4. Wick
WICK
He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Wick had driven home from his wood delivery as usual, and now he was back at his cabin. But more realistically, he’d fled home, because he had no idea how to cope with the way the gorgeous stranger had been looking at him, or his battered, scarred animal’s overwhelming reaction to her.
Even now, it was pushing at him to go back, find her, talk to her. His head was full of her. He was used to his head being full of horrors, or else escaping out of himself into the forest or his pond. This was something new and wonderful and welcome—except he didn’t know who she was, or how he would be able to face her again after he’d run off like that.
What a woman. She was tall. Big. Not really heavy, but not skinny either. The kind of woman who could keep a man warm on a cold winter night.
She was obviously a guest of the lodge. Maybe a friend of the new owners? They seemed like nice people, and Wick knew they were shifters. They could tell him who she was.
If he dared to ask.
She had captivated him from the moment he saw her. She was stunning , there was no other word for it, a woman who could fill a room with her warmth and presence. She had filled out the blue mechanic’s shirt she was wearing gorgeously, and her hair was a thick mass of dark curls that he could have run his hands through forever.
Wait—there had been a patch stitched on her chest, right above the swell of her incredible breasts. He closed his eyes, fighting to bring it back. Delano, maybe?
Delano.
His animal wanted him to go back. It was pushing him, fighting him, present and aware inside him in a way that it hadn’t been in years, since they both had been wounded in body and soul.
The rain was coming down in buckets now. There was no way he could drive the log truck up the steep road to the lodge in this weather. Not safely, anyway. There had been a time when he didn’t care about that, but it mattered more to him now.
Wick listened to the swaying and cracking of the trees around his cabin in the wind. No, he couldn’t leave now.
But there was no need to stay inside.
He needed to move, to do something physical, or—filled with pent-up feelings in a heart that had been a blasted wasteland for so long—he felt as if he would explode.
Pausing briefly, he ran a thumb across the edge of the sealed envelope on his table, propped up against a jar of wildflowers. It was creased from having been carried in a pocket for a long time, and the single word written on the envelope in faded handwriting was smudged almost to illegibility.
Then he sighed and went to the door. He undressed there, shedding his clothing and leaving it carefully folded on a chair.
Naked, he stepped out on the porch of his cabin.
The rain was coming down hard, but there was little wind, so it was a pleasant drumming rather than a raging storm. Out in the wet dark, all was as it should be, but he looked around just to make sure.
The truck was parked beside the cabin in its usual lean-to that kept the weather off. Behind the cabin was his work area, several sheds where wood was stacked to dry, neatly cared-for axes and chainsaws and the other tools of his trade.
Wick’s occupation involved a variety of lumber work: he cut and collected dead trees and fallen branches, cleared unwanted trees for homeowners, and otherwise helped keep the forest healthy while providing a useful supply of seasoned firewood that enabled him to scrape by for a modest living. It was a purposeful occupation, working with his hands and providing a necessary service. He enjoyed the work, and he enjoyed being useful.
In front of him, rain dimpled the pond. His cabin was so close to the water’s edge that his porch nearly touched it, built on sturdy pilings sunk into the shore.
Instead of a dock or a boat, there was a simple flight of wooden steps leading down from the deck to the water’s rain-patterned surface.
Wick had built them, just like he had built the entire place. The signs of his handiwork were everywhere, turning the cabin and its surrounding grounds to a cozy hideaway.
But the problem with a hideaway was that it meant hiding.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Rain spattered his face, cold and refreshing. The high peaks would be getting snow. Soon enough, snow would come to the lower elevations as well, but right now it was still brisk and refreshing rather than truly cold.
Well, a human would probably be cold, and he might get chilly if he stood out here long enough. He didn’t plan to.
Wick walked down the steps, dipped a toe in the chill water of the pond, and then jumped as he shifted. He slid cleanly into the water. A moment later, feeling the cold not at all, his animal surfaced and swam leisurely towards the dam.
He wondered what the mysterious, beautiful woman at the lodge was doing at the moment. Did she like the rain? Was she a sort of shifter that appreciated water as he did? Or was she some kind of desert animal?
He couldn’t believe that. She had to be compatible with him. She was?—
His mind shied away from thinking the word, but it was there somewhere, in the back of his brain, or maybe in that elusive part of his soul that was his animal.
( Mate .)
He had weathered too much brutal disappointment in his life to get his hopes up and have them dashed.
He would investigate, Wick thought. Ask questions. Find out more about her. Go to her, perhaps.
Tomorrow.