PacksBrokenHeart (8 page)

Owen gave up trying to figure out the logistics and let the females guide him around the dance floor at will.

By the seventh dance and his second beer he was convinced Wyoming had some outstanding points, horses notwithstanding.

Now and then a cowboy would cut in, take a female off Owen’s or Tom’s hands for a while then return her. Other females drifted in and out of the group. Whenever he got a chance to sit out a dance Owen eavesdropped on as many conversations as he could. Everybody seemed to be there for a good time, maybe to blow off a little steam. Nobody was talking about Ed Timberman or his murder.

All in all, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

Finally, just about the time Owen was worried his steel-toed boots were going to stomp a hole in the floor, the lovely office ladies called it a night. He and Tom returned to their table, where Tom picked up his shearling coat and Stetson.

Stetson
? Owen glanced down and saw cowboy boots sticking out beneath the cuffs of Tom’s jeans. Lip-smacking females aside, Owen was in cowboy purgatory.

“Time for me to go,” Tom said and buzzed a kiss against Frannie’s cheek when she came by to clear their table.

“Will you be here tomorrow?” Owen asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Afraid not. I have got myself a date,” Tom announced happily. “Temporary deputy sheriff on loan from a nearby pack.”

“Huh.” Owen drank the last of his beer. “Not that it matters but I never could tell whether someone was gay or straight.”

“What? Nah. The deputy’s a lady and a fine one at that.”

“Huh. She got a sister? Or do you for that matter?”

“She doesn’t but I do. Three of them. All mated and older than me.” Tom shuddered lightly. “Sailed right through my sensitivity training at the Academy. Just nodded and said ‘Yes. You’re right’ in every simulation before hauling my ass out of the estrogen line of fire.”

The next night Owen picked a booth in the town diner and sat so he could see the entire place, plus the street outside. The diner wasn’t busy. In fact, most of the customers were finishing their meals or leaning back in their chairs, nursing what looked like final cups of coffee. Cory and Piper had invited him to dinner but he’d politely refused. He needed to be out in the community, meet new people, and besides, mates needed time to themselves now and then.

Owen ordered the special when the waitress, a middle-aged were with sturdy ankles and a smile a mile wide, came up to him. She brought him a coffee and a glass of water without being asked. Huh. They sure seemed to like their coffee in Pinebridge. Maybe it took their minds off horses for a while.

The place smelled as good as it had the day Owen arrived. The tables were clean, the décor had that fifties roadside grill feel to it and the music drifting through the speakers in the ceiling was from the same era.

There wasn’t a wagon wheel or piece of tack in sight. Thank god.

“Here you go, darlin’.” The waitress, whose name tag identified her as Myra, set a generous serving of short ribs, garlic mashed potatoes and green beans in front of him. Beside that she placed a small plate holding two rolls and pats of butter and another plate with a strawberry and spinach salad. “Give me a shout if you need anything else.”

Owen was a bit surprised she didn’t pat his head before leaving. Maybe she would once she knew him better.

As he ate, he eavesdropped. He didn’t learn much, except the results of a cattle auction the weekend before and some speculation about that summer’s rodeo circuit. The ribs were just about the best he’d ever tasted, stewed in tomatoes and white wine. Owen devoured his serving then sopped up the gravy with one of the rolls. When Myra stopped by to refill his coffee cup he was more than happy to take her suggestion and ordered a refill on the ribs. When she left for the kitchen she didn’t pat his head but she did give his shoulder a squeeze.

All this motherly interest lately felt unfamiliar but not uncomfortable.

He was polishing off his second helping of ribs when a man wearing a chef’s jacket and tall hat came out from the kitchen. Owen watched the man move around the diner, going from table to table, greeting the other customers by name. There weren’t a lot of people left by now and the man talked to them about everyday things…the weather, their pups. He asked if they’d liked their dinner, accepted their compliments and bid them a good evening when they left.

After the last customer paid and walked out the door the cook walked up to Owen’s table.

