SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

The spare room was at the very rear of the house, in a portion built of local stone. It was always cool in summer, and isolated from the rest. Johanna and Oscar set their patient down on the bed.

” ‘Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink,'” Lewis said behind them.

“Reverend Andersen, if you would be so kind as to fetch a fresh pitcher of cold water, and a glass,” Johanna suggested.

Lewis backed out of the room. He would probably feel the need to wash his hands ten or twenty times before returning with the water, but that would give her a chance to undress her stranger.

“He’s very sick,” Oscar said solemnly, towering behind her.

“I’m afraid so. I must undress and bathe him and put him to bed, while he is still quiet. He may become excited later on.”

“Like Harper does sometimes?”

Oscar hadn’t forgotten the last time Harper came out of his cataleptic state in reaction to some waking nightmare, screaming and crying until Johanna could calm him. All the residents had been afraid.

“It is possible,” she said. “That’s why I want to be ready. Do you think we could borrow some of your clothes for this man when he wakes up?”

Oscar grinned. “I’ll go pick some out.” He lumbered into the hall, footsteps thundering in the direction of his room.

Left alone, Johanna concentrated on undressing the patient. His shoes were too fancy for extended walking, and she expected to find blisters on his feet. Surprisingly, there were none. The coat had come from a quality tailor, though one might not realize it now.

His liquor-stained shirt was held closed by a few remaining buttons; if he’d had a waistcoat, it was gone. She removed his purse and then the shirt, tucking the pouch and money into the drawer of the night table. No one here would steal it, except perhaps Irene—and she wouldn’t think to look.

Stripped to the waist, the stranger confirmed Johanna’s guess about a muscular frame beneath the leanness. The pectorals were well developed, as were the deltoids and biceps. His waist was firm and tapered, ridged with muscle. All just as any sculptor could wish. No indication of prolonged illness or injury; not a man who had gone so far in drink that his entire body was ready to fail him. For an inebriate, he appeared to be remarkably healthy.

After a moment’s hesitation, she unbuttoned his trousers and tugged them down. He was, after all, just another patient. She had no personal interest in him… no matter what some prurient townsfolk might say about a woman doctor concerned with the intimacies of male clients.

She laid his trousers across the back of a chair and briskly discarded his underdrawers. His thighs and legs matched the muscular leanness of his upper body; his hips were well-formed. In fact, every major portion of his anatomy was a masculine ideal.

Johanna licked her lips, grateful the patient was still unconscious.

Leaving him lightly covered, she went into her room, the closest in the hall to this one, and retrieved her basin and a sponge. She drew the chair up beside the bed and gently washed away the sweat from his body.

It was a thing she’d done many, many times, but her hand was just a little unsteady as she guided the sponge from his neck and shoulders down the length of each arm, across his chest, his stomach, each long leg. She turned him gently and bathed his back, glancing once at his muscular buttocks and then away.

She felt tension drain from her body as she finished and replaced the sponge in the basin. He needed a much more thorough bath than this, but she couldn’t risk it now. If he had delirium tremens, the chance of hallucinations and agitation was still very real. He would have to be—

He pushed up from the bed before she realized he’d wakened. Fingers clutched at the sheets, and his head tossed deliriously from side to side.

“Where—” He coughed, and his voice cleared. He turned to stare at her. “Who are you?”