Secret of the Wolf (36 page)

Quentin read them through without stopping, every line, until he understood the cause

for Johanna's apprehension
.

No proof, of course. Only speculation, the pleas of a frantic mother, the implications

behind a young girl's bizarre behavior. Behavior that had changed when she was left

alone to heal
.

Only to be reawakened when she met her father face-to-face
.

The sound of crumpling paper drew Quentin's unfocused stare to his hands. He'd

crushed the sheets into balls in his fist. Releasing a shaky breath, he smoothed the

paper flat on the desk
.

No matter. Johanna would know someone had been rummaging about in her private

papers, and it wouldn't take her long to determine the culprit
.

Quentin reassembled the notes and restored them to their place in the box. The tight

sickness in his chest was abating, replaced by the cold, metallic sting of compulsion. He

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left the room, and the house, in a body most would have mistakenly called human.

No one stirred on the grounds of the Silverado Springs Hotel. The staff had retired, the

guests were asleep, and the night clerk was completely inattentive to werewolves on the

prowl. Quentin easily slipped past him and found the register that listed Mr. Ingram's

room
.

He didn't know why he was here. He had ceased to think clearly from the moment he

put Johanna's notes away. The fog in his mind had become so familiar that he hardly

questioned it
.

Tonight it drove him to the doors of the hotel's best suite. But the occupants behind

these doors were not sleeping. He could hear the creaking of furniture, the whispers,

the guttural laughter
.

A man and a girl. He'd heard such whispers before
.

His urge to kick down the door subsided as quickly as it came. He retraced his steps to

the lobby and out into the night, circling the hotel until he located the suite's windows,

open to the cool air
.

Why should a man like Ingram bother to take precautions against intruders? What had

he to fear? Quentin vaulted over the windowsill, avoiding the clutch of heavy draperies.

He found himself in a darkened parlor only a room away from the voices—louder now,

the man's whispering more insistent, the girl's strained
.

He crept to the connecting doorway and looked through
.

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The girl could not have been more than fourteen, her maid's skirts bunched up around

her thighs as she sat on Ingram's knee. She could have passed for much younger. She

squirmed and leaned away from him as he nuzzled her cheek
.

"Don't pretend you're innocent," he said, running his hand over her stocking. "I know

you want it.”

"Please, sir," she said. "I have to get home.”

He chuckled. "Don't you want the sweet I promised you? It's right here in my pocket—”

Quentin's legs gave way. He caught himself against the wall, doubling over with dry

heaves. The nausea and rage within him were such that he knew with sudden clarity

what would happen if he walked through that door
.

He flung back his head and howled
.

Ingram's startled oath was muffled by the girl's scream of terror. Quentin crouched

beside the window, waiting just long enough to hear the suite's outer doors slam and the

girl's running footsteps down the hallway. Then he turned and leaped back through the

window, his thoughts intent on one thing only
.

Drink. Inebriety. Intoxication. The complete and total annihilation of all thought and

feeling in the tender care of a bottle of whiskey. Even at this hour the Springs Saloon

would still be open for business
.

"He hasn't come hack, has he?" Johanna turned at the sly insinuation in Irene's voice,

letting the curtain fall from her hand. The rutted lane that led to the Haven's gate was as

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empty in late afternoon as it had been since early morning. Quentin was still missing,

nowhere to be found in the house or the orchard or vineyard, not even in the woods

where May had sought him when he'd failed to appear for lunch
.

"It's so touching to see you worry over him," Irene cooed. "Just like the faithful wife.”

The words struck more surely than any other insult Irene could concoct. Johanna

stepped away from the kitchen window and met Irene's arch stare. "He is my patient, as

you are. In fact, I have been neglecting you, Irene. I apologize.”

"Don't apologize. I haven't had to listen to your boring speeches." She sat down at the

kitchen table, draping her body over the chair in a languorous pose. "But it doesn't really

matter, after all. I won't be stuck in this place much longer.”

Johanna had heard this many times before, but for the past week Irene had been

uncommonly quiet, even retiring—at least until last night
.

Now she wanted to talk, and Johanna knew that she ought to take advantage of the

opportunity. The other patients had all been seen today; merely waiting around for

Quentin was a waste of valuable time
.

Yet she was haunted by the fear that his absence was permanent. She'd told him of her

plan to find another doctor for him, abruptly and without adequate explanation, chill as

an alpine winter. Why should he stay, if she gave him no reason to do so?

She diverted her attention to the situation at hand. "Would you care to join me in my

office and discuss it?" she asked Irene. "I'd very much like to try another hypnotic

session, if you are willing.”

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"How predictable you are." Irene yawned. "Predictable, and stupid. You're so busy

prying into people's heads that you don't even know what's happening right under your

nose.”

Johanna knotted her hands behind her back. "Would you care to enlighten me?”

"Why should I? You've always been so cruel to me." The older woman's eyes sparked

with pleasure in her perceived power. "You've enjoyed torturing me. Well, now the shoe

is on the other foot.”

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean.”

