Terry Spear’s Wolf Bundle (65 page)

She prayed she and Michael could return to their cabin on the coast and weather the storm like their grandparents had. Only this time, she feared her prayers would go unanswered.

The look Michael cast Tessa pleaded for her to save him from this nightmare. He appeared pale and gaunt in his black suit, the same one he’d worn to his last art exhibit in Portland. How had their lives turned so upside down?

She, who had always gotten her younger brother out of scrapes since their parents had died five years ago, felt like an avalanche was crushing her heart. She’d spent all her savings and some of their inheritance trying to prove his innocence and only wished the rumors that gold was buried on their property was true—and that
she
could find it—to use to help save her brother.

She let out her breath. Michael
was
innocent.
Damn it.

God, please,
oh please
, find him not guilty. Set him free.

“Michael Anderson, on the count of first-degree murder of Bethany Wade, the jury finds you guilty.”

Barely audible, the words melded and faded. The breath she’d been holding whooshed from Tessa’s lungs, and her head grew fuzzy. The bright lights in the courthouse blinked out.

The next thing she knew, her head was resting in a stranger’s lap and a man and woman were shaking her. “Miss Anderson? Miss Anderson?”

Her mind cleared and she looked around at a sea of
concerned faces. Her heart began racing again.
Guilty.
The jury had found her brother guilty.

The police were escorting her brother from the room in handcuffs.

She hurried to mouth the words, “I love you, Michael. I’ll get you out.”

His green eyes filled with tears, he gave her a slight nod. He knew she would try. No matter what, she’d exhaust every avenue before she let her brother rot in prison for the rest of his life for a crime he didn’t commit.

A new lawyer, new evidence, appeals. Where could she find a good lawyer to start all over again?

Her heart encased in ice, she realized the only way to prove him innocent was to find the real murderer. Unfortunately, in the Oregon coastal community, the sheriff believed in only one suspect, Michael. Now that the jury found him guilty, no way was the sheriff’s department going to look any further into the matter.

Her family’s home, the townspeople, the community—all the things she held dear since her parents perished—now meant nothing. No one she knew had sat with her to offer solace during any part of the trial. She felt betrayed, isolated from those who had been her friends.

She stumbled to her feet. Her legs were like melted wax, but she clutched her purse and headed for the courtroom doors, her head held high. A weariness crept through her, as the adrenaline rush from her anticipation of the verdict fizzled into oblivion.

People quickly moved out of her way as if avoiding a communicable disease. Some of them watched her, their eyes narrowed in contempt, acting like
she
was
the reason for the crime in their once secure and sleepy little community.

A tall, thin man observed her from the other side of the room. His dark brown hair curling about his shoulders, the angular planes of his narrow face, the way his shoulders stooped forward, made him seem somehow familiar. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced at the exit. But when his gaze zeroed in on her again, this time she caught his eye. He quickly looked away as if he couldn’t decide what to do—approach and offer condolences or scowl at her, too.

Another of Bethany’s relatives? He might have been. She’d been dark-haired, too, and tall and willowy. Plus tons of her cousins from back east were here for the trial.

Bethany’s parents hesitated at the entryway as if wanting to say something to Tessa, but then, maybe thinking better of it, Mr. Wade quickly escorted his teary-eyed wife outside.

Tessa blinked back her own tears. But as soon as she left the courthouse, a lone newspaper reporter targeted her with a photographer in tow.

She groaned inwardly.
Rourke Thornburg.
Once an on-again/off-again boyfriend in high school who had tried to renew their relationship after she’d finished college and returned to the coast, now just an annoying waste of time.

As usual, his dark gray suit was impeccable and his manicured hair had not a strand out of place—making him appear like a big-time-news-reporter wannabe. From the high-school paper to this—his first big story in the coastal town—other than reporting the weather, new storm rolling onto the coast, or crab season’s arrival.

She hurried down the courthouse steps and headed for her Ford Escape, hoping to avoid the inevitable.

