HEART OF THE WINTER WOLF

By

Dani Harper

© copyright May 2007, Dani Harper

Cover art by Eliza Black and Jenny Dixon, © copyright May 2007

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

To Jordan, Abby, Jaime and Sam, the best cheering section ever.

And to Ron, who inspires me daily.

"Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey."

Lord Byron

"There is no instinct like that of the heart."

Lord Byron

Prologue

September 30, 1977

Tendrils of smoke rose ghostly white against the night sky like escaping spirits. Two days had passed and the house had collapsed to one side in a heap of charred beams and ash. No human could have survived such devastation.

James Macleod was not human.

Far beneath the blackened beams, he lay burned, bleeding, and broken, close to death but as yet unable to embrace it. Now and then, he broke the surface of unconsciousness, only to be dragged under again by relentless agony and despair.

The waning moon hid its face as James opened his eyes at last. For a fleeting moment he thought he was blind, then realized night had fallen, although which night it was he had no idea and didn't care. He was still alive--barely--and didn't care about that either. His broken ribs screamed at him as he began to cough up more blood and soot, but this time oblivion stubbornly refused to take him back.

Evelyn. He couldn't see her beneath the debris, but he could just reach her delicate fingertips. They were cold and unyielding. He felt again the slash of agony in his heart that was far greater than the pain in his body. She had been human, vulnerable, both she and the child within her, his child. He had failed them both, failed to protect them, failed even to discern any danger to them. He had been moving the cattle to summer pasture in the deep coulees along the river when a calf blundered into the fast-moving water. Saving the young animal and regrouping the herd had set him back an hour, then two. Just two scant hours in which all that was dear to him was left defenseless.

He'd known at once. James had barely turned his truck for home when cold terror had suddenly clawed his heart and his wife's voice echoed briefly in his mind. Gunning the old pickup, he'd kept it on the rough dirt road by sheer force of will. Faster, faster, heedless of the rugged terrain. He had to get home, had to reach her. When an axle broke, James left the crippled truck and raced flat out, first on two legs, then on four.

The house had been strangely dark when he reached the yard. Evelyn always left a light on for him. Always. And then he had spotted the smoke churning from an upstairs window. He caught no stranger's scent as he ran into the burning house, as he shifted shape and shouted for his wife. He had smelled blood, however, even mixed with the thickening smoke. He followed the metallic tang of it straight to the dining room, knowing and not wanting to know that it was her blood, and that there was far too much of it. Dear God. James had squeezed his eyes shut against the ugly gunshot wounds that had stolen her life even as he cradled her small body against him. She was gone. Their child within her, already loved, was gone, as well.

It was his fault, all his fault, although James had no idea who had done this. Few people could even find his ranch. It was remote, all but hidden, with the nearest neighbor miles away. He knew no enemies in this country, yet in his shattered heart he also knew it was no random act that had taken his loved ones from him. He should have known better. He should have known. His family's entire sept of Clan Macleod had been forced to leave Scotland more than two centuries earlier, when fear of Changelings had caused all wolves to be slaughtered to extinction there. Why had he thought it would be better here, safer now? Why had he assumed humans were any more civilized now, any less driven by fear and hatred of those who were different? But then there had been Evelyn, and she was wholly, completely human. Evelyn, who embodied all that was good about humanity, who knew what he was and accepted him, who loved him with a heart that was bigger than she was. Evelyn who had just paid for that love with her all-too-human life.

Already half-mad with pain and grief, his own human side wanted nothing more than to follow his loved ones. Changelings were long-lived and tough, gifted and powerful. But they were not immortal. His Changeling nature was automatically trying to heal the horrendous wounds, weakly attempting to regenerate burned skin and tendon, repair and replace broken bone. But with so much damage and so little energy left, the process was winding down before it had really begun. Soon it would stop altogether and he would get his wish.

For one clear moment that wish coalesced in his mind--a soul-deep desire for death. James embraced it without reservation, forgetting that his wolf nature was driven by a powerful and primitive instinct to survive. Without warning, fresh agony suddenly slammed into him from every direction. His heart was being squeezed through his ribs. His very bones felt as if they were exploding. The animal within had gone completely wild. Unbidden, it frantically clawed its way to the surface.

Dark clouds diffused the moon, hid the massive wolf that crawled out from under the charred wreckage, veiled the singed white fur in shadow. Sides heaving, the creature limped on three legs to the edge of the clearing and collapsed. James lay there for a long time and regarded the wreckage. Fists of sorrow beat inside him, but his lupine eyes could not weep. Instead, a cry of anguish was ripped from his throat, gaining in strength as it sliced through the silence. It rose and became an ululating howl echoing over the ruins of his home, his heart, his life.