“I wanted to drop by and say hello.” He held out his hand. His skin was smooth but his grip was solid. “I’m David Hold. I own this place. I’m guessing the ribs were to your liking.”

Owen couldn’t help grinning. “Best I’ve ever had.”

“Glad you enjoyed them. You’re new in town, aren’t you?”

“Yep. I’m Owen Wells. Would you like to sit down for a minute?”

“It’d be a treat, son.” The man sighed as he slid into the booth across from Owen. “Been on my feet all day and my dogs are barkin’.” He smiled up at the waitress, who walked over to them. “Bring us two servings of berry pie, would you, Myra? Then why don’t you take off early. I don’t think anybody else’ll be in tonight.”

“Sure thing, David,” she said with a smile. “And thanks.” Turning, she headed for the kitchen.

“You’ll have to tell me what you think of my berry pie,” David said. “It’s one of my most popular menu items.”

“Have you owned the place long?” Owen asked as he forked up some spinach, strawberry and light, creamy dressing. He resisted the urge to sigh with pleasure as the flavors burst in his mouth.

“A little over six months now.” David Hold was a stocky man in his sixties with gray hair and brown eyes. He grumbled quietly. “I don’t like all this unrest since Sheriff Timberman’s murder though. Ed was a good man. Met him only a couple of times but I liked him. Now? Folks don’t like to be out after dark and my supper trade is off. I thought Pinebridge would be a great place to spend my golden years. The pack’s real accepting of outsiders, as I’m sure you’ve found out.”

Owen nodded his agreement and polished off his salad. He’d had some good chow in the Army, contrary to popular belief, but this man’s cooking was outstanding.

David continued, “I hope they catch who did it real quick so we can all get back to the business of living.”

Myra returned with two servings of pie. Each plate also held a spoonful of what looked like thick sour cream shot through with dark flecks. She set a clean coffee cup beside David’s place setting, cleared away Owen’s dinner things and left the coffeepot on the table. She bid them good night, picked up her coat and left through the front door.

“Berry pie,” David announced proudly and flaked his pie crust like he was checking the texture. He smiled and looked pleased with himself. “No matter the time of year I can always find fresh berries of some sort or another. Local grown or imported. The trick is balancing the tart with the sweet. The clotted cream adds mouthability to the dish. I think it’s the perfect complement.”

“Clotted cream?” David tried to hide his distaste at the name.

David grinned. “Kind of like whipped cream but more complex. Sweeter too. It’s not that well-known in the States although it’s popular in Europe. I reduce it myself, add a vanilla bean to make the flavor pop.” Using his fork he cut off a piece of pie, added a bit of the cream and popped the mix into his mouth with an air of expectancy. “Delicious. Even if I do say so myself.” He looked over at David pointedly.

David tried the pie and cream. This time he did sigh with pleasure.

“Hah.
Knew
you’d like it.” David got up. When he returned he was carrying a half-empty pie plate and a bowl of the clotted cream. As they ate, refilled their plates and ate some more David asked about Owen’s time in the military, where he’d served, what his plans were.

“Well, I don’t have a job yet,” Owen answered and helped himself to another half-cup of coffee after refilling David’s. “I’m doing some aptitude testing this week. See if I’m good for anything other than marching in a straight line and waking up before dawn.”

David laughed obligingly. They spent the next half-hour or so talking about David’s culinary training, the upcoming baseball season and some good fishing spots nearby.

Finally David glanced at his watch and stood up. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Owen,” he said and picked his tall hat off the bench seat.

Owen followed him to the cash register and paid his bill with pleasure. He’d expected a few things when Cutler asked him to go to Pinebridge. Eating great every night of the week hadn’t been one of them.

“Don’t forget a nice tip for Myra,” David said while Owen still had his wallet out. “She’s my best employee. She’s also a single female with two pups,” he added conversationally. Without begrudging it, Owen pulled another bill out, said his goodbyes and agreed to come back when David told him the diner also served a fine breakfast seven days a week.

