Shadow on the Moon (10 page)

By the time the coffee deepened to
a full-bodied brew, he had decided no harm could come if she continued reading.
He reached for a couple of enamel cups. "Would you like some?" he
asked.

She nodded glumly. "Just
black."

A few minutes later, he carried the
coffee to the bed, handed hers over, and sat in the chair. She circled her
hands around the cup, rubbing them back and forth, apparently for warmth. When
she lifted her arms to take a sip, the thin, waffled fabric of her thermal
shirt tightened around her high breasts and revealed the nubs of her
cold-hardened nipples.

Lord, she was beautiful. Her green
eyes stood out in startling contrast against her tanned face, and her dark hair
tumbled everywhere, brushing her cheeks and her slender shoulders. Her legs
were folded around her body with the gracefulness only a slim, toned woman
could achieve. Morgan felt a surge of intense lust. He hadn't touched a mortal
woman in that way since before the night of his transformation, and need was
suddenly strong in him.

He dared not let this happen. To
risk this woman, when he'd just found her

But he leaned forward, regardless,
and traced a finger down the curve of her cheekbone. The skin beneath was
smooth and firm.

"I'm sorry it distresses you,
but I don't control the weather."

Her eyes widened in question,
whether from his touch or his comment, Morgan couldn't say. She parted her full
mouth, wrapped her hand around his finger. He felt an erection push against his
zipper, aching to be released.

"I really must leave today,
Morgan."

"I know you think so." He
pulled back his hand, took a swallow of coffee, and wondered if she knew he
exaggerated the difficulties of getting back to her vehicle. She was, after
all, familiar with rugged country. But only four more days remained. If he
could keep her here win her love

"Does that mean you won't let
me leave?" she asked accusingly, narrowing her eyes.

The question pricked a tender spot
Morgan thought had callused over long ago. His lust vanished instantly. For a
moment there, feeling the human male's affection, the human male's need for a
woman, he'd also felt his humanity return. Now all she'd left him was a wolf's
instinctive need to hide its wound.

"Let you leave?" He rose
from the chair and glared down at her, gratified when she flinched subtly.
"I have nothing to do with the weather. But if you want to blame me, feel
free. What do I care?"

He stomped to the stove and
refilled his cup. As he watched the steaming brew spill out of the pot, he
realized with a start that this was no way to win a woman's love.

Chapter Eight

"Oh, sweet Jesus!"

Several of Schumacher's officers
were emptying their guts on the ground. Others swore or cried out in shock. The
captain's own stomach jumped wildly and he struggled to keep his breakfast
down.

He nearly lost the battle when he
saw the hand with the gold ring still encircling one finger. Tearing his eyes
away, he retched when he saw another object, tasted bile.

Dear God, that was a man's thigh!

"Deek," moaned a man
doubled up near the edge of the clearing.

It was the Fishman. Schumacher
walked woodenly toward him, carefully keeping his eyes level, avoiding the
carnage around him. When he reached the wildlife officer, he glanced down
scathingly.

"Can't even hold on to your
guts long enough to do your job, can you?" Then he caught sight of a large
roundish object and his stomach lurched again. He whirled away in horror.

"It's Deek," choked out
the wildlife man. "Deek."

"Shut up!" commanded
Schumacher. Bad enough to see a dismembered hand or leg. But a man's head — all
frozen like that — with his terrorized eyes wide open in a blood-drained face. God
almighty, what had done this?

"Did you hear something?"
asked the helicopter pilot, who'd remained unnervingly composed.

Probably a Vietnam vet who'd seen
worse, thought the captain. He shook his head. He heard nothing but the
revolting heaves and gasps of his crew.

"Over there," the man
insisted, pointing to a cleft in a cliff.

Fishman sat up and wiped his face
with his sleeve. "Charlie. Maybe Charlie made it."

"Check it out,"
Schumacher ordered, feeling an intense desire to regain control. "Get up
and go with him, Fishman. If the other guy bought it, too, you can identify the
remains."

