The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan (14 page)

She pressed the call button.

Two minutes later, Sharon appeared in the doorway. “Hey trooper, how are we feeling?”

Catherine pursed her lips and exhaled. “Not good.”

Sharon swept to the bedside like an Angel gone to war, inspected her IV and pulled a syringe from her pocket, injecting the clear sorcery into her IV drip.

Catherine inhaled.

“There we go sweetheart. That’s better, yeah?”

Catherine smiled at her beautiful nurse, reaching for her hand. Then she smiled at John, who appeared directly behind her. Then she just smiled – at the lights, at the window, at the sound of gurneys being rolled down the hall. Then Catherine smiled at sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

John crept along the dirt road, meandering around potholes and divots at a creeping pace, careful not jostle his passenger. Catherine leaned against her passenger door, stiffening with each bump.

“I don’t know if I want to do this,” she said, unable to look at John.

“Don’t say that. You said you’d love to come home with me -”

“This isn’t about coming home with you, baby. It’s about surviving the murderous rage your grandfather’s gonna throw my way when he hears I’m back on his land.”

John chuckled to himself as they rounded another bend in the road toward his house. The ocean came into view, bright and blue today under a sunny sky, and the driveway to his house – filled with trucks and figures milling about.

“Oh my god, they’ve come to lynch me.”

“Oh, hush up, you,” John said.

John rolled his truck into the driveway, and the figures parted and pushed forward, coming toward the truck like it was about to sell them ice cream. Janice Fenn hustled toward the passenger side door, her lip trembling slightly as she tried to hide her emotion.

Janice tore open the passenger door. “Come on, sweetie! I got you, do you need help, honey?”

Catherine shook her head as Janice pulled in closer, offering her hands and her shoulder to help Catherine down from the truck. Catherine was on her feet before John even had a chance to get around the truck.

“Come on sweetheart. We’ve got everything set up inside for you.”

Catherine walked at a slow pace, letting Janice dote as Deacon Fenn stood just a couple feet away, grinning at her, raising an eyebrow at his mother’s behavior.

Catherine glanced around at other faces that were present, many only softly mirroring Janice’s comments of ‘anything you need,’ and ‘don’t worry about a thing.’ Uncle Terry was there with his kids, Gracie, Tiernan, and Kirk; and another couple faces she’d never met. Kirk was the oldest of John’s cousins – of the one’s she’d met in her lifetime, and he came forward to shake her hand. She smiled at him, her brow furrowed. Why was everyone being so damn nice all of a sudden?

The only face missing from this cavalcade of concern was Patrick Fenn, and her stomach turned at the thought of what would happen when he finally showed up.

“Mom. Mom! Let me get her up the stairs. Come on, Mom.”

“No! I got her. You go set the pillows on the couch. You want to go to the couch or to bed?”

Catherine swallowed as she lifted her right leg to step up the stairs and her abdomen screamed. “The couch would be fine.”

Janice managed to get her up to the door and inside John’s house. It smelled of a woodstove, and baked goods, a cinnamon broom tucked into the corner by the door.

Catherine was lowered onto the couch, each pillow shifted and reshifted until perfection was achieved by the doting mother of John Fenn. John stood by, waiting to have something to do. He offered up an expression to mirror Deacon’s. The expression read – welcome to the world of Janice Fenn.

Catherine leaned back, hissing gently as she did.

“Now, I’ve brought over some extra blankets for you, because the air gets a lot cooler out here by the water, and there’s a Lasagna and a Roasted Chicken in the fridge -”

“Mom, are you serious?” John asked, exasperated and excited at the same time as he took off for the kitchen.

“They’re for her, you shit!” She hollered after him, but John just moaned appreciatively from the kitchen. Catherine gave as much of a laugh as her pain would allow. “I also brought over a couple batches of my cookies. I wasn’t sure which kind you preferred, so I made with and without nuts.”

John whooped from the kitchen again, the sound of the cabinet doors slamming betraying his fervent search for the cookies.

“Now, you have my number, so when he starts to get on your nerves, you can call me. Any time, day or night. Ok? If you need anything.”

