How had things gone so wrong? How had she managed to quarrel with her brother, when they so seldom lifted their voices to each other? She could never beat Niall in an argument, and she did not make the mistake of doubting his threats.
Fran helped her undress and get into bed, and she lay staring up at the ceiling for a long while. She had wanted Niall’s happiness; she needed to continue her work without hindrance. Somehow she must distract Niall from his focus on her, and at the same time prove that she was fully capable of caring for herself.
If you were truly independent…
But how? Niall still controlled her inheritance, according to the terms of Papa’s will. She could not demand her portion unless Niall agreed. And he saw her as what she was—a cripple.
She tried to move her legs. They remained lumps under the blankets, only the toes capable of wiggling. She had given up on walking long ago.
There must be some other way of convincing Niall that she was a sensible, mature, strong woman in mind and spirit if not in body. Some way to relieve him of his guilt once and for all.
She drifted into a twilight world between sleep and waking, and it seemed that she was running—running on four legs instead of two. Four whole, healthy, powerful legs. And she was not alone.
In dreams, she could pretend.
Chapter 2
Southern Colorado, June 1880
Voices.
They drew him toward flickering light and the smell of human habitation, though he had left that world behind in a time beyond memory. He could not have said, even had he been capable of speech, why he fled the hunters into the arms of other men instead of to the deep wilderness.
Madness. Yet the pain drove him, and the knowledge that he was near death. The voices were very close.
Firelight seared his eyes. He plunged into the circle made by the many human dwellings and staggered to a stop. The baying of hounds resounded from the forest’s edge.
Raised voices, cries of alarm, shouting like the howls of wolves. He braced himself for more pain, ready to expend the last of his strength if they came with ropes to bind him.
None did. Tall shapes darted in and out of his blurred sight. Human scent washed over him. His legs buckled, and he fell to his side. Each breath brought searing agony. Little by little, the light and the remnant of his senses faded. Then came the darkness.
Peace.
He returned to himself slowly, and the voices were still there. They flooded his mind like tainted water: human words, human thoughts, human images.
But now he understood what he heard. And he, himself, was human.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Did you see that?”
“Remarkable,” said the second, deeper voice. “Quite astonishing.”
A murmur of agreement and disbelief followed. “Since we all witnessed it,” said a third voice, marked by a gentle drawl, “we must conclude that it was not a delusion.”
“Delusions don’t bleed,” the first voice said. “Whatever he is, he’s been shot.”
“He may be dangerous,” came a fourth. “Do not touch him, Caitlin.”
“Can’t you see that he is too badly hurt to be a danger to anyone?”
He opened his eyes and tried to bring the world into focus. His senses were dulled, hearing and smell filtered through awkward human organs. The body he now wore refused to respond to his commands.
Memory came, and understanding. Between his lower ribs lodged the hunter’s bullet, the same that had caught him as he fled the human’s dogs. It would not have been a fatal injury had he remained a wolf.
But he had not. Somehow, in some way beyond his will, he had Changed. The wolf had run to men, and the man within him had betrayed the wolf. And now he lay in his own blood, firelight dancing over naked skin, suspended halfway between life and death.
He could not make out the faces around him, but he smelled them clearly: woven cloth, leather, sweat, and horseflesh. A dozen men and women whose voices came more swiftly now, like midsummer rain.