Chapter 3
THREE
LANIE
Recovery Haze
My handwriting sucks. I can’t deny that simple fact any longer.
And I really do need to invest some of my rarely touched savings into upgrading my nonexistent technology.
A week after I visited Coyote Falls for the first time, I’ve interpreted most of the data that I collected during my research phase, though I’m semi-positive that most of my chicken-scratch notes made a whole lot more sense at the time I wrote them.
The article I’m working on focuses on juvenile gray wolf behaviors, particularly early in their first two years, from birth through to their juvenile period.
The wolves I’d observed differed to the general gray wolf populations everywhere else that I’ve studied.
My pack birthed in their den, their early family pack structure tight-knit and relying on all the wolves to raise the pups.
And as they grew, their play looked different too; how they socialized and bounced about in their early juvenile games diverged from what I’d seen before.
Just being away from the pack I’ve come to know so well leaves a huge gap in my understanding.
But the money has run out, and the university isn’t willing to renew my grant until I provide evidence as to why they should.
Plus, I can’t just go and find myself another pack of random gray wolves.
From what I know, the only place I can continue to study the behaviors I’ve observed is in the Alexander Archipelago, Alaska.
On top of all that, my stats need a serious overhaul if I want to submit my work to scientific journals, assuming my grants are renewed and the university is happy with my overall findings.
A slightly feral noise that would make my wolf pups proud leaves my throat.
I reach for my coffee thermos, tip it up, and earn a mouthful of cold dregs for my efforts.
That’s far from satisfying. Plus, since picking up Sally last week, I can’t rid my mind of the image of that dire wolf poster in Valiant Peak.
A quick Google search confirms there’s plenty of local chat on Valiant Peak, including what’s fast turning into a regular witch hunt online, complete with a few harrowing pictures.
Engaging on socials has never been my strong suit, and the drive is at least two hours each way.
My tummy gurgles on cue. Giving it up as a bad job for the time being, I change out of my work attire—my nightshirt with the sleeves rolled—into jeans and pull a white V-necked tee over my head as I walk through the house, chasing the scent of freshly made coffee.
Bless Winnie for putting up with my tendency to isolate while I bury myself in my work.
Not that I work alone.
The unbidden phantom of a shirtless Cordell Rand has kept me company for an entire week, thanks to Winnie’s meddling.
The cowboy has taken up residence in my head rent-free since that day at Coyote Falls, but I corral him to the back of my mind during work hours. During the evenings… Let’s just say that hasn’t been such a successful venture.
“You have no concept of personal boundaries, do you?” Winnie breaks into my thoughts, chattering at the rate of a woman starved for social interaction on her single day a week off while Sally’s at school.
“Dress in your room. I know you’re used to the company of wolves and other nomads like yourself, but us people?
We have doors.” She passes me a refilled mug, making sure her kimono-sleeved cardigan doesn’t dip into the dark liquid as she gestures at my semi-bared midsection.
I tug my top down and rescue my coffee obediently.
“If your plan for world domination includes burning people from the inside out, you’ve hit on a success.
I have a bra on.” I stretch tender shoulders from poor posture during my data-entry phase.
A dull throb pulses at the back of my head, reminiscent of the headache that finally fully passed a few days ago, though the migraine meds provided enough relief to focus on basic daily tasks. “Anyway, it’s just us.”
Winnie fixes me with a hard stare. “I could have brought a hot date home.”
“You don’t date. Wait, do you have an eye on one of the other paramedics?”
“No!” she protests.
“Too fast.” I grin, cradling my coffee. “Who?”
“Never.” Her cheeks flushing pink, Winnie folds her arms, her spine straightening.
“It’s not a paramedic…” I pretend to think, tapping my chin. “One of the doctors? You’ve gone all Grey’s Anatomy on me.”
“I’m surprised you know what that is. And he’s a nurse.” Her mouth clamps shut as the confession slips past her lips.
Aha. Winnie never gives out freebies like that. “You must like him.” I approve. “Tell me about Hottie McNurse, then.” I offer her a winning smile, sorely needing the distraction from the ghost of her brother.
Winnie sighs.
“That bad, huh?” I raise a sympathetic eyebrow.
“You. Have. No. Idea. Curly hair on top, the ringlets of His Lordship Bridgerton you just want to wrap around your fingers. Totally clean-shaven, complete sweetheart. Utterly competent. Professional pride and all. Not snobby. Open to everyone. Makes a mean chicken salad sandwich.”
