Alaskan Wolf (5 page)

Tomorrow? She'd have to see.

The guy was hot. No doubt about that. And she'd enjoyed his company the few times they had been together, despite his initial unwelcoming attitude at the dogsled ranch, and his obvious reluctance to take her on another trek onto the glaciers.

He had kissed her, sure. Accepted her kiss. But he hadn't pursued anything—probably for the best. He wasn't really interested in her, and she shouldn't be interested in him. She sighed as she walked out of the office center and closed the door behind her.

Her room was on the next floor, so she headed
toward the reception area where the stairs were located.

And felt a little creeped out. The lights here were low. No one waited behind the inn's small reception desk for people to check-in, not at this hour.

The place was quiet, too. The only sound she heard was warm air blowing through the heating system.

She felt like running to her room, but just stepped up her pace toward the stairway past the desk. Whoever killed Shaun wasn't likely to be at Inez's. But from what she'd gathered from Patrick, the authorities hadn't yet zeroed in on a suspect, so how could she know for sure?

“You okay?” said a voice from behind, startling her. She must have jumped a foot.

She pivoted. Patrick stood there.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her body shaking.

“I dropped my stuff in my room but figured…well, I thought you might want someone to walk you to yours. Didn't mean to scare you.” He looked chastened, like a young boy who'd been chewed out for pulling a girl's hair.

“It's okay,” she said as her trembling stopped. “And you're right. I'd appreciate some company. Everyone around here'll be nervous as word gets out about what happened to Shaun.”

“Yeah.” His expression shuttered again. Poor
guy. Obviously in pain, yet not willing to show his emotions.

“I'm upstairs,” she said gently. “This way.” And realized that, like he had done before, she'd said something that could be misinterpreted as an invitation for more than a stroll to her door.

That would have made her smile under other circumstances. But games like that were not appropriate tonight.

She headed up the stairway, glad to hear his footsteps behind her.

The hallway upstairs was dimly lit. Her room was nearly at the end. When she got there, she reached into her pocket, extracted her key and unlocked the door.

She turned back toward Patrick. “Thanks for walking me here,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb other guests. “And…well, if there's anything I can do to help about Shaun, please let me know.”

His expression was bleak. She wanted in the worst way to cheer him.

Almost involuntarily, she stood up on her toes and kissed him. Gently. On the mouth. Not quite sisterly, but not suggestive, either.

He responded immediately. His arms went around her, and she was suddenly in the middle of a torrid embrace that made her gasp. His kiss grew so sexy
that it nearly made her knees buckle. She considered tugging him into her room.

But he pulled away abruptly. A light in his amber eyes suggested that he, too, was more than a little aroused.

Even so… “Good night again,” he said and strode off down the hall.

 

Patrick slept only about an hour that night.

His bed at the B and B was comfortable enough. His state of mind was not.

Lying awake in almost complete darkness, beneath the duvet in the room that smelled of pine-scented cleaning solutions, he thought a lot—too much— about Mariah. She was in the same building, one floor away.

He imagined what she looked like in bed. He remembered that not-so-chaste kiss. And their couple of prior kisses—too short, yet arousing.

He had to get away, stay far away, from the woman who wrote about animals. Not just sleep in a different building from her.

He also thought about Shaun. His murder. The blood.

The sights, the sounds, the smells around the sled hands' house.

How he'd failed to pick up clues as to the identity
of the murderer. And how the killer had obscured potentially useful evidence, like a scent.

If Patrick hadn't been sure the cops would still be around, he'd have sneaked back under the cover of darkness early this morning. He'd still head there a little later, after checking out of the B and B. Maybe that wasn't the best decision. Normal people would stay in a nice, comfy inn, out of the way of a murder investigation.

He wasn't normal people.

He had to look like one, though, so his excuse would be that he needed to be at the ranch for the dogs' sake, which was true.

But when he was alone, near enough to accomplish his real goal, he would extract the most important contents of his backpack: the elixir and the light that triggered its usefulness.

