Secret of the Wolf (5 page)

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Mrs. Daugherty sniffed. "Likkered up. You never took one of them in before.”

"The opportunity hadn't arisen," Johanna said crisply. Bridget was a naturally garrulous

soul, curious about everything and completely uneducated, but she also felt she owed

Johanna a great debt for delivering her eldest daughter's child safe and alive when the

other local doctor had proclaimed the case hopeless. She was steady, trustworthy, and

tolerant of the odd residents of the Haven. Johanna could ask for no more
.

"I found him in the road," she said. "He might have died if I'd left him.”

"An' you can't leave any poor soul in need, can you?" Bridget shook her head. "Well,

looks like you might need a hand tonight, after supper.”

"I would much appreciate it," Johanna said, daring to close her eyes again
.

"You're plumb tuckered, Doc," Bridget said. "You ought to rest.”

"Not now. He must be watched.”

Bridget clucked. "Same old story. Well, at least the wash is done, and I didn't have no

trouble from anyone. I'll fix you up a supper tray and feed the rest.”

"Thank you, Bridget.”

A broad, callused hand settled on her shoulder and squeezed. "There's a letter for you

came in yesterday's mail, from that Mrs. Ingram. I put it on your desk." Mrs. Daugherty

left the room
.

Another letter from May's mother, a full four months after the last. This time it might

contain good news, something other than vague hints of her plans to return for her

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daughter, and the usual questions about May's well-being. But Johanna couldn't count

on that
.

In any case, the letter could wait. Johanna got to her feet and lifted her new patient's

trousers and coat from the back of the chair. They might be washed, mended, and

saved, with a little effort. Irene might be persuaded to do it for such a handsome

stranger
.

She waited out the next hour until it was clear that her patient was sleeping deeply,

unlikely to wake for some time. She tucked the sheets and blankets high about his

shoulders, smoothing them down over the contours of his upper body
.

How beautiful he was, even in sleep
.

She stepped sharply away from the bed, barked her shin on the chair, and reached for

the doorknob. Papa. She must see Papa. He would be waiting, and she'd left him alone

so long. Papa would have advice—

No, he wouldn't. Sometimes, when she was very tired, she forgot about the attack and

what it had done to him. She expected to walk into his room and feel his arms around

her, hear his laugh and his chatter about his latest progress with a patient
.

Not today. Not ever again
.

But this man might recover. This was within her control. She would see that he was up

on his feet and well again, whatever it took
.

With a final backward glance, she left the room and closed the door behind her
.

He remembered his name
.

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Quentin. Quentin Forster. Born in Northumberland, England, thirty-two years ago
.

And suffering from a throbbing headache, a mouth full of cotton, and eyes that all too

slowly focused on the room in which he lay. He blinked against the spill of light from the

lace-curtained window. Thank God the sun wasn't shining from that direction
.

The window looked out on something green. Peaceful. He braced his arms beneath him

and pushed up. Every muscle ached and protested the abuse. The sheets and blankets

that had been tucked in at his chin slid down to his waist. He discovered that he was

naked
.

Instinctively he looked for his clothes. A shirt and trousers, of homely cut and fabric, lay

neatly over the back of a chair not far from the bed. They didn't look like his clothes, but

it wouldn't be the first time he'd awakened to find his clothing and belongings unfamiliar
.

At the other side of the room was a dresser, a washstand with a pitcher, basin and

towels, and a three-legged stool painted a bright shade of pink. Something about the

color made him want to laugh. It matched his current situation in absurdity
.

His bed was wide enough for two, with heavy cast-iron head- and footboards. The

mattress was comfortable, the sheets clean. If he'd gotten into this room and this bed

under his own power, he had no memory of it
.

So where was he? This was not a hotel room. It was too neat and modest: neither a

run-down boardinghouse nor an expensive inn that catered to the rich. He'd spent his

share of nights in both
.

Cautiously he flipped the sheets back and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He

endured a brief spell of dizziness, and then tested his weight on his legs. They

supported him well enough. Cool air nipped at his skin. He'd been sweating sometime

recently; a fever? Or just the aftereffects of another drunken binge?

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That was the one thing he was sure of. He'd been drunk. The blank spots in his memory

always came after such episodes
.

He tottered with all the grace of a babe in leading strings, making his way to the

window. It was open the merest crack. He smelled the growing things beyond it even

before he looked out. The sweetness of fruit trees. Flowers. Vegetables

tomatoes,

carrots, peas. Freshly turned earth. The complex melange of woodland
.

Trees and tangled bushes framed the window. A pine-and oak-covered hill rose steeply

a few yards beyond. The air was fragrant, with a hint of dampness. He could smell

people nearby, but not in the numbers that meant close-packed houses and smoke and

waste from thousands of residents, rich and poor and in-between. The only sounds

were the singing of birds, a muffled voice, the distant lowing of a cow, the rustle of

leaves
.

He wasn't still in the City, then. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, thinking

hard. There'd been the saloon in San Francisco

gambling, winning

making plans to

move on, catch the ferry to Oakland across the bay. It didn't really matter where he

went, as long as he kept moving
.

