Shadow on the Moon Read online

  Anyway, people have been killed in the Blue Range and they're blaming it on a pack of wild wolves. I'm a biologist and I've come to disprove those claims."

  He frowned skeptically. "There are no wolves up here. People have big imaginations. Some say pterodactyls still fly through the canyons."

  "I'm not getting through to you, am I?"

  "I know you have someplace to go, but I also know you're in no condition to go there." He put a hand on her shoulder. "I'll help you to the bathroom."

  "It's okay. I can do it." Annoyed by his dismissal, she struggled to her feet, despite the protests of her bruised muscles. But her head wouldn't be ignored. Her vision blurred and she groped blindly for the headboard.

  "Don't push yourself." He put a supporting arm around her back. "You took a nasty bump."

  This time Dana didn't argue. His shirt felt soft against her cheek, and his scent—a merging of pine needles and smoking firewood—comforted her.

  "You're supposed to take it easy the first time you get up after a concussion," he chided gently. "I'll walk you around the room until you get your legs back."

  "I have a concussion?"

  She got no answer. Instead, he nestled her firmly under his arm and urged her into a first step. She was five ten herself, but he towered over her, easily holding the weight of her body. His warm breath brushed her hair, and his chest rose and fell evenly against her shoulders. She settled into the shelter of his arm and took one tentative step after another, suddenly feeling safer and more secure than she'd felt in a long while.

  By the second trip around the tiny room, her feelings of dependency started getting uncomfortable.

  "I think I can manage now." She pulled away and began walking alone.

  He stood nearby, watching. When she stopped, he said, "You have a strong will, Dana."

  "Thank— Say, how do you know my name?" "I brought one of your bags up." He gestured to the foot of the daybed.

  "Oh, the tag." Her legs were feeling a little wobbly, so she backed up, sat on the bed, and plucked at the sleeve of her thermal undershirt. Suddenly, she remembered she hadn't been wearing it when the accident happened. This giant of a man had stripped her down, seen her half-naked.

  Looking up uneasily, she said, "By any chance do you have a name, too?"

  She hoped he would reward her with a smile and was disappointed when it didn't come. "Morgan. Morgan Wilder."

  "So where am I, Morgan?"

  "You're in my home."

  "I kind of figured that one out. Where is it?"

  "Strong willed," he said. "Bright. What a woman."

  Although his tone was light, the lines near his mouth had deepened and Dana didn't quite know how to respond. She'd never been good at that kind of thing. To her, people were a little unfathomable. You didn't know what was going on behind their eyes when they said things. Not like the wolf. That creature was direct. Every sound, every movement had meaning.

  "You didn't answer my question." Obviously he didn't understand this wasn't just idle curiosity. "Where are we?"

  "Up some distance from the road."

  "How did you get me here?"

  "I have my ways." He pointed to a narrow door near a stack of open pantry shelves. "You still need the bathroom?"

  "An indoor outhouse?" She involuntarily wrinkled her nose.

  "Better than actually going outside." His face softened as though her reaction had mildly

  amused him. "I have a few conveniences. One of them is indoor plumbing. You need help?"

  "No, no, I'm fine." She got up unsteadily and kept an eye on him as she reached for the doorknob.

  "Not that door!" Morgan's eyebrows met in a line as sharp as his tone.

  Startled, Dana saw that her hand was wrapped around the doorknob of the room from which he'd entered. The door had large, heavy crossbeams fortified with metal plating.

  "My bedroom," he said, more gently. "I, uh, I have a thing about my privacy."

  "Sorry," she mumbled, wondering at his sharp response. But she ended up admiring the small bathroom, which had a pale solar light. It featured a small bathtub and a toilet with a water tank hung quite close to the ceiling. Obviously a cistern on the roof fed both the tub and toilet.

  After taking care of her business, she planned to check out her head injury. Somehow she couldn't believe it was as bad as Morgan said. Unfortunately, there was no mirror, which went a long way toward explaining his unkempt appearance.

  Well, chances are she didn't look so hot herself after all that. Not that it was important. The vital thing was to get Morgan to understand that she had to leave immediately.

