Chapter 7 Jace
JACE
Jace gripped the edge of the sink so hard that, when he took his hands away, he was horrified to see that he’d cracked the wooden frame.
At least he was no longer turning into a wolf.
He looked up to meet his regular brown eyes in the mirror, with just the slightest rime of gold remaining around the pupil.
The door closed. Holly leaving. She probably thought he was a total weirdo now, if she didn’t already think that after he’d bitten her.
He absolutely did not need to think about that right now.
It occurred to him that he didn’t actually know for sure that werewolfism wasn’t transferred by biting. He didn’t think so; he’d never heard anything from other shifters that would make him think so. But he wasn’t completely, absolutely sure.
There was definitely something that had happened when he bit Holly, though. His animal was oriented on her in a way he’d never felt before.
He wished he had someone to ask about this stuff. The internet wasn’t very forthcoming on accurate details about shifters. Technically he supposed he could ask Holly’s dad, but he had a feeling that under the circumstances, the Colonel would be the literal, actual worst person to ask.
With shifter-sharp ears, he heard Holly’s footsteps stop on the porch, then clomp down the steps and crunch on the remnants of half-frozen snow in front of the cabins.
Yeah. She definitely thought he was a giant weirdo. That was much better than accidentally mauling her, though.
He had the wolfiness back under control for now, and checking his hands, his nails were pretty normal again, so maybe he could just get away with looking like he had extra hairy hands.
They knew he was a shifter here, after all, but he had no idea what other shifters thought of someone who couldn’t fully control their transformations.
For all he knew, it was like taking a dump in public or something, not being able to keep control over your animal side.
He ventured out of the bathroom. The smell from the dish Holly had brought was making him ravenous.
He was prepared for something that would need to be stuck in the microwave—which the cabin did have—but instead, it looked like it had been freshly cooked.
The eggs were getting a little cool and the bacon had lost some of its crisp edge, but this was a farm-fresh breakfast if he’d ever seen one.
The toast was even slathered heavily with butter.
Jace tended not to have much of an appetite these days, but he ate it all down to the last crumb.
One thing she hadn’t brought him was coffee, but he found grounds and filters in the cupboards, and made himself a pot. By the time he’d had a cup of liquid ambrosia, he started feeling like he might want to look around the ranch a little bit, even at the risk of more awkward conversations.
And he could find Holly and—he wasn’t sure, apologize to her for walking away like a jerk, maybe.
He put on his coat and boots, which felt woefully inadequate for the cold on the ranch now that he’d seen Holly’s heavy coat and calf-high boots.
Hunting around in the closet, he found a few winter things—gloves, which he already had, and a long white-and-red striped scarf that looked like it belonged to a children’s cartoon character.
However, it was very soft and felt nice wrapped snugly around his neck.
Mindful of the rules, he turned down the heat, and then stepped out into a bright, frosty morning.
The sun was up, glinting through the trees and sparkling off a layer of frost covering every surface.
On the porch rail of the cabin, fine frost feathers glinted in the sunlight.
Some of them had already begun to melt. Jace had almost forgotten what it was like to be transfixed by the natural world.
Now he found wonder and beauty everywhere he looked.
As he stood looking over the beautiful, peaceful scene, he felt his wolf begin to settle inside him in a way it hardly ever had done in the bustling, busy world of men. On a whim, he made an effort to call it out, to shift at a time that he chose, rather than dealing with the abortive half-shifts.
But his wolf shied away from the brightness of the sun on the fields. He didn’t ever get words from his animal side, but he had a strong sense of fear-pain-danger. Fire. Bad.
It’s not fire. It’s cold.
His wolf did not respond.
Jace turned away from the gorgeous view.
He found the woodshed Holly had mentioned, and carried a couple armloads of wood to put in the thing she had mentioned by the door.
“Thing” was all he could call it; he didn’t know if there was a word for it.
It looked like a curved metal cradle with two prongs sticking up on either side.
He could tell the wood was supposed to go there by some splinters and scraps of bark in the bottom of the cradle, but otherwise he would have had no idea what it was for.
After filling the wood thing, he dusted sawdust and wood chips off his gloves, and went to see the rest of the farm.