Catherine smiled at the woman. “I’ll be alright. I’m sure John can get whatever.”

“John is not to leave your side! You hear me young man?”

John appeared at the end of the couch, his mouth and his hands full of cookies.

He grimaced at her. “No army could get me away from her.”

Catherine’s face flushed at these words.

“Good,” Janice said, standing up beside the couch.

The older woman hovered there, fidgeting with her hands as though she felt she needed to do something more. Suddenly, Deacon appeared at her side.

“Come on, Mom. Let’s leave her be.”

Janice burst into tears. Catherine watched helplessly, but Deacon moved toward his mother, pulling her into him as he rest his cheek on the top of her head. John joined the embrace, and kissed her head as well.

“It’s okay, Mom. We’re okay.”

She sobbed, softly. “I know. It’s not enough. Catherine, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say Thank you. There’s just nothing I can do to say it properly.”

Catherine shook her head. “I didn’t do any -”

The room changed, instantly, stilling her words as John and his family turned to look at the doorway. Just his presence was enough to steal the air from the room.

Catherine swallowed, unwilling to turn and look at Patrick Fenn.

“I’m going to need a moment to speak with Catherine,” he said, and her stomach dropped so suddenly, her abdomen tensed. She flinched, but didn’t say a word.

Janice leaned down to Catherine, kissing her healing forehead before scuttling around the couch, led by Deacon. John didn’t move.

“Alone, Johnathan.”

John crossed his arms, standing in front of Catherine like a golem. Catherine couldn’t see Patrick, but she could hear him – and feel him – moving around the couch. When he finally came to stand in her line of sight, she wished he’d thought this a telephone worthy conversation.

I threatened to shoot this man the last time I saw him. Now I’ve got a bullet wound in my side. I wonder if this is a good example of irony,
she thought, trying desperately to calm herself as Patrick closed in.

“I’m not leaving, Gramps. It’s not happening.”

Patrick stared at him, his jaw set, twitching just enough to make his beard jump. Finally, Patrick turned to the armchair and sat down at the edge of it, his weight centered over his knees. He pulled it closer, coming to sit just in front of her, making it impossible for her to see anything but the massive shape of him.

“You’ve had a busy couple of weeks, girl.”

She held his gaze, nodding. She didn’t speak.

“It has come to my attention that the family I have lost were taken by one of your kin.”

“That isn’t fair,” John said, but Patrick simply held a hand up, quieting him.

Catherine frowned. Her mother came to the hospital with news of Grampy more than once. The police had ransacked her grandfather’s house, collected all of Bodie’s guns and belongings. What they found troubled everyone – locks of hair, bundles of fur, and his favorite hunting rifle from that night, the bullet pulled from Catherine’s side matching those pulled from the bodies of both Alison and Greg Fenn over ten years earlier. Catherine exhaled. “Yes.”

Patrick nodded, sagely. “And that both Deacon and John were tranquilized and held in your family’s shed.”

“Yes,” she said.

“You will permit me to admit that such an unfortunate connection gives me pause.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

His calm tone was almost twice as unnerving as when he yelled.

“God damn it, Gramps.” Patrick glared at John, but John didn’t back down. “This is bull shit!”

Patrick ignored John’s outburst, coming to set his eyes on Catherine, boring into her with slow precision. “Deacon tells me that bullet in your side was meant for him, is that correct?”

“It is,” John answered for her.

Patrick looked up at his grandson finally, his expression soft, but intent. “If you’re going to stay, for the love of God, do so silently. The last she and I spoke, I became very aware of just how well she can speak for herself.”

Catherine cringed. “Yes, sir.”

“And you know what we are?”

She licked her lips and nodded.

“And this does not bother you? The thought of loving a man of our kind?”

She took a deep breath. This was not the line of questioning she’d expected. “Even if it did, I’d still have no choice.”

“What do you mean?”

Catherine glanced at John’s feet, unable to look up at him. “I’ve been in love with him since I was fifteen. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.”

John shifted anxiously, as though he wanted to go to her, but he couldn’t, frozen by the magnitude of his grandfather’s presence.

