She heard them begin to disperse even before the leader managed a half-strangled command. Some hesitated, she could hear the whisper of their feet on snow, the way they shuffled and muttered among themselves. But they complied. Only then, when they stood some distance away, bare-handed, did she let her gaze move past the man to Luke.
He had half-fallen into the deep bank, his eyes slitted with pain and weakness; blood had burned a black scar in the snow under him, and his right foreleg was unnaturally bent. Joey took it all in coldly and then met his eyes.
It was a shock that, at another time, might have broken her concentration. The message he sent to her was as clear as if he had spoken it aloud. Go. Run. Leave me. The inner words almost cracked the ice of her resolve. Then she broke the compulsion, beating it back with a message of her own, ignoring the desperate plea in his eyes.
Slowly she turned back to the man who waited under her rifle. His face was white except for two hot patches of red at the tops of his cheekbones fury, she thought, and hatred and fear. Aimed at her. She could feel a frigid smile forming on her face. He could not meet her eyes.
“I’m going to let you go,” she murmured. “I want you and your buddies to get off this land and never come back.” She pressed the rifle into soft flesh for emphasis, and he choked on his strangled rage. The men muttered and stirred on the edges of her peripheral vision. “Now move—away from the guns.” Shoving him, she held the rifle steady as he backed away. The men bunched, clumsy with emotion and herd instinct. She watched them dispassionately as they started away, their muttered threats floated back to her, growing louder and bolder as the distance increased. At last the noises faded, the clearing suddenly still. She waited until she was certain the men would not return and then dropped to her knees in the cold snow.
Luke was there, against her, solid and warm and alive. His breath came in heavy pants that plumed the air; Joey brushed at his shoulder with her hand, and it came away sticky with blood.
The pain surged through her again. “Luke!” she cried. Raking him with her gaze, she found the places where the lush gray pelt was matted with blood, the unmistakable sign of bullet wounds half-hidden in the fur. With a gasp of overwhelming fear, Joey tried to clear her mind. He was still breathing, still with her, he was strong enough to stay alive. He had to be.
With infinite gentleness Joey lifted the heavy head in her hands. “Luke, listen to me Luke!” She gripped the fur to either side almost fiercely, willing him to hear her. “Look at me, Luke!”
He opened his eyes slowly. His tail thumped once against the snow, and a sound caught deep in his throat. Joey forced back tears. “Can you understand me, Luke?” His tail thumped again, and a sigh shuddered the massive body. Shutting her eyes tightly to impose control on her racing emotions, Joey considered her options.
“You’re badly hurt, Luke,” she said at last, hardening her resolve. “I can’t help you here.” She knew his weight was far more than she could hope to handle. Even his head dragged at her hands. “I need you to help me, Luke. You need to hang on.” His tail thumped again, and his eyes locked on hers. The unspoken message there gave her courage. “Can you change? Can you help me get you back to the cabin?”
The despairing sound Luke made was answer enough. Another shudder racked his body. “All right,” Joey said, breathing deeply. “You can’t change. I can’t carry you. That means going all the way into town for help, or finding some other way of getting you back to the cabin.” The sound of her voice was harsh and brittle and practical. “Help me, Luke. What should I do?”
His head lifted from her hands. His eyes stared into hers with all the old familiar intensity and knowledge came to her from some deep place beyond the reach of words.