That was where the latest blank spot in his memory began. And ended here, in this

room
.

But there was something else. He returned to the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet,

lifting it to his nose
.

Yes. A woman. He shivered at the memory of her touch, his body's recollection more

vague but every bit as real as that of the mind
.

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A woman. He groaned. Was this some woman's bed he'd shared last night? He couldn't

even remember her face, let alone the rest of her. He glanced down at himself. His body

wasn't telling him that it had enjoyed a woman recently
.

A small mirror hung above the washstand. He looked himself over: He obviously hadn't

shaved in a couple of days. Aside from a certain gauntness and the dark half-circles

under his eyes, his face was unmarked. No surprise there, and no sign of violence in

the vicinity, nothing to indicate that his amnesia hid behavior or incidents he should fear
.

But he was afraid. This was happening more and more often, his periods of amnesia

increasing in length each time. He always swore he wouldn't take another drink

Until it happened again
.

As he always did when he awoke this way, he searched the room for other clues. No

peculiar objects he didn't remember buying. The shoes beside the bed looked at least a

size too large—so, for that matter, did the clothes. In the drawer of the night table lay a

heavy pouch of coins and bills; his winnings had been very good indeed, it seemed. And

no one had stolen it while he slept
.

But something was missing. He emptied the pouch and sifted through the coins
.

The ring was gone. His mother's ring, inherited from her own family, the Gevaudans,

and given to him upon her death—the last tangible memory of his family. Had he used it

as a stake in a game, or drunk it away, or lost it?

He shrugged, shutting off a twinge of pain. His mother had been dead for twenty-four

years. She wouldn't know how low he'd sunk
.

He reached for the trousers laid over the chair. He was still weak enough that it took

rather longer than usual to put them on. The thud of footsteps outside the door found

him balancing on one leg like a stork, trouser leg flapping
.

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The door creaked open slowly. A brown eye pressed up against the crack. Someone—

male—was trying very hard not to breathe audibly, making even more noise in the

process
.

"Come in," Quentin said. His voice felt long-unused. "Come in, if you please.”

His secret observer took immediate advantage of the invitation. A sandy-haired giant,

near six and a half feet in height, barged into the room. He wore overalls several inches

too short and a wide grin, as if he'd never seen anything quite so delightful as a half-

dressed man struggling to put his leg into his trousers
.

"You're awake!" he said. "Doc Jo will be glad." He pointed at the shirt Quentin hadn't yet

tackled. "Them's my clothes," he said with an air of pride. "You can borrow them until

you're better.”

Quentin won his battle with the trousers and sat down. Now he knew the origin of the

clothes, in any case. He hadn't thought his taste could suffer such a major lapse. But

there'd been the time when he'd woken up in the desert without any clothes at all

"Thank you," he said gravely. He grabbed the shirt, while the overgrown boy watched

with fascination. "Boy" seemed the right word for him, in spite of his height and bulk. He

couldn't be more than twenty, though he spoke like someone much younger. Simple-

minded, perhaps. There were far worse lots in life
.

And surely the boy could answer basic questions. "My name is Quentin," he said,

buttoning the shirt. "Can you tell me where I am?”

"My name's Oscar," the boy said. "Doc said to go get her when you woke up.”

"Doc?”

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"Doc Johanna. I helped her bring you here.”

So he hadn't come of his own volition. And Johanna was a woman's name. A woman

doctor. That would explain his memory of a woman's touch
.

But this wasn't a hospital. The good doctor's home, perhaps? Had he been so ill?

He stood up and offered his hand. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Oscar. Can you tell

me how long I've been here?”

Oscar gazed at the man's hand and suddenly folded his own behind his back in a fit of

shyness. "I don't know," he said. "You been very sick. I helped take care of you.”

"You and Doc Johanna?" At the boy's nod, he asked, "Where is this place, Oscar?”

"The Haven." He shuffled from foot to foot. "I gotta go get Doc now." He backed away

and was out the door with surprising swiftness
.

Quentin dropped his hand. The Haven. A very peaceful sort of name, to match the feel

of this room. The Haven
.

To a man like him, it sounded like paradise. But for a man like him, there was no such

place
.

Aware of a powerful thirst, he went to the washstand and poured himself a glass of cool

water from the pitcher. The water was clear, as if it had come from a spring, with a faint

tang of minerals. It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever tasted. He was finishing the

last of it when the door swung open again
.

No giant this time. This one was most definitely female. His practiced gaze took her in

with one appreciative sweep, noting the lush curves of a body matched with the height

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to carry it: a statue, a goddess, an Amazon. He noted and dismissed the black bag in

her hand. Her dark, modest dress was almost severe, out of step with the modem

fashion of close-fitting cuirass bodices and snug skirts, but it did more to enhance her

generous figure than any fancy ball gown might have done
.

And as for her face

At first he thought it rather plain. Its shape was oval, with a very slight squareness to the

chin, and broad, high cheekbones. Her hair was a common light brown, drawn close in