Red Wolf's Return. Mary Forbes J.

to figure why the esteemed Dr. Doug left the family.

      Pulse hammering, Beau slowed for the town limits. One of these days he was cutting out, leaving this backwater behind. Then he’d be free to do whatever he damned well wanted, whenever he damned well pleased. And to hell with both his parents.

      

      Meg wanted to see the extent of the eagle’s injuries and ask veterinarian Kell Tanner what he was able to determine.

      After parking the police cruiser, she pushed through the front door of Sweet Creek’s Animal Clinic, clinking the bell at the top of the jamb. In a short hallway beyond the reception area, Ethan stood with the vet; their heads turned upon her entry.

      From under his ball cap, Ethan’s dark serious eyes latched on Meg. A cold sweat swiped her skin. Had the eagle died?

      “Hey, Meg,” Kell said, eyes smiling. “Come to see my newest patient?”

      Still alive. She breathed easier. “How’s it doing, Doc?”

      “There’s a fifty-percent chance for survival. My bet is on the survival fifty.”

      “Good to hear.” Her eyes wove back to Ethan, hoping to convey her relief for his sake. Rescuer that he was, the bird’s wounds would weigh on his heart. Turning to Kell, she asked, “What were your conclusions on the injuries?”

      He jerked his head toward the rear door. “I was just about to tell Ethan. Why don’t you both come to the aviary and I’ll explain.”

      They walked down the hall, Ethan tall and rangy beside her as they followed the doctor. Their hands brushed once. Outside, a roofed walkway linked the main structure to a small edifice. A sign reading Aviary hung above its door; inside, a birdcage contained the eagle.

      Kell went to a small refrigerator, took a few bits of raw meat from plastic bag and walked to the raptor. White bandages wrapped its thigh and wings, and a plastic shield banded its neck. Yellow predator eyes watched them cautiously.

      Ethan stood behind her shoulder, igniting a current of warmth between their bodies. He said, “Great job, Kell. As always.”

      “Thanks. Barring infection, this little gal should make it.”

      “Was she shot by a twenty-two?” Meg asked.

      Kell pushed a piece of chicken through the wire mesh; the eagle gobbled the chunk. “I’m not an expert, but from the appearance of the exit wound in the thigh and from the minimal number of traumatized wing bones, it likely wasn’t a high-powered weapon.”

      “And the tail feathers?” The bird had none.

      “They were plucked, not molted.”

      Which meant a poacher or someone with a sadistic bent. “Thanks, Kell. Let me know if her condition deteriorates.”

      “Will do.”

      Meg walked out of the aviary.

      “Meggie,” Ethan called as he followed her outside into the breezeway.

      She swung around. “Was the eagle unconscious when you found her?”

      “Out cold. Probably hit her head on the rocks when she fell.”

      Meg studied the trees surrounding the clinic. A wind eddied autumn leaves into the air and along the ground. “It’s possible they thought the bird was dead.”

      Ethan said nothing.

      She slanted him a look. “You don’t think so?”

      “I didn’t say anything.”

      “Which says more than words, Ethan. You always were quiet.” And observant.

      His mouth hinted at a smile. “Not around you.”

      Once, perhaps. Once they would’ve discussed every detail of their lives and feelings, shared hopes and dreams and planned their future—until she’d forced a separation between them.

      Disillusioned, she turned to walk around the main building, for her truck.

      “If it’s any consolation,” he said, walking beside her, “I’ve waited a long time for this day. I don’t like how it’s come about with the injury of wildlife, but I’m glad we’re talking again.”

      She stopped at her vehicle. “Me, too.” Without the old weight of silence, her heart felt lighter. Opening the truck’s door, she got in behind the wheel. “See you later.”

      “Count on it.” He walked back into the clinic, back to his eagle.

      

      From her back porch, Meg peered through the starlit night toward the black stand of pine and birch mantling the knoll that rolled up and away from her three-acre property. A quarter mile, and on the other side of the rise, he slept in that lovely terra-cotta cabin.

      Shivering inside her hoodie, she folded her arms against her middle, her senses attuned to the breeze rustling through the dying leaves, and the hint of early snow whispering down from the Absaroka Range.

      Suddenly the wind sighed, He’s coming to see you.

      A flush warmed her skin and her heart hurried.

      You’re imagining things, she thought, yet her eyes strained to peel away the night.

      A small thrill rushed up when he walked out of the trees, tall and illuminated by the stars. His feet made no sound, his arms swung easily at his side, his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes saw only her.

      She stood riveted at the weathered railing, waiting. Waiting for him to mount the steps, to approach her. He wore buckskin leggings and a buckskin shirt draped his torso, and on his feet were red-and-white-beaded moccasins. A feather hung from a leather strand braided into his long, ebony hair.

      Bewildered, she stared. She’d never known him to dress in the garments of his ancestry, to look as if he’d stepped out of another century. Throughout their adolescence, he had spurned his heritage; tried desperately to fit into the culture of his fair-skinned mother and grandfather.

      He took the steps, stopped within reach.

      As the question Where’ve you been? branded her mind, she frowned.

      “Here, Meggie,” he replied.

      Confused, she shook her head. “Not always.”

      “Always. I’ve never left you.” Then he took her face between his callused palms, leaned down and kissed her.

      His lips were warm and soft and mobile. The way she remembered. Pressing herself against him, she banded her arms around his neck, stretched up onto her toes, searching, wanting…

      His hand slipped into the open panel of the hoodie, gently kneaded her breasts.

      Her perfect breasts. Oooh, yes…!

      Sitting bolt upright, she gulped air. Where…?

      Around her, night delineated the ceiling of her bedroom, the pictures on the walls, the metal railing at the foot of her mattress. Curtains fluttered at the open window and a chill breeze goose-bumped her arms. Dreaming, she’d been dreaming about Ethan and…and….

      Oh, God.

      With shaky fingers she touched the left side of her chest where the fake swell rose with each agitated breath.

      Stupid woman, Meg. Did you think it had changed?

      But, oh, in the dream…

      She had been whole.

      Right. You should’ve known something was weird when you saw Ethan in those clothes, and with that hair.

      Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed. She needed to think. Outside. She would go outside, onto the porch. The best place to think. Like in the dream.

      She shook her head. Wake up, Meg. This is reality.

      On