  When she came out of the bathroom, he was waiting for her.

  "Some ground rules." He spoke so abruptly, Dana snapped her head around to stare at him.

  "About what?" she asked, trying to act as if the sharp movement hadn't hurt.

  "Looks like you'll be here for a few days at least."

  "No, oh, no. I'm leaving tomorrow."

  "Naturally, you'd be better off in a hospital, but we'll never get out of here in this storm."

  Dana had almost forgotten the storm. In her pain and disorientation, she'd virtually blocked out the noise. Now she could hear nothing else. It beat at the walls and roof, rattled the windows. Fierce, angry sounds.

  "What time is it?" she asked abruptly.

  "The sun went down a little while ago."

  "Then I've only been asleep a few hours or so. I haven't lost that much time."

  "Try twenty-four hours or so." Morgan raised his thick eyebrows. "This is another day. I roused you, walked you around the room a few times, but you never really came to."

  "It was you. . ." Soft hands touching her, the gentle murmuring voice, sometimes close sometimes distant. "You took care of me all night?"

  He nodded.

  "I thought I was dreaming." The depth of his kindness nearly brought tears to her eyes and made her realize the extent of her injuries. If not for him, she could have died. "How can I thank you?"

  He regarded her intently for a second. "Now you see why you can't leave. This storm could last all week, but even if it doesn't, you're in no condition to travel."

  "Not all week," Dana shook her head, and immediately regretted the action. "I can't stay! The mission— I should have been there last night."

  "Dana. There are no wolves."

  "You can't say that for sure," she replied hotly. "Maybe there are. Maybe a pack's survived up here all these years. You don't know. If they have, they need my protection."

  "No one can outguess the weather," he replied, plainly dismissing her concerns. "I'll take you out as soon as your health and the weather permits. In the meantime, I want the rules clear. You have full reign in this room. Help yourself to food, add logs to the fire, whatever you need."

  "I'm leaving in the morning, Morgan. No —"

  "Don't go outside after dark."

  "—matter how hard—"

  "It's for your own safety. This is not a civilized national park. It's a wild forest land. There are dangers out there you can't imagine."

  "—it's snowing."

  Morgan waved his hands toward the bedroom with a grace unusual for a man his size. "Please respect my privacy and stay out of my room. My taste in music is rather unusual, so you may hear strange sounds at night. Ignore them. They mean nothing."

  "Didn't you hear me? I'm leaving in the morning."

  "Yes, I heard, but you can talk forever and it won't change anything. There are already drifts over twelve feet high out there, and you're still weak as a lamb."

  Dana slammed her hands on her hips. "Don't tell me about snow! I grew up in the backwoods of Montana. No Arizona snowstorm could compare to that."

  "Oh?" Morgan walked to the window and lifted the shade. "Come here, Dana."

  She didn't know why she obeyed so meekly, but she did, and what she saw outside shocked her.

  A maelstrom of black and white. Nothing but swirling blizzard. The wi
nd howled. The cabin walls creaked and moaned. The roof shuddered. An icy draft swept down the chimney, creating a shiver in the licking flames.

  Dana felt the chill to her marrow. Turning away without uttering a word, she went to the daybed and climbed beneath a warm blanket, suddenly grateful to be inside this sturdy shelter. Her head throbbed, her every muscle ached, and Morgan was right. The storm was a bad one, and she wasn't in any condition to go out in it.

  At least not soon.

  Chapter Three

  "Unit thirteen-twelve calling Base Camp Lobo," called Charlie Lonetree into the speaker of the stat icky CB.

  "Give it up, man." Deek Kowalski swiveled his seat and gestured at the radio. "They can't hear you, for crissake. There's too much weather."

  "Yeah well, I'm trying to get an okay to go in."

  Deek glanced skeptically out the windshield. A foot or more of snow surrounded their well-equipped van. "I'm guessing even four-wheel drive won't move us till the plow gets here. Why worry? We got plenty of fuel and a week's worth of food." He leaned over, pulled a bag of Cheetos out of a cupboard and began ripping it open. "Want some?"

  Charlie shook his head. "What I'd like is to get some miles between us and Ebony Canyon." Deek hooted and slapped his knees.

