Wolf at the Door (7 page)

He paused a few feet in front of her. Her
lips were full, tempting. Nearly irresistible, even with the slight
smudge of dirt along one dimple. Brandt swallowed hard and forced
his gaze up to hers. “How you holding up?”

She rubbed at a bit of dirt on her hand.
“Well enough. What are you doing here?”

He recognized the wall she tried so hard to
erect around herself, a protective shield that would keep everyone
out. Victims of violent crimes tended to crave their personal
space, that semblance of control that helped them believe they
could somehow manage to keep from getting hurt again.

When was the last time she’d let somebody
in?

“One, I’m here to check on you.”

“You have another Hound babysitting me for
that.” Her hands flexed, curling into fists and then stretching out
again. Nerves. And by now he could tell when a person needed
something to do with their hands. “I also have a picture I’d like
to run by you—”

He reached for it when she cut him off.

“I saw it. On the news. It’s him.” Her jaw
tightened. “He didn’t have the scar on his right cheek before, but
it’s him.”

“Good. An image lets us tell people exactly
who they need to watch out for. We have a real good shot at—”

Timber shook her head and shoved away from
the rail. “I’m going back to work.”

She hurried down the back steps, and strode
to the side of her house and the garden. Brandt looked up at the
tree again. He needed to talk to her. But he needed her to trust
him before he could honestly expect to get anywhere. Hell, he
almost wished he’d asked Ollie to come. Maybe his sister could get
Timber’s trust faster, because right now it didn’t feel like he was
making much progress. If any.

Watching her walk away, he was fairly certain
he had taken several enormous steps backwards. She was walling
herself up again, and soon there’d be no reaching her.

Brandt sighed and followed her. He knelt next
to her while she dug down into the dirt, carefully creating a small
hole for one of the flowering plants she had lined up next to
her.

“I’m sure you have better things to do than
watch me plant flowers.”

“No.” He sank back against her house.

Her eyebrows arched at that. “How’s that? You
fire the other babysitter?”

Brandt felt his lips curve into a soft smile.
Her tongue was like acid when she was testy, all sting, and she
pulled no punches. Not too different from him in that regard,
though he at least tried to soften the blows occasionally. Maybe
soft wasn’t what she needed, though. “Frankly? I need to get to
know you. What makes you tick, your habits, your routines. It’ll
help me know when he’s most likely to strike.” It also might help
him figure out a way to get her to let him in.

She didn’t say anything in response, just
worked in silence. Digging a small hole, selecting one of the
potted Hostas, and tucking it in the ground. He didn’t know how
long he sat beside her as she worked, but finally, “So you said you
had a sister. She a Hound too?”

“Yeah, Ollie.”

The look she gave him said it all. Ollie was
not
a name, at least not a normal one. Brandt laughed. “Long
story, but childhood nickname. Her real name’s Holly. She said to
feel free to call if you want to talk.”

“I’m not really into the sharing feelings
kind of thing.”

“Nah, you don’t say.” He knew he was teasing,
but the surprise on her face when she looked up at him made him
laugh. She looked so damn incredulous. “Don’t get me wrong, Timber,
but I’ve been around the block before. The first time you tell what
happened, it’s always the hardest. You’d never told anyone about
Wolfe—not everything.”

She looked away and Brandt eased back again,
stretching his legs out in front of him so his legs were alongside
her small garden patch. Close enough to talk in private, even if
the Hound on duty went on his patrol, but far enough away to give
her the illusion of space. “Sometimes talking it all out helps. For
some people. Ollie wasn’t exactly one of them, and I don’t reckon
you’re one of them either.”

“What kind of person was she?”

Brandt laughed and plucked a piece of grass.
“The kind that was even more hell-bent on catching the bastard and
making him pay.”

He watched her out of the corner of his eye,
pretending to pay attention of the blade of grass in his hand,
spinning it between his thumb and index finger. Hurt and
frustration warred across her face. She wanted Wolfe caught, but
her last run-in with STE had ruined that hope for her.

