Four
Cam
Ow, ow, ow,” i hissed under my breath, gritting my teeth as i pulled the bullet out of my shoulder. blood spattered all over the counter as i dropped it into a bowl.
“Cam?”
Ah, shit. I didn’t say anything, though, as Cal kicked the bathroom door wide open. He stared at me for a second, taking in the scene before him. “You just can’t help yourself, huh?”
I sucked in a breath, then dropped the tweezers I was holding into the sink. Cal considered, then graciously got a towel from the linen closet at the end of the hall. He handed it to me without a word, which was somehow worse than him telling me what a colossal fucking idiot I was.
I mean, I already knew. It had been stupid to go up to the Wilkinson place. It was worse because I’d told Cal that very afternoon that I’d try, and there I was, just a few hours later …
I’d dropped the check off at town hall, then headed out of town and shifted. I’d figured the run would do me good. And it had. I felt more like myself than I had in weeks.
Then, on my way home, I’d been trotting along the fence between properties, and I’d smelled blood. Fresh blood.
I hadn’t ever hurt one of the sheep; I just liked to chase them a little, which wasn’t great for them, sure. But I ate at home, and I didn’t need to kill, even if the coyote in me had a prey drive. I was just bored, and who could blame me? There wasn’t much to do in Coyote Creek—never had been.
But blood meant something was wrong; I wasn’t under the illusion I was the only shifter in town. And other beasts, like rogue wolves, sometimes caused trouble around the ranches.
So I’d trotted up to the farm, intending to check on the flock.
Vern the vet was there, along with some scrawny white boy I didn’t recognize.
And I guessed I’d been distracted by the new guy’s shocked hazel gaze, because Bobby had fucking shot me.
Normally, I would have dodged out of the way—shifter reflexes and all—but I’d been too slow.
Cal crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “So, what did you learn from all this, Cam?”
I hissed as I put the towel, now doused with antiseptic, to the wound in my shoulder. “Not much,” I muttered, and Cal rolled his eyes.
“Cameron,” he started.
“I smelled blood, okay?” I shifted a little, hoping to ease the stinging, but that just made it worse. “So I went up there to check it out.”
Cal stared at me, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cam …,” he sighed. “Do you know how that would have looked? What would have happened? You’re lucky Bobby didn’t send you home in a body bag.”
I scoffed, partially to hide another wince as I pulled the towel away. We both looked at the wound in my shoulder. Cal nodded. “We’re gonna need someone to patch you up.”
I grimaced, thinking about what Marnie, the local doctor, would have to say about this. I looked at the wound again. “Dunno. Might heal up.”
Cal snorted. “Sure. We’re shifters and all, but that’s too big.”
Did he have to be right about everything? I sighed, sliding off the counter. I tugged my shirt back on, wincing when I had to rotate my shoulder. Cal just went on frowning at me.
Finally, he sighed and turned away. “Anyway, hope this’ll be a lesson to you—stay away from Lam’s place.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled, grateful that he stood aside to let me leave the room.
“And stick close by here the next few days,” he said. “Don’t need anyone asking questions, least of all Bobby Lam.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just say I sprained it baling hay or something.”
Cal rolled his eyes skyward. “It’s not time to bale hay,” he returned, and I almost laughed.
“Point is, I’m sure I can come up with an excuse that doesn’t involve admitting to the whole town I’m a shifter who was nosing around and got himself shot.”
Cal said nothing to that, merely looking up at the ceiling as though asking God for more patience. Relenting, I said, “But I’ll stick close for the next few days, at least.”
He blew out a breath. “And no shifting.”
I wanted to argue—the full moon was close and I loved running on moonlit nights—but I knew I’d only piss him off more. “No shifting,” I agreed. I tried rolling my shoulder. “’Sides, it’d probably hurt like hell.”
Cal shook his head, but he said nothing more as he stomped off. I waited a few minutes, then headed upstairs to my room. It was late, and I needed to sleep if I wanted this shoulder to heal up in a timely manner.
I was woken not by the crowing of the rooster but by a steady knocking on the front door. I flipped the covers off my head, squinting at the morning sunlight coming in through my east-facing window. I’d forgotten to shut the curtains last night.
I tried to roll my way up, remembering too late that I’d been shot. Pain lanced through me, and I flopped back to the bed, grinding my teeth and gripping my shoulder.
I heard Cal tromp through the hall. Shifter hearing was sometimes a curse; I could hear the floorboards squeaking, even though I imagined a normal human being wouldn’t have.
“Can I help you?” my brother asked as he pulled the door open.
“Uh … hi.” The voice seemed familiar, and I pricked my metaphorical ears forward. Slowly, I rolled up to sitting. “This might seem weird, but I, uh, just wanted to let you know that there might be a wounded coyote somewhere around your property.”
“Oh?” Cal’s voice lilted up with amusement, and I could just picture the bastard’s smug face.
“Uh, yeah. I dunno if you heard anything, but a coyote got shot last night over at Bobby Lam’s.”
“Did it now?”
“But he didn’t kill it, just got it in the shoulder. It took off.”
“Pity,” Cal said. “Damn thing probably needs to be put out of its misery.”
That’s it, I thought, pushing up off the bed and grabbing my shirt. I’d placed the voice now—the scrawny white guy who was with Bobby and Vern last night.