"Not sure my stomach can
handle that." Fishman got up anyway, but before he followed the pilot, he
said, "By the way, my name's Rutherford."

Schumacher felt a moment of grudging
respect. Not many men would chance finding a second friend in that condition.
He knew he should turn to his other men, provide leadership, but instead he
continued watching the two men. As they neared the opening, he finally heard
something.

"He-el-lp ."

Weak, very weak, but someone was
alive inside that crevasse.

"Stretcher," Schumacher
called out loudly. The entire team headed for the copter, leaving him alone
among the rock fingers, which he almost feared would suddenly come alive. A
fire pit in the center of the clearing gaped at him like an open hungry mouth.
He smelled death in the air, heard the shrill whine of the wind and the whir of
the distant helicopter, hated how they dulled a man's hearing.

Something evil had done this. And
it was still out there. Waiting. Watching. Was it even now—

"Captain," shouted the
pilot. "Over here."

Schumacher broke into a lope and
came across the men a few yards into the cleft, which he saw was actually a
path to the top.

"He's down there."
Rutherford pointed to a narrow drop-off in the path, where a man was wedged
into a crack far below.

"His ankle's trapped."

Schumacher turned to the pilot to
do what he did best, give orders. "Go hurry up the others."

"Yes, sir." The pilot
pointed at the sky. "Good advice. If that storm hits, we'll be trapped
here."

The look of sheer terror on the
man's previously implacable face was unmistakable and mirrored Schumacher's
own.

"Then tell them to move their
asses," he barked, nearly jumping when his command echoed off the rocks
around him.

The pilot took off.

Schumacher looked around, hunting
for one more thing to control and saw nothing but bloodstained earth and body
parts. He shuddered violently, then called after the retreating pilot.
"Have someone stuff those remains into a carcass bag."

"Not remains," corrected
the trapped man in a voice low with pain and anger. "That's Deek. Deek
Kowalski. He was my buddy. And some goddam monster tore him to shreds."

Schumacher swallowed his anger. It
would not look good to berate an injured man. Puffing up to his full five feet
and almost seven inches of height, he forced a sympathetic tone he was sure
would soothe. "Don't worry, son, we'll find those killer wolves and wipe
them off the face of this earth. Count on it."

"Yeah," Charlie replied
scornfully. Then, to Schumacher's shock, he let out a maniacal laugh. He was
still laughing when the men loaded him into the helicopter.

* *
*

"Would you like to help feed
the dogs?"

Dana turned from the sink and
smiled hesitantly, clutching an enamel bowl she'd been drying. While brooding
about Morgan's stubborn refusal to take her back to her car, she'd decided he
was one of those dour, depressed types. But ever since their disagreement he'd
acted almost cheerful, whistling occasionally as he dished up some of the
ever-present porridge and fried some bacon he'd pulled out of his
propane-powered refrigerator.

She'd been hungrier than she'd
thought, and she ate quite a bit, then offered to clean up afterward, all the
while wondering what had brought about this change in Morgan. Here he was,
surprising her again.

"You mean it?"

"You aren't a prisoner here,
Dana." He glanced at the window, which showed a bright morning already
fading. "But if you want to go, hurry. The storm I warned you about is
coming."

Dana put away the bowl and hurried
to the fireplace for the clothes she'd left there to dry.

As she headed to the bathroom,
Morgan said, "Those are still damp "

"I'll live. They're all I
have."

He studiously eyed her long frame,
which made her suddenly aware of her thin thermal shirt. She folded her arms
over her breasts. A grin tugged at Morgan's mouth but failed to break through.

"Maybe I can help you
out." He went into his bedroom and came out a few minutes later with a
down jumpsuit.

"Try this."

 
Dana pulled the suit on and zipped up.

"Hardly a fashion
statement," Morgan said. "But it should do."

"No biggie. I’ve never been
much for fashion."

Then she glanced down and did a
double take. The suit puffed out around her ankles and wrists and hung in loose
folds down her body. She looked like a walking sleeping bag.

"Wow! If I wore this in
public, I'd get arrested for sure."

"Sorry. There's no assortment
of sizes."