  "You don't believe those old legends, do you, man?"

  "Shit, no. But the snow's heavier at this elevation. Sooner we get down, sooner we'll move out of it."

  "You can't pull one over on me. You half think it's true."

  Charlie ignored him and peered out the snow-battered windshield, thinking he saw man-shaped shadows darting among the swirls of white. Imagination. Spooks from tales told by the grandfathers. He didn't even do the sweat lodges anymore, much less practice the old ways.

  Deek was still laughing, the son of a bitch.

  "Dooweep, dooweep, dooweep." Deek waggled his fingers ominously, then clutched his chest. "Help! Bigfoot's coming! Watch out! There's the ghost of Geronimo! Whoops! Here's a tyrannosaurus rex looking for supper!"

  "Knock it off, asshole." Charlie snatched the speaker back up. "Unit thirteen-twelve calling Base Camp Lobo."

  "Hey," Deek exclaimed, apparently losing interest in giving Charlie a bad time. "The storm's easing up."

  "Yeah?" Charlie glanced up from the radio. Sure enough, the snowfall had ebbed to drifting flakes, and the wind had slowed. "The CB's still not getting through."

  "Chill out, man." Deek shoved out the Cheetos bag. "Sure you don't want any?"

  "Maybe later." Charlie slammed down the speaker, then moved the driver's seat forward and turned on the ignition. "I'm going to try to get us out of here."

  As Charlie shifted into gear, Deek suddenly fanned the air around his face. Charlie pinched his nose and turned accusingly toward his partner.

  "Sorry." Deek got up and headed for the chemical toilet in the back.

  "Not there, man. These are close quarters. You'd better go outside, or we'll be living with the after effects for the entire ride."

  Deek glanced out the window, then back to the curtained-off potty area, clearly torn between two bad choices. "Even worse." His voice held resignation. "It's my guess we won't be getting out of this snow, which means we'd have to put up with it all night." He sighed heavily. "I'll probably freeze my butt off, but . . . okay. Where's the paper?"

  "Under the backseat." Charlie shut down the engine.

  A few minutes later, Deek, armed with a roll of Charmin and a Baggie, opened the side door. A blast of frigid air rushed into the van.

  "You got a Playboy anywhere in case this takes a while?" he joked, clicking on his flashlight as he stepped outside.

  "Just hurry," Charlie grumbled. "And shut the freaking door. We're losing heat."

  "Yes, sir!" Deek gave him a mock salute, then started for the back of the van. In seconds, all Charlie could see was the light, and pretty soon even that disappeared.

  * * *

  "Has it been storming ever since—"

  "It's gotten worse.”

  Morgan seemed restless. He prowled the room like a big cat, his mane of hair crackling with static, until he finally stopped to glance at Dana.

  "How's your head?"

  "It aches a little."

  "I thought so."

  He came to the bed and picked up the basin, which he carried to a free-standing sink and filled with water from a pump. Next, he lifted a brewing kettle from a stove that Dana assumed was propane powered, although she couldn't see the tank. As he poured steaming water into the basin, she took in the remainder of her surroundings.

  In an exposed area beneath the sink were some rags and a collection of cleaning supplies. Next to it stood a refrigerator, with a fuel tank attached.

  The room had two windows. Several solar light fixtures, still glowing dully, dotted the walls between them. But if the storm didn't abate soon, Dana knew they'd be using candles.

  Living by candlelight in a small cabin with a giant of a man. Now that was a thought. Not a particularly comforting one. Before he'd snapped at her, she'd felt right at home. But his surliness, combined with the remoteness of the area, and the idea that he'd undressed her while she was unconscious, undermined her feelings of comfort.

  He approached with the steaming water. Instinctively adopting the submissive behavior she'd learned from her wolves, Dana pressed against the wall, only vaguely aware that the movement exposed her vulnerable neck and stomach.

  "I frighten you." He set the basin on the table.

  "No . . . no," Dana hastily reassured him, lowering her eyes to avoid any hint of challenge. "I'm still sore . . . I . . . well, you know what I mean."