“Ollie was lucky,” he said softly, drawing
her attention to him. “She was close to catching the Hunter when he
nabbed her. When she escaped she was still a Hound, so the case got
even more of a priority. She also had a hell of a boss. Lennox
Donnelly isn’t the kind of Hound who turns her back on shifters,
but that’s a story for another day. Though if you get bored some
time you can Google her. But yeah, Ol was lucky in the fact that
she had a STE pack backing her.”

“Most of us don’t.”

“I know. I’ve seen it myself. I’ve watched
packs cover up abuse because it was happening within shifter
groups. It’s a hard line. You don’t want to break down the door
every time there’s a brawl over a rank or two lions are scrapping,
but at the same time...what’s right in nature and in the wild isn’t
always right for civilized people.”

“It’s not even just that. It’s like you
Hounds don’t even think of yourselves as shifters. If a normal
person says something against a shifter it’s just accepted as
fact.”

Brandt tore the blade of grass in two. “Not
all of us. And some of us have been reminded that even the Hounds
we work with aren’t always the good guys. I’ve seen what happens
when a Hound goes rogue. We’re not a perfect system, but I’m
trying. My pack is trying.”

Timber sighed. They sat there in silence for
a moment, but Brandt hated the air of defeat that seemed to settle
around her. He tossed the grass to the ground. “You asked me what
kind of person Ollie was, but you didn’t say what kind of person
you were.”

“I want to be the kind to catch him and make
him pay, but honestly? I’m just the person who tries her best to
survive. To hide.”

Brandt disagreed.

“No. I see you as the avenger type. You’re a
survivor, you’re strong, and you couldn’t make him pay because the
resources just weren’t there for you. But you didn’t hide, not from
life. You changed your name so he wouldn’t find you, but you didn’t
curl up and let life just pass by. You’ve turned to helping others,
to keeping them safe, to doing what STE failed to do for you.” He
let his words sink in, but before she could try and slough it off
or turn him away, he changed the subject. “How much do you like
that tree?”

Timber jerked up to look at him. She wiped
the back of her hand under her eye, leaving a small smear of dirt
along the edge of her cheekbone. She looked exasperated. “I don’t
know, why?”

“If he can climb that tree quietly enough,
scurry out on that branch, he could break in before I could make it
up those stairs.”

She paled and a fresh flash of terror
shattered her eyes for a moment. Then, calm as could be, she
dropped her spade, pulled off her gloves, and shoved to her
feet.

“Timber?”

She ignored him, continuing in the direction
of the shed at the back of her lawn. Brandt followed. She yanked
open the door, the metal squealing in protest. A moment later, she
lugged a small wooden ladder out of the shed and braced it against
the metal. Next, she reappeared with a handsaw.

She reached for the ladder but he beat her to
it.

“Simple answer,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll
cut it down. I’m not making this easy for him.”

Her voice was like steel. Unbending, hard,
but he’d seen her eyes a moment ago. Seen the fear.

Without thinking, Brandt reached forward and
rubbed at the smear of dirt on her cheek. She froze under his
touch, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, he swore he felt her
lean slightly into his touch. Barely.

She couldn’t cut a tree that size down with a
handsaw, but he understood the sentiment. She needed to do
something, now. “I’ll do it,” he said softly, and let his hand fall
away. Later he’d have someone else come in and cut the tree down if
it was necessary, but today they’d start with the branch. “That’s
what I meant to ask anyway.”

“It’s my house.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t have help.”

And before she could argue with him, he
gently pried the saw from her hand, shouldered the ladder, and
angled his path toward the large oak that reached for her bedroom
window. Besides, it gave him something a lot less risky to do with
his hands.

A good thing, too, because his efforts so far
at keeping them safely occupied weren’t working very well. Not when
he could still feel the smoothness of her cheek under his fingers.
If he wasn’t careful, next time he might not stop with simply
smoothing away a speck of dirt.

He imagined sliding his fingers along the
edge of jaw, around the back of her neck, playing in her long
purple hair. Purple had never been a turn-on before, but there was
something about the way it framed her face, brought out every
emotion in her eyes... Brandt sucked in a hard breath.