As he howled out his grief, the sky cleared. The moon was far from full but still it blanketed him with pale silvery light, lent him its peculiar strength that only Changelings knew. James stood. So his wolf nature wanted to survive? Then it could damn well do it without him. He would set it free and never walk upright again.

The wind picked up. Although only three legs would obey him, the white wolf began to run. Run, to outpace the agony that could rip and tear a human heart. Run, to outdistance the human grief that could not be borne. Run, to be as the moon, a swift white shape gleaming in the night. Run, to be a wolf and only a wolf.

As he raced away into the welcoming arms of the night, James was only fleetingly aware that he had just buried his human self alongside Evelyn. And then he was aware of nothing.

Chapter One

March 31, 2007

The wolf dream again. Jillian Descharme rolled over on the lumpy folding couch that doubled as her bed and squinted to read the alarm clock. It was 3:29 a.m. She didn't need to reach for the light--the dream was no nightmare. Far from it. Fifteen years ago, a great white wolf had emerged from the darkness and saved her life.

Her counselor, Marjorie, had favored other theories. She felt that the white wolf was something Jillian's mind had created to protect itself, to protect her very sanity from a trauma that couldn't be borne, from a brutality beyond imagining. "The wolf is a symbol your mind has adopted," Marjorie said. "And in the study of dream images, a white wolf in particular symbolizes both valor and victory, plus the ability to see light in the darkest hours. It's an extremely powerful and positive image."

Marjorie was a skilled counselor as well as a kind and loving person. She had helped Jillian work through a great deal of pain, and Jillian knew she owed her a lot. That was why she always felt a little bit guilty. Because although she stopped insisting the wolf was real, she never quite stopped believing it.

And she didn't stop dreaming of it. Jillian had dreamed of the white wolf when she moved away from home, when she entered veterinary college, when she wrote exams, when she applied for jobs, when she competed in martial arts tournaments--pretty much any time she was nervous, stressed, or even lonely. Okay, especially when she was lonely.

Not alone. Here with you, the wolf always said to her. He didn't talk, not physically. Rather, she felt the words in her mind. Not alone. And in the presence of the wolf, she could believe it. Jillian always felt soothed, comforted, safe. Between them was a connection that defied description. A sense of wholeness she had never conceived possible.

"Nothing like being co-dependent on an imaginary friend." Jillian got up for a drink of water, realized that wasn't enough to get rid of the fuzzy taste in her mouth, and decided to brush her teeth.

Popping open the toothpaste seemed to jog open a memory at the same time. Jillian always welcomed the wolf dream and the calm it brought her whenever there were changes in her life. But in the past few years she'd noticed a new pattern--the wolf dream also seemed to show up just before something in her life changed. And this was the third night in a row she'd had the dream.

That had never happened before. Returning to bed, she lay with her eyes open, wondering what it meant, wondering what was coming. She hoped it wouldn't be the bank calling about her student loans again. That thought was enough to keep her awake for the next hour. When her alarm went off at six, however, there was nothing new about the morning except that it took three cups of coffee to jumpstart her brain instead of one. There was nothing different about the weather. It was the same as it had been for weeks, just another humid scorcher in southern Ontario. There was nothing different at work. There were no new animals at the environmental center, and no unusual visitors. She accidentally sat on her lunch bag, but except for being squished, her peanut butter and honey sandwich tasted exactly the same.

Later, at the post office, she had nothing but bulk mail in her box. She dropped the flyers and ads into the trash by the door as she left. At least there weren't any bills. But there was no winning envelope from Publishers' Clearing House either.

The feeling of letdown was heavy by the time Jillian opened the door to her tiny rented room. It was silly. It was childish, but she couldn't deny she was disappointed that not a single out-of-the-ordinary thing had occurred that day. On top of that, she was tired to the point of being downright cranky. "Maybe the stupid dream didn't mean anything this time. Maybe it isn't supposed to mean anything. Maybe Marjorie was right and this whole wolf thing really is a figment of my--"

The phone rang, making her jump, and she snatched up the receiver with a growl. With any luck it might be a telemarketer and she could download a little of her frustration. Petty, she knew, but it would be something. She promised herself to feel guilty later. "Yes?"

"Is this Dr. Jillian Descharme?"

"What are you selling?"

The caller didn't even pause. "A job. I'd like you to come work for me. My practice is running me ragged, and I need a hand. If you're as good as your instructors say you are it could turn into a partnership. That is, if you like northern Alberta."

