To Catch a Wolf (15 page)

her.”

Niall's shoulders hunched. She had scored a point in his most vulnerable region. "I had

not known about this Wolf-Man—but the others

" His voice was as stiff as his posture.

"I would not allow my sister to be in the company of anyone who might harm her. Of that

you may be sure, Miss Hockensmith.”

Ah. Of course he would be defensive. She must not let him think she found fault with his

care of his beloved sister.

"Naturally you could not be aware of all this. You must concede, Mr. Munroe, that we

women do understand each other better than even a brother could. You cannot be

everywhere at once, nor think of every possibility. That is why I have taken it upon

myself to help in any way I can.”

At last he turned back to her. At last she had his full attention, even his appreciation. "I

have not been unaware of your efforts, Miss Hockensmith. I have not disregarded your

previous observations, and I realize that

even I cannot give Athena everything she

may require.”

"You are as fine a brother as any lady could wish. But Athena has no mother, no older

sister to guide her. And though everyone in Denver society loves and admires your

sister, Mr. Munroe, her very goodness may leave her defenseless against those who

would take advantage of her. The uneducated and destitute, of any sort, are notorious

for just such behavior.”

He stared at the poster. "You once suggested that I send Athena away—to New York,

perhaps. I did not see any benefit in it before. But we do have a second cousin there, in

good society, who might provide companionship for her.”

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"And I know many in New York who would love her as much as we do." She clasped

her hands eloquently. "It is only here that she is

bound by her past. She feels such a

need to prove herself, and I see no evidence that she intends to moderate her

activities.”

"I have spoken to her on that subject.”

"But has she listened? Some time away, in the company of well-bred and older

advisers, would allow her to find a new perspective and realize how much more there is

in the world to enjoy.”

Niall subjected her to the same intense, piercing gaze that he had given the poster. "I

am not yet convinced that she would be better off away from the only family she has.

You do not know her as well as I, Miss Hockensmith.”

Quickly she changed strategies and smiled gently. "Naturally not. You understand better

than anyone how to care for Athena.”

Her retreat softened his stance. "Nevertheless, you have valid points, Miss

Hockensmith. I will consider them. As for the circus

there is no business here that

cannot wait." He removed the weights and let the poster curl up. "I will see Athena at

once. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

Her heart leaped. "Of course.”

He smiled, a more genuine expression this time. "You are a lady of great generosity

yourself, Miss Hockensmith. As generous as your father is astute. I believe he and I

shall soon be sealing our partnership.”

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Elated, Cecily showed him only humble satisfaction. "That is wonderful news, Mr.

Munroe.”

"Athena and I will hope to see you and your father at dinner in the coming week," he

said. "But for the moment—" He stepped around the desk, took his hat from the

mahogany stand, and offered his arm to Cecily. "Shall we go, Miss Hockensmith?”

She took his elbow and walked with him to the door.

Let those overweening young ladies at the Windsor observe her now, and reconsider

her worth. They had much to learn. Niall Munroe might be particularly unschooled

where women were concerned, but he was still a man. And she was very much a

woman.

Woman enough to rule all of Denver society.

"I am a werewolf." Morgan had never been one to question his senses. He had relied on

their accuracy all his life, and he was not prepared to doubt them now. He had not

misunderstood Athena Munroe's startling announcement.

Her gaze held his, steady and sane, though she shivered under the blanket and was not

so well as she claimed. He would swear that she wasn't crazy. She'd have no cause to

make up such a story, when most people would run screaming in terror after what she

had witnessed.

But he would have known. Surely he would have known. Yet he had returned to the lot

because of her, and just in time to save her from serious injury, if not death. Now they

were connected more surely than by any tenuous sympathy. Now it was so much

worse.

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Fool.

"Have you

nothing to say?" she asked, a catch in her voice. "Perhaps you need proof

of some kind. Unfortunately, I do not know how to give it.”

She looked so small, so fragile without the armor of her chair, her legs like a rag doll's

beneath her skirts. She had been a feather in his arms—no, not a feather, for a feather

had no substance. She was altogether real, and warm, and female.

A female of his blood. He did not want it to be true. Oh, no. He wanted to prove her a

liar.

"If you are what you claim," he said, "there are ways of showing it." He glanced around

the tent. "Tell me what is in that chest.”

She looked at the painted wooden trunk. "I don't—”

"Tell me what you smell.”

Her eyes widened with comprehension. Not shock, or fear, or amazement, but

recognition.

"A test," she murmured. "Very well." She closed her eyes again and breathed in deeply.

Her brow puckered in a frown.

"There are a number of items in the chest," she said slowly. "Something

made of

flowers. Dried flowers, and straw. A hat. Caitlin's." She breathed in again. "Yes, it

belongs to Caitlin. And there is also a piece of leather—very worn—that is also Caitlin's,

but it has been used with horses. Metal

a buckle, perhaps. A bit of harness. And

yes, the smell of an old book, one that has been damp too many times. Like an old,

musty library. I think it is Ulysses's. And something of Harry's. Wool. Some article of

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clothing." She opened her eyes. "I hope you do not expect me to identify the specific

garment?”