  "You're disoriented, too. It's natural after a head injury." He picked up the penlight he'd left on the table, sat down on a wooden chair and flicked it on.

  "Hold still." He lifted one of her eyelids. "I want to check your pupils."

  He aimed the light into Dana's eye and she flinched.

  "Hold still!"—

  "You're shining a floodlight in my eye!"

  "I see you're one of those cranky patients." He let go of her lid and began the procedure on her other eye.

  "Are you a doctor?"

  "It doesn't take a medical degree to see you might have a concussion. You took a nasty blow."

  "It's not a concussion. I'm sure of it." As if in protest, her head throbbed again. "Okay. How bad is it?"

  He clicked off the penlight, put it down, and looked at her thoughtfully. His eyes reminded her of a stag she'd once seen cornered by a pack of wolves. It had regarded them, not with terror, but with resignation to its terrible fate. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she glanced away.

  "Your pupils are no longer dilated, but you were unresponsive for quite a while." He poured disinfectant onto a cotton ball, then lifted the bandage from her forehead and moved the cotton toward the gash beneath. "This may sting a bit."

  "I wasn't able to get much sleep during the last few days," Dana offered, steeling herself against the bite of the antiseptic. "Maybe that's the reason I was out so long."

  "Looks like you're going to live." Morgan resettled her bandage. "Hungry?"

  Dana nodded.

  "I'll fix you something to eat." He went back to the kitchen and turned a burner on under a porcelain saucepan, then began nervously pacing in front of the stove.

  A bit unsettled by his restlessness, Dana examined the cabin again. It was built almost like a fort. All the doors were set in frames over a foot in width and reinforced by heavy crossbeams. Oddly, only the bedroom door had steel plates, and Dana wondered why. Wouldn't it make more sense to fortify the front door?

  She got up and began circling the room, touching this and that—the corner of the sturdy dining table, a chair, the refrigerator, a bookcase—wanting to make it all familiar, in some sense make it hers. As she passed the kitchen, Morgan shoved a bowl toward her.

  "Porridge," he said as he handed it over.

  "Not very exciting, but it's easy to digest and stick
s to your ribs."

  Dana peered down. "You have milk and sugar?"

  "Will goat's milk do?"

  Dana smiled. "I haven't had goat's milk in years."

  "Appetite good. The patient's recovering." Morgan's remarkable smile emerged.

  Dana met his smile, but it faded immediately. He stared thoughtfully for the space of a breath, then opened the refrigerator, pulled out a pitcher of milk. Dana poured out the porridge along with several teaspoons of brown sugar found in a bowl on the table, then sat down and dug in, surprised to discover how hungry she was.

  "That was good," she informed Morgan after she'd cleaned out the bowl.

  "Want more?"

  Dana shook her head, watching Morgan with curiosity as he continued prowling the room. When he circled the table for the third time, he picked up her empty bowl and carried it to the sink. Then he moved to the open pantry and picked up a bottle.

  "Tylenol," he said, placing it on the table. "Take a couple if it hurts too bad. But no aspirin. It exacerbates hemorrhaging." He paused for a moment, then began pacing the room again. "You seem healthy enough, but you were out of it long enough that I'm concerned."

  "Like I said, I've been skimping on sleep."

  He eyed her thoughtfully, stopping at a bookcase where he picked up a slim volume. "I'd rather err on the side of caution."

  Dana touched her forehead. The bandage was tidy and secure. A real professional job. "You sure you're not a doctor?"

  "Did I say I wasn't?"

  Dana sighed. Why must he always be so obscure?

  "I'm a psychiatrist—that is, I was." He let out a bitter laugh. "I switched from internal medicine after I found out I fainted at the sight of blood."

  "I guess I'm lucky you stayed conscious long enough to treat me." Dana smiled, wanting very much to ease the tension between them.

  "Are you?" he'd completed yet another circle and now stood in front of her, looking down. "You may come to think differently, Dana."

  Her smile faded. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

  "No. Nothing in particular." He turned to the metal bedroom door and, after palming the knob, looked back at her. "I won't be out again tonight. If you get hungry, help yourself. The wood's a bit low, but should last the night." "Thanks."