She fumbled with the receiver then, certain that reality had taken a complete holiday. "What?" Her brain finally kicked in. "Wait a minute. I forgot what day it is--this is a stupid April Fool's joke, isn't it?" Jillian wracked her brain to figure out who might pull such a prank. A co-worker? A former classmate? "Of all the mean, rotten--"

"No, it's no joke, honest. Hey, if I'd realized what day it was, I would have waited until tomorrow to call you. I promise you, this is a real call about a real job. Look, it's calving season and I haven't slept in two days, so if I sound desperate, I am. Will you come?"

"I don't know you from Adam. And you haven't even met me. You haven't seen my resume. I haven't even applied for the job yet. I didn't even know there was a job." She certainly hadn't looked for anything that far away, had never been to that part of the country. Mentally she pictured a map of Canada and visualized Alberta. It was one of the largest provinces, stretching from the American border all the way up to the Arctic Circle. Just how far north was this clinic? Was there still snow on the ground there?

"I've been friends with a couple of your instructors for a long time. That's where I got your name. They both said you're good, and that's good enough for me." He rattled off their names and enough personal details to prove he was telling the truth. Or that he'd really done his research. He seemed to read her mind then. "Call them up. Ask them about Connor Macleod, and they'll tell you I'm not a nut case or a stalker."

"But I have a job."

"I heard. I also heard your present position's temporary. I happen to know the director of the place--he thinks you're extremely talented too, by the way. Says he'll even let you go early, if you decide you want the job here."

She sighed and swore, forgetting that the man could hear her through the receiver. She ran a hand through her choppy blonde hair, causing it to stand straight up in places. It was all too true that her job at the environmental center was up at the end of the month. She'd tried hard to find another opportunity to work with wildlife, especially wolves, but most positions these days were filled by volunteers. Those that weren't were largely government-funded--and that funding had dried up considerably after the last election.

Tapping the phone against her chin, Jillian figured that this Macleod guy really must be flat-out desperate. Why else would he call up someone on the other side of the country for God's sake? It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, to tell him she'd rather patch up coyotes and feed orphan skunks than work with livestock and pets. Not only were they more interesting to her, but coyotes and skunks didn't have owners to deal with. She wasn't as good with people as she was with animals. Okay, she could be downright lousy with people, especially ones that didn't take care of their animals.

But she couldn't make herself say no.

Jillian hadn't been out of veterinary college very long. She desperately needed a full-time position, any position that would give her a chance to pay off her massive student loans and get on her financial feet. She might have a DVM after her name now, but that was all she had to her name. No cash, no savings, no car, no furniture, no apartment. Nothing. Not even her textbooks anymore--she'd been forced to sell them last month to keep her small room near the environmental center.

"Hello? Hey, are you still there?"

She realized she'd left the man hanging. "Sorry, just thinking things through. It's a big move. You're just about on the other side of the country."

"Let me make it easier then. Commit to giving us six months, and I'll pay your way here. If you really hate us after that, or we can't stand you, no harm done. I'd pay your way home, too."

She could do six months. That wasn't a long time. She could keep her temper, make nice with clients for six months. Probably. Macleod likely ran a cramped, shoestring operation in the middle of nowhere, but the guy was offering good pay and a place to live thrown in. And surely there must be wildlife rehabs she could look into while she was there. Maybe she could work for Macleod's clinic for a while and then move on to what she really wanted to do with her career. Besides, how bad could it be? Making a mental note to check this guy out with her instructors and maybe even the RCMP before she actually packed any suitcases, she said yes.

And remembered the wolf dream as she hung up the phone.

* * * *

The full moon called and the Pack answered. The lights of the town of Dunvegan were left behind as seven creatures ran silently, effortlessly, mile after mile. Nothing could cover distance as efficiently as a wolf's perfect form. Charcoal and tawny, gray and silver, gold and black, the wolves were a diverse group, yet they moved as one with the smooth grace of long practice. Eventually a white wolf joined them, easing into the band without a ripple.

The Pack loped along the game trails at the very tops of the coulees, high above the Peace River valley. The wolves' path seemed almost suspended between sky and water, moon above and moon reflected below. Joy, fierce and bright, was all around.

Stars wheeled overhead, revealing the constellations of the early morning as the Pack leader turned towards Elk Point. There, she slowed at last and picked her way along the rocky promontory until the trees parted to reveal a sweeping view. Tongues lolling, sides heaving, the wolves flopped down on the stone plateau just as a sudden wind gusted up from the valley. Dry leaves swirled into a lazy vortex around the group. The air crackled, flashed here and there with tiny sparks as static electricity began to collect. The power built until the ground thrummed with it, until the very rocks vibrated.