As a wolf, he would be able to use enhanced senses to find any trace the murderer had left—and there was bound to be something, at least tonight, when the kill was so fresh.

Because he could not be there alone tonight, the best Patrick could hope for was that the crime scene guys found everything there was to find and handled it perfectly.

Unlikely.

So it would be better from his perspective if they found nothing at all.

At least they might not still be hanging out there collecting evidence tomorrow night. If so, that would give Patrick his opportunity to conduct his own hunt for clues pointing to Shaun's murderer.

While he shifted into his wolf form.

T
he moment she opened her eyes that morning, Mariah was wide awake. She immediately headed for the shower in the small bathroom attached to her room.

Her first thoughts were of Patrick Worley, and seeing him in the business center the night before. He had been sweet, walking her to her room, despite his own grieving, when she'd felt so freaked out about the murder of his friend.

Poor Shaun. She'd barely met him, but he seemed nice enough. Why would anyone have killed him—and as brutally as Patrick had hesitated to describe? And in this small town, where residents probably
knew everyone else who lived here. Her curiosity was on high alert. Shaun had worked at the same dogsled ranch as Patrick. Did that have anything to do with why he died?

Unlikely, but she would consider writing a separate article on the ranch, its dogs and its mushers—and use it as an excuse to look into Shaun's murder, as long as her new research didn't interfere with her nature article. Her boss, who owned more than one publication, would love that.

But poor Patrick, too. Shaun's death had clearly been hard on him. She would have to see if there was anything she could do to help him through this difficult situation…within reason.

For her own sake, though, she should probably stay away from him.

She'd dreamed about him. She couldn't quite remember her nighttime fantasy, but judging by the sensitivity of her body this morning, it had been steamy. Or maybe that was actually a daylight reaction, resulting from her ongoing attraction to him.

Which was absurd. Yes, he was one hot guy. Maybe she should satisfy her curiosity, indulge in a one-night stand. That might even help him get his mind off his friend's death, too, for a little while. Do a good deed both for herself and for him.

But what if, instead of feeling satisfied, she only wanted more?

After showering, she fixed her hair, put on a minimal amount of makeup, and dressed nicely but casually. She had a meeting later with the science teacher at the town's high school, for a local perspective on wildlife.

When she was ready to go, she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Eight-thirty, the time she'd told Patrick she'd be at breakfast.

After locking her door, she hurried downstairs.

The inn's breakfast area was crowded but not full. The room sounded alive with low conversation and the clinking of plates. About a dozen people were seated at small wooden tables, alone and in groups of two and three.

Patrick wasn't there.

Mariah went to get her food—wheat toast with strawberry jam, a hard-boiled egg, orange juice and coffee. Then she had to decide where to sit. With others…or alone at a table for two?

Before she'd decided, she saw Patrick fill the doorway, his backpack again over his shoulder. He wore his heavy jacket, unzipped to reveal a gold sweater beneath.

He joined her near the toaster. “Morning,” he said. “I thought I'd find you here. I'm checking out now and not staying for breakfast.”

“Oh?” She put her food down on the counter, feeling ridiculously hurt, as if he'd stood her up for a date.

“I want to get back to the dogs, Duke and all of them. I'm sure they're upset. Though they're unlikely to understand that Shaun's dead, there was a lot of activity around them last night. And Toby and Wes were probably kept too busy to pay much attention to them.”

“I understand.” And she did. She might have the sense that Patrick chose not to relate to people at times, but she could definitely identify with people who cared for animals.

Her mind immediately returned to that wolf on the glacier, and she thrust the thought away. Why go there now?

“If I can do anything to help them, or the Daweses,” she said, “please let me know. And I still hope you'll take me back out on the glaciers—maybe tomorrow, if the ranch is up and running again.”
Then
she could worry about that wolf.

His eyes bored into hers. “I told you I'd let Toby know you wanted someone to take you out again.”

She was not intimidated. “And I told you I'd like it to be you.” She crossed her arms, waiting for the next salvo.