From the top of the hill where Christmas Village was located, he could see most of it.
The driveway that he and Holly had driven up on the ATV curved gently, as if to embrace the small cluster of farm buildings at the bottom of the hill.
There was a two-story farmhouse, the roof charmingly covered in snow, a barn with an actual silo beside it, and some other buildings he didn’t know the functions of.
Equipment sheds or housing for animals, he guessed.
There were few signs of any animals, though he had heard a rooster crow this morning, so they must have chickens.
On the other side of the farmhouse, the Christmas trees farm spread out, neat rows of low trees creating an incredibly well-behaved artificial forest. There was nobody moving around over there yet.
He supposed they probably weren’t open this early.
The Christmas trees looked toylike from up here, rows of model railroad trees, sparkling with snow and frost on their dark branches.
Hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, he made his way down the hill, skirting frozen puddles under a light dusting of snow that threatened to send him tumbling ingloriously on his face.
His shadow stretched long and blue across the field beside him, where faded yellow stubble showed beneath patches of snow.
The farm looked like a painting. Jace didn’t have an artistic bone in his body, but he wondered if Holly or her sisters (however many there were) ever liked to paint or take pictures of this beautiful place. Or was it so ordinary to them that they didn’t even notice anymore?
A sudden flurry of barking made him stop.
Two animals were trotting toward him. One was the black and white dog from yesterday.
The other—he wasn’t even sure if it was a dog.
It had a fluffy head of silky white and brown hair, and the rest of it was mostly red and green.
Then it got closer and he saw that it definitely had a dog head, and a swishing plumed tail, and the rest of it was covered in a . ...
“Is that dog wearing a sock?” he said out loud.
At least it looked like a sock, cheerily red and green striped. The heel was located just above the dog’s rump.
“Uh, hi there.” Jace held out a hand so the border collie could sniff it.
Rocket was just as friendly as she had been yesterday, wagging her tail before she settled in beside him.
The other one, not so much; it skittered around the edges, sock and all, just out of reach, but at least it stopped barking as long as he didn’t look at it.
Feeling as if he was being escorted by an honor guard, he reached the big open space in front of the farmhouse.
Part equipment storage, part parking area, and part yard, it was a wide dirt and gravel space that lapped around the farmhouse to the barn and other outbuildings.
Piles of snow had frozen into solidity around the edges, suggesting recent plowing efforts.
A couple of large wooden signs with cheery Christmas trees painted on them, amateurish but recognizable, pointed to the FAMILY CHRISTMAS TREE FARM!
! with arrows. He was right, it looked like it hadn’t opened yet.
A hanging chain, secured on both ends to a pair of posts, closed off the side road that led in the indicated direction.
Coming closer, Jace saw the hours on a second sign: DECEMBER 1-24, 9-4.
“You look like you need something to do, son!”
The gruff voice barked out a statement rather than a question, and carried an air of implicit command that had Jace’s spine straightening even as he turned around.
No doubt at all: this was the Colonel. He was a large man, not heavy but solid and tall, with close-cropped iron-gray hair.
He wore a heavy canvas farm jacket, work pants, and heavy boots, and he was carrying an axe in one hand and a snow shovel in the other.
“Er—I’m happy to. Sir.” Jace had to resist the impulse to salute. Instead he held out a hand. “I’m Jace Wheeler.”
“Figured,” the Colonel said.
He didn’t bother to introduce himself, but he put down the axe to shake Jace’s hand.
His handshake was so hard and abrupt that Jace, even with shifter strength, felt slightly outclassed, and had to resist the urge to wince as the Colonel squeezed his fingers through the glove.
The guy had to be in his sixties; what had he been like when he was younger?
He released Jace’s hand just as abruptly.
“You want to learn how to cut down a Christmas tree, son?”
“Uh, sure,” Jace said.
The Colonel looked down. The sock-wrapped dog was sitting on his boot, looking wretched. “Uh, let’s put this—critter back in the house before it freezes, and then I’ll show you.”
“What kind of dog is that, anyway?” Jace had never seen anything quite like it.
“Hairless crested,” the Colonel said in a gloomy voice.