Between Two Wolves (BBW Paranormal Shapeshifter Menage Werewolf Romance) Page 2

  The logging road that ran up the back of the mountain wasn't on park land, and there hadn't been any logging in the area for decades. It had always been rough, but this year there had been torrential rains, and the road turned from washboard, to rutted, to washed out far below where the trail to the hot springs began. So I parked my car, dragged out my gear, and locked up. I always worried I'd come back to find the car gone, but in all the years I'd been coming here it was always right where I left it. The only problem I'd ever heard about was when a bear had attacked a friend's ancient Subaru to get after some food that had been left on the dashboard. He'd come back from a week in the woods to find the roof torn off the car, and the food long gone.

  I stopped to look around, breathing in the cool air. I closed my eyes and smiled. It felt like the first time I'd smiled in a long, long time. Or at least the first time in a long time the smile felt authentic, not forced for a client on Skype, or a cashier at the market, or a cab driver. It occurred to me that there might be more to think about on this weekend besides Harrison. Maybe it was time to think about the bigger picture, rather than just the missing piece to the puzzle.

  After hiking halfway up the mountain to the turn off to the springs, I was sweating, breathing hard, and very glad I'd only brought enough in my pack for a long weekend. The idea of setting up camp, kicking back in one of the hot springs as the sun went down, and then having a simple dinner by the fire with some wine, was looking more and more enticing. I dropped my pack for a minute, loving that fleeting sense of weightlessness that happened after shedding all that weight. I stretched my arms and rolled my shoulders. This was going to be a great weekend. I would be one with nature, live in the moment, stop dwelling in the past. Maybe I'd come home with my own tall tale from the forest, my own lore to add to that of my camping friends.

  The forest ahead of me was deep, dark green. I always loved this part, stepping off the road, out of the sunshine, and into the cool darkness of the woods. It was magical, like stepping into a fairy tale. I thought of Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, and the other stories I'd read as a child. If I could build a house anywhere in the world, it would be here, on the edge of the unknown, just over the line from civilization. Not so far over that I'd have to give up plumbing and shaving my legs, but just enough to ease out of the rat race.

  So I shouldered my pack and took one last look back down the road. There was no one in sight, no other cars, no sounds of traffic, nothing but a lone hawk circling overhead. I felt like I was alone in the world. And that was fine with me. Out of habit I dug my phone out of my pocket. I had it out, and checking for messages, before I remembered there was no service up here. I chided myself for bringing along this last bit of technology. I held it for a minute, and considered flinging it off the edge of the mountain, but I wasn't quite ready to divest myself of all the trappings of civilization. I shut it off, and jammed it into my pocket.

  The woods were cool, the path covered in pine needles. I was on level ground for the next couple miles, and then I'd find a gentle descent to Big River and the springs. My steps were muffled, almost soundless. I could already feel the tension, and anxiety of the past months ebbing out of my body. I was pretty sure by the time I reached the springs, got my little camp set up, and made dinner, I'd be exhausted, in a good way. A soak in the hot springs, and a little wine, and I'd be too tired in body and mind to obsess about Harrison. And tomorrow, maybe a sunrise session of yoga, a nice breakfast, and then I'd sit and think.

  The pines here grew so close together they almost touched overhead. The path wound in and out of shafts of sunlight, and for a time I was conscious of the difference in warmth against my skin, then the chill as I stepped out of the light. My senses seemed heightened, every detail popping out at me. I started to notice my footfalls, the shushing sound my boots made, the wind above me. I was in my zone, living in the moment. This was going to be a great weekend.

  Something was off though. The hair on my arms stood on end. I stopped, thinking there was someone on the path ahead of me, or behind me. Or in the woods. I listened carefully, but the only things I heard were the wind, a few birds in the trees. Maybe I wasn't as relaxed as I thought I was.

  I did a slow circle, but I didn't see anyone. A bird sang somewhere close by, another answered. The forest seemed just as it always did, filled with its usual flecks of color. I shook my head, laughing at myself. Maybe I'd turned into a city girl, buffered by traffic noises, city sounds, and now freaked out by a little silence.

