Witching Moon (12 page)

We didn't know it was gonna paralyze her.”

“Yeah,” Grizzly conceded.

“The way she stood there. That's not proof,” Willow argued.

“What do you think?” Starflower asked Falcon.

He spread his hands. “By the time I got there, she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. It's hard to be sure.”

Grizzly craned his neck back toward the shopping area. “The street was full of people minding their own business. But it's that one guy who spooked me. The guy who pulled her out of the way. Did you see him zero in on her before he even saw the truck?”

There were exclamations of agreement around the group.

“Who is he?” Grizzly asked sharply.

“He's got…power,” Starflower murmured, her voice low.

“How do you know?” Grizzly pressed.

“I can feel it. Maybe it's a man-woman thing. Falcon recognized the woman as one of us. And I got something from the guy.”

“Yeah,” Falcon growled, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the place where the couple had disappeared. It was the guy he had seen the other day at Barnette's house.

He looked at Starflower. “That's the new head ranger of Nature's Refuge.”

“Oh, yeah?” Razorback muttered.

“He could be the snoop who was spyin' on us the other night.”

That got everybody's attention.

“So we take care of him, like we took care of Ken White?” Grizzly muttered.

“Not necessarily,” Starflower said quickly. “Let me find out if he's with us or against us.”

“You want to test him? Like Falcon tested her?” Willow asked.

Starflower grinned. “Actually, I have something else in mind.”

A RACCOON APPEARED
at the side of the road, and Sara slowed. The animal hesitated for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the open field at the side of the blacktop.

Sara continued along the darkened highway. She was six miles from downtown Wayland, and the farther she got from Main Street, the more calm she felt.

Strange. She had fled her cabin this evening to get away from the old ghosts who crowded into the small rooms with her.

Now the old ghosts were preferable to the new voices echoing in her mind. The thought brought a trace of her earlier headache, and she gritted her teeth. “No,” she said aloud. She wanted it to disappear, along with the memory of what had happened when she'd stepped off the curb. But she couldn't wish the incident away.

Tonight people had called out to her. And she'd felt their words echoing in her brain like the reverberations from a steel drum that had stopped her in her tracks.

They had sounded their alarm moments before the truck had come at her in the street. At the same time, she'd thought she heard them yammering in her head. Now she was able to come up with another explanation that she liked better.

Somebody in town was playing an evil practical joke on the lady from Granville Pharmaceuticals. They knew her name. They'd called out to her, and then one of them had aimed his truck at her.

The scenario wasn't exactly reassuring, but it had the power to make her feel better. Because it put a creepy experience into more normal terms. She clutched it to her breast, even though it didn't fit all the facts.

What about the pain in her head, she asked herself, then came up with another good answer. She had been working hard for the past few days. Too hard. She'd been under a lot of stress. In a new environment. And it was perfectly reasonable to believe that the whole combination of factors had given her a headache.

She breathed out a small sigh, feeling some of her tension evaporate as she drove on into the night.

The voices hadn't been in her mind at all. They had come from people hiding just out of sight. People having some fun with her.

She didn't like it much. And she didn't know why they had picked on her. Or whether they would try something else. But she had given herself an explanation for the truck incident. Which left her free to think about the next part.

Specifically, Adam Marshall.

He had risked his own life to snatch her out of the street when she'd lost the power to move. Afterwards, he had gathered her in his arms as though he were a lover coming back to her after a long absence. And she had clung to him with the same fervor.

The intensity of the encounter had overwhelmed her, replacing the earlier fear. In the real world, she barely knew the man, yet she'd cleaved to him as though…as though he were her only salvation.

The idea was absurd.

And scary. Which was why she'd wrenched herself away and run back to the safety of familiar old Miss Hester.

She'd never felt half that much for any other man. Not even the two with whom she'd made love.

And she'd waited months before taking that step with either of them. Adam Marshall was a stranger. So why was she responding to him as though they were two halves of one whole? Why had she met him in a dream that seemed more real than any of her previous bedroom encounters?

She pulled into the parking space in front of her cabin and sat with her eyes squeezed tightly closed, trying to shut out the feelings that had swamped her when he'd pulled her into that courtyard and the two of them had been alone. Banishing the memory was impossible. With a sigh she opened the door and stepped out of the old Toyota, taking a deep breath of the damp air, conscious of how dark it was out here in the middle of nowhere.

When she'd left the little house at the edge of the swamp, it had still been daylight. But she should have thought to turn on the porch light. In the future, she wouldn't forget that.

As she reached for her keys, headlights cut through the inky blackness along the road.

Goose bumps peppered her skin. Whirling, she turned to face the intruder, her arm rising to shade her eyes. But it was impossible to see the vehicle behind the headlights. The only thing she could think was that the guy with the pickup was back.

Earlier, she had frozen in the middle of the street. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, she reversed direction and sprinted for the house, fumbling again for keys in her purse. Her gun was inside the cabin. If the driver or his friends meant her harm, she would defend herself. And call the sheriff.

Should she already have reported the incident? She'd been so muddled up on the way out of town that she hadn't even thought of it.

She heard gravel crunch as she shoved the key into the lock.

“Sara! Wait. It's Adam.”

She went dead still. “Adam?” Turning, she saw a tall figure moving toward her across the yard and felt something inside her chest clench. A complex mixture of emotions welled inside her. Joy. Fear. Need.

She had been thinking about him. Puzzling over her feelings for him. And now, here he was, as though she'd called to him, and he'd come to her.

Her lips moved, and she heard her voice quaver as she asked, “What are you doing here?”

