Spirit of the Wolf by Vonna Harper Page A

“The last time we talked, you were excited about all the places your sister was taking you.”
    “Was I? Now I’m just exhausted and getting broke. Carole’s a shopaholic. I don’t get it. What’s the excitement in collecting stuff?”
    Addie sounded like what she was, a farmwife accustomed to putting the land and the livestock’s needs before hers. To her way of thinking, buying for the sake of buying was flat-out insane. She’d told him that she and Carole had had several good conversations that helped bridge some of the gaps caused by lives that had gone in different directions since childhood. But Carole kept pushing her to hold back nothing about Santo’s death. According to Carole, the only way Addie was going to get over her husband’s death was by talking and then talking some more.
    Addie didn’t want to talk about burying the man she’d loved more than she’d known it was possible to love. Her grief was hers and hers alone, part of the memories of a solid marriage.
    “Carole didn’t know Santo more than superficially,” Addie said, her voice thick with tears. “You did. When and if I feel like letting down my hair, I want it to be with someone who doesn’t need a picture painted. So, anyway, if I show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night, you’ll know why.”
    “It’s your doorstep more than it is mine,” he said. He stared out the kitchen window with its view of where he’d been today. He, Beale, Cat, a dead calf, and wolf prints.
    “Let’s not get into that, Matt. There’s more of your blood and sweat in the land than mine.”
    “I’m not sure about that.” Upending the can, he swallowed. “I figure it’s pretty equal.” He didn’t need to mention how much blood Santo had shed. “I’ve been taking care of your garden. The refrigerator’s full.”
    “I’m sure it is. Matt, is there anything I should know about?”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Have you forgotten we live under the same roof? Something’s going on, right?”
    “We’ll talk when you get back.”
    “I thought so. I can always tell when something’s on your mind.”
    He couldn’t argue with that, he allowed as he hung up, but there was no way Addie could guess what he was thinking about tonight. Although he didn’t want to, he again stared out the window. From this distance, the hills he knew as well as the back of his hand and yet didn’t looked hazy. He’d never told anyone—hell, he’d barely admitted it to himself—but they’d always made him feel uneasy, not nearly as uncomfortable as the last time he’d gone to where his father was living.
    He was a grown man, he reminded himself whenever unease about his surroundings caught him unawares. There was no such thing as a bogeyman, no evil spirits, nothing waiting to jump out at him from the shadows.
    Opening the refrigerator, he reached for another beer, his limit because he never knew when he might have to make a decision or jump into action. Logic said his present tension was a result of thinking about where they’d found Santo’s body, a place not far from where the calf’s life had ended.
    Santo and a calf were dead. He couldn’t do anything about that, so why the hell was he letting himself get tied into a knot? Better to think of something pleasant, something that spoke to the man in him.
    Cat.
    Who, after what he’d done to her, might want nothing to do with him.

5
     
    H e was naked with a jacket slung over his shoulder. Cold misted his breath and chilled his bare feet. It was night, moonless, and yet he could see. What he was doing here briefly concerned him. Then a wind kicked up, and he stopped thinking about anything except jamming his arms into the too-small jacket. When he shrugged, trying to make the jacket fit, the garment ripped down the back, but that was all right because he now wore boots.
    Nothing but boots.
    And a knife belted to his waist.
    For a moment he thought the night had started breathing, then