  But standing in the middle of the path wasn't going to get me to those hot springs. With one last look back down the path toward the road, I turned around. And stopped dead in my tracks.

  The wolf stood in the middle of the path. It was big, really big, but also amazingly beautiful. It stared at me, and I was mesmerized, unable to look away. And then I panicked. Staring at them was a sign of dominance, or aggression, or something. But I'd be damned if I was going to take my eyes off the wolf.

  But it didn't seem vicious. Like I would know what a vicious wolf looked like.

  It looked more curious than anything, standing in the path with its head tipped to the side, dark eyes on mine, as if it were analyzing me. And it was stunningly beautiful, dark fur tipped with silver, big eyes. I stared at him, and he stared back, and for a moment I had the sensation of having my mind read, or my soul searched. Or the living daylights scared out of me.

  “Hey, boy...good boy.” Oh my God, my heart was beating wildly in my chest. It tipped its head further. Progress. I babbled on. “Oh, yeah. Good boy...”

  The wolf took a step forward, pink tongue showing in a doggy grin. I took a step back. No one's going to believe this. Oh, shit. Take a picture. Slowly I eased my phone out of my pocket, eyes never leaving the wolf. I turned on the phone, dropped my eyes from the wolf for the split second it took to take the picture, then looked up.

  The wolf whined, a low soft sound. But what did that mean? Was it camera shy? Had I upset it? Reflexively I clicked off another couple of pictures. The wolf whined again, and I let my arm fall to my side as it took another step forward. Every cell in my body told me to run, but I held my ground.

  “Okay. Okay. I'm done. No more pictures. Good boy...” The wolf stopped, ears pricked forward. Then it advanced another step.

  I held up my hands. “Whoa...stop.” The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “Please stop.” My voice came out in a desperate whisper.

  The wolf stopped, eyes still locked with mine. They were blue, like a husky dog. Maybe that's what he was, just someone's pet, off its leash. I let out a sigh of sorts.

  “Would it be too much to ask for you to sit?”

  Behind it, the tail started to wave back and forth in slow motion. And then, to my amazement, it sat down in the middle of the path. So it was someone's pet.

  “Hello?”

  I spun around. A man was walking toward me, wearing a park ranger uniform. Relief washed through me, and along with a wave of giggles. This must be the ranger's dog.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you. Your dog...” I was already pointing, and I turned back to the wolf. But the path was empty. No dog, or wolf, or anything else was visible in the shifting patterns of light and dark. My giggles faded away.

  “Sorry, ma'am. Did you say dog?” His friendly expression took on a hint of concern. “I don't have a dog. None of us do.”

  “There was a dog...” I was still pointing to where the animal had been. “Or a wolf...”

  The ranger walked past me, then crouched down at the spot where the canine had been. “There's tracks here, ma'am, but I can't really say what made them. Hard to tell when it comes to this stuff.” He brushed his hand over the spot, scooping up a handful of pine needles. I watched as he lifted them to his nose and inhaled. His face took on a strained expression, a look briefly crossing his face, blotting out the friendly neighborhood ranger concern. I'd have to say it was a look of recognition, followed by one of pure hatred.

  But when he t
ossed away the needles and stood, all that was gone. I blinked, not sure what I'd seen, replaced by a bland expression, a noncommittal smile. Maybe I was still spooked by the phantom wolf, or the light and shadows were playing tricks. He smiled down at me.

  “It was probably just a coyote, chasing a rabbit. The altitude, the light, the isolation...if you're not used to being out in the woods, it can play tricks on you.”

  I frowned. “It was a wolf...or a big dog. I'm not a novice. I've been up here before...”

  He cut me off. “We haven't had a wolf sighting in the park in decades.”

  There was something programmed about his response, dismissive in a way I didn't like. It felt as though the guy was hiding something.

  “Okay. Then it was a coyote.” I shifted my pack, settling it on my shoulders. “I should get going then. I've got a way to go before I set up camp.”