“Those are great things.” I lean across the scarred melamine benchtop, waggling my hips. “But…”
“What?” Defensive Winnie makes an appearance. She sighs. “Fine. He’s a guitarist for a retro-grunge band that performs at an underground bar on weeknights when he’s not on shift.”
And there it is. We’ve been through so much worse than a grunge guitarist. This is a positive step as far as I can see. Plus, he’s fed her. Double positive. “Musicians are your weakness. Wait—they still have those sorts of bars?”
Winnie nods with far too much enthusiasm for my still-tender head to track. “Hell, yes. I watched a video. He’s good. And he plays shirtless.” She dances at the bench.
“I knew there’d be something else.” I smirk at the image Winnie describes, but it’s not a bare-chested Hottie Rockstar McNurse that’s imprinted on the backs of my eyelids. I swipe fingers across my eyes to banish Cord’s shade.
Obsessed, much?
“Cord?”
What is she, a mind reader? I start guiltily, turning back to my best friend. “Coyote Falls is pretty.”
“And the owner?”
“Stop that. He’s your brother. Isn’t that supposed to make him off-limits or something?”
I so desperately need him to be or something.
Winnie snorts. “You know I’m still picking paint out of Sally’s hair?”
“Apparently, she’s a crack shot.”
“That’s my girl.” Winnie jiggles again in a different sort of victory dance, mom pride beaming across her face.
“How come I’ve never heard of your brother before this week?” I poke her with my bare toe.
“Feet!” Winnie recoils, retreating to the far corner of the small kitchen.
“Eep.” I forgot her aversion to all things toe-related in my post-migraine haze. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” She waves my apology aside, still squishing her behind into the corner of the wrap around bench.
“Rand went through a tough phase a few years ago. He—We weren’t talking when I met you.
He’s back to being his regular annoying self now.
” Her laugh is normal, but a shadow flickers in her eyes that takes a long moment to dissipate.
“That’s not easy.” I toy with my drink. “I know you need to socialize, but I really do need to get work done, or I’ll be freeloading off you forever.”
“You’re not freeloading. And it’s been less than a month.
” Winnie presses her lips together. I’m proud of her for holding back on whatever it is that she wants to deluge on me.
We’ve been working on me speaking out and her filtering for real-life situations.
I’m kinda proud of us both. “You’re just… in between things.”
My mug study could be my dissertation at this point. “I’ve been in between things for most of my twenty-seven years on this planet. The address on my license is my parent’s house, and that’s stood vacant since they passed. What adult lives like that?”
The guilt I’m supposed to feel doesn’t hit me. Disassociated, abnormal… I’ve heard it all from dates or friends who didn’t last. Everyone except Winnie. Because her family is at least as screwy as mine. Being tied to one location is a quick trip down nausea lane for me.
“Yeah, imagine all that junk mail.” Winnie’s attempt at a joke falls flat.
“Shit. I never thought about that.” I look up at her with wide eyes. “Hell, the box must be overflowing. Maybe they don’t deliver anymore.”
“We could always go and check.” Winnie waggles her eyebrows. “Road trip?”
“With a nine-year-old? The house is three states away.”
“A rare wolf might be discovered there.”
“Well, there’s that,” I agree, perking up.
“Are you two done gossiping?” My eyes widen as a deep voice—the same one that I’ve spent a solid seven nights fantasizing about and have attempted to banish—sends a thrill skating along my spine. It’s a sensation akin to a physical touch.
Winnie launches away from the kitchen bench and tackles her brother at waist height.
Cord mutters an oath as he stumbles back a step beneath her compact weight.
His arms remain stiff for a second before they fold around her.
In the cluttered room, his much-taller frame shadows her smaller figure and pretty much everything else in the tight kitchen.
Hell, he has to duck just to get into the room.
I suck in a breath. This man turns my midnight fantasies into pithy watercolors. Arctic eyes sparkle at me over Winnie’s shoulder. A slow, devastating grin is aimed my way and turned up to a billion watts.
Cordell Rand is the poster boy for everything I should never want and can’t ever have.
He has an empty homestead and needs a whole freaking family just to fill it.
I sleep in bivouacs and move from place to place most weeks because restlessness keeps my feet from catching commitment.
Nothing I’ve found in the last six years has stayed sticky.