Patrick Fenn sighed. “And what of your children?”

“What?” John and Catherine asked together.

“Your children. Our gift is a dominant gene. They will be shifters as well. Will you be able to love a child who is -”

“Though the subject of my future children is not yet anyone’s concern, I take offense that you would question my capacity for loving my own child.”

Catherine glared at him. The sheer mention of a baby, of her as a mother had shifted something inside her. She would let no man question her character that way.

Kick me off your land, she thought. Go right ahead. Son of a bitch.

“See. Told you she could speak for herself,” Patrick said, rising from his seat. “The Fenn family welcomes you. “

John visibly relaxed, exhaling.

Catherine startled at this. “Wait, really?”

Patrick nodded. “Deacon introduced me to your kin, Bennett. I’ve been made aware of the nature of his father – of the kind of man he was. It takes no little amount of courage to fight back against a monster when that monster is meant to be loved. I pity him for having to make that kind of choice.”

Catherine frowned. Patrick’s words were wise. If Bennett was ever going to be whole again, it was going to take some time.

“I will have Terry and Tiernan check in on your mother and grandfather – see that the house is put back to sorts. When you are well enough, we will have a supper here for them.”

John put up his hands to slow his grandfather’s retreat. “Whoa, Gramps. Slow down.”

Patrick shot a glare between them. “What? A wedding should be celebrated between both families.”

Catherine was so startled by this notion that she tried to turn, her abdomen screaming at her in response. “What wedding?”

“You want to live on my land and bunk up with my grandson in sin? That might be all the rage down in New Hampshire, but where I come from, when you love someone you damn well make it official.”

“Jesus! You think you could have let me breach that subject in my own time? What the hell?” John demanded following Patrick toward the door of the house.

“Hey! I took the pressure off you. You’re welcome!” With that Patrick was out the front door, his boots clomping across the wooden planks of the porch. “Congratulations! Heal fast, Miss Catherine. I’m not a patient man.”

A moment later, Patrick could be heard shooing Janice away from the door, demanding she leave John and Catherine in peace for the day.

John stood behind the couch, out of her sight. Catherine let the silence speak for her, unable to comment on this sudden strangeness left in his grandfather’s wake. She could proclaim his demands unreasonable, speak against the sexism of a forced marriage and demand they move, but she didn’t. She didn’t want John to know, but Patrick Fenn’s mention of a wedding made her heart leap. How could she be so sure about someone? So sure in so little time?

Little time, my ass, she thought. You’ve thought about him every day for ten years. There’s nothing little about how you feel about him.

John finally appeared at her side, dropping to his knees on the floor before her rather than jostle her on the couch. He took her hands. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t mind him, alright?”

She smiled. “He says I’m welcome.”

John grinned. “I know!”

“And all it took was my getting shot and nearly dying!”

John laughed, squeezing her hands before he kissed her knuckles. “He’s an easy man to please.”

They sat there a moment in silence, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks keeping quiet rhythm outside.

“What do you think? You in the mood for Lasagna or Chicken?”

The simplicity of this question threw her off. There was no weight to it beyond, ‘are you hungry?’ Every other thing in her life had been so laden with weight before – where will you live, is mom alright, who will take care of Grampy, was Bennett going to be ok, what the hell is John?

None of that mattered anymore. She knew where she would live; with John Fenn waking her each morning with his arms or his snores. Linda Calhoun was fine, moved into Grampy’s house to help him around the house, and to recover from the trauma of having Bodie Calhoun as a son. Grampy had come to visit her in the hospital several times, his clothes clean and his hair combed, his hands were even shaking less despite everything he’d been through. He walked with the lightened step of a person freed from purgatory. Mom’s demeanor was beginning to shift as well. John and Deacon’s promise of protection if ever she had trouble with Charlie didn’t hurt her sense of comfort, Catherine was sure. Though Bennett’s demeanor seemed heavier than before, even he found some peace in Linda’s presence, coming into the hospital to share an afternoon with her and John, shooting the shit as he always did.