Alpha Wolf. Linda O. Johnston

turned on by him, too. Challenging him to stoke fires hidden deep inside.

      Now, though, those eyes were bright yet cool, which caused him a pang of disappointment. “I’ll answer those questions one at a time.” She lifted her hands and began to tick answers off on fingers that were long and elegant, tipped in short nails appropriate for a woman who handled animals gently. “How did I find Grunge? I was heading for my home next door late last night and heard him whine.” He winced as she described the trail of blood that led to his dog—a trail he was much too familiar with. “He’d been shot—with a silver bullet, of all things. I take it you know of the stupid werewolf legends around here.”

      “Sure do.” He forced himself to laugh and shake his head disparagingly. Oh, yes. He knew about the legends. Which was one reason exercises were always kept on or right around the base—to prevent situations like the one that occurred last night. But Grunge didn’t know about them or understand their implications. He had slipped out through a gate that had somehow been left open. So, therefore, had Drew.

      “Anyway,” Melanie said, “Grunge will be fine, as long as there’s no infection. I want to keep him here till sometime later today, so I can be sure of his medications and keep an eye on him.” The look she regaled Drew with now was challenging, as if she expected him to give her a hard time about leaving Grunge.

      He didn’t. “Fine,” he said. “Just let me know when I can come and get him, and I will. I expect you’ll tell me then about continued meds and follow-ups and all.” As if he wouldn’t know on his own…but, then, he was a medical doctor, not a vet—notwithstanding the highly classified experiments he was conducting at the base. And in any event, he would need to have details to ensure that he cared for Grunge properly.

      “That’s right,” Melanie said.

      Drew looked expectantly toward the door an instant before the knock sounded. He had heard signs of life in the reception area for the last five minutes or so, but the vet didn’t seem to notice. The sounds hadn’t been loud, so she might not have heard.

      She glanced at him in puzzlement before turning toward the half open door. “Good morning, Carla,” she said to the young woman standing there.

      “Good morning,” Carla repeated. “Hi, Drew,” she said in the flirtatiously melodic tone she always used with him and some of the other guys. Not that they ever encouraged her. At least he didn’t. “What are you doing here?”

      “Long story,” Melanie Harding said abruptly before he could reply. “He’s just leaving, though.”

      “Okay. I just got here, and I wanted you to know that Chief—”

      “Hi, Dr. Harding,” said a gruff, older man’s voice from behind the receptionist. A too-familiar voice. It belonged to the local police chief, Angus Ellenbogen. “Good morning, Major Connell. And what brings you here?”

      “A lot of people seem to want to know that,” he replied mildly. “My partner, Grunge, was injured last night, and Dr. Harding was kind enough to save him.”

      “Really?” Carla squealed.

      Ellenbogen squeezed into the room around her and edged her out, closing the door behind him. “Yeah. Seems he was shot with a silver bullet, right Dr. Harding?”

      Angus Ellenbogen wore the standard gray local police uniform but his short-sleeved shirt was decorated with an assortment of bars and medals, as if he’d been a well-decorated military general. His hair was as light as his uniform. His wrinkled face gave him color, though—round and ruddy. His eyes were deep-set and worldly wise, as if he’d seen it all right here, in Mary Glen.

      Drew suspected that maybe he had.

      “I have the bullet in a plastic bag for you,” Melanie said. She had bent to stroke Grunge’s back. The dog looked ready to leap out of the crate, with all the new people around to check out. Melanie flipped the top of the cage closed and latched it.

      Grunge didn’t look at all happy about that, and Drew knelt down as Melanie rose. He reached in to rub his dog’s uninjured side with his fingertips.

      “Good deal,” Ellenbogen said.

      The surgery room, with its operating table in the center and cabinets along the walls, was definitely overcrowded. “Can I move Grunge somewhere else?” Drew asked. The dog needed R&R—rest and recuperation—not excitement.

      “I’ll have him taken to the infirmary and put into an enclosure there,” Melanie said, “as soon as the rest of the staff arrives.” She went over to one of the cabinets and picked up a plastic bag from a shelf. It appeared to contain something small and shiny.

      The bullet.

      “You should tell your junior officer Patrick about this,” Ellenbogen said.

      “I will,” Drew assured him. He turned to Melanie. “Lt. Patrick Worley reports to me. His dad—”

      “I’m well aware that his parents were killed at different times by someone shooting silver bullets,” Melanie said, her blue eyes stony now. “Patrick had only recently lost his father when we negotiated for me to buy this veterinary practice. I’m sure he’s still grieving, and that he wants answers.”

      She darted a glance toward the chief of police, who didn’t look happy about it. Drew liked the little dig Melanie had gotten in. And that wasn’t all he liked about the feisty vet. Hell, no.

      And that was starting to worry him.

      “I only wish I’d seen who fired the shot,” Melanie continued, “or something else that could help identify what lunatic is out there shooting like this. Someone who believes the Mary Glen werewolf legend, undoubtedly.”

      “Undoubtedly,” Drew agreed. If only everyone around here was as skeptical as she was, life would be a lot easier for him. But even so, the questions this sexy vet was asking could be damned hard for him to deal with.

      “So Patrick reports to you?” Melanie said, regarding Drew with apparent interest in his answer. “What do you do at the base, Major?”

      “Classified,” he said with a shrug.

      “Secret stuff,” Ellenbogen said at the same time, his tone indicating his displeasure. “Maybe if they came clean about it, there wouldn’t be so many rumors. One of these days—”

      A cell phone rang. The chief reached down to a case attached to his utility belt and extracted his phone. “Ellenbogen,” he said. His wizened face grew even more pinched. “Yeah? Where?” He listened for another few seconds. “I’m on my way.” But instead of dashing out the door, he turned to Melanie. “That dog—any indication of blood on him last night?”

      Melanie looked puzzled. Drew, on the other hand, felt a sense of dread. He was afraid he knew what was coming. And however it had happened, it could only harm him and the work he was doing.

      “There was a lot of blood on him,” the vet said. “He’d been shot.”

      “No, no, I mean around his mouth. Like he bit someone.”

      “No! None at all. He was the one who was injured. I didn’t see any indication he’d hurt anyone or anything else.”

      “Maybe not. But I want a full report about the dogs you keep on your damned military base, Major. If there’s any sign they chewed on anything they shouldn’t have, I’m going to insist on sending a crime scene team there, security or no security, to take some samples. Got it?” The chief’s face was even redder than usual, and his stare clearly dared Drew to disagree.

      “I’ll do a preliminary investigation, Chief. Believe me.” That part was true. “And if there’s anything to report, I’ll tell you.” That part wasn’t.

      “Yeah, as if I trust you.”

      “Sorry you feel that way,” Drew retorted. He understood why the chief of police had an attitude that wasn’t