  “You're headed to the springs then.” He stepped to the side of the path. “Then I'll let you get on your way. Don't wander off the path. Wouldn't want you getting lost.” He touched the brim of his hat, and I stepped past him.

  “Thanks.” I walked down the path, looking down at the spot where wolf had been. If there had been any sign of paw prints they were obliterated now. Somehow the disturbed pine needles looked like a broken window in a church. I wanted to put it all back on order. But I walked on.

  I'd only gone a couple yards when I had the urge to turn around, to see if the ranger was walking away. But I knew he wasn't, and I knew when I turned—which I did—I'd find him watching me. And he was. He waved again, still smiling. When he finally turned away, and headed back down the path, I let out the breath I'd been holding.

  Some of my excitement had dimmed after the encounter with the wolf. And the ranger—something tugged at my mind about the whole thing, something was off that I should have noticed. It wasn't until I was almost to the springs that it dawned on me. He hadn't been wearing a name badge. And he hadn't told me his name.

  Chapter Three

  I arrived at the springs in the late afternoon. The trail dipped down close to the river and the springs, before climbing back up to high ground. Things looked familiar, although it had been years since I'd been here. Trees had grown, some had fallen down, but the whole placed felt like a place I'd been before. The springs, as usual, were totally different. But that was normal. Nature was capricious and nowhere was that more evident than down by the river. I dropped my pack and took it all in.

  Each spring when the snow melted off the mountains, the river that ran through the area rose, tumbling down the mountain, moving rocks and sometimes boulders. And each spring the first hikers in, and sometimes locals, worked to rebuild the rock walls around the places where the hot springs bubbled up, creating ledges for sitting, and filling in the bottoms of the pools with sand. Most years there would be many small pools, each big enough for just one, or two people.

  This year there were several smaller pools, and one big party-sized area in the middle of everything. It could easily hold a dozen people, and as I set my pack down, I marveled at how many rocks it had taken to construct this beautiful creation. I walked around, noticing seating ledges, a sandy bottom, and an actual set of steps built out of flat rocks. It made me think a group of engineers had shown up to create this masterpiece. It was an even more impressive feat when I thought that it would be gone next spring.

  I grabbed my pack, and went to find a place to set up camp. The park maintained a few wilderness areas on this side of the mountain. There was a clearing that I was particularly fond of, and I hoped nobody would be there. Since I hadn't seen any cars, and since it was still early in the season, I was pretty confident it would be free.

  And it was. I breathed out a sigh, and set my pack down for the last time today. There was something very special about this place, the way the trees formed a lacy ceiling overhead. There were hardwoods, oaks and maples mostly, and right now the leaves were still that bright green that made the clear light seem magical. It was perfect.

  I sat for a minute in my cathedral of trees, just breathing in the cool air, enjoying the silence, and not having my pack on my shoulders. A weekend spent here would do me a world of good. I realized I was still smiling, and that it felt wonderful.

  First things first. I needed to set up the tent, which was probably my least favorite chore. But if I didn't have a tent, and it rained, which it usually did, I'd be miserable. Best just to get it done.

  So I fought with the slippery nylon and the flexible rods that held it all together. It was fiddly, and I muttered under my breath. Harrison had never enjoyed camping, and gradually I'd stopped going on solo hikes. So over time I'd given away most of my good gear to friends. No one had wanted this old tent, and I'd never gotten around to getting a new one. Not that I'd have ever used it while we were together...

  Enough, Risha. You came here to forget about him, not look for things to remember.

  I sighed, sitting down on a log someone had moved into the clearing as a seat, the tent in a forlorn pile at my feet. I wanted to forget, but there were so many things that reminded me of a conversation with Harrison, or more likely an argument. The tent, a piece of art he'd left behind. The one I’d bought for his birthday. The couch. The apartment we'd shared. I'd thought about moving, but I realized there was only so far I could go in getting Harrison out of my life, and my mind.