Sudden silence burst as loud as a thunderclap. Human laughter and human words flowed in quickly to fill the vacuum. The breeze died away. The leaves fell to earth. Where eight wolves had been there was now only one-a lone white wolf and seven human beings.

Connor Macleod automatically reached out a hand and ruffled the thick soft fur. His older brother was not just the only one in the family with such a snowy pelt. He was the only Changeling that Connor had ever seen with that coloration--not an albino but a true white. Their father had often called James a winter wolf, but there was always a touch of sadness in his voice when he did so. Connor had pressed him for an explanation once. It's a verra long journey until spring for a winter wolf, lad. A verra long journey. Connor had been too young to attach any meaning to his father's words. Now he saw that they had been all too prophetic.

He spoke to his older brother in his mind. All of them had that ability. It was part and parcel of being Changeling. Good to see you, bro. Have you eaten tonight?

Old moose, lame. Easy hunting. Full now.

James' words were always clear in Connor's mind, but they were labored. Sparse, as if it was a strain to use human words, as if running as a wolf for thirty years made it difficult to even remember the language. Seven words in a row nearly counted as a speech.

It might have given Connor a tiny glimmer of hope, but he hadn't allowed himself that luxury in many years. His hand fell away from the thick white pelt as he automatically blocked the rest of his thoughts from his brother. What possible good could it do to tell James how much he missed him, ached to talk with him, to joke and laugh with him, hell, even to fight with him? How the whole family grieved for James, as if he was dead. And he was dead to them. Even as a wolf he very seldom ran with the Pack or came near any of them except Connor on occasion. James had forsaken his human self entirely, and it was unclear if he was bound to the Macleods by remembered human ties or merely a wolf instinct to be part of a Pack.

But not one of us blames him for it. Good Christ, how could we? We weren't there. We were too far away, all of us too damn far away. He shook his head. By the time they'd arrived at James's farm, the house was a heap of blackened beams and cold ashes. Too damn late to do anything but bury poor Evelyn. It had nearly been too late for James, as well. The Pack had tracked him through deep wilderness for two days, unable to catch up with him until he finally collapsed from his horrific wounds. Over thirty years had passed and still Connor shivered at that memory. He had barely recognized the blackened and battered creature that had once been the white wolf. Changeling or not, it was a flat-out miracle James had lived.

But the miracle was incomplete. The wolf had come back to them, but not the man. Connor glanced over at his brother. The massive white creature was stretched out on the ground beside him as if relaxed, but the vivid blue eyes flicked from person to person. Alert. Ready, Connor knew, to disappear. Everyone else knew, too. Connor noticed that each member of the Pack, family and friend alike, would glance over at James, and then turn away quickly, not knowing what to do or say, fearing to break some unknown spell, fearing that the white wolf would leave them even sooner than he usually did.

It's hard on James, but it's hard on all of us, too. Your older brother has lost his balance, his ability to be comfortable in both worlds.

Jessie Watson's voice was warm and strong in Connor's mind. He knew the Pack leader was focusing her speech so only he could hear it. He did the same. I don't know how to help him.

You're doing all you can. James is doing all he can, too. He's chosen to stay here, for one thing. He wanders but always returns. He still feels a connection to this land that your family claimed and settled, a bond to something that symbolizes roots. And he responds to you, Connor, cares for you as a brother not just a Pack-mate, even guards you. Haven't you sensed him on some level when you've been working late at the clinic?

Connor looked across the fire, saw it brush golden highlights over Jessie's dark skin. There was always something regal about her, a sense of power. She was a small woman, downright tiny when standing next to her husband, Bill. Yet she possessed a formidable blend of courage and wisdom, as well as more exotic gifts. Including magic. He didn't doubt her, but the news came as a surprise. James has been at the clinic?

Many times. Perhaps you haven't noticed his physical presence because thoughts of James are always in your mind. Take a walk tomorrow and use your Changeling senses to check the stand of trees behind the building. Scent the air, the ground. Watch for hairs in the hay bales in the compound, prints along the fences in the corrals. He watches over you, Connor. He watches over the others, too.

Well, then he should be fired--he didn't make sure everyone was dressed tonight. Connor tried to lighten the subject, a little uncomfortable with the notion that the older brother he worried so much about was guarding him. He turned his attention to where Devlin was mercilessly teasing his twin Culley about a lack of shoes and socks. Anything that touched a Changeling's body as it shifted to wolf was automatically taken along, tidily suspended in some unknown pocket of time and space until human form was resumed. Culley, however, always seemed to be in a hurry and often Changed without checking to make sure he was fully clothed.