Yeah. He needed something to do with his
hands that didn’t involve touching Timber Kearney.

The woman had been through enough. She didn’t
need him pawing at her.

And she sure as hell didn’t need him kissing
her.

But of course the moment that thought flitted
through his head, kissing her was all he could think about.

“Shit,” Brandt muttered as he slammed the
ladder against the solid tree trunk.

“You all right?” she asked from beside him
and he jumped. He hadn’t realized she’d followed him. A major,
major flaw in this whole him-protecting-her deal.

A harsh laugh burst from him, sharp and
blunt. “Yeah.”

She lifted an eyebrow but braced her hands on
the ladder. “I’ll keep it steady.”

He almost wished she’d let him fall. Maybe
that would knock some sense into him.

Chapter Seven

Brandt
stretched out on Timber’s couch, listening to the occasional murmur
of nighttime birdsong outside her window. Darkness cloaked the
windows, and the low glow of a lamp on the table beside him cast
the room in shadows. Dinner had been an awkward affair, consisting
of frozen meals and stilted conversation.

He knew she was a private person, and here he
was, all up in her space. But she was doing the best she could.
That much he could see. She hadn’t wanted him here, but she was
trying to make him feel at home anyway. Brandt leaned his head
against the armrest.

Tate had called shortly after dinner, nothing
new, and he’d sent the pack home in time for the evening shift.
Brandt didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, drifting in and
out of sleep, the facts playing over and over again in his
head.

Timber’s scream cut through the silence,
jarring him wide awake and to his feet, his hand instantly going
for his gun. He tripped and almost fell over the blanket curled
around his ankles, and kicked his way loose. Another scream
ricocheted through the house, so full of terror it hollowed him
out, left him frozen to the core. This was the kind of sound that
gave meaning to words like blood-curdling.

Jesus.
Brandt bolted up the stairs,
his every sense on high alert. Another scream ripped through the
shattered remnants of the silence, then another, and another.
“Timber!”

He flung open her door to see her thrashing
in her bed. Her covers were wrapped tight around her, tangling her
like a noose, and she fought. Wildly, violently, and each thrash
was punctuated by another scream.

Brandt scanned the dark room. Nothing.
Setting his gun on her bedside table, Brandt reached for her, his
hands gripping her upper arms as he hauled her up to a sitting
position.

“Timber. Wake up, Timber.” Her eyes flew
open, frantic and desperate with terror. She lashed out at him but
he held her still. “Easy there, girl. Easy.”

Brandt made sure to keep his voice calm,
soothing. Her screams faded into breathless, ragged gasps. She was
trembling, hard enough that he thought she might shatter if he let
go.

Damn that bastard and what he’d done to
her.

“Easy, Timber,” Brandt whispered, but her
breathing didn’t slow. It kept picking up pace. “You’re
hyperventilating. I need you to breathe with me.”

Her hands gripped his wrists like steel,
holding onto him as if she’d float away if she let go.

“You’re safe,” Brandt said. “He’s not here.
He can’t get to you here.”

“I need—” The words were cut off with another
panicked gasp. “Let go.”

Shit. Brandt let go and stepped back. The
last thing he’d wanted was to make it worse. But she didn’t pull
away. Timber used her grip on his arms to pull herself to her feet.
She staggered, and he realized she was shaking so hard she could
barely walk. He started to reach for her again, but she slapped a
hand out at the wall and stumbled down the hall, leaving him to
stare after her from her bedroom door.

Something about the way she made that walk
down the hall told him it was habit. Ritual.

Brandt followed while she flicked on the
lights in the bathroom and gripped the marble sink. Her breathing
slowed while she stared in the mirror, the trembles fading. He
watched as she gathered herself, picking up the pieces that
nightmare had ripped from her, and putting herself back together
again.

She touched her hair, running her hands over
the long purple waves, and she shuddered. Again and again she
touched the odd-colored locks, and Brandt watched the relief settle
in her eyes. Right before she ran a hand down her chest where her
breast should have been. A wash of sadness crowded in then.