Like a used car salesman with the deal of a lifetime, Rourke dove in front of Tessa. “Any statements, Miss Anderson, now that the jury found your brother guilty of first-degree murder?”

Taking a stand, she drew taller and looked Rourke squarely in the eye. “My brother is innocent. He loved Bethany. The murderer thinks he got away with the crime, but I won’t give up until he or she has been brought to justice.”

She shouldn’t have said anything to the press. She knew it, but she couldn’t stop the words.

“Do you think the sheriff’s department is guilty of a cover-up?”

Out of the corner of her vision, she saw Sheriff Wellington watching her, his blue eyes hard as ice. “I think the sheriff only saw Michael’s involvement with Bethany, overlooking the possibility someone else was the killer. I wouldn’t say it was intentional.”

“How do you propose to find the real killer, supposing Michael is innocent?”

“You’ll be the first to know.” She squelched the tears, unable to offer anything close to the truth.

Rourke knew her better. However, she also realized he wouldn’t let go of the story. So what would he do? Report on her progress, sensationalizing her failures to bring the true murderer to justice to make a name for himself? She could see the report now:
Sister Seeks Killer to Free Her Brother. When Will She Recognize the Truth?

Rourke motioned to the cameraman to quit taking
pictures and walked Tessa to her car, his hand supporting her elbow.

She wanted to jerk away from him, to show she wouldn’t allow his attempt at placating her, but too many people were watching. For now, she had to be the proverbial pillar of strength for her brother. Anything less would show defeat.

“I know how upsetting this has to be, as much as you care for your brother, but the jurors were right.”

Without responding to Rourke’s remark, she unlocked her car door and climbed in. But then she reconsidered. Maybe, just maybe, she could solicit his help. Who else did she have? Nobody.

“If you really want to be a reporter, you might investigate this case yourself. Look at the guys who dug into the Watergate mess and how much dirt they uncovered. No one else did. Ever think you could put your talents to good use?”

A spark of interest flickered in his gray eyes, but he was far from being convinced. Like everyone else, Rourke believed Michael was guilty of the crime. End of story.

He leaned against her door and sighed. “All right. Here’s the deal. You and I can get together over dinner, and you can tell me what makes you believe Michael didn’t do it, other than the fact he’s your brother.”

“How about you look into it, and when you discover some other leads, you give me a call. Then we’ll do dinner.”

“Shrewd.” Rourke offered a coy smile. “Not one person could verify Bethany was seeing some other guy. Michael made up the whole story. No evidence points to anyone else.”

“Not if you don’t bother looking for it. Gotta go, Rourke. Later.”

Nearby, Sheriff Wellington gave her a warning look as if to say she had better not stir up any more trouble. Nevertheless, to prove her brother’s innocence, she’d do whatever it took.

Mist covered the winding coastal road on the long drive home, and although Tessa usually felt comforted by it, late this afternoon it seemed gloomy, warning of impending disaster. The last time she felt an overwhelming sense of doom, she had learned her parents had died in a car accident earlier on a day just like this one, her last year at high school. She shuddered, despite telling herself the disquieting feeling didn’t mean anything.

When she finally pulled into the curved driveway at her redwood home overlooking the rugged coastline, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. A winter-chilled breeze played music on her wind chimes as the contorted pines stretching next to her house stirred. She glanced at the gray clouds. As cold as it was, if it rained, it would turn to sleet or snow or a mixture of the two soon.

She climbed out of her car, shivered, and locked the doors. The place looked foreboding now that her brother was gone. Not the welcome refuge it had always been.

She hurried into the house, the air as chilly inside as it was out, and rushed to change in the bedroom.

After laying her wool coat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, she turned on the floor heater, and pulled off her black dress. Black as if she were in mourning. Which she
was all over again. The house seemed so empty without her brother’s presence, his laughter, the sound of his video games playing in the background as he fought another epic fantasy battle before he settled down to paint.

