TOUCH OF THE WOLF By Susan Krinard

“She’s dead,” she whispered.

The man made a harsh sound under his breath, took her by the wrist, and pulled her after him up to the cabin door. He pushed it open, looked inside, and shut it again.

“Damn you, Aaron. You’ve left me to clean up after you one last time.”

Cassidy stared up at his face. He was angry now, but there was no one to be angry at. Except her.

Abruptly he crouched before her. “Listen to me, child. You will have to come with me.” He didn’t talk as if he wanted her to go with him. “I can’t leave you here, whatever your mother—” He shook his head. “You are kin.”

Kin. Family. “You are… my family?” she asked with an almost painful twinge of hope.

“Your uncle Jonas,” he said, rising again. “Your father’s brother. I came to California for other reasons, but it seems I’m to have the care of you, like it or not.” He went into the cabin again, leaving her on the porch, and returned a few moments later with a bundle tied out of an old blanket. “These are little better than rags, but they’ll have to do.” He looked her over again. “Dear Lord, child, alone here for God knows how long—it’s a wonder you’re still alive.” His face darkened. “But why am I surprised?”

She didn’t understand him except that there was something here he didn’t like. For a long time he simply stared at her. “God send that you are more Aaron’s child than hers. We’ll stay in town tonight.”

“San Francisco?” Cassidy asked.

He snorted. “We’re going east, child, not west. To New Mexico. I have a farm there. You’ll have enough to eat, and work to keep you busy. Your aunt will see to that.” He held out his hand. “Come—you’ll ride behind me.”

Cassidy realized then that he meant he wanted to leave right now—that she was to go with this stranger who was family but didn’t really want her. She looked wildly about and dashed into the cabin, to the few worn books on the shelf. She found another blanket and made an unsteady pile of books in the center of it, then added what little food she could carry.

When she returned to her uncle, he frowned. “What is this?” He slipped the uneven knot at the top of the bundle. “Books? I have no room—”

“I can’t go with you,” she said. “I have to go find Isabelle.”

“I know no Isabelle.”

“My mother’s friend.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out the letter, smoothing it against her chest. “Mother wrote to her—”

Uncle Jonas took the paper from her hand. After a moment he crushed it in his fist and let it fall to the ground. Cassidy bent to pick it, but Uncle Jonas ground it under his foot until it was little more than pulp. Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, Cassidy closed her eyes and recalled every line of the letter, so that she would never forget.

“You have no need of your mother’s friends,” Jonas said.

“But my mother’s family, in England,” she said, pronouncing out the word carefully. “She said that they could help me.”

“Forget about them.”

“But… can you teach me how to Change, Uncle Jonas?”

His head snapped up. “We will not speak of this further. They have nothing to do with us. You will not mention this Change again.”

She fell silent under the harshness of his words. She’d already guessed that Uncle Jonas, like Father, wasn’t a loup-garou. There was something different about the smell, the feeling she got when she touched someone who could Change. But Jonas didn’t want to talk about it. Something made him afraid.

Cassidy wasn’t afraid. Even if Uncle Jonas wouldn’t talk about it, there must be someone who would. Someone who understood and could explain the gift she’d been promised before Mother died.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You don’t have to take care of me. Isabelle—”

Without another word he wrapped his big hand around her wrist and pulled her toward his horse. She had just enough time to grab her books. He tied the bundle to the saddle and mounted, scowling all the while. He was strong enough to pull her up behind him, though she had to scramble to find a seat amid the pack and bundles secured behind the cantle.