“Er, yeah,” the guy agreed. “I, um, was trying to track it, and, uh … the blood led pretty much up to your back door and then stopped.”
Ah, fuck. I hustled downstairs. “What’s going on, Cal?”
My brother and the guy turned to face me as I emerged into the foyer. I sauntered to a stop near the door, leaning on the doorframe. It allowed me to hide my bum arm, but it also gave me a great view of the new guy.
His hazel eyes were the highlight of his face, wide as they were with surprise right now.
They were surrounded by a thick fan of dark lashes, almost too thick for a guy, and I had to tamp down on the urge to sniff him.
There was no way this guy wasn’t an omega, but I could hardly stick my nose to his neck to confirm that.
Petal pink lips pressed together, then came apart in a wordless movement. Was it me, or was that a hint of crimson on those pale cheeks? Maybe that was just the cold. The door was still wide open, and I could feel the nip of the frosty spring morning filtering in.
Cal looked me up and down, then said slowly, “Was just hearing about a wounded critter that might be on the prowl.”
He tossed a quizzical look at our visitor. “This fella here was just sayin’—sorry, stranger, didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh!” The guy’s eyes got really wide, before his cheeks went pink with embarrassment. “Sorry—I’m Wyatt. Wyatt Feenstra.”
Cal dipped his head. “Cal Carlyle. Pleasure. Anyway, Wyatt here said Lam shot one, but it got away. Was following the blood, but it came right up to our door, then stopped.”
“Huh,” I said. “That’s strange.”
“Ain’t it now,” Cal agreed. “Thank you, Mr. Feenstra. We’ll keep an eye out, but I think you should clear off now.”
Wyatt looked confused at the sudden change in my brother’s tone.
I didn’t blame him; we didn’t need this Wyatt getting any closer to the truth than he’d already come.
What the hell was he doing anyway? He had to have come back out to Lam’s earlier this morning, maybe even before dawn, to …
track a wounded predator by himself? What kind of idiot was he?
“O-okay,” he said, then jabbed a thumb at a beat-up Kia that had seen better days. “If you do find the coyote, would you mind giving me a call? I’ll bring my kit and …”
“Your kit?” Cal looked offended. “What, are you gonna play doctor to some vermin?”
Wyatt’s face flashed with fury for a second. “We could at least put it out of its misery,” he said sternly.
Cal and I shared a look. “Hang on a minute,” I said. “Let me go check the barn.”
Wyatt colored up to his ears. “Oh. Um, I already looked around there—”
“That’s trespassing,” Cal said hotly, while I headed to the back door. Once outside, I stripped off my shirt and my jeans, then shifted into my fur.
A minute later, I trotted around the side of the house, wincing with every step.
“Oh!” Wyatt cried, stumbling back a step or two. I couldn’t help my canine grin, letting my tongue loll out of my mouth. This guy was too much fun.
Cal leaned out the door. “Oh-ho,” he said, “there’s our suspect. Bold little bugger, isn’t he?”
I trotted right up to Wyatt, flicking an ear. I could smell him much better in this form, and I was pleased to note I was right—he was absolutely an omega.
I sat down on my haunches a few feet away, letting my tail sweep the dirt. “Well,” Cal said gently, “aren’t ya gonna get your kit?”
“Oh. Er. Yeah.” Wyatt stumbled off the stoop. His hazel gaze kept darting to me, like he expected me to attack him or something.
I wouldn’t have minded chasing him, but my shoulder wasn’t going to stand for that. Instead, I waited for him to fumble around in the car. He returned holding what looked like a regular old messenger bag.
I sat still while he approached me, cautiously. Cal leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. Wyatt stopped a few paces short, hand extended like he wanted to pet me.
I didn’t think I’d mind if he did.
Those big hazel eyes blinked. “He’s awful tame, isn’t he?” Cal asked.
“Y-yeah …”
“Maybe he’s rabid,” my brother said, and Wyatt grimaced, his hand retracting. “You gonna put him down or what?”
I flashed Cal a dirty look. I was trying to get this Wyatt to patch me up, so I could avoid another expensive visit from Marnie, but it wasn’t going to work if my stupid brother kept running his stupid mouth.
Wyatt was still staring at me, as though mesmerized, when I looked back. “Seems a shame,” he murmured.
“Doubt it would be,” Cal remarked, smirking at me.
I thumped my tail at him, and Wyatt frowned. Cal shifted against the doorframe. “Why don’t you patch him up?” he suggested, and Wyatt whipped around to stare at him, slack-jawed.
“But he’s—it’s just—”
Cal shrugged, meeting my gaze. “If you listen to the way Lam tells it, it’s not like this fella’s hurt anybody. Scared the sheep plenty, but hasn’t hurt ’em.”
Wyatt hesitated. “Just because he hasn’t doesn’t mean he never will,” he said.
Cal tilted his head. “Innocent until proven guilty, yeah?”
Wyatt considered, then turned back to me. “He’d need to recover. Where would I keep him?” He grimaced. “I doubt Vern will want to put up with a coyote …”
“Tell ya what,” Cal said, “how’s about we keep him here? I can corral him in the laundry room or something.”
“Really?” Wyatt asked, his voice rising with hope. He cleared his throat. “I mean …”
Cal laughed. “It’s clear to me you don’t like the thought of putting him down, but you don’t want him to suffer neither.” He shifted his weight off the doorframe. “So come on, let’s get him patched up so he can start recovering.”