The Alpha's Daughter (19 page)

"I'm sorry," she said. Particularly if it was
on her account.

Griz looked at her and blinked. "No, no. I
didn't mind getting rid of them. They needed to go. With what folks
bring me, I have plenty to eat. I'd never slaughter them for
myself."

But he would do it to put meat on someone
else's table or sell them if someone else needed money. Was that
why he was so serious? Was one of the pack in trouble?

He took an envelope from his pocket and
placed it on the table. "It's not much, but it's enough to buy you
some clothes and a bus ticket out to Rabbit Creek."

Jazz stared at the white business envelope,
unable to process what the man had just said.

"You can't stay here."

He said the words slowly, gently, yet they
hit her like a slap. Her head snapped up and she transferred her
stare from the envelope to him.

"What did I do wrong?" she asked and
regretted it immediately.

The last time she asked that question, she
was six or seven. She was twelve before she really understood that
she would always be wrong. Even then she tried.

By the time she was fourteen, she could
rebuild an engine from parts strewn across the floor. By the time
she was sixteen she could keep her father's double set of account
books cleaner than Roscoe, the bookkeeper. She could handle the
same big motorcycles the men rode. She could hold her own in a
barroom brawl.

It didn't matter. Little by little, she
stopped thinking about the right thing to do. There wasn't any
right. She developed her own philosophy for life. If you were going
to be wrong, you might as well enjoy it.

"It's not wrong… exactly." Griz winced as he
said it and then he sighed and waved his hand to indicate the room.
"You change things."

What the hell? She cleaned up his pigsty. Was
that a crime? "Is this about the bookcases?" she asked.

"No," he said and then contrary to the
shaking of his head, said, "Yes. My life was as I wanted it. I
don't want it rearranged. I have my job. I have my research. I'm
content. I don't want interference."

"Have I stopped you from doing your job?" she
asked. The shock was wearing off. "How have I interfered?" Jazz was
becoming more heated. "By seeing that you're paid? By cleaning up
your mess?"

"No." He hesitated. "Yes."

"No, yes, yes, no. Can you narrow it down to
one or the other because I'm having trouble following your line of
thought here? I thought we were getting along pretty well." If that
kiss was any indication - damn well.

"You are. I'm not." He rose from the table
and began to pace, throwing his arms out to the left and right as
he spoke.

"I have two neighborhood busybodies busting
into my home and spreading the word about where you sleep and your
constant nakedness. I'm puffing up my chest to run off men who are
neighbors and friends. I'm breaking up brawls. I'm throwing
goddamned parties and ordered to go over the moon." He raised his
arms to the heavens. "I had a plan, damnit! A goddamn, fucking
plan, a peaceful plan, a quiet plan, and every time I turn around
you're distracting me from it."

"I didn't let the twins in. You did," Jazz
protested with her hands on her hips, "And exactly what have I done
that's so annoying?"

Okay, she had interrupted him with a patient,
but only once and only because she didn't know that was his office.
And yes, wiggling around in her underwear should have been
distracting, but he'd ignored her! She wasn't the one who turned a
warm and friendly little kiss into molten lava.

"We can start with your turning my clinic
into a fighting ring or how about duking it out with the neighbors
on my front porch or swearing 'till the damned air turns blue."

"I thought we were past that," she said and
then added nastily. "Besides, you're the one who's swearing."

"Exactly!" he shouted as if his point was
made.

"Fine. What else do you find so
distracting."

"Your cleaning," he said as if that was some
sort of crime. "Your making sure I eat. Your laughing. Your
prancing around half naked. Jesus Christ, you even sing!"

"I do not sing half naked!" She'd lay claim
to the rest, but not this. She only sang when she was alone where
no one else could hear it.

"You do. You hum. You whistle. You're always
wailing some godawful tune about mountain mamas, miner's ladies and
how you should have been home yesterday." He pointed an accusatory
finger at her. "How's a man supposed to concentrate when you're
singing and swinging your rear end beneath a tee shirt - his tee
shirt, I might add - knowing full well there's nothing under there
but what God gave you!"