It came as a broad, sexy grin that nearly made her knees buckle. “We'll see,” he said, then left the room.

 

Driving through wind-whipped snow flurries, Patrick called Wes on his way back to the dogsled ranch. “Cops gone?” he asked. “Are we working today?”

“Yes and yes,” was the reply. “We're still under orders to cooperate with the investigators and keep everyone out of Shaun's room, but otherwise we're supposedly back to normal. Except for the fact that we're missing a musher—and we're all still suspects.”

“Got it. The dogs handling it okay?”

“I guess. You can figure it out…when you're back.”

There was a hint of inquiry in the last, so Patrick responded, “On my way.”

“Oh, and Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“I know Shaun was your friend,” Wes said. “I didn't know him well, but he seemed like a good guy. We'll miss him around here.”

“Yeah.”

Patrick arrived at the ranch ten minutes later, parked in the area designated for staff and headed to the large building where the dogs were housed when not out romping or working.

Duke came over to him, whined and waited for Patrick to kneel and stroke him. Duke and he had
been partners for a while now. The dog had been acquired by Alpha Force as a pup and designated as Patrick's cover over a year ago—because he was a combination shepherd-wolfhound that looked a lot like Patrick's shifted form.

“Good boy,” Patrick said, then, more softly into the dog's ear, “Looks like we're on our own.”

But when his cell phone rang only a minute later, that situation changed.

“Can you talk now?” Major Drew Connell asked.

Standing, Patrick said, “Just me and the dogs at the moment.”

“Good. Here's the deal. I've already spoken with Wes Dawes, since you and I discussed it.”

When Drew was done talking, Patrick gave Duke a pat and headed out the door toward the main house. As he walked inside the entry, he heard someone speaking in the kitchen. It was Wes, who hung up his cell phone as Patrick walked into the room.

“Sounds like you and me have some talking to do,” Wes said, grinning.

“Got some time now?”

They sat at the kitchen table, Patrick with a glass of orange juice and Wes with coffee.

Wes looked like a junior version of his dad, muscular, not too tall, with a round face and receding hairline. His gray sweater was threadbare around the
elbows and sleeves. His expression was sober. “Give me a heads-up on what you'll expect from me.”

“We can't officially recruit you into Alpha Force,” Patrick said. “Because you're not in the military any longer. But since you had a high clearance, I can rely on you for backup. Did Major Connell explain our mission?”

Even if he had, Patrick was certain that Drew would not have revealed the true nature of Alpha Force. Not only was Wes nonmilitary, he had also not been ruled out as a suspect in Shaun's murder.

But Patrick might need backup as he investigated the disappearing glaciers, and that was what, in generalities, he revealed to Wes.

“That was one reason for our partying so much at Fiske's,” Patrick confirmed to Wes. “To talk to the scientists hanging out there in a relaxed setting, where they won't know how interested we are in their answers.”

“Got it. What else?”

“We'll wing it. Glad you're on board.”

Wes might be a real asset, since he knew people around here. Some of what Patrick needed to accomplish involved learning people's observations about the glaciers.

Tonight, though, when Patrick visited Great Glaciers National Park in wolf form, he would be on his own.

 

Mariah had time to kill before meeting with the local science teacher. She knew exactly where she wanted to go: the closest place that had Wi-Fi. The internet connection in the business center at her little B and B had worked out okay last night, but it was slow.

Besides, she wanted to use her own laptop for ease of storing information she found during her research.

Most of all, she wanted to be sure no one could see, in some menu of last topics researched, exactly what she was looking for.

She would walk to the Tagoga Library. It wasn't far from Inez's B and B. And if she made a call on the way, her conversation wouldn't be overheard.

She bundled up and started outside. Walking wasn't the safest thing to do on slick sidewalks during heavy snow flurries, but she used her cell to phone her boss, the editor of
Alaskan Nature Magazine,
among other publications. “Hi, Harold.” She snugged the receiver against her ear beneath her knit cap.

