If he’d been willing to risk his life to save her from a charging bear, why would he allow a stranger in the house? Maybe he didn’t think people presented the same kind of threat as a grizzly. She begged to differ.
As she approached, light flickered under the door. It was an odd sort of sparkly light, as if someone had installed a disco ball in her kitchen. As she tried to make sense of that, a chill slid up her spine.
She had excellent locks on her windows and doors, locks she’d secured after the bear incident. Whoever, or whatever, was in that kitchen had managed to get past those locks without making any noise or arousing the attention of the ferocious wolf under her bed. That was completely illogical, unless . . . Her brain stalled.
She didn’t exactly believe in sparkly vampires or ghosts who could walk through walls, but she didn’t exactly not believe in them, either. She’d thought discovering that such a thing was real after all would be exciting. A cool experience.
Not. She was rigid with terror. Her ears buzzed and her chest hurt from holding her breath too long. Her grip on the bat grew slippery.
“Look, whoever you are.” Her voice quavered, and she cleared her throat and tried for a more commanding tone. “I won’t hurt you if you’ll just leave the way you came.” Yeah, right. A baseball bat would be as useless against a vampire or a ghost as a cardboard tube had been against a grizzly.
Something dark, a snout of some kind, maybe belonging to a demon, poked through a small opening in the door. She needed to get the upper hand. Without pausing to consider, Rachel whacked it hard with the baseball bat.
The demon, or whatever it was, yelped. A scrabbling noise like nails scraping on linoleum came from behind the door. The nails made sense, but the yelp? What kind of demon sounded like a dog?
No matter. She’d scared it. “There’s more where that came from!” Feeling braver, she wondered if she could order it to leave. In the movies, otherworldly things seemed to respond better if people talked like Shakespeare. Or Monty Python.
She took a deep breath. “Return from whence thou cometh, foul spirit, or I shall smite thee again!”
The demon whined in response. Exactly like a dog. Or . . .
“Wolf? Is that you?”
Another whine.
It could be a demonic trick, but if not, she’d just smacked an injured wolf on the nose with a baseball bat. She couldn’t imagine why he’d be in her kitchen, but ouch.
Stepping forward cautiously, she slid her fingers along the edge of the door and began to push. “It had better be you, wolf.” She gripped the bat in her other hand, just in case a demon shot through the opening and she had to defend herself.
When she saw the wolf standing on the other side of the door, her breath came out in a whoosh. “Holy shit! You scared the life out of me!”
The wolf gazed up at her in silent reproach.
“I’m really sorry I hit you on the nose. I thought you were some creature from another dimension. But what lights were flickering in here?”
The wolf looked away and sighed heavily.
“Yeah, I know. You have no idea. You can’t control lights. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation, but damned if I know what it could be.”
The wolf brought his gaze back to hers.
“Maybe the northern lights were shining through the kitchen window. I suppose it could happen, although usually you can’t see them because of the tree.” Finally she shrugged. “That was probably it. My imagination ran away with me again. But I’d like to know why you came in here and closed the door after yourself.”
Once again the wolf looked away.
“None of my business, huh? All right, I can accept that. I’ve heard that wild animals like to retreat to a cave when they’re hurt, and I can’t imagine you were comfy under my bed. Maybe I should put the quilt in here instead of in a corner of my bedroom.”
To her surprise, the wolf started forward, as if ready to leave the kitchen if she’d only move out of his way.
She stepped aside, and the wolf walked unsteadily toward her bedroom. “Look, don’t go under the bed again, okay? I won’t mess with you if you want to be left alone.”
Then something else occurred to her, which would have given the wolf more reason to go into the kitchen. “I’m such an idiot. I’ll bet you’re thirsty. You probably went in the kitchen looking for water. Maybe that’s where they kept your water dish wherever you lived before.”
As she thought about that, she wondered if the kitchen had been the wolf’s sanctuary when he lived with people. Lots of kitchens had pocket doors. He might have taught himself to close it to signal his need for solitude.
If so, she’d screwed that up for him. She hoped he wouldn’t go back under the bed, but at the very least she’d get him some water. Poor thing, he must be parched after his ordeal.
Hurrying into the kitchen, she chose a ceramic brownie pan and ran water into it. Then she carried it into her bedroom.
The wolf stood poised, as if ready to crawl under the bed again if she approached him.
“It’s only water. I’ll put it in the bathroom. I’d rather you didn’t drip water on the hardwood floor.” Turning, she walked into the bathroom and found a spot in the corner. When she came out, the wolf hadn’t moved.
“I would love to get a look at your wounds. Will you let me do that?”
He backed up.
“Okay, okay.” She held out both hands, palms forward. “I said I wouldn’t mess with you, and I won’t. Ever since I got out the scissors and the razor, you’ve acted different. I wonder if your former owners hurt you with a pair of scissors. Maybe they tried to trim your fur and nicked you. Is that what happened?”
The wolf, of course, said nothing.
Rachel blew out a breath. “I have to stop asking you questions as if I expect you to answer. I wish you could talk, though, because you’re a fascinating puzzle.” She looked into the wolf’s solemn eyes. “You’re not going to move until I get back into bed, are you?”
She could almost hear the answer just by looking at him. “Right. I’ll get into bed so you can have a drink of water.” Climbing in, she pulled the sheet over her and lay back on the pillows. “There, I’m settled. Get your drink.”
The wolf’s nails clicked slowly across the wooden floor as he walked into the bathroom. The sound of lapping told her he was drinking. Good. He needed to stay hydrated. She should have thought of it earlier, but she’d been so intent on his wounds, and then he’d hidden under the bed.
After drinking the water, he came back into the bedroom. She lay very still and hoped he would choose the quilt instead of squeezing under her bed. Or maybe he’d go back into the kitchen and close himself in again.
Following the sound of his toenails on the floor and mentally calculating where he was going, she relaxed when he walked over to the corner of her room and flopped down on the bed she’d made for him there. She’d rest easier knowing he had a comfortable place to sleep for what remained of the night. The luminous hands of the clock on her bedside table told her it was two in the morning.
Lying in the semidarkness, she longed for the eye mask that was tucked in her bedside table drawer. But she dared not get it out. The wolf might think she had secret plans to ambush him in his sleep.
On the contrary, she didn’t plan to disturb him until dawn. But in the morning, he’d need to go out to relieve himself. Once he was outside, nothing would prevent him from leaving. But he was still too sick, even if he didn’t realize that.
She couldn’t imagine tying him up to a deck support, though. A rope would never hold him. She’d need a chain and a large eyebolt, and even then, what sort of collar, if she even had one, would keep a wolf his size from getting loose? He’d hurt himself all over again lunging against any restraint she used.