Morgan stared at her face. He knew she could not have seen the contents of the chest,

yet she had described them accurately and without hesitation.

She had a werewolf's senses. If he bade her listen to some distant sound, report a

fragment of conversation from the big top, he was sure she would oblige him. But if he

asked her to stalk a buck in the deep wood, or run tirelessly for hours on end, or strip

herself naked

He worked his fingers into fists. "Impressive," he said. "But there is a surer form of

proof. Change.”

He might as well have struck her. She paled, and then the color returned in a rush. "You

mean change into a wolf, as you did?”

She spoke as if the very idea was unthinkable. "What is wrong, Miss Munroe? Have you

never done it before? Or is it that those who live as you do are above such things?”

"As I do?" She tried to push up on her elbows, thought better of it, and lay down again.

"I do not understand you.”

"Here, in the city. Among those people.”

She was too practiced at the games of her kind to reveal any hurt, but he sensed it in

her nonetheless. "Those people?" she said with a brittle smile. "You mean my friends?

My brother? Those with orderly lives and assets and connections?”

"If you were anything like me," he said, "you could not deny your blood. And if you did

not deny it, you could not tolerate the pretty cage you live in." He leaned forward,

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holding her gaze. "You know what I am. You must know others. Why did you choose

this time to admit your nature if you prefer your safe and easy life? Why tell me at all?”

She let the blanket fall to her waist and made a Herculean effort to prop herself up.

Morgan moved to help her, but her eyes flashed such proud disdain that he fell back.

"I confess that I know little of

our kind," she said. "I have only known of one other like

me—”

"Your brother?”

"My mother. She

went away when I was born.”

A peculiar feeling came over him, a desire to ease the sorrow he heard in her voice, to

protect her from future unhappiness. Insane, unaccountable emotions.

But it was instinct—deep, reliable instinct—that told him to believe her words. To accept

her claims.

To trust her.

"And your father?" he asked, more gently.

"He was not like my mother, but he knew what she was. When I was old enough to

understand, he gave me a letter she had written before she

went away. It explained a

few things, but so much was left unsaid. I was not even sure if there were others like us,

or how many. Until now—”

"What about your brother?”

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"He has a different mother—" She paused, weighing her words. "He knows what I am,

but he is like Papa.”

Human. Human father, human brother, absent mother. Raised in sheltered privilege in

the heart of a human city. Alone.

Was that why she had come to him—for the answers her mother had not given her?

"Is that why you can't Change?" he asked. "You had no one to teach you?”

"But I did. I taught myself." Even in her awkward position she managed to square her

shoulders and maintain her dignity. "I could do what you did, once. When I was

younger. Before—" She made a brief, dismissive gesture toward her legs.

Pain. For a moment it was stark in her eyes, along with memories too agonizing to bear.

His mind formed an image of himself crippled as she was, and flinched away from the

horror. What had seemed an inconvenience for a human was worse than death to a

werewolf.

"Your pity is quite unnecessary," she said, lifting her chin. "I accepted it long ago." Her

eyes gave the lie to her words, but the deceptively tranquil cadence had returned to her

voice. She might have been addressing her lady friends at tea.

If he'd been wise, he would have accepted her denial, told her whatever she wished to

know, and sent her on her way. She believed she had come to terms with her affliction;

who was he to suggest otherwise? If she had made a tolerable life for herself in the

human world, that was her own affair.

But he remembered the small-minded conversation of the women she called "friends."

Human friends. They could not know what she was, and still they branded her an

outsider, an object of the pity she rejected.

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He had been drawn to her by senses more profound than mere intellect. Drawn to

protect her. And now that she had given him the secret that made her even more an

outsider than before

In all his wanderings, he had never met another of the wolf blood—not in the saloons or

on the dusty roads, in ramshackle towns or mining camps. Now he found his mirror in a

woman of wealth, education, and the position humans so valued. But there was no

wildness in Athena Munroe. Spirit, perhaps, and courage, but no desperate yearning for

the freedom beyond human walls.

We are nothing alike. We cannot be.

"I have tried to devote my time and resources to the service of others," she said quietly.

"I am quite content. I have put that other life aside. But when I saw you

change

I

realized that there was still a small part of me that was not yet laid to rest.”

With an unwelcome jolt of insight, Morgan recognized how great an admission she had

made to him. Her physical disadvantages made her fight doubly hard to be competent

and strong in every other part of her life. In one way they were alike; they both did

everything possible to avoid needing. Athena helped others; they needed her, not the

reverse.

There was little enough that he needed. But now Athena needed him, and he did not

know the extent of that need. Did she expect him—him, of all people—to absolve her of

her werewolf nature?

He jumped up from the chair and paced out a circle in the sawdust. "What do you want

of me?”

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Athena had managed to work her legs to the edge of the cot, as if she might put her