 

WORDS
of apology tumbled from his mouth, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I followed you home to make sure nobody else did. I wanted to be certain you were all right. And I have your shopping bag,” he added lamely.

He didn't explain that the need to protect her had sent him bolting for his SUV the moment she'd left him. Or that the feeling of being separated from her after holding her in his arms was intolerable.

“I'm fine,” she assured him, the answer sounding like an automatic response.

He reached her as she turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and switched on the porch light. Both of them stood blinking in the sudden brightness.

He set down the shopping bag on the worn floorboards, thinking that he shouldn't have gotten out of his car. He should have made sure nobody else was coming along behind her, then driven on past and given her the drugstore purchases another time. But he was here, and the need to reach for her had him pressing his palms against the sides of his jeans.

The pulse pounding in his ears made it difficult to hear what she had said.

“Did you ask me in?”

“Yes.”

“I should go.”

“I should thank you for snatching me out of the street.”

He found himself following her inside. She took several steps into the room. He closed the door, then watched her moving about, turning on a lamp in the corner and one on an end table.

He loved the way the warm light glinted off her blond hair. He loved the grace of her movements. Loved her slender, long-fingered hands.

Pulling his gaze away from her, he focused on the cabin. It was sparsely furnished, yet she'd made it her own in the short time she'd been there. She had set an old metal milk can in one corner and filled it with tall grasses. Indian throws brightened the old sofa and overstuffed chair. And a piece of old lace covered what was probably the scarred top of the oak chest against one wall.

Set out on the lace was a collection of small boxes, some china, some metallic, some wooden.

“The place looks nice,” he said, thinking that the words sounded inane.

“I brought some stuff from home.”

“Wilmington.”

Her head jerked up. “How did you know that?”

His breath caught. How
did
he know it? “I can guess, from your accent,” he answered, because it was the only answer he could come up with.

“Are you an expert on accents?”

He shrugged.

Her gaze pinned him. “Or did you know because I told you in the dream?”

He swallowed hard. “What dream?” he managed to say.

She kept her gaze steady on him. “Did you dream about me last night?”

He clenched and unclenched his hand. “Yes.”

“Wouldn't it be…strange if we had the same dream.”

“How could we?” he asked.

“Was I in your bed?” she challenged.

“Yes. But it's not difficult to figure out why. I've been thinking about you ever since we met in the swamp.” He stopped abruptly, realizing he'd given too much away. It was one thing to admit as much in a dream. And quite another to say it in real life.
Change direction
. He added lamely, “And if you were thinking about me…it might seem like we met.”

She gave a tight nod. “You can explain it that way if you want.”

“How do
you
explain it?”

“I can't. And I don't want to. All I know is that strange things have been happening to me since I moved here. Dreams that seem real. Daydreams where I feel like I'm in someone else's head. Then that incident with the truck.”

“How do you mean?”

“It's hard to talk about it. Maybe a cup of tea would settle us both down.”

He gave her credit for a quick change of subject. “I don't drink tea. Well, not unless it's herbal tea,” he said, feeling like he were babbling.

“I have mint. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

She moved to the kitchen and switched on another light. The room was small, and as she turned to snatch the kettle off a burner and fill it, she clanked it against the faucet.

“Sorry,” she said as she whirled back to the stove and set the kettle down again.

He was consumed by the urge to go to her, make her face him, and fold her close, but he managed to stay where he was.

“Tell me about the truck,” he said.

For long moments, her gaze turned inward, and he thought she wasn't going to speak. Then she sighed. “I've decided the driver didn't really mean to hit me,” she said in a rush of words.

“What makes you think so?”

“Someone—a group of people—warned me I was
in danger
.”

He stared at her, struggling to make sense of that. “Warned you? Why? How?”

“They shouted a warning.”

“I didn't hear anything or see anybody.”

“Maybe they were right near me, where you couldn't see them, but I could hear them. Maybe it just sounded like a shout,” she said, acting like she wasn't quite sure. Acting like she was trying out the theory on him.

“Maybe. Why would they do it?”

She shrugged again. “Because they're into mean practical jokes? Because they hate Granville Pharmaceuticals? Because they like to test the nerves of newcomers? Has anyone tried to test your nerves?”

He hesitated. “Well, somebody tried to kill me two nights ago.”

She sucked in a strangled breath, raising her head so she could meet his eyes. “The people having the drug party? They tried to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't mention that!”

“I didn't think you needed to know.”

“Oh Lord, Adam. What did they do?”

“Chased me like a pack of…hyenas. Took a couple of shots at me.”

Her hands gripped his arms. “Stay out of the swamp.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“It's my job.”

“Mine, too.”

“Did you tell anyone else…about what happened?”

“Sheriff Delacorte.”

“And he said?”

“That there's been trouble in Wayland. Over the years. Incidents he was reluctant to talk about.”

“What kind of trouble?” Sara asked.

“I don't know for sure. But I'm going to find out.”

She studied his face, trying to read his expression. He had pulled her out of the truck's path. He had followed her home to make sure she was safe. And now he was telling her things that he could have kept to himself.

Maybe she was testing him—or testing herself—when she said, “I can believe…strange things have happened here.”

“Why?”

“Because I get feelings about places and people. And my impressions usually turn out to be true. There's evil here. And something else.”

When he didn't laugh at her, she went on. “Ever since I came to Wayland, to this cabin, I've felt…off balance. Things keep happening. Things I can't explain in any normal terms.”

“Such as?”

“What I told you. Dreams. Daydreams. And something that happened just before that truck came flying by.”

She watched him carefully to see what he thought about the way she'd put it. When he kept his gaze steady on her, she continued.