It wasn't a problem unless they had to shift to human form unexpectedly. Explaining why their youngest brother was barefoot in the middle of the night could be tricky. Culley had no jacket either, only a light T-shirt, but a Changeling's ambient body temperature was much higher than that of a human. Connor shook his head, nearly smiled. That boy would be comfortable if he was buck-naked in a snowstorm. Then he saw Culley steal a wistful glance at the white wolf and the heavy-heartedness returned full-force.

They think he avoids them, Jessie, and he does. He steers clear of everyone. Except me, Connor thought. And he doesn't exactly hang around much with me either. They were just a year apart in age, and they'd been inseparable when they were growing up. Even when Evelyn entered their lives, they'd remained close. Close before everything went to hell. I miss him, Jessie. It drives me crazy, wishing I could help him.

You are helping him. You're there for him. How many months was it before James even attempted to communicate? Yet he speaks to you now in your mind. How many years before he would venture near the Pack? Yet he often runs with us now, ran with us tonight. Progress is slow and subtle, very hard to see when it's happening--but James has been opening a door a little at a time. He doesn't know it, but he is ready to be healed. And because of this, the healer will come.

What healer? Who?

I don't know. I haven't seen that. I just know that the Universe reaches out to us when we make an effort, when we show we are ready. James is ready. The healer will come. She broke the connection then, turning her attention to something Bill was saying.

Connor looked down to find the white wolf gone. Good Christ, I didn't sense a thing. James was like a damn ghost at times. His brother might be talking--well, technically, using mind speech--a little more but if he was making any real progress, Connor couldn't see it. He couldn't imagine who or what could possibly heal his brother's shattered soul. Still, Jessie's words gave him a little actual hope. He let himself feel it this time, savor it. Hope that James could find his way back to his human self, hope that he would find a reason to want to come back. And stay.

* * * *

Douglas Harrison heard the song of wolves in the distance and shivered as he sat by his father's bedside. The old man had been dreaming again and thrashed the blankets and sheets into a twisted wad. He took his father's hand from where it clawed the air, clasped it, and remembered how that hand had once seemed so large, so powerful. The fingers were always cold now, the tough calluses covered with the velvet-soft skin of age. His dad's grip was still strong, but not nearly as strong as it once was. The old man licked dry lips and whispered fiercely, "It's here, son. We didn't kill it. It's still here, walking among us. I know it's here. Get your gun, Dougie, we gotta get it, gotta finish it off."

A chill zipped down Douglas' spine, tingled like ice-cold electricity. He tried to keep his voice calm, level. "We took care of that bear, Dad. Made a big rug out of it, remember?"

"You know what I mean, boy." His father's eyes fastened on him, angry and a little wild. His voice was hoarse but rapidly gained in volume. "The werewolf, the white one. The one you didn't shoot when I told you to shoot. You stood there and bawled like a damn baby until I had to drag you out of there."

Oh God, not that again. Douglas was thankful that none of the caregivers that came to their home believed his father's stories, but he found himself checking behind him just the same to see if anyone was listening. "Dad, I--"

"I told you. I told you we had to finish him. He's alive, and he'll be tracking us, hunting us both unless we hunt him down first. Get my gun, boy."

It took an hour this time to get his father settled. When he left the room, Douglas felt wrung out and apprehensive, even though he knew that the old man was unlikely to remember any of this in the morning. Wisps of an Alzheimer fog had settled over Roderick Harrison's mind in recent years. More and more, the past mingled with the present. Including a part of the past his son would much rather forget.

It had to be the full moon. His father was always worse during the full moon. Last month during this lunar phase, Roderick had been found halfway down the lane in his pajamas, carrying a broom like a rifle, determined to destroy the creature that filled his dreams.

Douglas had gathered up all the guns after that incident and sent them over to the ranch manager's house for safekeeping. A decision about a nursing home needed to be made soon--but he didn't feel like making it right now. He couldn't picture his father in such a place, away from the ranch he had ruled with such fervor. Knew, too, that in his dad's lucid moments he would feel betrayed by his son.

A small voice within mocked him. What about that long ago betrayal by your father? What about that night your dear old dad took his young son along to help him commit murder? Face it, Dougie-boy, you don't want to put your father in a nursing home because you're too afraid someone might start listening to his stories, that somebody might believe....

Douglas tucked his father in and decided against going back to bed himself. Instead, he headed downstairs to the bar for a drink. Maybe several drinks. As many as it would take to make that small inner voice shut up.