Now, except for the howling wind and the waves crashing on the beach down below the cliffs, everything was quiet. Too quiet in the isolated cottage. For the first time ever, she felt—spooked.

There wasn’t any other way to explain the reason goose bumps rose and the hair stood on end on her arms.

She kicked off her pumps, slipped out of her panty hose, threw on a pair of heavy socks, black denims, and a turtleneck. If she didn’t quit imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, she would lock herself in the house until the storm passed. She wasn’t normally a cowardly person, but she had never felt so alone before, like she’d fallen into a parallel world where she had no family or friends. And now even her good friend Uncle Basil was gone. But she couldn’t believe he’d leave so suddenly without a word. First chance she got, she was checking further into the matter.

An animal howled in the distance. A shudder stole down her back.
A wolf
. Had to be.

She peeked out the window, but didn’t see anything except tree branches swaying briskly in the growing wind.

She wanted to believe it was just a dog. But she knew better. Wolves from Idaho’s reserve had crossed the Snake River and were roaming the northeastern part of the state. Visitors to the Wallowa Mountains and the Eagle Cap Wilderness area had also reported sightings of wolves. She’d even snapped a picture of one near
La Grande and more recently, a hunter killed a wild wolf there. So why couldn’t a wolf have made it to the Oregon coast?

Despite there not having been any sightings, she was certain a wolf had been roaming the area. Worse, she couldn’t explain how she felt compelled to discover the truth, but on the other hand was afraid of learning any were living here. Neither her underlying fear of them or compulsion to seek them out made any sense to her. Except as she stalked them, she was sure they stalked her. Which was plain crazy. Or was it? She’d had more than one experience like when she’d been taking pictures of the California wildfire. A phantom gray watching her, waiting, an unnatural standoff between man and beast. And then the sudden unprovoked attacks.

She yanked on her snow boots. After slipping her favorite pink ski cap on her head, covering her hair, still pinned up in a bun, she threw on her parka and grabbed her gloves.

She had nothing to fear. Nothing—except the fact someone had murdered Bethany Wade, her brother was going to prison for it, and the real murderer was on the loose.

But worse than that?

She had challenged him—which would now be in the local newspaper, no less—that she would uncover who he was and clear her brother’s name.

She glanced at the bedside table where she kept her gun and took a deep breath. “Firewood, or else you’ll go without.”

If an ice storm knocked out the electricity, she would be in a world of hurt. A quick walk on the beach to gather driftwood for a fire would have to suffice. She
shouldn’t have put it off so long, but all she had thought of lately was how to get her brother cleared of the charges. She needed a new lawyer. Someone who was a lot more determined. And a new private eye, someone who would find something that would help Michael, instead of just running up a bill.

After locking the back door—although normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching the place—she traversed the narrow and steep path through the woods and boulders down to the small sandy beach below.

From one of the mills up north, lumber floating on the current piled up on the beach, littering it. No sense letting the wood go to waste. She shoved some over on its side and considered how wet it was.
Very
wet. All of it would take too long to dry. But if she didn’t hurry and the rain began, it wouldn’t matter what she gathered—the wood would
all
be too wet to burn.

She trudged through piles of seaweed—hating the smell and unsightly mess it made as the storms churned it up on the beach—and made her way around a cluster of boulders where she spied a stack of wood. Far enough from the tidewater, it would have had more time to dry.

Skirting around to the other side, she figured the timber would be the driest there. But what she saw next made her gasp and her heart nearly quit beating.

The body of a veritable Greek god lay naked on his stomach, his skin, slightly blue, stretched over tightly toned muscles, his dark, wet hair draped across his face, his eyes sealed shut.

Not dead. Please, don’t be dead.

B
EFORE
T
ESSA
REACHED
THE
MAN
LYING
DEATHLY
STILL
on the beach, certain he was dead, she thought one of his fingers twitched. Her heart went into overdrive.

Not dead. Ohmigod. He’s alive. Maybe.