Morgan grinned as Dana waddled to
her boots. When she shoved aside the excess fabric in order to sit on the
stool, he gave out a chuckle. Dana instantly felt foolish, and a flush came to
her cheeks.

"For what it's worth," he
said, "I think you look kind of cute."

Although Dana questioned his
judgment, his remark made her feel better. She picked up a boot and began
tugging it on. "At least I won't get cold, which I'm sure will keep Dr.
Wilder happy."

"Glad you're thinking of
me." His grin widened, and he bent to pick up a set of the metal
snowshoes. "These will make the going easier than it was last night. Hmm,
I could swear there was another pair in here."

Dana looked up warily as he
searched, knowing he was seeking the pair she'd hidden. Now that she'd overcome
the shock of his mood change, she rather liked his smiles, liked hearing him
laugh. If he noticed the adjustments she'd made to the snowshoe settings, he
would realize what she had in mind, and his dour side would undoubtedly return.

"Why do you have so
many?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

"Oh, trying this, trying that
. . . Here they are."

Dana's heart skipped a beat as he
examined them.

"How about that? These might
fit you just like they are." He bent and slid them across the wood floor.
"Try them."

Dana latched them on, giving out a
surprised exclamation when they turned out to be a perfect fit. He looked quite
pleased, obviously fooled by her reaction.

"That's a nice set. With those
straight edges you won't be tripping over your feet." He grinned again.
"Too bad I can't say the same for the snowsuit."

Dana was so relieved she hadn't been
found out that she gave a giddy laugh.

"Strong willed. Bright. Laughs
at my jokes. What a woman."

"Do you have a
checklist?" she teased.

"I used to, back when . .
." He gave his attention to inspecting the other set of metal snowshoes,
cluing Dana that the subject was closed. She stood up to get her parka and
gloves.

"Don't walk on the floor with
those," he said a bit sharply. Then his tone softened. "It scratches
the wood."

"Yeah." She leaned over,
unlatched them, and stepped out. "My dad used to say the same thing. I was
always forgetting."

"In Minnesota?"

"Montana."

"Right. Montana."

The refrigerator generator began to
hum.

Water drip-drip-dripped as it fell
into a pan from the slightly open pump. Dana looked at Morgan. He looked at
her.

They both looked away.

"You ready?" She made a
big deal over pulling on her gloves.

"Soon as I get the pail."
He pulled a huge galvanized bucket from a spot between the stove and the sink.

"What do you feed them?"
She was having difficulty meeting his eye. "Must be hard getting dog food
this far up."

"Venison. I have a smokehouse
outside." His gaze wandered around the room, studiously avoiding her.

"Yeah? Hey, that's
great."

"It works."

Morgan tucked both sets of
snowshoes under his arm, grabbed the bucket, then opened the door. Dana
followed him down the steps, and as they secured their latches, she thought of
the odd moment before, glad it had passed so quickly. She'd never met a more
mercurial man. Not that she'd spent much time in close quarters with any man
but her father, who'd been as steady as a rock, but even with her limited
experience, she knew Morgan was unusually moody.

She remained silent as they moved
over the virgin snow, breaking the quiet day with the shuffle of their
snowshoes, which were nearly lost beneath the windswept powder. Everything
looked different in the daylight, and Dana now saw that Morgan's cabin was
tucked into a semicircular nook of dense junipers, pines, and bare-leafed
birch.

The rising sun behind them kissed
the tips of the trees and danced in a swirling expanse of snow that went off to
the west. The white ground undulated like a restless sea and at first seemed to
go on forever, but as Dana lifted her gaze, her eyes came to rest on a sudden
drop-off. Pointing in that direction, she looked at Morgan.

"What's over there?"

They had just reached a small
building with smoke coming from a small metal flume, and Morgan reached for the
latch before answering. "Ebony Canyon."

"We're on the rim of the
canyon?"

He nodded, pulling at the
smokehouse door.

"Good Lord, Morgan. That's
over fifteen miles from where I crashed. How on earth did you get me up
here?"