"You've already seen almost everything God
gave me!" she shouted.

"I know," he shouted back, "and it doesn't
help."

"In case you hadn't noticed, my wardrobe is
pretty damned limited."

It wasn't only that. Those big, roomy shirts
were soft and comfortable and such a relief from the tight jeans
and fitted shirts she usually wore. It felt good not to have
something squeezing, poking or confining every bump and curve of
her body.

"Those tee shirts cover everything that needs
to be covered," she went on, "And it's not my fault your mind
wanders where you don't want it to go."

"It is!" He waved his hand about the rooms,
taking in the walls and the dining table set for two. "I don't want
frilly curtains and vases of flowers and cute little knick-knacks
to knock on the floor every time I turn around. I don't want
candlelit dinners. I don't want to want you! It isn't in the plan.
You need to go before I do something we'll both be sorry for."

"Too damn late for that," Jazz told him as
she headed for the front door.

She whipped it open to find a wide eyed Roger
Wilson standing in front of her. He'd obviously been listening and
heard every word. He smiled and whipped his hand up holding a
bouquet.

"I thought I'd stop by and say hello," he
said to Jazz.

"Not a good time, Wilson," Griz said behind
her.

"It's a perfect time," Jazz
countered. "I'd invite you in, but
he
doesn't like company. How about
we go for a walk?" She sniffed the bouquet and smiled. "We'll have
to take these lovely flowers with us or we might be accused of over
decorating the pig sty."

She marched down the stairs with the flowers
held before her like a drum major's staff.

"So, I guess the rumors are wrong, huh? You two aren't… uh…
together?" Roger asked almost gleefully when he caught
up.

"Together? No, no we are definitely not
together. Not now, not then and not in the future." Jazz continued
her forced march until she was well away from the house.

"Good. Good." Wilson's head bobbed up and
down. "You don't belong with him anyway."

"Why?" she asked, slowing to a stroll. "Not
good enough for the great doctor?"

"No. No." The man couldn't seem to say
anything without saying it twice. "Just the opposite. Too good for
him, I'd say, too good." He did a double step to match his step to
hers and moved a little closer. "You need an alpha with a future. A
wolver on his way up, if you get my drift. A future, that's it. You
need someone who's a match for you, you know?" Wilson reached for
her hand. "The proper match."

Fortunately, it was the hand that held the
flowers and Jazz easily moved away. "Shit. Shit. Shit!" she
muttered in her mind, taking a page from Wilson's repetitious book.
He knew. The bastard had eavesdropped on her conversation with Miz
Mary. She stopped and faced him, ready to rip his ass a new one…
and found she couldn't.

Roger Wilson was a pompous man, not a bad one
and she couldn't fault him for wanting a position that no one else
seemed to want. Everyone said the Alpha's mantle, that mystical
garment that connected the Alpha to his pack, would only fall on
the shoulders of a man strong enough to bear it. In her father's
pack, they thought that strength was physical. Jazz now knew that
wasn't entirely true. If it was, then Gilead's current Alpha,
Leonard, was much too old and frail to bear it and it sure didn't
look to Jazz like he was buckling under.

Sure, outwardly the Alpha had to be strong
enough to fight off any initial challenges, but once established,
his strength had to come from inside through strength of will. A
weak willed Alpha couldn't bear the mantle.

Physically, Roger was strong enough, at least
for the Gilead pack, but Jazz didn't think he had what it took to
bear the burden the mantle brought with it. Not that it mattered.
Who would or would not be the Alpha was not her concern. She would
not be his Mate.

The way it looked at the moment, she wouldn't
even be a member of his pack.

Jazz turned to Roger and took his hand with
her free one. It was cold and clammy, not a good sign.

"You know what I am," she said as calmly as
she could. "You heard me talking to Miz Mary." Roger started to
speak, but she cut him off. "So you must also know that I won't be
an Alpha's Mate. Not yours. Not anyone's. If it's your destiny to
be the Alpha, the right Mate will come along, but it won't be
me."

"But you just said it. Destiny. It's your
destiny to be an Alpha's Mate," he said firmly, "Just as it's my
destiny to be the Alpha."

