination

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was paralyzing in its strength. "Listen—" he said. His

eyes widened in terror, and abruptly his fingers loosened, freeing her hand and leaving

it numb. She shook it several times, concentrating on bringing her own pulse back to a

normal speed. Her brief fear was totally without justification; he was in no state to be a

danger to anyone
.

A quick evaluation of his condition indicated that he was unconscious once again. With

a renewed sense of urgency, Johanna made him as comfortable as possible. She had

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nothing to put over him but the short mantle she'd taken with her to San Francisco. It

barely covered his shoulders
.

"I will come back for you," she said, knowing he couldn't hear. "It won't be long.”

She strode the remaining mile to the Haven in record time. When the whitewashed

fence that ran along the perimeter of the orchard came into view, she released the

breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The branches of the trees, like the

grapevines in their neat rows, were hung with ripening fruit, but she had little thought to

spare for their bounty
.

The Haven was a large, rambling one-story house, constructed of wood and stone with

a broad porch bordering three sides. It looked exactly like the refuge she called it,

friendly and inviting and lived-in. She half-expected several of the "family" to be waiting

on the porch to greet her. But it was Oscar alone who rose from his seat on the stone

steps, waving his big hand and grinning from ear to ear
.

"Doc Jo!" he said, lumbering toward her. "You're back!”

She noticed at once that the young man's shirt was misbuttoned, and he'd forgotten to

wear his braces, so that his trousers fell loosely about his hips. Otherwise he clearly

hadn't suffered in her absence
.

"Good day, Oscar," she said, taking his outstretched hand. "How is everyone?”

"Good," he said, nodding vigorously. "Only we missed you.”

"As I missed you.”

"What was the city like? Were there lots and lots of people?”

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"A great many, Oscar. But I can't tell you all about it now. First I need your help.”

Immediately his guileless face grew wide-eyed and solemn. "I'll help you, Doc. Just tell

me what you want me to do.”

She patted his arm. "We must go and rescue someone who is ill. I'll need your strength

to lift him.”

He puffed out his broad chest. "I can do it.”

"I know you can. I'm going to harness Daisy to the buggy, and then we'll be on our way.

Could you take my valise inside, and tell the others we'll be back shortly?”

Oscar took the valise, lifting it as if it were filled with nothing but air, and trotted back to

the house. Johanna crossed the yard to the small pasture just beyond the barn and

fetched placid, reliable old Daisy, who tossed her head in greeting and allowed herself

to be harnessed without a single mild protest
.

If only human beings were so cooperative
.

Oscar was waiting for her by the gate, nearly bouncing in his eagerness. He handed her

up into the driver's seat and plopped down beside her, jostling the carriage with his

weight. Johanna urged Daisy into her fastest pace
.

The man was still lying where she'd left him, but his condition was considerably worse.

Instead of resting quietly, his lean body was shaking with unmistakable tremors. He'd

flung her mantle off into the grass
.

Delirium tremens. She had no doubt of it now. He could become very dangerous if he

began to hallucinate again. She was profoundly grateful for Oscar's dependable

strength
.

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"This man is very sick," she told him. "We have to take him to the Haven to get well.”

Oscar wrinkled his nose. "He stinks!”

"Yes. We'll have to clean him up later." She knelt beside the stranger and took his pulse

again. It was racing. He might come out of unconsciousness at any time
.

Her hand brushed a bulge beneath his coat, and she felt underneath. A heavy leather

pouch hung from a strap over his shoulder. She opened the flap at the top. The purse

was bursting with coins, both gold and silver, and a tightly rolled wad of bills. A great

deal of money indeed, especially for a man who should have been robbed long since
.

She closed his coat. "We'll put him in the back of the buggy," she said to Oscar. "Can

you lift him gently, by the shoulders, while I take his feet?”

Oscar did as he was asked, taking great care to be gentle. The inebriate was heavier

than his frame would suggest; there must be solid muscle behind it. Johanna had lifted

or restrained her share of male patients in her time; she remembered Papa's indulgent

pride in her sturdiness. "My Valkyrie," he'd called her
.