On Saturday morning Owen was sitting behind a desk at the local community center. The squeak of sneakers on hardwood drifted into his small office as the basketball game down in the gym geared up.

Cory Amos had asked him to volunteer a couple days a week. The center no longer had a volunteer director, not since Ed’s murder. Owen was filling in until they found a replacement. He was signing off on invoices for cleaning supplies, putting together next month’s work schedule and allocating space for two birthday parties as well as the center’s regular activities.

A were in his eighties if he was a day popped his head into Owen’s office. The space wasn’t much, just a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet he hadn’t got around to going through but it had a window and it was clean. He had to use his own laptop because all Ed’s files were on Ed’s personal computer. That computer was at Ed’s home and neither Cory nor Owen had wanted to bother Ed’s widow about it. “It’s Owen, right?” the male asked.

“Right. I don’t think we’ve met.” Standing, Owen held out his hand.

“Peter Overton. I teach the art classes. Cory said you were filling in, um, well, until we found a replacement for Ed.”

Owen shook his head. “From what I’ve heard nobody could replace Ed. But I’m glad to help out while I can.”

“Good to hear it.” Peter was sinewy but held himself erect. Cory had said Peter taught art at the local high school before he retired. He’d been Ty Amos’ biggest influence and had badgered him into entering art competitions. One of those competitions had earned Ty his scholarship to the University of Arizona. “Anyway, I put in a requisition for supplies. My budget this year was pretty limited but since the winter was so cold and we didn’t have to run the refrigeration units as much as last year to keep the ice in the outdoor arena, I was wondering if there were a few unused dollars lying around.”

Hunting around his desk, Owen found the requisition. It wasn’t outlandish, just some new pastels, modeling clay, tempera paints and beads. There was money left over in the rink budget but Owen had found out the shower stalls in the women’s changing room needed regrouting or else the Health Department would cite them for mold. He looked at the dollar estimate at the bottom of the requisition.

“Tell you what, Peter. Shop around and find a supplier willing to donate some things. Something to get this three hundred dollars down to two-fifty and the money’s yours.” There wasn’t any extra money in the budget but Owen was willing to donate it out of his own pocket. A charitable receipt would help him come tax time and besides, nobody had to know.

“Consider it done,” Peter called out with an enthusiasm belying his age. He rushed off with a speed most people couldn’t match.

Owen checked his watch then headed for one of the larger classrooms.

Earlier in the week when Cory asked what activities Owen could lead, the only thing Owen could think of was PT. Hand-to-hand combat maybe. He didn’t think schoolkids would have much use for planning strategic arms deployment. Piper had stuck up some flyers and now Owen didn’t know how many, if any, kids would be interested in what had been billed as Introduction to Self-Defense, ages six to eleven.

Dressed in sweats and one of the community center’s T-shirts, he pulled the door open and stopped dead in his tracks. No less than twenty pups, each of them with a parent, some with more than one, looked up at him expectantly. Owen exhaled, lifted his chin and walked into the room like he had a right to be there. He scented the room out of habit.

Getting the crowd squared away was easy. He just stared them down and addressed them—parents and pups—like he’d addressed troops when he’d been in the Army. The multipurpose room was already cleared of desks. The few spectator chairs he’d set against a wall weren’t enough so he soon had parents lining up more and putting their butts in them. He’d laid out some mats off to one side and had kids working in groups to drag more over.

For the most part Owen simply kept the kids moving for forty-five minutes. They ran around the room then did lunges. He taught them how to center their weight, bend their knees a little and punch out into the air while they yelled. Punches alternated with kicks. Upper- then lower-body exercises alternated after that. He taught them to do shoulder rolls on the mats, taught them how to fall and not get hurt. The last five minutes they simply sat and eased into stretching their muscle groups. After all that running around, yelling and laughing Owen was enjoying the quiet. But even that was shattered when he sat up straight and dismissed them. The yelling started right up again, only this time it was the kids asking if he’d be their teacher next week too. A little girl with big dark eyes and a sweet smile plopped herself on his lap and stayed there contentedly until a male were with eyes the exact color and shape of hers firmly reminded her they had to go pick her brother up from hockey.

