SECRET OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

“We are doctors. We can’t turn away those who need our help.” The old fire lit his eyes. “And our methods work, Johanna.”

“Your methods, Papa,” she said, holding the glass to his lips.

“They all laughed at me in Vienna,” he said. “But I’ve proven them wrong—” He choked, and Johanna rubbed his back until he was breathing normally again. His face was very pale.

“I just heard quite an interesting lecture in San Francisco,” Johanna said quickly. “The speaker presented some rather controversial theories, not unlike your own. Would you like to hear them?”

But her father wasn’t listening. He’d drifted away, lost in some memory that, for him, might be taking place at this very moment.

“Papa?” He didn’t respond. She rose and replaced the glass on the washstand, blinking dry eyes.

He couldn’t advise her. The decisions were all hers now. She knelt by the bed and rested her head on his lap. He touched her hair, tenderly, as if she were a child again.

“Don’t cry, Johanna,” he murmured. “Your mother will get well. You’ll see.”

“Yes, Papa.” His hand stroked her head and went still. He had fallen asleep again, as he so often did.

“You’re right, Papa,” she whispered. “We can’t turn away those who need our help. But things… are not as they once were.” She paused to listen to his steady breathing. Yes, he was asleep, and wouldn’t be disturbed by her worry. “We are coming near the end of our funds, Papa. I’ve sold all the land we can spare; I can’t sell the orchard or the last acre of grapevines; they make this place what it is. I don’t want the world too close—and it isn’t what Uncle Rutger would have wished.” She sighed. “I must have Mrs. Daugherty’s help with the washing and cooking, and she must be paid a fair wage.”

Her father shifted and gave a soft snore.

“We must have medicine, and clothing, the necessities of life—” She smiled wryly to herself. “I can do well enough without luxuries. You know I don’t much care for fripperies in any case. I remember when it used to worry you, that I never sought such things. But I would be happy, Papa, if I can continue to carry on in your footsteps.”

She raised her head and gazed at his placid face. “Ach, Papa. I’ll complain no longer. I will find a way to continue, you can rest assured of that.”

“I hope you’ll allow me to help, Dr. Schell.”

For just an instant she thought Papa had spoken. But no, the voice was wrong—the timbre a little deeper, the tone lighter, the accent English rather than German.

She spun about to face the door. Quentin Forster stood there, leaning against the doorframe with arms folded and one ankle crossing the other. Except for the faint circles under his eyes, he showed no evidence of his recent ordeal. Oscar’s shirt and trousers did not look as oversized on his lanky frame as she’d expected, nor did they detract from his naturally elegant bearing.

Or his handsomeness—though he was in need of a good shave. And a haircut. But the longer hair and the reddish beard starting on his chin only gave his features a more roguish appeal. That slight roughness, combined with his aristocratic air, created a most intriguing combination…

She cleared her throat sharply.

“What are you doing out of bed?” she demanded. “I do not remember giving you permission to wander about the house.”

He uncrossed his arms and stepped into the room. “You never did arrive with my breakfast.”

“I am sorry. I shall see to it shortly.”

“I can manage it myself, if you’ll point the way to the kitchen.” He glanced at her father. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help overhearing… This is the elder Dr. Schell, I presume?”

Positioning herself to block his view, Johanna stood protectively by Papa’s bedside. “Yes. Now, if you will kindly go back to your room—”

With flagrant disobedience he came closer, gazing at her father’s face. “I’m very sorry,” he said. His expression was serious, as if he truly meant it. “It must have been a terrible loss for you.”

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