She rushed forward and pulled him onto his back. Big. Naked. Blue—she reminded herself. And badly battered—his face, body, limbs.

She yanked off her glove and held his wrist. No pulse that she could feel, although her blood was running so fast, she figured it overrode feeling his pulse, if he had one. Not breathing, she didn’t think, because her warm breath was turning into puffs of smoke in the chilly air and there was none escaping his parted lips, full and sensual, but purple.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” She jerked her glove on, and then fumbled to remove her parka. Covering his torso with her heavy white coat, she tried to remember her CPR training. “Fifteen pumps to the chest. Breathe two times into his mouth. Then repeat. No, clear his passageway first.”

With hands trembling, she crouched next to his head. His wet hair dragged the sandy beach, his eyelids sealed shut. She tilted his head back and made sure nothing obstructed his airway. Moving back to his torso, she pushed the coat lower to expose his chest—muscled, sculpted, dark curly hair trailing down to her parka,
speckled with sand, the best shape she’d ever seen a man in close up—which meant he was too hardy to die on her. She prayed.

She pressed her gloved hands together against his hard chest and began compressions. Counting under her breath, she hoped to God he didn’t die on her. If the wind and cold weren’t bad enough, sleet began sliding down in gray sheets, crackling and covering everything in a slick icy sheen, plastering her turtleneck and jeans against her frigid skin. She worked harder, faster.

The blood pounded in her ears, blocking the sound of the wind and sleet and waves.

“Fifteen!” she shouted, and then moved closer to his head, yanked off her glove, and felt for any sign of a pulse in his neck.

No pulse, or so faint she couldn’t feel it. And no breath. He wasn’t breathing.

Her heart in her throat, she pinched his nose shut and leaned down to cover his mouth with hers. Before she could blow air into his lungs, his eyes popped open. Amber, intense, feral. Her mouth gaped.

With a titan grasp, he grabbed her wrists, flipped her onto her back and straddled her, the parka wedged between them as the weight of his body restrained her.

“No!” she screeched, right before he kissed her—pressed his frozen lips against hers, his mouth firm, wanting, pressuring with uncontrollable need—like a man used to dominating—sending her senses reeling.

Instantly, the cold left her, his body heating every inch of her to the core, her heart pounding. And in that moment, she wanted him—as insane as the notion was.

He lifted his mouth from hers and glowered at her for a second, his eyes smoky with desire. Speechless, she stared back at his chiseled face, the grim set of his lips, his dark silky hair curling down, dripping water on her cheeks. Then his fathomless, darkened eyes drifted closed and his tight grip loosened on her wrists.

“No!” she shouted, right before he collapsed on top of her in a faint, his dead weight pinning her to the beach.

“Hey!” she yelled, her hands on his shoulders, shaking him. “Wake up!” She couldn’t budge the muscled hunk, but if she didn’t revive him and get him to some place warm, he would die for sure. “Hey!
Wake
…
up
!” She pushed and shoved, trying to roll him off her. But he was too heavy—solid muscle and bone.

“Get…off…me!”

He moaned and lifted his head, his glazed eyes staring at her, his beautiful white teeth clenched in a grimace, but he didn’t seem to comprehend.

“Can you move? I’ll…I’ll take you up to my house and call for help.”

For the longest time—although it probably was no more than a second or two, but with the way his heavy body pressed against hers, it seemed like an eternity—he watched her.

Then he groaned and rolled off her onto his back. She hurried to recover him with the parka, yanked off her knit cap, and stretched it over his head. More heat was lost through the head than any other body part, she recalled hearing from a survival show. Odd the things that would come to mind in the middle of a crisis.

He observed her as the sleet continued to pelt them—an expression without feeling, icy cold like the
storm, a face devoid of fear, unlike the way hers probably looked.

“Okay, listen…we’re both going to catch our deaths here on the beach in this weather. We need to get you up to the house. Can you move?” She pulled on her glove.