When Owen stood pups crowded him, asking him all sorts of questions. Some of them leaned against his leg or hip, nuzzling lightly. He wasn’t used to kids. Wasn’t entirely comfortable around them but his inner wolf recognized and accepted their acknowledgement that he was a leader and a powerful were.

He shook hands with the parents, tried to memorize as many names as he could, recognized a few of them from around town. Volunteering at the center was going to be a good thing. It gave him an in with the pack that didn’t rely on hanging out in bars or restaurants.

Outside there were even more pups lined up for the twelve-to-seventeen class.

Despite his reluctance at being cast as the center of attention Owen started to think he could get used to this. Get used to belonging. But, he reminded himself, it was only temporary. Just an assignment. Still, maybe someday…

“State police pulled out of Pinebridge this afternoon.”

Sitting in his pickup behind the community center at the end of the day, Owen frowned when Cutler gave him the news over his cell.

“Their investigation has stalled. There’s a statewide warning for all police responding to calls in remote areas. Problem is just about the whole state is isolated.”

Cutler sighed and so did Owen. He rubbed his forehead and wondered if the Alpha was doing the same thing.

“We’ve been instructed to do callbacks on cell 9-1-1 calls, travel in pairs, those sorts of precautions. The official investigation has been widened to cover the state, not just Pinebridge.”

“I’m not buying it,” Owen snarled. “Ed Timberman was targeted. Lured out and ambushed. I’ve driven the road he was killed on. Nobody but a local could even find the damn thing.”

“I agree with you but I can’t exactly call up the State Inspector’s office and tell them my werewolf senses are tingling.”

Owen chuckled at that.

So did Cutler. Then he sighed once more and continued, “I’m still convinced you’re our best resource for picking up information. Keep your ears open and watch your back.”

“I always do,” Owen said wryly and ended the call.

The next time he was invited to supper Owen suggested a pack run to Cory.

“In Cutler’s pack,” he said, “it brought them together after they heard about Ed’s murder. There’s no comparison to what your pack’s feeling but they got pulled off-center too. The run reaffirmed their bonds and brought a sense of normalcy. It let them mourn together and it let them play together too.”

Cory and Piper looked at each other.

“That’s a good idea,” Cory finally said. He shook his head ruefully. “I’ve been so wound up by Ed’s murder I haven’t been thinking like a leader.”

As he made his way from the parking area to the big clearing in the pack’s running grounds early the next week Owen found himself walking beside David Hold, the owner of the diner in town.

“Owen,” the older man greeted him warmly. “Hoped I’d see you here.” He raised his hand in acknowledgement as a mated couple walked past. “Piper asked to put up a notice on my board about that new class you’re teaching down at the community center. Teaching pups is great but what I want to know is if you’re going to hold an old-fart class for guys like me?”

Owen laughed obligingly. He also scented the air with more deliberation than he knew was necessary. Being overly cautious was a habit he just couldn’t shake. “I doubt a man of your experience needs lessons in basic fighting techniques.”

David huffed and adjusted his belt. “Don’t be so sure about that. Ed was one of the strongest weres in this pack,” he added, lowering his voice, “and look what happened to him.”

The worry lines around the man’s mouth caught Owen off guard. He’d underestimated how unsettled the pack was…even mature members with common sense like David.

“I’ll see about fitting in a seniors’ class,” Owen offered. “Although most of the seniors who come during the week are females. You’d find yourself seriously outnumbered, friend.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Again Owen laughed and was reminded how centering it was to hang out with older weres. With the back of his hand he gave David’s belly a light slap. “Keep eating your own cooking and you’ll
need
a fitness class.”