"Always that superior tone, as if you don't feel anything." Her voice began to shake. "Oh,

yes, the great doctor. Just like God. So smart, so sure. Everything is so clear and easy

for you. You look at people as if they were specimens in jars, and you can arrange them

any way you like.”

"Irene—”

"I'm sick of you and your hypocrisy! You're a whore underneath your starched collars. I

know that you want Quentin Forster. But he won't have you, will he?”

White-hot anger bolted through Johanna. Irene shouldn't be affecting her this way
.

"Go ahead, hit me again," Irene hissed. "I know you want to.”

Johanna unclenched her fist and spread her hand on the table. "No, Irene. I realize that

you're suffering. If you'll only allow me to—”

"You can't help me." The storm passed, leaving Irene panting and strangely rational.

"But sometime soon you're going to find out what it's like to be helpless while other

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people take everything away from you, and there won't be anything you can do about

it." She swept to the door. "As for Quentin," she threw back over her shoulder, "I saw

him head for town late last night—after he was in your office going through your

papers.”

Johanna absorbed Irene's words. Quentin going through her papers? She wasn't

shocked at the idea that Irene had done so, and had considered locking her office after

the woman's outburst last night. But Quentin—

What had he said? "If it concerns May's well-being, it concerns me as well.”

If he'd gotten into Johanna's notes about May, he would have read of her suspicions.

And if he'd gone into town

She nearly knocked over her chair in her haste to get up. She hurried to her room,

changed her clothes and shoes, looked in on her father, and went out to the barn. No

time to harness Daisy to the buggy
.

May and Oscar were half-heartedly mucking out the cow's stall as she plucked the old

sidesaddle off its stand. Oscar put down the shovel to help her. May watched, her gaze

darting about and her expression pinched
.

"Where's Quen'in?" Oscar asked. "May and I can't find him.”

"That's what I hope to learn," Johanna said. She checked the girth strap and patted

Daisy's withers
.

"Are you going to town?" Oscar asked. "Can I come?”

"Not this time, Oscar." She smiled at May. "I'm going alone. I'd like you both to remain

here, in case Quentin comes back while I'm gone.”

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May's shoulders sagged with relief, and Johanna realized that she'd feared being forced

to return to Silverado Springs
.

Not while I'm here, Johanna thought
.

Or as long as Quentin was capable of interfering
.

"Quen'in didn't read to us today," Oscar complained. He sensed Johanna's worry even

though he didn't know the reason for it
.

Johanna positioned an old crate she used as a mounting block and swung up into the

saddle. "May, you're an excellent reader. Can't you read to Oscar this evening? I would

consider it a favor.”

May took a step toward her. "When will you be back?”

"No later than sunset. Can I rely on you to look after Oscar?”

May hesitated, glanced at Oscar, and nodded firmly
.

"Sehr gut." Johanna guided Daisy out of the barn, May and Oscar trailing after. She

waved good-bye and set off at a trot for town
.

Silverado Springs buzzed like a jostled hornet's nest. A far larger than ordinary number

of idlers stood on the street and porches, men and women who'd left their posts at store

counters and desks to gossip over some new and exciting occurrence. Heads turned,

as usual, when she rode in, but the stares lingered, and the hum of conversation stilled

in her wake
.

She didn't have to look far for someone to enlighten her. Bolkonsky stood under the

awning of Mrs. Sapp's dressmaking shop, deep in conversation with a man in an

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officious-looking suit. He glanced up, caught sight of her, and waved acknowledgment.

Johanna dismounted and tied Daisy to the nearest hitching post
.

Bolkonsky finished his conversation and came to meet her. His smooth, handsome face

bore the marks of recent strain
.

"How are you, Johanna?" he asked. "Well, I hope?”

She saw no purpose in polite chitchat. "What is going on here?”

"We had best find a more private place to talk.”

She folded her arms across her chest. "What has happened?”

"I'd thought you might have heard. Mr. Ingram was attacked and injured last night in the

hotel.”

"Attacked?" Her heart jumped. "By whom?”

"No one is sure—yet." He took her elbow and led her away from the prying eyes and

ears of the locals. "Ingram didn't see his face. One maid at the hotel said

but that can

wait.”

Johanna remembered to breathe. "How badly is he injured?”

"He suffered a broken arm and a large collection of bruises. It could have been much

worse, according to his report. But he was able to defend himself, and his attacker fled.”

"A robbery?”

"Nothing was taken.”

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"I assume the authorities have been called in," she said. "Why was he attacked, if not in

the course of a theft?”

"That is the question." Bolkonsky pursed his lips. "That is what the entire town is

discussing. Apparently this has never happened before in Silverado Springs; it has

deeply upset the residents. Since Ingram is a stranger here, no one can determine a

motive for such an attack. And some of the speculation—" He stopped her and looked

deep into her eyes. "It involves you, or more specifically, your patients.”

Johanna forgot to breathe again. "What do you mean?”

"Some say—you know how these ignorant, small-town folk can be—that one of your

patients might have come to town and attacked Ingram.”

"That is ridiculous." She stepped back and turned in a small, agitated circle. "None of

the Haven's residents would have done such a thing. When has any one of them ever