His gaze drifted to her soaking wet turtleneck. But otherwise he didn’t move or speak. Tugging at him, she finally managed to help him sit. She slipped behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest with her body hugging his, braced with her knees, and tried to pull him up. She couldn’t budge him.

“You’ve got to help.” Her voice exasperated—not with him, but with herself—her frosty breath curled around his ear.

He finally leaned forward, pressed his hands against the sand, pushed himself up, and moaned. The sound of his pain streaked through her like a warning. He was in bad shape and could still die if she didn’t move fast enough, didn’t do the right things.

As soon as he stood, he grabbed hold of her shoulder and swayed.

Her heart lurching, she seized his free arm. He leaned hard against her, ready to collapse, and a new thrill of panic swept her. If he pulled her down with him, she’d be where she was before, trying to lift the veritable muscled mountain off the beach.

She hung her parka over his broad shoulders and wrapped her arm around his trim waist. “Okay, it’s not too far to climb.”

Although it
was,
considering the injured man’s shaky condition.

They stumbled up the rough path, and she glanced down at his poor feet, taking a beating on the icy rocks. Every step could be his last, she worried, while he clung to her as if his life depended on it.

Which it probably did.

When they reached the short path to her back door, she intended to rush him inside, call for help, get him warm—not necessarily in that order—but instead, she froze in place several feet away from the edge of the small brick patio.

The back door was standing wide open, the wind banging it against the house.

“I locked it,” she said under her breath. “I know I locked it.”

Despite the overwhelming panic that filled her, she had to get the injured man into the protective shelter of the house. With trepidation, she walked him the rest of the way, and once inside, she led him through the kitchen. No sign of an intruder. But her spine remained stiff with tension.

The injured man lifted his nose and smelled. He tilted his head to the side as if he was listening for the same thing she was—sounds of the housebreaker.

She hurried the man to the velour sofa where he collapsed in a ragged heap, his expression slightly dazed. She had to get him warmed up. But she had to make sure no danger could threaten them inside the house. Glancing toward the hall and the three bedrooms, she listened. No sound of anyone rummaging through any of the rooms.

Sleet continued to pour on the roof, the sound a loud roar, which could hide the presence of someone moving
around inside. She grabbed the wool afghan at the end of the couch and covered the injured man’s lap, the parka still draped across his shoulders and pink ski cap stretched tight on his head.

“I’ll turn on the heat and get some more blankets for you,” she said to him, without taking her eyes off the hallway to the bedrooms.

First, she was calling 911 and getting a knife for protection. She patted his shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She didn’t wait for his response. Instead, she hastened to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out her largest carving knife, although it was about as dull as her butter knives. Too bad she couldn’t get to her gun. With weapon in hand, she grabbed her phone, punched in 9–1–1, and lifted the receiver to her ear.
No signal.
She tried again.
Same thing.
Hell, what else could go wrong?

Shivering in her wet, icy clothes, she shut and locked the back door. When she turned, she gulped back a scream. The battered man was standing in her kitchen, looking even bigger, taller, nude again, and still blue. He moved as silently as the cat she had once shared the house with until it took off for parts unknown.

“My god, you need to rest on the couch and…and I’ll turn the heat on and…”

His indomitable gaze lowered to the knife in her hand.

Mouth dry, her heartbeat quickened. “I…someone broke into my house. I think.”

Without a word, he stalked off, his step more sure, although he had to be in terrible pain, as bruised and
beaten as he was. She followed him, her gaze shifting to his butt, firm, muscled perfection with every step he took. He glanced over his shoulder with a glower, but when he caught her checking out his derrière, his mouth curved up a hint.

Her cheeks on fire, she raised her brows and stood taller.

Realizing he couldn’t dissuade her from following him, he grunted and moved forward, checking out her brother’s room first. The navy velvet curtains flopped in the breeze, framing the shattered window. She sucked in the chilled air and stared at the jagged window, now a gaping hole into the black void outside. A shudder shook her to the center of her being. He could return anytime.