“Yeah well, you keep coming by and eating right alongside me, young’un. We’ll see who can hold his own when it comes to downing chow.”

“Keep feeding me that berry pie and I’ll be putty in your hands.”

They were still laughing, still busting each other’s balls when Cory’s strong voice, coming from the middle of the clearing, called a beginning to the run. They stripped off and from training and by habit Owen folded his clothes neatly before setting them on top of his boots. He and David changed at the same time.

Owen leaned into the shifting of his skin, the stretching of sinew, the pain of shattering bones. When it was finished he shook lightly, panted in discomfort then let his nose take over. His wolf scented the clearing, searching for signs of danger or distress. It didn’t expect anything extraordinary but it was a wary creature. With ears perked it reached out over the clearing and beyond with all its senses. It didn’t take long to satisfy itself there was no danger nearby.

There was no way Owen’s wolf could hide its strength like the human could. It turned to the smaller, grayish wolf standing beside it.

This wolf was sinewy. Its muscles hadn’t atrophied, they’d simply become rangy and pronounced with advancing age. This wolf was also wary of Owen. He felt it in the air around him, scented it when the wolf looked at him out of the corner of its eye, holding still in the presence of a much more powerful animal.

Owen sniffed the graying wolf then it walked away without doing the same. He found the behavior odd but not unexpected. His size and strength intimidated lesser wolves, especially before they got to know him. Owen tracked the gray wolf, seeking it out to give it an opportunity to learn he wasn’t a threat. It had skirted the pack then stepped in between two groups of wolves.

When Owen turned to follow the gray wolf had disappeared.

Then something caught his nose. A smallish bitch with a golden-brown coat was sniffing and being sniffed by a group of wolves. He recognized her scent, knew he’d run with her but didn’t know why she was here. A large, lumbering brown wolf was trailing her with a focus that was as admirable as it was humorous. That male he remembered as well.

Owen approached the female.

A massive black wolf, almost as big as Owen, stepped into his path. They circled each other—each holding their tails high, their heads low, moving slowly so neither had opportunity to smell the other. Other wolves saw and moved back.

Owen growled, a low, rumbling sound that made his upper lip flutter. The black male did the same. Then Owen growled again, louder and deeper. The black male did too but couldn’t reach the same bass notes Owen could, the subharmonics or volume. Finally the black male stood still and didn’t protest when Owen sniffed him.

There was pride in the other male’s stance. Strength and confidence hummed through his body. He was powerful but not as powerful as Owen.

When Owen was finished he let the black male sniff him. It was the sociable thing to do. Dominance had been established and Owen was eager to start playing. Together they approached the golden-brown female.

Her other would-be suitors stepped back. Some likely left in search of less domineering wolves to play with. Some simply dipped their tails and turned away quickly. One, the large brown male, seemed determined to remain beside her but one solid, deliberate slam of Owen’s shoulder into his dissuaded him without further contest. Looking sheepish and smelling of disappointment, the brown male moved away.

Owen smelled the bitch first. Yes. He remembered this one. Remembered her intelligence, speed, agility and love of the chase. She smelled him and did it quickly, like she remembered him too and didn’t need to remind herself of his strength and presence.

She and the black male sniffed each other at the same time. Finally, impatiently, Owen dropped to his chest, yipped and cocked his head to the side. The other two copied the gesture, returning his invitation to play, then the golden-brown bitch took off at a speed that, like before, surprised even Owen’s wolf.

Once the clearing was behind them the black wolf took the lead. He ran shoulder-to-shoulder with Owen but it was obvious he knew this land. Knew the dangers and the safe, flat valleys where they could stretch out in uninhibited bursts of speed. They ran through the new spring grasses. The black male led them to a pond where they drank, cooled themselves in the water and rested. He spronked in front of Owen, smacked his snout against Owen’s and, when Owen stood, they both got up on their hind legs, bounced their chests off each other, tried to wrap their long forelegs around each other in a mock wrestling match.