The stubborn look on his face was almost a
pout and Jazz was surprised he didn't stamp his foot.

"I'm attracted to you. You're attracted to
me. I can feel the pull," he insisted.

"I'm not attracted to you, Roger." Jazz
wasn't patient by nature and this wolver was testing her limits.
"And you sure as hell aren't attracted to me. You're attracted to
what I am, not who I am. That pull you feel is only the tug of the
rope you think will draw you up closer to your goal."

"It's your destiny," Roger repeated, his
voice rising with frustration. "You were meant to stand behind the
wolver who wears the mantle." He gripped her hand tighter when she
tried to pull away. "You can't fight it. I will be the Alpha and
you will be my Mate."

"I won't stand behind any man. Being an
Alpha's Mate may be my destiny, but the choice is mine whether I
accept it or not." Jazz spoke through clenched teeth. "I choose
not."

"I'll show you," he said, "You were sent here
for me."

The would-be Alpha yanked on her wrist to
pull her closer, his mouth readying for a kiss. Jazz drew back her
hand, already fisted around the bouquet. Both actions were stopped
by the heartbeat throb of a Harley's engine coming up the road.
Roger let go and stepped back. Jazz unclenched her fist and stepped
into the road, waving the bouquet over her head as the motorcycle
came around the curve.

Cho's brother stopped a few feet away.

"I need a ride," Jazz said without
greeting.

"Hop on," he answered, pointing to the space
behind him with his thumb.

They were only a quarter of a mile up the
road when Jazz saw Livvy step from the trees. She tapped the young
man on the shoulder and called, "I'll get off here," when he didn't
show signs of slowing down.

He was caught and he knew it. He slowed the
bike to a stop.

Livvy looked ready to run, so Jazz smiled and
held out the bouquet. "Your boyfriend here brought you flowers. Not
easy to do on a bike," she said to cover the fact that the bouquet
wasn't quite as fresh looking as it used to be.

Livvy's smile lit her face and she visibly
relaxed. "Thank you," she said softly, her sparkling eyes on the
boyfriend.

"I'm Jazz," Jazz said as he helped her from
the bike. "I know who you are, but I don't know your name."

"Sec," he said at the same time Livvy said,
"Brad."

He laughed. "Yeah, Brad."

Cho, chosen. Sec, second? Jazz wasn't going
to ask. She knew how it felt to be seen as a thing and not a
person.

"Nice to meet you, Brad," she said
deliberately and turned to Livvy.

"Do your folks know where you are?" Damn,
didn't that sound all grown up and judgmental.

Livvy must have thought so, too. Her face
became instantly belligerent and her fists clenched.

Jazz laughed, not unkindly. "Save that look
for somebody else, pup. Won't work on me. I invented it and I'll
tell you something else, too. If you don't see yourself as better
than something to sneak around with, he's not going to see you as
anything better either. Or is that it?" she asked Brad. "Is she
just a way to get your rocks off when nothing else is
available?"

The look on Brad's face was answer
enough.

"It's settled then. You," Jazz pointed to the
girl, "Bring him home and introduce him to your mother before your
Aunt Donna gets wind of it and you," she looked back at Brad, "Make
friends with her father. Stand tall. Show him you’re a wolver
worthy of his daughter's love and his respect. He's a good man.
He'll see the truth of it." And then she laughed again. "He won't
like it, but he'll get used to it."

"See? I told you," Brad said to Livvy and he
smiled and held out his hand to her.

Jazz liked him for it. He wasn't like his
brother. She saw that in the clinic. There was no arrogance to him,
no resentment of his brother's treatment. He didn't cower from it
either. He accepted it with a quiet confidence and good nature.

"You and I can walk back through the woods,
Livvy. Brad'll give you time to get home and then he'll knock on
your door as a gentleman should. He needs those flowers back.
They'll make a good impression on your mother." Jazz dusted her
hands off, her job finished. "We're done. If I spout any more of
this advice column shit, I'll make myself puke."

It was a fifteen minute walk through the
woods, but at the rate Livvy started off, Jazz thought they'd make
it in five.