She examined the carpet closer. No glass, which meant the intruder had broken it from the inside, not outside to get in. This further meant he must have entered through the back door and hadn’t escaped that way like she was beginning to think.

The injured man crossed the floor to the window, peered into the dark, standing in the icy breeze as if he was made of pure marble and the cold couldn’t touch him. Then he turned, shaking his head slightly.

Her gaze dropped from his furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and the set of his grim mouth to his ruggedly sculpted abs, and then lower to the dark patch of curly hair at the apex of his sturdy thighs and his incredible…
size
.

Her eyes shot up. He was injured, for heaven’s sakes, and probably suffering from frostbite and a concussion. Yet, she swore lust clouded his eyes.

Ha!
More likely the onset of pneumonia.

“Let me, uhm, get you some of my brother’s clothes.”

She hurried into the closet, grabbed Michael’s fleecelined navy sweats and a pair of his sneakers, and exited. The man was gone. She glanced at the wind and sleet coming into the room, wetting the beige carpeting. Wishing she could tack something up in the meantime, she knew they didn’t have a shred of canvas. Although even if she did, it wouldn’t prevent the intruder from coming back in that way.

Clutching her brother’s things to her chest with one arm, the knife readied in her free fist, she rushed into the hall and nearly collided with the naked man. A gasp slipped from her lips before she could hide her unsettled reaction.

“You’re going to hurt yourself with that.” His words sounded husky and wearied. His colorless lips lifted slightly. “Or me.”

The way he said, “Or me,” sounded suspiciously like he didn’t believe she could hurt him. As wired as she was, her hands trembled with the notion she might have accidentally stabbed him.

His icy hand touched hers, almost reverently. Was he worried she was scared to be unarmed? She was more fearful that she might have caused him further injury.

Despite how cold they both were, his flesh sent a volley of warmth sliding through her, his eyes never straying from hers. Heat, passion, and a knowing look as though he could read the way she was feeling showed in the glint of his amber eyes. And then he slipped the knife from her grasp, his fingers leaving hers and the cold returned.

He had to be chilled to the marrow of his bones. She was and she wasn’t even nude in the icebox of
a house, although wearing wet clothes had to come in a close second for making a body cold under these inhospitable conditions.

“No one in any of the rooms,” he assured her, his voice cloaked in darkness, his gaze steady, penetrating.

Something unspoken tied them together, although she couldn’t sense what. The way he considered her as if she was important to him somehow—not as his savior exactly, but more like his…
captive
, his
prey.

Before her frozen mind made anything stranger of her reaction toward him, she shoved the sweats at his chest. “Here, get dressed and I’ll—”

“Turn on the heat?” He cocked an arrogant brow, his lips neutral.

One of her medieval romance novels could have featured him as a brooding, striking—albeit a bit battered—hero. Or the villain. What did she know about him, after all?

“I would have already,” she said, storming back down the hall, “if an intruder hadn’t been in the—”

“The electricity isn’t working.”

She stopped, turned, and stared at him. It would be dark soon. And even colder. Hell, she hadn’t even gotten one load of firewood from the beach yet.

Now, she was stuck in the middle of the ice storm with no electricity and no phone…
with
a total hunk of a stranger still standing in her hallway naked.

The man slipped her brother’s sweatpants on, but the corded muscles of his chest were exposed, his skin tan, no longer blue, but bruised and cut. He yanked the sweatshirt over his head. “I checked the heater while you were getting the knife. Light
switches, too. There’s no electricity.” He pulled on the pair of sneakers.

“Then I need to gather wood for the fire.” Tessa shuddered involuntarily, both from the cold and her wet clothes. But also from the fact she would have to trek back down the hill alone when the prowler might still be out there hidden in the woods, watching, waiting.

The injured man swept his hair back away from his chiseled face, the planes edged in marble. “You need to slip into something dry. I’ll get the firewood.”