  The sounds of the river caught my attention. The sun was getting lower, and I made a sudden decision. I would go down, take a soak in one of the hot springs, leave the tent until later. The slices of sky that showed between the trees were clear, and I could set the tent up when I got back.

  Rummaging through my pack, I dug out an old pair of shorts, tattered and full of holes, and indecent for any place public. But they were perfect for the hot springs. I'd learned a long time ago that no matter how carefully they tried to make the ledges and seats comfortable, the rocks could still rough on my tender backside, and would inevitably ruin any good pair of shorts I wore, so I had decided to pack along my old, worn out ones.

  I cast a slightly nervous glance around the clearing. There was no one around, and I knew that. But since I'd left the ranger, I'd had the disconcerting feeling of not being alone. Not exactly of being watched, but that there was someone close by. I'd done a lot of long distance hiking in college, and I'd discovered this weird kind of sixth sense that happens when there's someone ahead of you, or behind you on the trail. There's no sign of them, but you know before you hear or see them that they're there.

  But there was no one here now, except for a blue jay that was really unhappy that I'd invaded its territory. It cawed and carried on, scolding me loudly. I shook off the eerie feeling of being watched, tugged off my jeans and underwear, and pulled on my shorts. Reaching beneath my t-shirt, I undid the clasp on my bra and wiggled out of it, sliding my arms in and out of the sleeves of my shirt. I dropped the bra on top of my jeans. I tucked a thermos filled with white wine in a towel under my arm. The jay scolded again from the pines, and I jumped.

  It's just city girl nerves. You're out of practice, that's all.

  The walk to the springs had one of the most spectacular views in the area. From beneath the dark branches of the pines, the path suddenly turned, and I stepped into the bright sunlight at the edge of a drop off. Below was the river, an emerald strand tumbling over boulders the size of my car. The water was full of shifts in color and translucency from its mad rush over the rocks, churned white in some places, almost clear in slower moving areas. It was stunningly beautiful. Everything I'd been worrying about fell away, as I stood and took in the view.

  There were several pools along the riverbank this year, some small ones, one or two larger ones. The water in them was a kind of cloudy blue gray from the minerals in the water. I'd never quite understood where the hot springs came from. Every time I saw them I vowed to find out, and then I fell in love with them all over again with the magical feeling of sitting on a rock in hot water while w
atching nature, and I forgot that I cared where they came from. All I cared about was that they were there, and someone took the time to make it easy to access them.

  I scrambled down the path to the river and the pools, trying to decide which one to sample first. The temperatures could differ radically between pools, with some being just above the chill temperature of the river, and others so hot I could only stay in a few minutes before feeling like a boiled lobster. I wanted something warm and comforting, a pool I could melt into, and stay in for hours.

  So I dipped my toe in several of the pools, testing the waters. Some were hot, some were cool, some were steaming. I laughed at the image, me walking from pool to pool, feeling a little like Goldilocks, wandering around until I found one that was just right. Easing down the bank, I stepped into the pool. The water was perfect, almost too hot to stand, but I knew I'd get used to it quickly. Uncapping the thermos, I poured the cup full of wine, taking a long healthy swallow.

  I sat down on a rock, the water swirling around my legs, curling my toes at the heat. Across the river was the edge of the land that didn't belong to the park, and I tried to see into the darkness of the pines. Even though it was only twenty yards or so away, it seemed like another country, vaguely foreign, slightly spooky. I thought of wolves, and woodsmen, and witches with poisoned apples, living in gingerbread cottages. I was mixing up my fairy tales. And it's only my first glass of wine.

  Scattered all over the bank were small stones, polished smooth by years in the river. Picking up a handful, I choose a dozen or so that felt good in my hand, or looked interesting, or were just plain pretty. I'd learned a little ritual ages ago, something to help clear the mind. I held up one stone, wishing I'd remembered to bring something to write with. I'd have to improvise.

  “This is the painting Harrison didn't like. Take the memory and wash it away.” I threw the stone into the river. It barely made a sound as it hit the water. I tried to visualize all the hurt attached to that image washed away in the river. I picked another stone.