Harold Hanrahan wasn't much older than Mariah's age of thirty-one. He had taken over his family's publishing company when his father, its founder, had had enough of Alaska's winters and moved to Florida. Harold had already been an editor, and he was also an excellent businessman. In addition to
Alaskan Nature,
he now owned a weekly publication distributed in several small towns—filled with lots of advertising—and a monthly rag that focused on gossip and celebrity sensationalism.

Neither was to Mariah's taste, but she occasionally wrote articles for them, on Harold's request. After all, she'd written similar swill in her past. And under Harold's tenure, subscriptions to
Alaskan Nature
had tripled. Its distribution outlets all over the country now included not only standard places like newsstands but also unusual ones like pet stores, animal rescue organizations and even stores that sold sporting goods and outdoor gear.

“So tell me more about that murder,” he said with no preamble.

“I doubt it has anything to do with the article I'm researching,” she retorted wryly, but she nevertheless told him all she knew—which wasn't much. “But that's one reason I'm calling,” she said. “I intend to look a little more closely into what's going on around here. If I see anything we can use for a cover story relating not only to wildlife, but anything touching on natural occurrences around here, I'll follow up.”

“
Un
natural occurrences, too,” he said gruffly. “Write about anything juicy you find out about the killing, and I'll include your article in the
Advertiser
or the
Journal,
whichever works best.”

It was the response she had anticipated, she
reflected as she hung up and carefully stuck her phone into her purse with one hand. Her other hand held her laptop's case, and both were covered in bulky, warm gloves.

And though she really didn't want to get into the details of Shaun's death, she could now justify spending time researching it to see where it led.

More info about Patrick Worley? Maybe. They'd clearly been friends.

She reached the Tagoga Library. Fortunately, despite the smallness of the town and compactness of its library, it was advanced enough to make Wi-Fi available to its patrons.

Nearly filled bookshelves lined the room, surrounding about a dozen small tables. The place wasn't crowded, and after waving a greeting to the librarian on duty, she chose a table as far from the door as possible to set up her computer.

After removing her gloves and jacket, and rubbing her hands together to warm them in the comfortable heat of the library, Mariah sat down and started to work.

First, she did a Google search on Shaun Bethune, to see if she could learn anything more about him than she'd found on the inn's computer last night—like what he'd done before working at the Great Glaciers Dogsled Ranch. She'd gotten the impression
he hadn't been there much longer than Patrick, an apparent newcomer.

She found nothing on anyone she thought could be this Shaun. Few people with his name were listed, and the ages, and circumstances of their listings didn't sound like the man who had just died.

An apparent dead end—and she didn't intend the pun. But that didn't mean she couldn't learn anything about him. Her research would have to be done here in Tagoga, subtly. And without interfering with her researching the article she really wanted to write.

She had one more person to research before looking for information about local schools, to prepare for her interview later.

She looked up Patrick Worley. She had an excuse to check Shaun on Google: a writer's investigative curiosity. But her reason to look up Patrick on the internet was simply that she was interested.

She found quite a few people with his name, including businessmen and scientists, medical doctors and educators—but none that sounded like him.

Until she came to a Patrick Worley who was the survivor of two deceased Maryland citizens, including a veterinarian. If this was him, he had come by his love of dogs naturally.

Only…how odd! The stuff she found on various websites—including pages devoted to the town of Mary Glen, where the vet's practice had been—was
full of allusions to local legends. Werewolves, of all things!

Of course that had been discredited. There had been some odd goings-on in the town, including the murder of that Patrick Worley's dad and mother, too. But the killer had been found.

Nothing for Mariah to use, most certainly not in her article on local wildlife in the Tagoga, Alaska, area. Or even a story on the death of Shaun Bethune.

But this could certainly explain why Patrick was so closemouthed about his background. Who would want to admit to having had his world shaken up by a bunch of woo-woo, credulous fruitcakes?

And Patrick—there were a couple of mentions of the surviving son, and the fact he had enlisted in the military but was dishonorably discharged.

Her
Patrick?

There was no explanation of the circumstances. And she couldn't even be certain that it was the right Patrick Worley.